A boy, in Medieval times, must discover his true identity but there are so many others who plan to do this. The eyes of leaders and their hench-men are upon this boy.
Escape, capture, and escape again, cause 'Boy' to wonder who he can trust.
How can...
Bloodstained and unconscious, the injured Seymour was carried into the stony cell-like room that was his humble dwelling.
Boy knelt at his wooden box, working in light entering from a one portal 'window' opening, concentrating on lessons set by Seymour before the man had gone for his usual morning wander.
The lad jumped up; his face aghast to see Seymour so battered and unconscious.
Hysterical, and as useless as a sick cow, Marcie folded to her knees. Wordlessly, the burly soldiers dumped the insensible Seymour on his crude bed, turning on their heels before marching off to re-join their company.
As Boy bathed the unconscious man's cuts and bruises, tears sprang to his eyes, and he recalled only the good memories. Seymour; his father... his protector, provider, teacher, friend, and guide...
"Please, don't let him die. Please let him live," Boy prayed whilst sponging Seymour's face. He avoided a dark purple swelling on his temple. It throbbed in and out, threatening to burst at the slightest touch.
The night dragged as though never-ending. Marcie, who had calmed down, now to brood, rocked herself back and forth, back and forth, as she sat beside their humble bed where Seymour lay limp upon the thin straw mattress, covered with a well-worn linen cover. Neighbours and fellow sages drifted in and out, as news of Seymour's accident circulated.
Boy over-heard whispers; "It were while he were walking; Seymour always were in a world of his own! But then, those horses with them soldiers on them; they always gallop —too fast. Trampled he were; it were a task to get him up off the cobble-stones, he were broken and bloodied so bad ..."
"Two young footmen following the Brandish Company were commanded to carry Seymour to his home. It was my neighbour who directed them here."
Sympathy and comfort flourished, while folk complained loudly about the speed of the horses on village streets. They muttered helplessly regarding the need for a doctor in Bernberg. The nearest doctor was located forty-five miles away, in the town of Barby.
"Perhaps I should hurry to Barby and fetch the doctor..." Boy queried, as the rising sun announced morning. "Father needs help. He'll die if he does not wake soon."
Marcie sniffed noisily, and said, "It'll cost too much to have the doctor come all the way from Barby. As well you know, we be poor; we've nothing to sell; and the doctor won't come without some coins on his table first!" Sniffing again, Marcie looked up at the ledge where an urn stood. Seymour kept his savings in that urn. "After five years married to Seymour, this is wot I get. How will I live now?" Marcie lamented.
Seymour grew worse; by the afternoon, his body twitched with pain and fever. Again, one by one, the sages of the village visited the chamber; each shaking his head helplessly, before leaving.
