“Mmm.” The Marshal looked at Paks. “I’d have told you our smith can handle himself in a fight. It’s not well for newcomers to brawl in the streets.”
Before Paks could answer, the smith was defending her. “’Tis not her fault, Marshal. I’d think you’d be pleased, even if she’s not one of yours. She thought she saw an old man—” he rumpled his thin gray hair, “—beset by an armed bully. She did well.”
“Hmm. Well, I suppose—if you have no complaint against her—” The Marshal was frowning.
“Not at all. Not at all. Suppose I had slipped and fallen? She was trying to help. And, you might notice, on the side of that law and order you praise so highly. I’ve no complaint. In fact—but go on, now, and get that lummox out of my yard.” He turned abruptly and dove back into the forge.
“I’ll walk with you to the inn,” said the Marshal to Paks in a neutral tone. Paks followed him down the alley, leading both animals. She kept her thumb firmly on the ring.
They were almost to the crossroad when the Marshal spoke again. “If I’d defended you,” he said without preamble, “old Doggal would be lodging a complaint to the Council somehow. He won’t agree with me on anything but smithing itself if he can help it.”
“Then—you aren’t angry with me for this?”
“For going to his aid? Of course not. You might wait, another time, to see whether your aid is needed, or someday you’ll be killed over some little thing, and nothing gained. I’ll just have a word with Hebbinford,” he said as they came to the inn door. “You take that horse around back.”
Paks found herself leading the tall black warhorse to the stable before she quite realized the Marshal had taken Star’s lead. She heard, behind her, the innkeeper’s voice and the Marshal’s, and the exclamations of the serving wenches.
Chapter Nine
When she came in to supper that night, the common room stilled. Someone dropped a dish, and it clattered on the floor. She could hear the rustle of cloth as someone bent to pick it up. Paks carefully did not meet any of the eyes in the room, but picked her way to an empty table. As she sat down, a muted hum resumed. She heard a phrase here and there, but tried to ignore the voices. They all knew, as she did, that the tall man lay unconscious in his room upstairs. She didn’t know what stories were going around, but obviously she was in them. She ordered the special dinner: roast beef, mushrooms, hot bread and pastry. She was halfway through it before she remembered that she’d thought of going to weapons-practice at the Girdmen’s that evening. If she ate all that—she sighed and pushed the dishes away.
“Is something wrong with your meal?” asked Hebbinford, pausing by her table.
“No, not at all. I thought I’d go to the grange this evening, though, and drill—and not on a full stomach.”
“I see. Well, we can put that by for you, for when you get back, if you like.”
“Thank you.” Paks had not thought of that. “I’d like that—this food is too good to waste. If it’s not too much trouble—?”
“Not at all. Marshal Cedfer mentioned that you might be visiting this evening. I suppose, a warrior must always practice, eh?”
“Yes, if we want to stay good. And it’s been too long since I had a proper drill.”
“Fights don’t count?” No mistaking the ironic tone. She wanted to answer sharply, but knew better.
“No. Not really. A fight may not last long enough, or call out what you need to practice. I should drill every day—we did in the Duke’s Company. But no one can practice well on a full belly.” Paks leaned back and fished into her pouch for the correct silver piece. As she stood and turned to leave, she noticed several of the diners watching her.
* * *
Although it was full dark, she had no trouble making her way along the street. Uncurtained windows open to the cool evening air spilled light into the lane, and torches burned at either end of the bridge. Ahead, the grange was ablaze with light: torches flared atop the barton wall as well. As Paks came nearer, she could see that the gate to the barton and door to the grange both had sentries before them. She saw two dark shapes enter the barton ahead of her, pausing to exchange greetings with the sentries.
Up close, she realized that the sentries were very young. They carried long billets of wood, and struggled to maintain the dignity of their posts. Paks wondered which entrance to use. She heard the mutter of voices through both. Finally she decided on the barton gate. The youth there stared up at her, eyes wide.
“I’m Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” she said. “The Marshal invited me to come to weapons-practice.”
