Sir Bentley and Holbrook Court (13 page)

“Is this the new prisoner I've heard of?” Kingsley asked of Avarick.

“Yes. This is the one who struck a guard who was trying to collect a tax. I have sentenced him to three weeks in the stocks,” Avarick replied.

Kingsley peered through the iron gate at Bentley.

“He actually struck one of your men and you did not kill him?” Kingsley asked.

Avarick clenched his jaw and looked the other way.

“I must say I believe you're getting soft, Sir Avarick!” Kingsley laughed loudly, which seemed to irritate Avarick all the more. “Open the gate. I want a closer look.”

“Really, Father.” Braith sounded annoyed. “Must we spend time chatting with a peasant prisoner?”

Kingsley ignored him and walked over to Bentley. He leaned over to look into his eyes. “Now why would my ruthless first knight spare the life of this peasant?” Kingsley asked himself aloud, as if intrigued by a riddle.

He turned and looked at Avarick and then back to Bentley.

“Tell me, peasant, do you have something Sir Avarick wants?” He obviously did not expect an answer. He put his finger to his fleshy lips as if to think hard on the matter and then smiled broadly.

“I have it! Since he is a peasant, it cannot be money. Is it perhaps a secret?” Kingsley asked Avarick, delighted with himself.

Avarick tried to ignore the impromptu game he was being forced to play. Kingsley turned back to Bentley.

“Is that it, peasant? Do you have a secret Sir Avarick wants?”

Bentley looked into Kingsley's eyes.

“I have nothing that your first knight wants, sir,” Bentley replied, thinking fast. “But I do have something
you
want.”

Kingsley's eyes narrowed; then he tilted his head slightly.

“Quiet, maggot!” Avarick took a threatening step toward Bentley. “You are not allowed to speak to Lord Kingsley!”

Kingsley held up his hand to stop Avarick from striking Bentley. “Indeed, what could a peasant possibly have that I could ever want, other than a few measly florins of tax?”

Even at his youthful age, Bentley had learned a great deal from his father about success in business. One of the first lessons his father taught him was the value of discovering the motives of those with whom you deal. His father said that everyone is ultimately motivated by one driving force, one key desire. Find that motive, and you have found the helm of a man or woman's life, the key to negotiating with that person. It wasn't hard to discern Kingsley's driving force; the evidence gleamed from every brick in the castle wall.

On the road to becoming a Knight of the Prince, Bentley had learned one more lesson about human motivation—that there is only one force that leads to true satisfaction. And so he had an answer to give to Kingsley.

“Abundant life,” Bentley replied.

Kingsley's round face froze for a moment, and then his lips curved into laughter. He stood straight and laughed even louder. His entourage joined in the merriment—all except Avarick, who merely lowered his hand from his striking position.

Kingsley continued in his laughter, holding his stomach as though it were going to burst. He wiped tears from his eyes, and Bentley thought perhaps the man might fall to his knees in convulsions of mirth. But Kingsley calmed himself enough to ask Bentley another question.

“Look at me, peasant, and look at you. Who has the more abundant life?”

Everyone hushed, waiting to hear the punch line of the joke.

“Your wealth is indeed great, sir. The clothes you wear and the food you eat are the finest in the region, possibly the entire kingdom. But you are not satisfied, and your life is lacking.” Bentley turned his head in its wooden prison to look at Kingsley's face. Though a broad smile was still there, it was the afterglow from his prior bout of laughter, for his eyes revealed something different.

“I could show you how to double your wealth,” Bentley continued, “yet you still would not be satisfied. I have had much and now I have little, but I am content, and my life is abundant. The purpose for which I live transcends wealth and comfort.”

For a moment, Kingsley was lost deep in thought as he considered Bentley's words. His entourage began to murmur behind him. Kingsley shook his head as if to shake off a numbing blow. Then a genuine smile returned to his lips.

“
You
could double
my
wealth.” He snorted. “How in the kingdom could a peasant do such a thing for a lord as powerful as I?”

“This is foolish talk.” Avarick turned on his heel to encourage everyone to be on their way.

“No, no, no,” Kingsley said. “The lad amuses me. Speak, peasant.”

Bentley took a deep breath, disheartened by the fact that Kingsley seemed to have completely missed his point. But perhaps here was an opportunity to ease the oppression of the people and provide an avenue of further dialogue with Kingsley in the future.

“I have estimated that you have several thousand peasants working your land. Is that right?

Kingsley nodded. “Exactly 4,336 at last census.”

“Your minimum tax rate is fifty percent—more in many cases. This keeps the peasants at an economic level just high enough to survive and continue to produce for you.”

Bentley paused only long enough to gauge the impact of his words on Kingsley. The man's smile slowly began to disappear, as did those of his entourage.

