“But I’ve been trying that,” she complained.
“No, I’ve been watching you,” he said, remaining calm and professional. “You step and then swing, you need to do both at the same time. Your movement will put more weight into the swing.” To illustrate he carried out the movement himself. “You see? Now you try it.”
It only took a moment for her to get the hang of it, and then he showed her how to do a backhand swing. Soon, she was stepping forward with a forward slash and then stepping again with a backhand swing. He returned her to the middle of the yard and stood in front of her with another wooden sword. “Now do it again,” he said, and as she swung, he blocked and stepped backwards, then blocked the backhand stroke, stepping back again.
Before long they were going back and forth in the yard. First, she would attack six times, then he would counter-attack, and then it would be her turn to block. She was having a wonderful time, and he recognized the look of determination on her face that he had seen so often on the baron. She would have kept at practise for hours, he had no doubt, but he also knew her arms would be sore tomorrow, for she had to get them used to the effort. He finished up with some stretching exercises, warning her that her arms would hurt later.
“So, recruit,” he said as they were finishing, “are you willing to return tomorrow for more training?”
Beverly looked up at him and smiled, “Yes, please! I mean, yes, Sergeant.”
“Excellent. We’ll meet here again tomorrow at the same time. We can’t really have the new recruits practicing with the regular soldiers, now can we? Take that practise sword with you and go see the swordsmith and get him to adjust the grip on it, you’ve got smaller hands. If he gives you any guff, you tell him the Sergeant-at-Arms sent you.”
* * *
Gerald was surprised by Beverly’s determination for she practised every chance she got. If only, he thought, his actual recruits were as disciplined as she was. The summer wore on, and the training continued. Soon, he had her practicing different techniques, lower and higher thrusts and swings. She ate it up like a wolf among sheep. By the time the cooler air of autumn had arrived, she had progressed to a real sword, though only a short one. Gerald found the training not too tiresome, in fact, he hated to admit it, but he had fun. Her enthusiasm was inspiring, and he often found himself showing her tricks that he normally wouldn’t mention to trainees.
Six
Survivor
Autumn 942 MC
The patrol topped the rise and looked down into the valley before them. It was a cold morning with a mist that drifted into the recesses of the valley like a blanket, obscuring the area below. Baron Fitzwilliam rode up beside his sergeant, with the other riders just behind.
“See anything, Gerald?” he asked.
Gerald looked down into the valley, but didn’t speak. He was straining to catch a sound of something off in the distance, removing his helmet to make it easier. “Horses,” he finally said, “I can hear them down in the valley.”
He replaced his helmet and continued his report, “I think they’re waiting for something, my lord, I heard movement. A wagon, maybe?”
“Well,” said Fitz, “we’d best be getting a move on if we’re going to stop them.” He turned to his men, and commanded them, “In line, trotting forward, not too fast, and keep the line straight.”
The horses were repositioned, forming a line with Baron Fitzwilliam and Gerald in the centre. They paused while the baron drew his sword, raising and lowering it to signal the advance. The line moved forward at a slow trot. The baron had started using these tactics years ago when he had discovered that the Norlanders who raided the area were ill-disciplined and feared formed cavalry. The line slowly advanced into the valley, the mist enveloping them, but proving to be thinner than expected.
Fitz called the turn, and the right-hand side slowly sped up and began to move while the left shortened their pace and turned left, the result being the entire line pivoting on its centre. He ordered them to trot forward, and they stopped turning, the line now facing forty-five degrees from where they had begun. He heard a yell and instantly recognized a Norland accent. Expecting to see enemy raiders appear out of the mist, they were shocked to instead hear the clash of steel and screaming. Even more chilling was the fact that the screams were high-pitched, obviously from women and children!
The baron heard it clearly and immediately ordered the charge; the whole line thundered forward into the mist.
It was likely to be catastrophic, for they knew not what they were charging into, but someone was in trouble, and so they pushed onward. They drew closer to the sound of swordplay, and then suddenly, out of the mist, large shapes materialized. A wagon train, likely travelling merchants, had come under attack from the raiders.
