Volume One: The Knight of the Forest Chapter 72: A Beautiful Maiden Seeks Help

For the past half month, it had been a time of joy for Berion, Gamgee, Bran, the guards, and the caravan protectors. First, they routed the Black Mountain Band in West Town and made a handsome profit. Then, in Yangweikshu, they indulged in feasting and merriment, and even won a fair amount betting on the knights’ tournament.

Good fortune lifts the spirits, and Berion, who hadn’t felt such happiness in a long while, allowed himself a rare indulgence that night. He drank too much, mixing red wine and beer—something that seemed harmless at the time, but when he woke the next morning, his head throbbed as if it would split in two.

Berion staggered for a long while before regaining his senses, only after downing a jug of apple cider Bran had prepared. After a hot bath, he swore to himself never to drink like that again, realizing how harmful it was to his body.

He was young, but at that pace, he was sure his health would eventually suffer.

He’d made this resolution countless times in his previous life—whether as a soldier, a student, or at work. Yet each time he found himself at an important banquet, especially when influential figures were present who could help his career, he would drink eagerly, determined to make a good impression, tossing aside his resolve.

Perhaps at first he would hold back, but after a few drinks, he’d lose all restraint, seeking out others to toast.

This was well enough in the moment—he gained face at the table, but what did it really matter?

Berion, having once worked in the alcohol industry, knew full well that words and sentiment shared in drink were meaningless. After sobering up, when it came to important matters, everyone would act rationally, regardless of how much one had drunk or how much honor had been given at the table.

Though in the heat of the banquet, faces flushed with drink, someone might say, “Brother, you drank that down in one go! You do me honor. I’ll count you as a true friend—whatever you need, just come to me…”

But when the feast was over, discussions of contracts would resume, and the plots to cheat you would proceed as planned. The promises made over wine were mere jokes—if you took them seriously, you were a fool, for not even the speaker believed them. Only a true fool would trust such words, and only end up harming themselves.

After a refreshing bath and a little food, Berion finally recovered. He asked Bran to make him a cup of honey water, then lay down on a lounge chair in the courtyard. The chair sat beneath a maple tree—its leaves already beginning to fall, but still providing welcome shade.

The afternoon sun filtered through the reddened leaves, casting dappled shadows. The autumn wind rustled the branches, and a leaf or two would drift down from time to time. It was all so comfortable.

Berion lay there, drifting toward sleep. With nothing pressing to do, he wrapped himself tighter in his cloak and decided to nap in the courtyard—a good sleep was the best way to recover from a hangover.

He didn’t know how long he slept before someone shook him awake. Annoyed, he opened his eyes to see Bran standing over him. He lazily kicked at Bran and complained, “I was sleeping so well—why wake me? If you do it again, I’ll make you run five thousand limes as punishment.”

Bran, far from discouraged by Berion’s scolding, just smiled mysteriously. “Master, can you guess why I woke you?”

Berion slapped him lightly on the shoulder and scolded, half-laughing, “You’d better tell me quick, or I’ll have to teach you a lesson.”

“Go inside, sir. There’s an important lady waiting for you.” With that, Bran scampered off.

Curious and a little puzzled, Berion went into the drawing room. There, seated with her back to him, was a lady in a veiled hat. Berion stood at the doorway and asked softly, “Excuse me, madam, may I help you?”

The woman rose, turned to face him, and lifted her veil. It was none other than the young noblewoman knight, Andy, whom he had met outside Yangweikshu.

At the sight of Berion, the gloom vanished from her face. She hurried to him, pleading, “I’ve come to ask for your help—it’s a matter of life and death. Of all the knights I know and can reach, only you can help me now. Please, will you help me?”

Berion was bewildered, but showed concern and tried to reassure her. “Don’t worry, Lady Andy. Please, sit down and tell me everything. What’s happened? What do you need from me? Tell me in detail.” As he spoke, he poured her a glass of water.

She took a deep breath to calm herself, then fixed Berion with a solemn gaze. “The truth is, my real name isn’t Andy, and I’m not a lady knight.”

“I already knew that,” Berion replied.

She nodded. “Of course. I suppose I couldn’t fool someone clever enough to outwit and defeat the three great bandit gangs. I am Jessice, the only daughter of Count Grib, lord of Yangweikshu. You may call me by my name.”

