—History will remember this day. Which is ironic, because no one has the faintest clue how it began.
"A sword is only as sharp as the sense behind it...or the luck of the wielder."
— The Kingdom's Official Guide to Unlikely Heroes
----
Bartholomew Blunt lunged forward, as gracefully as a drunk pigeon chasing a bread crust.
He let out a brave shout, though it sounded more like a surprised squeak, and reached out his hand...
But instead, his hands closed around the hilt of a sword.
Before he could process this unexpected clutch, the sword swung wildly, and a highwayman shouted in pain, holding his chest.
"Oi! What devilry is this?" the man snarled, stumbling backward.
Bartholomew, eyes wide and looking really serious, tripped over a root, barely managing to stay upright. "Back off, villain! She's mine!" he declared with all the flair of a jilted lover.
The highwaymen exchanged bewildered looks. One whispered, "Who's the lady, then?"
-----
Now, dear reader, you're surely wondering: how did our hero end up in such a ridiculous mess?
Why is he professing undying love?
Well, that's precisely what we'll find out in a minute. Let us rewind a few hours and uncover how it all began…
—
Earlier that morning, Bartholomew Blunt woke up in a cold, musty tavern room in the muddy town of Rottelbury-on-Slush.
His head pounded wildly, and his wig felt like it might slide right off.
He was sprawled across a lumpy old mattress, the whole room smelling of stale beer and damp straw.
His face was squished into a flat, worn-out pillow. One hand clutched a wrinkled shirt, while the other rested over his forehead, as if to shield himself from the sun, or perhaps from responsibility.
His pockets were completely empty, and his stomach growled loud enough to join a choir.
A sudden, thunderous banging erupted at the door, shaking the fragile wooden frame.
"Blunt! You insolent wretch, get up and pay your debts this instant!" Roared a voice so gruff it might have cracked stone. The tavern owner, no doubt nursing last night's hangover and a growing debt, and was having none of Blunt's usual excuses.
Bartholomew remained as still as a corpse...
"Blunt! Pay up or I'm sending the bailiffs to drag you from your dreams!"
"You'll be singing for your supper in the stocks next!" The voice threatened finally.
A moment later, the door creaked open. Mistress Danny walked in with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.
"Well, well. Our fearless 'gentleman adventurer' has finally decided to grace the world with his presence," she said dryly, surveying Blunt's disheveled form.
"Absolutely spent I see. Did your vocal cords survive last night's… performances? Or was it the ale that claimed you first?"
She sighed. "I swear, if he sang any louder, the ale would've ran for cover."
Shaking her head, she muttered. "He's hopeless."
Still, he gave no reply.
"Don't worry. I won't tell the landlord you're playing dead again," she smirked, stepping back toward the door. "But if he comes knocking, you're on your own."
The door closed quietly behind her.
Blunt peeked one eye open, scanning the room. The coast was clear.
He pushed himself up and grabbed his crooked, slightly stained cap from the rickety table.
Moving as quietly as a man who had two left feet and a penchant for disaster could manage, he crept toward the window.
He pushed it open. Luckily, the room was only on the second floor, but the ledge outside was narrow and unforgiving.
Carefully, he swung one leg over, then the other, and slowly slid himself out onto the narrow edge.
Just as he was about to climb down, a loud voice shouted from the street below.
"Oi! There he goes! The thief thinks he can skip out without paying again!"
Blunt froze mid-step, and his heart jumped.
Looking up, he spotted a stout woman, no doubt the tavern owner's sister or a distant cousin, pointing at him and shouting to the gathering crowd. "That's him! He owes for the room and the ale!"
With a panicked grunt, Blunt swung his legs over and dropped, barely landing on his feet, knees wobbling under him.
A small crowd was gathering, muttering about unpaid debts and ruined profits.
"Get him!" she shouted. "We're taking everything he's got if he doesn't cough up!"
He broke into a sprint, the angry voices closing in behind him.
"If he don't pay, that mangy beast belongs to us!" one barked.
"Oh no… Justice!" he gasped, the loyal beast, last seen... had been tied outside the tavern.
He skidded to a halt and spun back around. Much to the surprise of his pursuers.
There was a moment of silence.
Then Blunt placed a solemn hand on his chest, and bowed deeply.
"I honor thee, noble Justice!" he declared, voice quivering with faux emotion.
The crowd was momentarily stunned.
"Though I leave you behind, my heart rides with you." He declared solemnly, then blew a theatrical kiss toward the donkey, who blinked lazily in response.
The onlookers watched in confused silence.
Mistress Danny yelled, snapping the silence in two.
"Oi, you daft oaf! You'll need more than kisses to save that mangy beast!"
With a whoop, Blunt took off again, his cap nearly falling off in the process.
Laughter and insults trailed him as he vanished into the tangled streets.
...
After his narrow escape from the angry tavern folks, Bartholomew limped down the uneven streets of Rottelbury-on-Slush, holding his side and breathing like a broken accordion. His boots were worn out, his pride a little dented, and his hat sat crooked on his head.