The Norlanders were riding around the wagons, using their spears to stab at the drivers, with a few having already jumped from their own horses onto the wagons, and at least one of the conveyances was on fire. The ground was littered with the dead, while one raider was trying to tear the clothes off of a woman who had been hiding under a cart.
The line of horseman charged into the macabre scene, striking the raiders and washing them away like a wave at the beach, leaving only a few individual fights in the mist.
Baron Fitzwilliam struck a foe down with an overhead swing to the enemy's head. The raider lurched sideways, falling from his horse. A spear stabbed at Fitz's back, glancing off the plate, and he backhanded the attacker with a low strike into the man's thigh. A new rider appeared, trying to stab at the baron's horse but he used his legs to manoeuvre the beast into a side step, turning to drive a thrust into the man’s stomach.
Meanwhile, Gerald had reached one of the wagons, striking down a looter who had jumped from his horse to the wagon, remaining only long enough to watch him collapse. He heard screaming coming from inside, so he slashed the canvas tarp with his sword. Within, a raider, his blade dripping with blood, was standing over a woman’s body. Nearby a child screamed in terror, as the man stepped forward to finish the lad off. Gerald, with only a moment to think, climbed up on his saddle, balancing with both feet, and jumped.
He hit the Norlander with his body and sent them both tumbling onto the floor of the wagon. Punching hard with the hilt of his sword, he felt the pommel strike the bastard's face, eliciting a bellow of pain. Gerald tried to raise his sword for a killing blow, but it became entangled in the canvas, and suddenly he was pushed off by the man beneath him. He fell back, straining to steady himself and his adversary unexpectedly jumped up, ignoring everything else, raising his sword to strike. Gerald managed to disentangle his sword just in time to thrust forward, driving the point of his blade into the raider's stomach. He felt blood gush over his hands as the weight of the body fell on top of him, the stinking smell of his victim's breath beside his face. He pushed the corpse to the side and sat up, looking around to see that the fighting was dying down. The conflict was nearing its end, with only small pockets of resistance left.
The child was sitting at the edge of the wagon, pale and scared. Gerald wondered if perhaps the boy had been wounded. He looked to be in shock and Gerald, remembering when he had seen his own mother killed in front of his eyes, felt pity for the lad. He studied the boy; he looked well built for his age, not scrawny, and had steel grey eyes and dark brown hair, a rare combination. He wondered who the boy was, where he was from, but his questions went unanswered, for the child remained silent. The only clue to his identity was a leather necklace he wore with the name Aldwin on it.
Fitz rode up to Gerald, "What do we have here?"
"A survivor, Lord, but he's not talking."
"We'll have to take him with us. We can't stay here; there may be more raiders about."
"What about the others?"
"There are no other survivors, Gerald. The Norlanders saw to that."
Gerald looked at the boy and thought back to the day that Lord Richard had found him alone in the woods. "What will become of h
im?"
"The stables? You did well there."
"He looks stronger than I was at his age. How about the smithy? Saxnor knows Grady could use a new apprentice, and he can't possibly be as useless as Martin."
* * *
Beverly often sat on the outer wall above the gatehouse waiting for her father's return. Seeing a young boy on the back of her father's horse, she knew something had happened, so she ran down the steps to get to the gatehouse before they arrived. The faces of the warriors wore a solemn look as they entered, and she stopped short. She watched her father lower the young boy from his horse, passing him to a knight.
“What are we to do with him, Lord?” asked the man.
“Take him to the smith,” the baron replied, “he needs a new apprentice.”
They dragged the boy off, still with a blank expression on his face.
The baron dismounted and servants rushed to take his horse. He peeled off his gloves and removed his helmet, then looked over to see Beverly watching him, concern written all over her face. He looked down at himself and realized he was covered in blood. “It’s all right, my dear,” he soothed, “none of this is mine.”
She rushed over and hugged him briefly. “What happened, Papa?” she enquired.
He recounted the tale of the morning's fight as she listened intently.
“What will happen to the boy?” she asked.
“I’ve handed him over to Old Man Grady. He’s been wanting a new apprentice for years.”
