Stand Your Ground

The next day dawned with the faintest blush of light creeping through the alleyways. The courtyard, usually filled with the sounds of birds and distant monks, was quieter this morning. Elias and Hugh stood facing each other, wooden swords in hand, their movements synchronised as they practiced their footwork. Their laughter echoed off the stone walls, the sound light and carefree, despite the seriousness of their training.

Elias deftly sidestepped, his sword flashing through the air with a practiced grace. "Gotcha!" he called, tapping Hugh on the shoulder with the flat of his blade.

Hugh, undeterred, swung his sword high to block. "No fair! You always do that spin. Show me how to do it without looking like a fool or falling off balance. I always struggle with it!"

Elias chuckled, glancing up at the early morning sky. "Oh? You want to learn? You'd better be ready to be embarrassed."

Hugh grinned mischievously. "I'm always ready to make a fool of myself. It's my kind of thing"

Before Elias could respond, a voice rang across the courtyard.

"Elias! Hugh!"

They froze mid-swing, both turning to see Brother Cedric, his robes rustling as he hurried toward them. His sharp nose and narrow eyes gave him a look of permanent urgency, as if time were a luxury he never had.

"What is it, Brother Cedric?" Elias asked, lowering his sword but keeping his stance.

"Firstly Master Oswald needs help in the kitchens," Cedric said, his voice carrying the weight of the task. "The noble children and Prince Edward require their meal, and he's short-handed. You're to assist him immediately. And secondly, put those treacherous things away! This is an academy for young missionaries of god - not for knights in shining armour. If you wish to be something or someone else, you know where the door is."

"Sorry for the fighting but…The prince?" Hugh's eyes widened, excitement tinged with disbelief. "We're cooking for the prince!?"

"Indeed," Cedric replied, his lips twitching upward into the faintest hint of a smile. "Consider it an honour, boys. Now, off with you."

The boys exchanged a quick glance before nodding enthusiastically and following Cedric toward the kitchen.

The moment they entered, the heat of the kitchen hit them like a wave, the smell of roasted meats, bubbling stews, and freshly baked bread overwhelming their senses. Master Oswald, the head chef, stood before a large stone hearth, stirring a massive pot of something aromatic. His thick beard and flour-stained apron gave him a rugged, imposing appearance, and he didn't even look up as the boys entered.

"Good, you're here" Oswald grunted, his deep voice like thunder in the small kitchen. "We've got chicken broth to prepare and bread to warm. Don't just stand there. Get to work!"

"Yes, Master Oswald," Elias and Hugh replied in unison, rolling up their sleeves and moving toward the workbenches.

The wooden surfaces of the kitchen were cluttered with vegetables, herbs, and the smell of fresh bread baking in the oven. Elias grabbed a knife, inspecting a heap of onions, carrots, and celery. He began chopping with precision, his mind already in the rhythm of the task.

Hugh, always quick to lighten the mood, glanced at the recipe scroll pinned to the wall. "Let's see here… chicken broth for the noble prince, huh? I bet it's got some royal twist to it."

He cleared his throat dramatically and began reading from the scroll in a loud, theatrical voice.

"First, take a good-sized chicken, preferably one that's been raised with the finest grains and no less than five eggs a day. Quarter it, making sure to remove all feathers and excess fat—though that's not an issue here with our tender fowls. Place it in a large pot and cover it with cold water…"

Oswald glanced over his shoulder with a furrowed brow when he saw Hugh playing around with the recipie scroll "Stop fooling around, Hugh. That recipe's sacred."

Hugh grinned, unfazed. "Relax, Mister Oswald. I'm just reading it out loud so I don't miss anything." He continued, his voice filled with mock gravitas.

"Next, add a pinch of salt and a handful of freshly picked thyme. Let it simmer for at least two hours, making sure to skim the fat off the top every thirty minutes to ensure the broth remains pure. At the final stages, stir in carrots, celery, and onion, and let them soften in the broth, infusing it with their goodness."

Hugh paused dramatically, his eyes scanning the room. "Finally, after two hours of divine simmering, you strain the broth, making sure not to leave any bits of bone or vegetable behind. It's a meal fit for kings, or so Brother Cedric claims."

Elias chuckled as he worked, chopping the onions with quick, precise movements. "That's a lot of effort for a simple broth. I think they could settle for something a little more exciting, like roasted peacock."

Hugh, not missing a beat, grinned. "Maybe next time we'll serve them pastries filled with gold dust."

"Gold dust?" Elias raised an eyebrow as he stirred the pot. "You really do think the nobles are a bit too fond of their luxuries, huh?"

"I've seen their dinners," Hugh replied with a sly grin. "Nothing but a plate full of wine and crumbs."

"Brother Cedric always says the chicken broth is good enough for kings and paupers alike," Elias said, his voice soft but firm.

Hugh smiled, his tone lightening as he stirred the pot. "Well, I'd rather be a pauper with a feast than a prince with this." He gestured at the simmering broth. "Remember last Christmas? They gave us that sweet wine and cranberries on bread. That was a meal."