“Oh—eh—you’re the lady as has come over the mountains, eh?”
“Yes,” said Paks. “May I pass?”
“Oh—well—if the Marshal said—yes, lady, go on in. Are—are you really a fighter, like they say?” This last, as she was nearly past.
Paks turned back to him, hand on the hilt of her sword. “Yes. Did you doubt it?”
“Oh, no, lady. I—I just wondered, like.”
Paks turned back to the barton itself and looked about her. The bare little yard was ringed with torches set high on the wall. One man was stretching, arching his thick back with a grunt. Two more were looking over a pair of pikes, smoothing the shafts with pumice. Out of the side door of the grange came Ambros with an armful of short clubs that reminded Paks of hauks. She heard more men coming in the gate behind her, and a confused sort of clatter and mumble from the grange itself. She watched, uncertain, as Ambros dumped the clubs in a heap near the wall. When he straightened, he saw her.
“Ah, Paksenarrion. Welcome. Marshal Cedfer will be glad to see you. Will you come in? Or he’ll be out here in a few moments.”
“I’ll wait,” said Paks. “I can warm up out here.” She unbuckled her sword and laid it by the wall, then began limbering exercises. Others were busy with the same. One man belched repeatedly; a cloud of onion followed him.
“Eh, Gan,” said another. “If you’ve ate as much as I smell, you won’t last the night.”
“Air and onion won’t slow any man,” retorted Gan, grinning. “Might just set off my opponent—”
Paks ignored them. It reminded her of drill in the Company—the familiar mixture of joking and criticism. She finished her exercises and went to buckle on her sword. The barton was half-full of men—she saw no other women—and they were all mature and well-muscled. Most had picked up one of the short clubs; four had pikes, and one had a sword of medium length.
A bell rang, a single mellow stroke. Everyone stilled, and Marshal Cedfer came into the barton, followed by five other men.
“Are you ready, yeomen of Gird?” he asked.
“We are ready, Sir Marshal,” they answered in unison. Paks was silent.
“Then may Gird strengthen your arms and your hearts, and keep them strong for the safety of our land.”
“In the name of St. Gird, protector of the innocent,” came the response.
“We have a guest here tonight,” said the Marshal less formally. “Paksenarrion, come forward. I want all our yeomen to know you.” Paks edged past the others to stand near the Marshal under the torches. “Though she is not a Girdsman, Paksenarrion is an experienced warrior. She has accepted my invitation to drill with us. Those of you who drill with swords will have a chance to cross blades with her if you wish. Now, bring your weapons and let me see—” The Marshal began to look over the weapons, commenting on their condition. He was as thorough as any of the Duke’s armsmasters. Ambros explained that some of the weapons belonged to the men, and the rest were stored in the grange. Then the Marshal began assigning drills: some to one-on-one, others to two-on-one, and others to more basic exercises. When they were all occupied, he led Paks to a corner of the barton where Ambros waited with two short swords.
“If you don’t mind,” said the Marshal, “I’d like to work with these short swords. I suspect you are far more skilled with a short blade than I am. It would be best for the yeomen, I think, to learn the
short. Of course, you’ll want a chance to work with your own, but—”
“That’s fine,” said Paks. “But I haven’t drilled with a short sword since leaving Aarenis. I may be clumsy with it.”
“Not as clumsy as I am,” said the Marshal. “I haven’t been able to teach the men to fight in lines with it.”
Paks unbuckled her long sword, racked it, and took one of the short ones from Ambros. “We used a small shield with these, in formation,” she said. “Do you have shields?”
“Yes, but we rarely practice with them. As I said, most of our men are not at all skilled with swords. Once they learn that, then we’ll try adding the shields.” The Marshal, too, had taken a short blade; he gestured at another man to come over. He looked closely at Paks. “You aren’t wearing your mail.”
“No. I didn’t think all of you would have mail.” Paks wished she had a banda, but was not about to ask for one.
