Wilhelm managed to give a friendly, if uneasy laugh, then got up from his seat. The food was extraordinary, to be sure, but he’d eaten most of his fill at the tavern. Out of respect for Lord Hamheart, he left his pollaxe under the watchful eye of Roger. There was still a dagger in Wilhelm’s belt, though it wouldn’t be much good in a fight with an opponent with much more reach than his. “Be careful,” Roger whispered, this time pulling in Wilhelm close so that nobody else could hear, “Hamheart’s leading you into a trap for all we know.”

When they were safety out of view, Wilhelm began to explain his side to the story. “You’ve probably heard the song. It’s very popular with the peasants, ‘n you lot seem to like music well enough. Parts of it are true, actually. Three of the kings men showed up one day, but they didn’t ask for anyone specific. At least not right away. They just started…” Wilhelm gulped. He had spent the last few weeks trying to forget what had happened. It seemed as though even now he was piecing the chaotic string of events together for the first time. “They just started burnin’. My uncle’s farm, my mum’s house...” He paused. “O’ course, we had to get outta there, but the king’s men were waiting for us. Only mum knew I was the royal bastard, so I didn’t have any idea what this band o’ blowhards was talkin’ about. First error in the song, I guess, is I’d never met Rodrick or Matilda or Lily. ‘S a matter of fact, I hadn’t even heard of them before I heard the ballad.”

Wilhelm sighed. “Fortunately, my cousins, the ones I brought in with me; we’d all brought our weapons with us. We’d been to war before, ya see; that’s why I have my pollaxe. Didn’t use no sickle; that’s the second error in that little ballad. I killed two of ‘em with my axe, and a bit of royal sorcery.” He held out his hand, and as he did so, his dagger rose from its scabbard, stabbed the empty air out in front of the balcony, then returned to its place on his belt. “Roger’s the best fighter outta the three of us, though, and he killed the last one while Frederick grabbed the horses for us to escape. My uncle and my mother…” He paused for a moment. “… They were riding with us, but they were cut down by some more o’ the king’s knights.”

He leaned forward on the balcony and looked off into the distance wistfully, remembering his mother’s smiling face, and the face of terror she'd made right before she died. [i]I might as well cover the rest of the rumours, too…[/i] “Most of the other stuff you heard about’s probably Frederick or Roger’s doing. Roger’s the one who slew twelve men single-handedly during the Battle of Westwood, and Freddy’s the one who deflowered the baron’s daughter on her sister's wedding night, and both of those things happened almost a year before any of this royal bastard nonsense. 'M just a farmer-turned-soldier with a fancy weapon and some sorcerer's blood. I'm no hero, that's for sure.”