Elias's smile softened, his eyes reflecting the warmth of the memory. "Yeah. It wasn't much, but it felt special. Sweet Cranberry on bread is simply amazing"

Their rhythm settled into a comfortable silence as they worked, chopping vegetables, stirring the broth, and preparing the bread. Despite their grumbling, both boys took pride in the task, knowing that this was their contribution to something greater—something important, no matter how small it seemed.

When the meal was ready, they carried the steaming dishes into the dining hall. The noble children sat at the long table, their fine clothes and lofty expressions a stark contrast to the boys' simple tunics. Elias and Hugh set the dishes down carefully, trying to avoid the condescending stares of the noble youths.

"Finally," Thomas sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. The lanky boy reclined in his chair, a smug grin plastered on his face as his fingers drummed absently on the table, the rhythmic sound grating in the heavy air. "Took you long enough! The service here is terrible. My stomach is yearning for food."

Hugh's face immediately tightened, his hand curling into a fist, but he said nothing. Elias, however, remained focused, placing the last bowl of broth on the table with practiced ease, determined not to let Thomas' taunting distract him.

"Careful, Thomas," Richard, a stout boy with a cruel smirk, piped up, eyeing the two boys like a hawk. He ran his finger around the edge of his bowl. "You don't want to give the kitchen staff a reason to, well, alter your meal with some spit."

Hugh's jaw clenched as the thoughts dug deeper. His mind raced with a thousand responses, but he held his tongue. His fingers tightened around the wooden ladle in his hand, the skin of his knuckles turning pale.

"Better they do that than not taste anything at all," Hugh muttered under his breath, too low for the nobles to hear, but his frustration simmered beneath the words.

"Excuse me?" Thomas shot to his feet, his voice sharp, as if Hugh had offended the crown itself. His eyes were narrow, glaring with contempt. "What did you say, peasant?"

Elias stiffened, his shoulders tensing as the air between them thickened. "Ignore him, Hugh," Elias said quietly, his gaze not leaving the noble's smug face. "Let's just get this over with."

But Hugh was no longer listening. His own fury was bubbling to the surface, too long suppressed. He was tired—tired of the whispers, the sneers, the way Thomas and his pack of followers treated them like dogs. The years of watching Elias take the blows, always calm, always the one to let things slide, had built something in Hugh that he could no longer keep at bay.

"I'm not your servant," Hugh growled, his voice low but thick with rage.

Before Elias could stop him, another voice chimed in, this one belonging to Thomas' crony, a wiry boy with a sharp nose and a habit of pulling cruel stunts. "What, afraid you'll catch something if you touch the food we don't want?" His voice was laced with a smirk as he ran his eyes over Hugh and Elias, as if they were nothing more than vermin. "A couple of dirty peasants serving food to royalty. You two don't belong here, do you? Look at you, wearing those rags."

The noble children laughed. The sound of giggling sliced through the room, echoing off the walls and making Elias' stomach twist in discomfort. He knew better than to respond—knew that giving them an inch would only invite more. But Hugh, standing taller now, his fists clenched, was far less patient.

"I said," Hugh hissed, his voice rising, "maybe, you should peel your own damn carrots next time."

The room went silent. The nobles stared at him in disbelief, and for a moment, everything hung suspended in time. Elias could feel his pulse quicken, the tension crackling in the air. He opened his mouth, about to try to calm Hugh, but it was too late.

"What did you say?" Thomas barked, fury flashing in his eyes as he took a menacing step toward Hugh. His body, already tall and imposing, seemed to swell with aggression. "You think you can talk to me like that, servant?"

Hugh's breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the weight of all those years of frustration pressing down on him. But what was worse was seeing Elias, the calm one, the patient one, still standing there, silent, trying to avoid confrontation as always. The sight of it made Hugh's blood boil, and before he could stop himself, he shouted, "Leave him alone!"

Thomas didn't even flinch at Hugh's outburst. Instead, his hand shot out, pushing Elias roughly aside. "Shut up, peasant," he spat, his shove knocking Elias off balance and sending him stumbling into the table. The bowl of soup tipped precariously, splashing some of it onto the floor.

The room fell into an eerie silence as Elias recovered, wiping his hands quickly, trying to appear calm despite the humiliation. But Hugh's control snapped.

His fist shot forward, propelled by years of watching his friend bear these slights without retaliation. The punch landed square on Thomas' jaw with a sickening crack that vibrated through the hall, echoing like a gunshot in the silent room. Thomas staggered back, his face a mask of disbelief as he stumbled, clutching at his jaw with both hands. A gasp ran through the other nobles, their wide eyes flicking between Hugh and Thomas.

Thomas, face red with pain and fury, growled and lunged at Hugh, but Richard stepped forward, grabbing his arm and holding him back. "It's not worth it," he said, his voice filled with forced calm. "You're already making a fool of yourself."