He finally reached a small, lopsided house squeezed between two chimneyed buildings puffing out smoke. The front door looked old, bent from age, and had a musty smell.
He gave it a shove with his shoulder and pushed it open.
Inside, the place smelled like dust and old memories. The furniture didn't match, things were scattered everywhere, and a family of spiders seemed to be holding court in the corner.
With a sigh, he shuffled to a cracked basin, splashed cold water on his face, and tried vainly, to smooth his ruffled wig and dusty coat.
Blunt wandered over to the warped mirror and peered in. His reflection looked like a man who had wrestled a bear, lost badly, and then gotten into a fight with the bear's cousin.
"Still got it," he muttered with a grin, striking a pose and winking at his reflection.
Feeling marginally refreshed, Blunt made his way down the street, his nostrils twitching. The warm scent of freshly baked bread and, more importantly, hot pies teased him onward.
Soon, he found himself in front of "Maggie's Marvelous Bakery," which sat on the corner of Spice Street and Petty Thieves' Alley, its faded sign swinging lazily in the breeze. The windows steamed softly, and through the glass, a stout old woman was busy kneading dough with the enthusiasm of a blacksmith at the forge.
Blunt pushed open the door and a bell above the door gave a tired ding, as if it too had seen better days.
He was immediately enveloped in the heavenly scent of rosemary, lard, and...moving on.
Blunt swept off his cap and grinned. "Ah, Mistress Maggie! My dearest confectionary enchantress. A morning without your bakery is a morning without purpose."
She didn't even look up. "If you're here for free bread again, I suggest you turn right back around and try your luck at the gallows. They've got more mercy than I do today."
He leaned against the counter and began rifling through the shelf behind her, opening tins, peeking under cloths, and generally behaving like a raccoon in breeches.
"That's my storage," Maggie said, narrowing her eyes. "And there's nothing in there for you."
"Nothing? Surely, you jest. I see a fine roast pie, sitting there like a maiden awaiting a suitor," he dramatically placed his hand over his heart.
She finally looked up and stared at him. "That pie is for paying customers."
"I am a valued patron," he declared, scandalized.
"You are a jobless nuisance," she replied flatly.
Blunt placed a hand on his chest, wounded.
"Not true! I'm no layabout. I'm a valiant warrior, famed throughout the kingdom! Stories of my bravery echo in every court, every tavern, every alley…"
He puffed up his chest and launched into an elaborate boasting spree. "Why, just last fortnight, I—"
Maggie interrupted by grabbing a nearby sack of flour and hurling a handful squarely at him.
He stood blinking, white powder clinging to his moustache. "Assault! Is this how you treat your loyal customers?"
"You've never paid once," she began brushing flour off her apron. "Not one farthing in three years."
"It's not about coin, Maggie. It's about legacy. This bakery is a national treasure! And I, a humble knight of the—
"The shop's failing, Blunt." she barked. "Rent's gone up, grain costs are murder, and people want sugar-sculpted nonsense these days. No one buys pies anymore."
Maggie shook her head. "The shop won't last the season. I've got buyers lined up, ones who'd pay on time and wouldn't talk 'valiant warrior' nonsense."
Blunt's smile faded. "You… you're selling the bakery?"
She nodded solemnly. "Next week."
He stepped forward, and his voice was softer now. "But Maggie, this place… it's tradition. It's comfort. It's…"
She didn't answer. She just turned back to her dough.
Blunt sighed, then his eyes caught a golden-brown pie cooling on the rack. In one swift motion, he grabbed it, and tucked it under his arm.
Maggie said nothing.
"I shall return," he said, moving toward the door.
"You never left," she muttered under her breath.
"And when I do," he added, "The bakery will stand tall again. You have my word."
With those words, he strode out the door.
Maggie stared after him for a long moment. Then, shaking her head, she returned to kneading her dough.
"Fool's gonna get that pie stolen before he even gets down the street,"
---
Blunt strolled down the cobbled lane like a man on a royal procession, chin lifted, and one hand on his feathered cap to keep the morning breeze from stealing it.
His much-coveted pie was tucked securely under one arm, while his other hand fiddled with the hilt of his sword, wriggling it awkwardly to sit at just the right heroic angle.
Then he heard a shout from behind him-
"That's him! Get him!"
Blunt froze mid-stride.
Slowly, and cautiously, he looked over his shoulder.
Two burly men were barreling toward him from the far end of the lane. One brandished a cudgel, the other had the eyes of cheap wine...angry and sloshing.
He pointed to himself. "Me?"
They didn't slow.
"Thought so."
He started walking faster. Then jogged. Then sprinted.
"Why does this always happen on pastry days?!"
He bounded over crates, ducked beneath laundry lines, and narrowly avoided a one-eyed cat with an eye patch and a grudge.
In his flight, he crashed into a flower stall, sending roses flying into the face of a passing monk.
He kicked over a goose cart, prompting an explosion of honking and feathers. But somehow, he kept his pie miraculously intact, even as he zigzagged through chaos.
