A ring.

Simple to the naked eye, a ring can mean many things to many people.

This ring is no different. A simple golden band with but one embellishment-which would be the sable, three swords in pile conjoined at the points argent, hilted crest of House Winchester. The crest is formed out of one piece of metal-nothing adorns this ring. It is a thing of function, not of design.

A castle, in medieval England.

The crackling of a fire is heard, that and the shifting of feet in nervousness. Three-and-twenty people are present-all men-and all eyes gaze forth at the only one sitting.

The room itself is an exercise in austerity. Cold stones make up the walls, without even a trace of tapestry to cover them. Nothing hangs over the unglazed windows to hold back the chill of the night, and the sound of the wind whistling through the crevices of the ill-fit wall threatens to drown out the more comforting sound of the fire.

He sits, a long silver cape bordered by sable flowing over his legs. He is clad in silver-and-black silk clothes. His face is as if cut from marble. White and hard. A black beard-neatly trimmed-frames an unyielding jawline. Large, dark eyebrows hang heavy over deep-set dark eyes, and there is gravel in his voice as he speaks.

"So what say ye, Lord Devon? Do you say Lord Hampton speaks falsely? Did you not plot treason against my person, and in the hearing of the Earl?"

"I cannot doubt the honour of the Earl of Manchester, m'lord. I however do submit that what was said was heard wrongly by my esteemed companion."

"That I have the honour of swine? That did you say, according to Manchester."

"M'lord! I said no such thing!"

"Devon of Lancaster, I hereby sentence you to be beheaded-under cause of treason against thy Lord and thy King. The beheading shall be at noon two days hence. So let it be known, so let it be done."

"M'lord! I.."

"Silence!" The roar from Lord Winchester seems to give even the wind pause. "Do you dare speak to thy betters so? You shall pay for thy treasons, and the problem of the land and holdings shall be placed before the King.

"Remove him from my sight."

Three men appear behind the throne and drag the blustering, weeping lordling from the room. "Castellan, are the papers ready?"

"Yes, m'lord."

The castellan approaches the chair and bows as he sets a sheaf of parchment upon the arm of Lord Winchester's seat.

Winchester grabs a candle and drips some wax onto the papers. He presses the third finger of his right hand into the wax, sealing it with the crest.

"It shall be done, m'lord. In two days, the traitor shall not speak ill of you anymore. A wise decision m'lord."

"Lord Winchester! Lord Winchester! Come quickly! It is to be war!"

The page's voice rings out through the halls of the keep. There have been rumours, yes. But war? To take the Holy Lands?

A young man turns from the window. The chiseled features of the Winchester line are predominant, but the jaw is not so severe, the eyes not yet sunken with the weight of authority. He turns to the woman standing by his side.

"I must go."

"I know, m'lord. I have known it for some time."

"If it were any different, I would not. The pagans have been allowed to hold the Holy City too long. We must take back the lands of Our Lord and God."

"Yes, m'lord."

She stands there, her soft brown eyes wet with unshed tears. Jerusalem! She turns from him, not wanting him to see the weakness. The world shall lie between him and I! The soft sound of silk on silk is heard as she moves across to the hearth-ostensibly to warm herself, but no amount of warmth can stop her shivering. Shall I see him again? The cause is true, but shall he return?

"Worry not, my wife. A short time and I shall call for you to our lands in Jerusalem. You shall see, the righteous cannot fail, and we have the Lord guiding our hands in all ventures."

"Yes, m'lord."

A smile twists his face and makes his eyes crinkle. This is a man used to laughter and fellowship, not despair.

"I have had some papers drawn up, my Lady Winchester. It took all of the favours that I have gathered at the court, but you will not have to worry about someone else taking my duties while I journey."

"My Lord?" Her eyes hold puzzlement under the layer of tears, now.

"There will be no regent to sit in the House of Winchester." He moves closer to her, his left hand working at his right as he walks. "The King has graciously honoured my request to have you hold all powers as the Duchess of Winchester." His hands separate, and he takes her left hand in his. "You shall rule in my stead, wife."

