A Most Unequal Measure by Douglas Brynes
Enter Douglas of South Falls, a man of modest coat and ample mind,
And Lord Little J Frederic, rich beyond reason,
Yet armed with a blade so slight it begged apology.
Douglas of South Falls had crossed many roads and heard many boasts, yet none rang so hollow as those uttered by men who jingled when they walked. Thus did he find himself before the estate of Lord Little J Frederic, whose wealth announced itself in marble, in gold-threaded banners, and in servants who bowed too low for honesty.
There, in the courtyard, played out a farce mistaken for romance.
A woman stood at its center—Maid Gwenevere, fair not merely in feature but in bearing, her spine straighter than the lord who pursued her. Lord Little J Frederic advanced with the confidence of a man long unopposed, his voice dripping courtesy like honey soured by time.
“Sweet Maid Gwenevere,” quoth he,
“Why fly’st thou thus?
I offer thee shelter, silk, and standing high.”
Maid Gwenevere turned, eyes bright with iron.
“My lord, you offer what you own,
But claim what you do not.”
Douglas of South Falls, who had lingered near as witness, stepped forth then, as if summoned by the rhythm of injustice itself.
“Good my lord,” said Douglas of South Falls, bowing just enough to be polite,
“The lady’s feet speak faster than your promises.
I pray you listen.”
Lord Little J Frederic measured him, sneer blooming like rot upon fruit.
“And who art thou,” said he,
“That dares interrupt my charity?”
Douglas of South Falls smiled.
“A passerby, sir—
Which oft proves the most dangerous kind.”
A murmur rippled. Maid Gwenevere glanced at Douglas of South Falls, hope flickering like candlelight.
Lord Little J Frederic laughed, sharp and short.
“This woman stands beneath my protection.”
“Protection?” Douglas of South Falls echoed.
“Then why does it chase her?”
The lord stiffened. His hand fell, as ever, to his sword.
Ah, the sword.
It was a slender thing—thin as a lord’s patience, ornate as his excuses, jeweled so richly at the hilt that the blade itself seemed embarrassed by comparison. A weapon made less for war than for reassurance.
“You tread near insult,” warned Lord Little J Frederic.
Douglas of South Falls nodded.
“Aye, my lord.
But I find insult oft lies where truth hath stubbed its toe.”
Lord Little J Frederic drew his blade an inch—just enough for the gems to catch the sun, just enough to say Look at me.
“Know you this sword?” he cried.
“It hath ended men.”
Douglas of South Falls leaned forward, squinting.
“Ended them, sir—
Or merely disappointed them?”
Laughter burst free like cork from bottle. Lord Little J Frederic flushed crimson.
“You think thy wit a match for steel?”
“Nay,” Douglas of South Falls replied,
“I think thy steel already outmatched itself.”
The lord bristled.
“This blade is of the finest make!”
“Then,” said Douglas of South Falls,
“It hath done all it can,
For no craftsman may forge substance
Where none was ordered.”
Maid Gwenevere covered a smile.
“You mock what you cannot afford!” Lord Little J Frederic spat.
Douglas of South Falls answered sweetly,
“I mock what dares pretend.”
The duel was joined then, though no blood yet spilled—
A fencing of words, where Douglas of South Falls parried with sense
And Lord Little J Frederic lunged with pride and missed.
“I stand before thee a lord!” cried Lord Little J Frederic.
“I command men! Lands! Fortunes!”
“And yet,” said Douglas of South Falls,
“A woman’s ‘no’ unmakes thee.”
Gasps. Silence.
Douglas of South Falls pressed on, voice smooth as drawn blade.
“Tell me true, Lord Little J Frederic—
Is thy sword so small
Because thy courage crowds the hilt?”
Lord Little J Frederic’s composure shattered like cheap glass.
“I’ll have thee whipped!” he roared.
“Hung! Cast into the river!”
“And still,” Douglas of South Falls replied,
“Thy sword shall measure the same.”
Maid Gwenevere stepped forward then, her voice clear and ringing.
“You bought silence, my lord—
But found it ill-fitting.”
Eyes turned away. Lord Little J Frederic searched for allies and found only shoes and stone.
“Begone!” he spat. “Both of you!”
Douglas of South Falls bowed.
“Gladly.
Yet the lady leaves whole—
Unlike thy dignity.”
Douglas of South Falls offered Maid Gwenevere his arm. She took it, and together they passed beneath the gate, leaving behind marble, gold, and a lord reduced to rumor.
But pride, once pricked, festers.
That night by the river, torches flared. Lord Little J Frederic appeared, flanked by men who followed coin, not conviction. His sword was drawn now, trembling in his grasp like a nervous thought.
“You shamed me!” he cried.
“Draw, coward!”
Douglas of South Falls rose slowly.
“Your quarrel, my lord,
Is not with my blade.”
“Draw!”
Douglas of South Falls shook his head.
“Were I to draw,
Thy sword would at last face something
Of greater length.”
A few soldiers snorted. Lord Little J Frederic screamed.
“I’ll kill you!”
Douglas of South Falls stepped close, hands empty.
“Do it then—and live forever mocked.
Spare me—and wake tomorrow still defeated.
For thou know’st this truth, Lord Little J Frederic:
A sword so small must needs defend much pride.”
Lord Little J Frederic faltered. His arm fell. The torches lowered.
Douglas of South Falls turned away.
Maid Gwenevere followed him into the dark, free and laughing softly.
Behind them stood Lord Little J Frederic, alone with his jeweled blade—
A sword that glittered greatly,
Measured poorly,
And could not, for all its shine,
Cut through the weight of its owner’s wounded ego.
Exeunt.