“Mmm. I always say, the stripes you take in training reinforce the lesson.” The Marshal looked pleased, and the other two grinned. “Now—we’ll warm up in pairs, then go two-against-two. Is that all right?”
“Surely.” Paks moved the sword around, feeling its balance. It felt subtly different from the one in the Duke’s Company. Lighter, she finally decided.
As she had expected, the Marshal was not nearly as inexperienced as he’d claimed. They tested each other’s ability and strokes, without either making a touch, for a few minutes. Then the Marshal gestured a pause.
“Yes, indeed,” he said. “I see you have much to teach us. Now, Ambros, you stand with her, and Mattis, you take my right.”
Paks shot a look at the young man who came to stand beside her. She felt queer, standing in formation with a stranger against strangers. But if she joined a guard company somewhere, this is what it would be like. Again the blades came up in salute, and the drill began.
Ambros, she saw at once, wanted to move around too much. He shifted from side to side with each stroke, alternately crowding and leaving her flank uncovered. The Marshal’s partner, Mattis, looked as if he couldn’t shift at all, but at least he kept some sort of line. Paks managed to cover Ambros’s lapses at first, but finally the Marshal’s blade leaped in and rapped his side sharply. Paks had managed two touches on Mattis, but none on the Marshal. He signalled another halt.
“I think I see our problem,” he said. “Ambros, you aren’t holding your position. Isn’t that it, Paksenarrion?”
She was not sure how critical she could be without angering them. “Well—yes, part of it. A line works only if it holds together. But I think those who learn a long blade first have more trouble. It seems to me that you, sir, and Ambros both are trying strokes more suited to a long blade. More wrist, and less elbow and shoulder.”
“Ah. I see. Suppose you stand out, and watch us, and give corrections.” The Marshal lined up with Ambros this time, and a nervous Mattis braced himself to meet both of them. Paks shook her head.
“No, sir, by your leave. Let all of you line up, and go slowly—do you ever count the cadence for a slow drill? Yes? Good. If those of your men with the short clubs use much the same strokes, they can partner you, and the line can be long enough to work. I can anchor the center of the opposing line.” The Marshal agreed, and soon they had a line of four swords (for another man took up a blade, a little uncertainly) against Paks and three men with clubs. At first the drill was very ragged, but in a few strokes they all caught on, and Paks was able to talk them through it.
“You see,” she said, as the blades met clubs with light taps, “if you are in close formation you’ll hurt your partners if you shift too much. And leave yourself open, as well. There is a rhythm—and a trust—that your partner will be there. Not so much turn to the side—yes—and if you have a shield as well, you may foul your partner’s blade if you turn.” As practice went on, they grew used to the limited sideways movement, and Paks encouraged them to increase the tempo. After some minutes, the Marshal called a halt.
“Very good!” he exclaimed. “Very good indeed. Anything else?”
“I didn’t notice it in the others, sir,” said Paks, “but you and Ambros still seem to have too much flex in the wrist. You are trying to do more with the point than a short sword allows—it’s the quick thrust you want, not fencing about.” She expected him to be angry, but he was not.
“So. Each craft has its masters, and a knight’s training ill-suits an infantry soldier. I’ll try to remember that. Perhaps you’ll give us the benefit of your training again. And now, since you carry a long blade by choice, you should have the chance to practice with it, if you will. He handed Ambros his short blade and gestured to Paks. She handed over the short sword and went to pick up her own blade. When she had settled it to her satisfaction, the Marshal had also armed himself, and awaited her.
“I suggest we go into the grange itself,” he said. “The light is better.”
Paks followed him in. So, she noticed, did many of the other men.
“I don’t suggest the platform, since you aren’t used to it. But here—” His glance cleared a space in the crowd, and he drew.
“Now,” said Paks, smiling, “I expect you will have plenty to teach me.”
The Marshal grinned. “I should hope so. You have some good strokes; I noticed that yesterday, but—” He moved to attack.