A small smile plays about her lips as she feels the press of the ring in her left palm. "This is not unheard of, m'lord? Surely the Queen shall rule Britannia while the King is at war?"

"It is not unheard of, no. But never has a woman sat upon the Seat of Winchester. You shall be the first, my wife." He walks across the room, bringing her by the hand as he strides. "There is one matter of business-the first as the Duchess of Winchester. Seal these papers, and send thy husband off to war."

A gasp escapes her, but she slips the ring on to do what she must.

Fast forward.

Lords and Ladies come and go, and still the ring is there. Unmodified. Still pressing into wax, making official death warrants, peace treaties, all manner of documents are adorned by the sigil of House Winchester.

"I will not!"

"My lord, do not underestimate them, I beg of you!"

"They shall have what they deserve, should they follow through with this ridiculous treason. I shall personally ensure that the King deals with them as he should. None shall live to see this follow to fruition."

"Yes, lord."

The strong jaw is prominent, but the hair is more silver than black. Black eyes glitter from sunken sockets, and the voice is strong, authoritative. This man is someone that lives to be obeyed. The wrinkles that he bears should give him a kindlier look, but serve to only strengthen his appearance. Iron he resembles, and Iron Winchester he is called-but not to his face.

It is night, and he looks out the window onto the fields surrounding his manor. Damn them, he thinks. They do not know what they aspire towards, and they wish my help? Do I forfeit my lands, my oaths for this vague idea of theirs?

A flash of light from outside, and he starts from his reverie. They come.

"Benjamin. Thomas. I pray that you do not come for what I have feared these many days."

A chuckle arises from the portly, balding gentleman on the right. "Oh no, Jonathon. We bring good news! Joyous tidings! For some," he adds as an afterthought.

"And what would that be? Have you quelled your hopes at rebellion?"

"Never." This from the tall man. "As long as we, here, get taken for fools by those that claim power over us, we shall seek justice."

"And what are your tidings then, Benjamin?" Jonathon turns from the two and looks across the field to his manor-house. "Are you two all that is left? Has Hancock finally persuaded you from this act?"

The balding one laughs loudly. "Why, Mr. Hancock does feature in my news!"

"Out with it, then."

"A Mr. John Hancock has been swayed! With his persuasion on our side, we cannot fail!"

"Persuasion does not win wars, Benjamin. You cannot hope to fight His Majesty. Britain's troops will crush you should you try."

Thomas speaks at this. "France will recognize us."

A spit from Winchester. "To hell with France! Do you think that they will help you against England? Do you think that they can help you? They will do anything to annoy the king. You know this, and yet you persist? They would recognize some flyspeck if His Majesty did not wish it!" He brings his voice under control. "I do not want this to happen. I am content here, and would like to live out my days in peace."

"To have peace, we must suffer war, Jonathon." Thomas is solemn.

"But you will not have Winchester."

"So be it, then. I had hoped for more from you, but it would seem that you cannot give it."

"I cannot."

The cheers from the plaza are deafening. The house is razed, the inhabitants dead-or soon to be.

Jonathon Winchester is spit on as he is dragged through the square. His clothes-once fine-are now in tatters as he stumbles. His hands are tied together with coarse rope and he is pulled toward the gallows.

"Torie! Death to the redcoats! Pig! Swine! English dog!" All manner of insults are thrown at him, and he cannot muster much in the way of courage. He made the choice that his honour dictated, and now he must pay the price.

The crowd is hungry for the blooding, brought to madness by the headiness of their new-found freedom from what they saw as a despotic rule.

"Any last words?" They ask as the noose is slipped over his head; he can scarcely control his trembling, quivering voice as he replies.

"God save the King!"

The lever is pulled, the rope stretches tight and there is an audible crack as his neck snaps.

The crowd surges forward, unsatisfied with the quick end after the inflammatory words.

A small golden circle rolls out from the throng. It has a crest on it. There is a red tinge to the gold now- perhaps the years of being pressed in hot wax have coloured the band, perhaps something else.

Small hands pick it up and turn it over.

"But momma!"

"But me no buts, young man." The voice is not without kindness.

"But why, momma?" A young voice. Petulant. Whining.

"Because your father sees opportunity in the West."