The room was dead silent, the tension stood as thick as fog. Hugh stood panting, his knuckles aching from the punch, his chest heaving as his anger slowly began to subside. Elias' eyes widened in shock, his lips parting as if to say something, but he quickly closed his mouth.

Brother Cedric was the first to move, his sandals echoing sharply as he strode into the room, his face dark with disapproval. The other monks had heard the commotion and were quick to intervene. "What on earth is this, then?" he asked, his voice cold, his eyes flicking between the two boys, the nobles, and the mess that had been made.

Hugh's heart was racing, his mind spinning. He had crossed a line. Elias, his face flushed with embarrassment, was already backing away, trying to avoid more trouble.

"I... I didn't mean for this to happen," Hugh stammered, but the damage was done.

Cedric's gaze hardened. "You will both come with me," he said firmly, his voice a command. "Now."

As they were escorted out of the room, Hugh could feel the weight of everyone's eyes on him. The nobles were already gossiping among themselves, their faces painted with a mixture of shock and amusement. Thomas stood, rubbing his jaw, his eyes burning with hatred. He would remember this.

But Elias… Elias said nothing. As they walked out of the hall, Hugh glanced at him, his face filled with regret. "Elias, I—"

"Don't," Elias said softly, his voice strained. "You didn't have to do that."

Hugh's heart sank. He had only wanted to protect Elias, but in doing so, he had made things worse. The fight had been about more than just words—it was about a friendship that was now hanging by a fragile thread, the balance between anger and loyalty teetering dangerously.

And as they left the hall behind, the taste of that bitter punch lingering in the air, neither of them could shake the feeling that things between them—and the nobles—would never be the same again.

In the hallowed halls of Canterbury Cathedral, England's most powerful church leaders gathered in secret. The air was thick with the scent of incense, and the flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the ornate stonework. Seated around the intricately carved table, the bishops and abbots debated the kingdom's fragile state, their voices rising in an anxious chorus.

Brother Arnold, the Archbishop of Canterbury, stood at the head of the table, his silver hair and weary eyes betraying years of navigating political and spiritual crises. He raised a hand for silence, his voice steady but filled with the weight of what was to come.

"The peasants grow restless," Arnold began, his tone grim. "Reports of armed groups in the countryside increase daily. They speak of rebellion, of overthrowing the crown. If this continues, England may fall into chaos."

Bishop Edmund of York leaned forward, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room. "The Magna Carta was supposed to placate them, but it's clear they demand more. The crown—and the Church—stand as symbols of their oppression."

"Symbols we cannot afford to tarnish further," interjected Bishop Lionel of Winchester, his voice laced with frustration. "And what of Spain and Portugal? Their growing naval strength threatens our trade routes. The East India Company's profits dwindle. Without those resources, we lose more than power. We lose faith."

Abbot Gregory of Durham spoke next, his voice heavy with concern. "Perhaps the Church has lost its way. If we do not address the people's grievances, we risk losing their trust entirely."

"And what of the barons?" asked Bishop Edward of Lincoln, his voice carrying a sharp edge. "They smell weakness. If they align with the peasants, they could fracture the kingdom."

"The barons," muttered Bishop Thomas of Ely, "are vultures circling a dying beast. They'll take what they can, regardless of the cost to the realm."

Arnold's voice rang out, cutting through the tension. "Then we must strengthen the crown. Pray for King Charles' success in Hormuz. A decisive victory there could stabilise our trade and provide the funds needed to quell unrest at home."

The room fell silent. Each man's face bore the weight of the decision ahead, the future of England hanging in the balance.

Elsewhere during all of this, chaos reigned. In Hormuz, The British forces clashed with the Portuguese defenders in a brutal struggle for control of the island of Hormuz. The sounds of cannons roaring, the clash of swords, and the cries of the wounded filled the air.

King Charles I stood atop a rocky outpost, his gaze fixed on the bloody battlefield below. Soldiers fought through the smoke and dust, blood soaking into the sand beneath their feet. His generals argued behind him, their voices rising in a desperate chorus.

"We must retreat," General Harcourt urged, his brow furrowed in concern. "Our forces are outnumbered it would just be sheer mad madness to continue."

"Retreat?" General Loxley countered, his face flushed with anger. "To abandon Hormuz now would be the end of everything. We fight to the last man!"

Charles remained silent, his mind swirling with the weight of the decision before him. His father's words echoed in his thoughts: the crown is a heavy burden, and every choice could have dire consequences.

Finally, he spoke, his voice calm yet firm. "We fight. Order the reinforcements forward. Victory is the only path home."

Loxley nodded, his jaw set with determination. Harcourt hesitated, but after a long pause, he bowed his head, understanding that Charles' decision was final.

As the orders were carried out, Charles remained on the outcrop, his heart heavy with the knowledge that this battle could decide the fate of England. The first clash of swords rang out under the darkening sky, and Charles gripped his blade tighter. If he were to fall, it would be defending England's greatness.

But then the enemy's horn blared—loud and ominous. Reinforcements. Charles' stomach dropped. The tide of the battle was about to turn, and it wasn't in their favour.