Make way for Sir Truth.

Here he comes in all his finery, perched high on his horse. With all that pomp and circumstance, you’d think he’d be too heavy to ride. But his back is straight, his helmet thrust up in noble defiance – I am here, worthy of your admiration.

The crowd, against its better judgment, doffs its caps, curtsies and collectively lowers its gaze. For, when’s all said and done, the black and gold rider is intimidating af. Nobody wants to meet his steely glare, the stare of a despot who knows he can do whatever he likes. And so he clip-clops through the streets, surveying his property with contemptuous relish, gripping the leather straps in his gauntleted hands.

At the very back of the crowd, clinging to her father’s warm shoulder, swayed a peasant girl maybe 5 or 6. The cogs and wheels of her mind were turning and a faint frown furrowed her face. She pulled at her bottom lip in concentration and watched Sir Truth disappear under the castle’s main gate.

Her head was abuzz with questions but she had enough sense not to speak them aloud. Not here. Not yet. Maybe later after her father cleared away the dinner things, drew the curtains and got out his swords to sharpen.

She loved those evenings when he let her stay up, telling her stories about the old days, about her mother and the times when man was free to walk and talk as he liked, a time when public executions weren’t a weekly occurrence.

She wondered if those days would return as she turned back to watch the condemned men climb the scaffold – Uncle Denis two from the back – and, as the executioner’s song rang clear over the subdued heads of the crowd, she knew she was the one who would set her people free.