"There's nothing there, momma!"

Her thoughts spoken aloud for the first time, she pauses the loading of the wagon. "It will be all right, son. Now go wash up. Your father will be home soon, and I won't have you looking like some street urchin!"

The young boy scurries off-as always, excited about his father's return.

Will there be anything besides savages? She can't help but think. The stories she has heard from her circle of friends are anything but comforting. How can I take Armstrong there, where he won't have anything to do? Her hands busy themselves as she stands there. The fingers of her left hand turn a ring around on the middle finger of her right. The ring still shines, the sunlight glinting off of the red-gold metal. Her reverie is interrupted by the squeals of young Armstrong as his father arrives.

"I got it, dear! Five homestead letters! It took some doing, but we have a pretty parcel of land just waiting for us!"

"Yes, dear." Still her left hand works the ring in circles around her finger.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, I just.." how to tell him that she doesn't share his enthusiasm? That she doesn't want to raise her boy without the benefit of proper school, of proper friends? "I'm fine. Heat's getting to me, I fear. Perhaps my body already guesses what the weather will be like?" A forced smile, as usual good enough to satisfy her husband.

"Well, I do have some other news, if you'd like to hear it..."

"And what would that be?"

"If you would like, my aunt said that we could leave Armstrong with her. Yes, I know it's short notice, but I've had some misgivings about him being out there with no end of mischief in sight."

"She would take him in? Make sure he got his schooling?"

"Yes to both."

"Could we?" Her thoughts race as she tries to think of life without her only son. "I don't want to leave him behind, but George, if that's the only way..."

"My thoughts exactly. I think he'd be better off with some school as well. When he grows a bit older-and slows down-we'll send for him."

"George?" The cadet looks nervous.

"What is it, plebe? I'm busy."

"The General wishes to see you, George-he said for you to report right away."

"Damn!" Armstrong springs from his bed and marches briskly towards the commandant's office. What does he want? I haven't received any demerits, so it can't be bad...

Armstrong makes sure that his blonde curls-always unruly, even when closely shorn-are tucked smartly under his cap and knocks three times.

"Enter."

"Cadet-Lieutenant Custer reporting as ordered, sir!"

"At ease, cadet." The older man is weary, one can tell from looking at him-from the sound of his voice. "Sit down, cadet."

"Sir, thank you sir."

"George, there's been some bad news, I fear."

"Sir?"

"Your parents," get on with it, man! There's no easy way to say this. "They were killed, George. An Indian raid on their homestead."

"Sir?" Armstrong's voice is weak.

"There was something they found-apparently the savages didn't notice this. It's yours now, son."

The general walks over to Armstrong and places a small circle of gold in his right hand. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, son."

George's hand closes around the band until a drop of blood drips onto the general's floor. "No, sir. They will be sorry."

"Hold fast, damn you to hell! To me! To me!"

The words come fast and furious, almost as fast as the arrows that fly from all directions. "God take you! Rally! Rally! To me!"

In the end, it is all for naught. The blonde man falls-alone, pierced with a multitude of arrows. A red-skinned man comes to him, tears in his eyes.

Silence fills the air. No one speaks-there is no need. The man kneels next to the blonde, and looks at him. A cry issues forth from the depths of his soul, offered forth to the heavens.

The blonde man is left as he lies.

"Hey!"

"What?"

"It's beeping, man! I found something!"

"Probably an arrowhead. Or a bullet. This was a battleground, in case you didn't know."

"Smartass. I figured that everything would have been gathered up-you know, treasure hunters, the government-people like that."

"Well, maybe the flood loosened it up a bit. Dig the thing up, let's see what we've got."

Two people-a man and a woman-stand in the small clearing. Both have metal detectors, and both wear the headphones associated with such.

The man is tall and heavily tanned from the sun. The tank-top and khaki shorts that he is wearing only serves to accentuate the fact. The woman is bronze, and beautiful to those that can see past the unruly black hair and the strong line of the jaw. Her black eyes glitter with excitement as she takes out the small gardening shovel from her back pocket.

"Oh, wow."

"What is it?"

"A ring."

©Cameron Wm. Akers, 1999.