When he finally glanced back, he saw them veer off toward a side junction, then spotted another man fleeing down the lane. Turned out, they hadn't been after him at all.
But then—
Wham!
He slammed into someone turning the corner.
A man.
His satchel burst open, scattering jewels into the air like shiny breadcrumbs.
Simultaneously, Blunt's pie launched skyward, spinning end over end in motion.
"NO—!"
Blunt reached upward, his fingers stretched not for rubies or rings, but for the thing that truly mattered.
Instead, his hand clamped around steel.
Twas the other man's sword, knocked loose in the chaos..
Blunt's hand jerked reflexively.
SHING!
The blade sliced downward, accidentally across the young man's chest, cutting clean through leather. The man stumbled backward with a breathless grunt.
"Oi! What devilry is this?"
The pie fell between them.
Blunt, breathless, and eyes blazing, held the sword like a knight defending a relic.
And declared with conviction:
"Stay back… she's mine!"
---
Ah, readers! There it is. The moment of destiny, the clash of fate, the dramatic duel you witnessed earlier. One might have suspected honor, revenge, or love for a maiden, as the cause.
But no. No, dear friends. The lover in question… was a pie.
---
Bartholomew, eyes wide and utterly serious, tripped over a root but didn't fall.
The men exchanged bewildered looks. One whispered to the other, "Who's the lady, then?"
Just then, another man skidded to a stop, took one look at the scene...the sword, the fallen companion, the dead-serious stance of Blunt, and paled.
"I knew it," he whispered. "It's a trap. He's one of them—those secret knights! The mad ones!"
With a yelp of fear, they turned and sprinted away into the alley.
There was a long silence.
Blunt blinked, still holding the sword in his hand.
"…That was weird."
He looked down at the fallen pastry, bent down and gently picked it up, cradling it with the tenderness of a mother hen returning to her egg.
"My sweet… You've been violated by the wind and trauma,"
As he dusted off the crust, a voice from behind him spoke.
"Excuse me… sir?"
Blunt spun around sharply, nearly swinging the pie instead of the sword. He pointed his still-sheathed blade with exaggerated menace at a young man who was now approaching.
"Hold it, brigand! I have a blade and an itchy hand! Take but one step closer and I shall unleash moderate fury!"
The man raised his hands in surrender. "I... mean no harm... sire."
Blunt stared at him suspiciously. "You— are a taxman, aren't you? I can smell the fear of confrontation!"
"I—I just wanted to thank you!"
"Thank me?" Blunt lowered the sword, confused.
The man stepped forward slowly. "Well… yes."
"Not trying to arrest me, are you?"
"Why would I—?"
"Why wouldn't you?"
"If you'd just let me speak, please."
"You saved me. Those men were going to rob me."
"I saved you?" Blunt gave a suspicious squint.
"You're awfully… clean for a robbery victim."
He stepped back. With the panic fading, he finally took in the young man's appearance.
Tall. Refined. His coat was stitched with gold thread, and a small silver crest glittered on his lapel. His boots were polished, his hair combed as though he had servants who only did that.
Then as if now aware of the situation he said. "Yes. Yes, of course I did. That was entirely deliberate."
"Well, I am Charles," the young man went on, placing a hand on his chest. "And who do I have the honor of addressing?"
Blunt brushed a piece of his hair back. "I am but a wandering hero."
Charles gave him a confused look. "Wandering hero?"
"Aye." he struck a pose. "Bartholomew Blunt. Saviour of the smallfolk. Guardian of justice. Slayer of... Ehm., Long story. But suffice to say, you are now among the fortunate."
Charles looked at him for a long moment.
"I see…"
"Then allow me do my part. Please, come with me to Merrowbrook Estate. My father, will want to meet you. You'll be given a hero's welcome, and a generous reward."
Blunt's eyebrows shot up. "So you're…one of those rich ones."
"I suppose you could say that."
Bluntstoodin silence, truly tempted by the offer, but then shook his head.
"I would love to… but alas, I am on a sacred quest."
"Oh?"
"A mission of vital importance to the balance of things. Very secret."
"Then perhaps this will aid you," Charles said, reaching into his coat and offering a pouch filled with shimmering jewels.
Blunt recoiled. "I can't accept jewels. I don't like to carry heavy things. They clink. Attract birds."
"Birds?"
"Especially the judgmental kind."
Charles, clearly not sure if he was being mocked or knighted, offered a confused smile.
"Are you sure?"
Blunt nodded gravely. "The path of the chosen is rarely paved with rubies."
"Anyway, I bid you farewell, Master Charles. May your cloak always swirl and your pockets jingle in peace!" he said, brushing a speck of dust from the crust.
He turned elegantly, one arm behind his back, sword upright, and pie securely tucked under his other elbow.
And with that, he walked off, in half-whispers and victory hums.
Charles watched him go, as a small child nearby pointed and said, "Mum, who is that?"
"Oh, darling," the mother whispered. "That's Prince Charles, dear."
"The actual one?"
"With a crest and everything dear."
Charles then turned on his heel, bewildered. Possibly enchanted.
"…Father's never going to believe this."
———