For the next few minutes they circled first one way then the other, blades ringing with stroke after stroke. Paks had to use everything she knew, and all her size, to keep from being pricked again and again. Sweat poured down her back and stung her eyes. The Marshal met every thrust with a firm repulse, and she found herself more often defending than attacking. She found no weakness she could exploit, and wondered what old Siger would do against him. That thought almost made her laugh—she’d still back Siger against anyone, even a Marshal of Gird.
“Very good,” the Marshal said finally, still hard at work. “You certainly have a thorough grounding in long blades. I have a few tricks, but as far as plain fighting goes, you do very well.” Paks said nothing, needing all her concentration. Despite her best efforts, he made a touch the next moment, ripping her left sleeve from shoulder to elbow. “There, now,” he said. “I have regained the respect of our yeomen. Would you rest a bit?” He stepped back, and Paks lowered her weapon.
“I could stand to,” she said ruefully, wiping her face. “I see I still have a lot to learn—just as I thought.”
“The willing student learns quickly,” he said. “You need naught but experience to master this weapon as well as the other. Common swordsmen you could defeat now, quite easily I imagine.”
“Ah, but I like learning weaponcraft,” said Paks. She thought of Saben’s teasing with a pang. “I always have.”
“Good, then. You’re welcome here, any time. I’ll be glad to drill with you; you’re good enough to give me practice. Ambros, too. And mind—” he said briskly, fixing her with a sharp glance, “Mind, I intend to have you a Girdsman before long. Such skill as yours should be dedicated to a good cause. We need such fighters on the side of right, not running loose after idle gain.” Paks felt a flicker of anger at that, and her chin came up. “No—” He stopped and rubbed his head. “I shouldn’t say that of you, when I don’t know your allegiance, but Gird knows we’ve trouble enough coming, and few to meet it.” He grinned at her suddenly. “I still think you’ll make a fine Girdsman someday—even a Marshal, who knows?”
The others milled about, replacing weapons in racks on the grange walls, and taking their leave. Paks sheathed her sword, and turned to go. The Marshal was talking seriously to two men, low-voiced.
A hand touched her arm. It was Ambros. “If—if you’d come again, I’d like to drill with you—”
“Oh, I’ll come again, while I’m here. It’s good practice. But—don’t you have any women drilling with you?”
Ambros shook his head. “No. Not at this level. We’d had some in the beginners’ class—in fact, we have two there
now. But those who want to go on, the Marshal sends elsewhere for more training.”
“I see.” She wondered why, but felt it would be impolite to ask.
“Were there many women in your company?”
“Maybe a quarter of us. One of the cohort captains.”
“I’ve heard of Duke Phelan. Isn’t his title from the court of Tsaia?”
“Yes. He has lands in the north of the kingdom, on the border.” Paks sighed. “I might—I might be going back there.”
“But you left his company, didn’t you? We thought you were a free sword.”
“Well—I was due leave, and—and the Duke thought perhaps I should try another company—another service—for a time. But I miss it; I’ve thought of going back.”
“Oh.” Paks could hear the unasked questions. Ambros stopped at the door, started to say something and stopped, and finally said, “Well—Gird go with you. We’ll be glad to see you again.”
* * *
It was late; few torches burned along the lanes. Paks made her way down the dark streets with care, following some distance behind several others from the grange. Cold night air, damp from the river, soothed her hot face. She caught a whiff from the tanner’s crossing the bridge. As she neared the crossroad, she saw light spilling from the inn’s windows. She slipped in the door, ignoring the few who sat late in the common-room, and went up the stairs to her own room. Her shoulder ached pleasantly. She pulled off her tunic and washed the sweat off, then remembered her unfinished dinner. She put on her other shirt and went back downstairs. Hebbinford rose from his place near the fire.
“Do you want the rest of your dinner?”
“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.” Paks settled at an empty table. Hebbinford brought a candle; a serving wench came with a tray. They had heated the leftovers by the kitchen fire, and the gravy was bubbling hot. She cut a slice of bread and began eating.
The Deed of Paksenarrion Page 63