“The families are kept small since too many mouths to feed would ruin them, and your tax rate is the same regardless of family size. You also only allow one field per family so that no single peasant can rise to a higher level of income and have influence over others. But this strategy is actually limiting your yield. By adjusting these economic barriers to growth for the peasants, you could easily double your wealth in less than fifteen years.”

“Absurd!” Avarick exclaimed. “The peasant is a rambling idiot. Let's be on our way.”

Kingsley leaned down again to look more closely at Bentley The left corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly, and then he stood.

“Yes, let's move onward.”

Within an hour, a young servant boy came and fed Bentley some bread, cheese, and cool water. The meal ended with a delicious green pear, and Bentley thought he had never tasted food so good in all his life. He tried to talk to the pleasant lad, but the guard forbade it.

Late in the afternoon of the same day, Bentley saw a covey of maidens walking through the nearest garden. As they came closer, he recognized the Painted Ice Princess, Lady Gwylin, accompanied by three of her handmaidens. One of the maidens pointed toward him, and Lady Gwylin walked toward the iron fence and gate of the prison yard. She walked as a princess would, with her chin slightly raised. Her face was still painted white, but the colors about her eyes and on her cheeks were now rose instead of blue.

She stood at the gate with her back slightly to Bentley, approximately fifteen paces away. The other maidens made small talk that was occasionally interrupted by a subtle giggle.

“He's rather cute,” he heard one of the maidens say.

“Too bad he's a peasant, Bridgette—but that never stopped you from flirting anyway!”

Lady Gwylin motioned for one of the girls to come to her, and she whispered in her ear.

“Lady Gwylin wants to know why you are here,” the girl called to Bentley.

Bentley thought for a moment. “Tell Lady Gwylin that if she truly wants to know, she can ask me for herself.”

Gwylin turned her head as though she were going to look at Bentley, then turned away again.

“Lady Gwylin never talks to peasants nor looks at them,” the maiden called out. “It is not proper.”

“Then you can tell Lady Gwylin she will have to discover for herself why I am here. Where I come from, it is considered rude to not directly address a person, whether nobility or peasant.”

“Why, the insolence!” the maidens huffed. Gwylin whispered to her again.

“Lady Gwylin will consider your request,” she called out, “but she wants to know where you come from.”

“I am from…” Bentley had kept his origin hidden from everyone thus far, but he sensed that this day was the beginning of something new. For months he had walked as the Prince had walked, a pauper among paupers. But if he were truly going to help the people of this land, he must begin to speak boldly about the Prince and about his purpose as a Knight of the Prince.

“…Chessington.”

Lady Gwylin stood still for a moment and then motioned her maidens to follow. They left him alone without any more being spoken.

A DANGEROUS
ENEMY

The day stretched out for many more hours, fading into another miserable night. Bentley's legs and back ached so badly he wondered if he could possibly endure another day of it, much less three weeks. In the morning, though, Bentley was given a good breakfast, which helped his spirits immensely. Shortly afterward, Lord Kingsley came to the prison yard to talk with Bentley again. This time he was alone.

The guard opened the gate, and Kingsley stood before Bentley with his hands on his hips, staring.

“You have robbed me of something I consider to be very precious,” Kingsley said, “a good night's sleep.”

Bentley tried to look up at him, but the board about his neck kept his head down.

“Then you are still to the advantage, sir, for I have now been robbed of two,” Bentley said and tried to smile.

Kingsley laughed. “You are an odd fellow. You aren't from here, are you?”

“I am the son of a tradesman in the southern part of the kingdom,” Bentley replied.

“Ah, this makes sense. Tell me, lad, what else have you to say about increasing my wealth? I should like to hear it.”

“And I should like to speak it, sir.” Bentley deliberately added a little strain to his tone. “But unfortunately I find my voice failing from resting my head upon my throat these past two days.”

Kingsley laughed again. “You are a sly one. Guard!” He motioned for the guard to unlock the stocks, and for the first time in two days, Bentley stood straight, his cramping muscles screaming in protest. He rubbed feeling into his neck and wrists and felt as if he had been given a new lease on life.

“Get him some water,” Kingsley commanded the guard.

“Yes, my lord.” The man quickly fetched a ladle of cool water for Bentley. Bentley thanked him and enjoyed the pleasure of drinking from an erect position, something he would never take for granted again.

“Don't get too comfortable,” Kingsley said. “You'll be back in the stocks in a few moments.”

Bentley nodded and continued to rub his neck and wrists.

“Now, about these economic boundaries. How would you say that I should adjust them for my advantage?”

“Lower your taxes,” Bentley said.

“What? Absurd! Avarick was right—you are an idiot. Guard, put him back in the stocks.”

“Wait, Lord Kingsley. Hear me out.” Bentley put up his hands to the approaching guard. “If you lower your taxes from fifty percent to twenty-five percent, what do you think will happen?”

“I will get less money!” Kingsley said.

“Yes, but only for a time. What will happen to the peasants?”

“They will eat more, have more children, and get lazy!”