Though Berion and Gamgee had already guessed her true identity, hearing her confirm it herself was still somewhat startling. He rose respectfully and bowed. “Forgive my earlier rudeness, my lady.”

Jessice waved him back to his seat and, once he sat, continued, “The last time I left home, I sneaked out with my maid, Pru. But we hadn’t gone far before Sir Sandyman and his men caught up to us.

Also following us was Aunt Myra, the strict nun who has overseen my upbringing. She’s always been harsh with me, insisting I act the part of a proper lady at all times.

But I don’t want to be a lady. I want to see the world, just like you knights do. Though I am a girl, I believe I can do it too.

I want to be a knight—travel the land, right wrongs, save the helpless, and compete in the tournaments of the Four Grand Duchies to win glory.”

As she spoke of these dreams, unattainable in her present life, Jessice’s eyes sparkled with irrepressible longing.

“But,” she sighed, “my parents hired the most renowned nun from the great Cathedral of Valombrey to be my governess. She’s unbearably strict—how I sit, how I walk, even what posture I use while sleeping—there are rules for everything. If I don’t obey, she complains to my parents or punishes Pru, my faithful maid, to force me into submission.

I couldn’t bear it anymore. That’s why I fled with Pru, hoping for a little adventure. But we barely left the city before being caught. I wouldn’t fear this old woman for myself, but she threatened Pru and her family’s lives to force my compliance. I had no choice but to camp outside for a night as she ordered, and return the next day.

But when she learned I’d dueled you, she was furious. She didn’t take it out on me, but she viciously scolded Pru and starved her for a day, promising further punishment once we returned. I thought, as before, it was just bluster, but I never expected she would…”

“What did Sister Myra do?” Berion asked urgently, seeing Jessice falter and tears welling in her eyes.

Jessice held back her tears and choked out, “Aunt Myra slandered Pru before my parents, accusing her of being a witch—saying she was only near me to steal my soul, deprive me of the Fire God’s protection, and consign me to eternal darkness.

My parents believed her and ordered Pru seized, and now the monks mean to burn her alive.

Pru has been with me for years. She’s a kind-hearted girl, a year younger than I am. I can’t let her lose her life because of my momentary defiance.”

By now Jessice was weeping openly, and Berion finally understood the whole story. Her purpose in coming was clear: she wanted his help to save her maid, Pru.

Though it would mean crossing the cruel nun, Myra, what did that matter compared to a human life? To offend such a woman was a small price to pay.

With that thought, Berion said, “Jessice, what do you want me to do? Surely you don’t mean for me to storm the prison with a band of men?”

At this, Jessice managed a small laugh. “Of course not. I want you to take part in a trial by combat. If you can defeat the knight Aunt Myra chooses, Pru will be spared.”

“Trial by combat?” Berion murmured. He’d seen such things on television in his previous life, but never expected to find it here as well.

“Yes,” Jessice replied, having heard his muttering. “You’re a knight from the south, so perhaps you don’t know our northern customs. Here, if someone feels a judgment is unjust, they can request a trial by combat.

You can fight in your own defense or choose a champion to fight for you. Whoever wins is deemed to have the Fire God’s blessing and is considered right; the loser is wrong.”

Berion nodded. “Do you know which knight Sister Myra will choose?”

Jessice shook her head. “If you agree to help, I’ll ask my father to allow the trial. He’ll agree if I request it.”

“I’ll help you, but I have a question I hope you’ll answer honestly,” Berion said, looking her in the eye.

Jessice met his gaze with equal seriousness. “Ask. I won’t lie to you.”

“Why come to me instead of the count’s own knights? Surely there are skilled fighters among them.”

Jessice pouted. “Aunt Myra warned all the house knights that if anyone helps me, they’ll be the next to be accused like Pru. They all fear her—afraid they’ll be branded heretics and burned at the stake. None of them will help.

Besides, even if they would, I wouldn’t ask them. Sir Sandyman is one of my father’s best, and you defeated him in three moves. I’d rather trust you.

I knew you’d be at the tournament, but couldn’t find you. Finally, through the steward, I learned the address of Gamgee’s trading post. I found Gamgee, and he brought me here.”

Berion was torn. Should he help her or not? His heart leaned toward yes—who could refuse the plea of a beautiful maiden? But helping her would make enemies, and trial by combat was deadly serious.

If he refused, things would be easier for him, but he’d break the heart of this girl—who might one day be a countess. And who could say what the future might bring?