“Is that wise, Father?” she asked, suddenly appearing older in his eyes.
“The fact is he’s got no family to look after him and no prospects. The best thing I can do for him is to give him a roof over his head and a position. There’s little else I can do. Only time will tell if this young Aldwin will amount to anything.”
Beverly nodded her head wisely. It would be interesting to see how Aldwin adapted to his new life.
Seven
The Duel
Spring 943 MC
Three months following Beverly’s eighth birthday, she was alone in the practise yard, swinging her sword while running through the strokes that Gerald had been teaching her. The light was beginning to fade on this warm evening, and she paused to catch her breath after finishing a great overhead strike. Covered in sweat from her exertions, her red hair was plastered to her face. Tomorrow, she thought, she must remember to braid it, for a knight can’t be wandering around with hair in their eyes all the time. The water trough at the side of the yard caught her attention, and she wandered over to splash herself, wiping the offending strands out the way. Lifting her head up, she felt a nice cool breeze and decided to sit on the stone step, letting the wind dry her off.
Her solitude was soon interrupted by loud voices echoing about the gate to the yard. The knights would often drill here in the evenings and, staying true to their habits, they were now arriving for their sunset training. Frequently other children would come to watch, but this evening she was the sole observer.
The knights wandered in piecemeal, equipping their arms as they filed past the weapons rack. First in was Sir Thomas, who selected his preference, a Westland longsword. Sir Gordon, next in line, picked up a warhammer. Beverly found his choice interesting, for she had never seen the weapon used in combat before,
The other knights, now armed with weapons and shields, began warming up. This was pretty typical in Beverly’s experience; every knight would go through some drills, and then the real practise would start with the knights breaking into pairs to square off against one another.
Each year the number of knights in Bodden varied. It depended mostly on how active the frontier was along with how many knights the king decided to send. Presently, there were only seventeen knights, with seven of those reckoned as ‘new’, having not seen combat since their arrival.
Sir Thomas began by walking over to one of the new knights, Sir Miles, and tapping the unproven man's shield with his sword. This was the accepted manner of starting, and Beverly looked forward to seeing how the new knight might fare.
The others stepped back to watch as the two combatants moved to the centre of the yard, circling each other, sizing up their opponent. Sir Thomas was a careful and calculating fighter, one of the better knights here at Bodden. Sir Miles, however, appeared eager to make a name for himself and suddenly lunged out at his older opponent. Sir Thomas, caught off guard, backed up quickly and the crowd ‘oohed’ and ‘aaahed.’
They reset their positions back to the centre to start again, with Miles once again lunging. This time, Sir Thomas simply sidestepped and smacked the other knight on the arse with the flat of his blade.
“That was an insult, sir,” said Sir Miles as he turned to face the veteran.
“The insult is that you called that an attack, sir,” replied Sir Thomas.
“I must insist that you take that back, sir,” the younger knight growled, growing red in the face.
“I must insist that you take that back, sir,” mimicked Sir Thomas.
The young man was speechless for a moment. “How dare you, sir! I am the son of the Earl of Shrewesdale. You cannot speak to me in this manner!”
Beverly was engrossed by the exchange in front of her. The Earl of Shrewesdale was a powerful man. The situation would quickly escalate if somebody didn't step in soon; this was going to be most interesting indeed.
“That being the case,” Sir Thomas continued the baiting, “I would think that you would have learned some manners, or do they not teach manners in the whore houses of Shrewesdale?”
Sir Miles unexpectedly threw his sword to the ground. Something had just happened, something that Beverly did not quite understand, but the assembled knights all went quiet.
Sir Miles removed his glove and walked toward Sir Thomas, striking the other knight's face with it. Sir Thomas took the blow without flinching, even though Beverly clearly see the red mark on his face.
“I demand satisfaction for your insult,” announced Sir Miles.
“Very well,” Sir Thomas replied in a sombre voice, “choose your weapon.”
Sir Miles walked over to the weapons rack, studying the choices at his disposal. To Beverly, it looked ludicrous, as if he were choosing an apple from a vendor. Finally, he selected a Mercerian broadsword and tossed a second, duplicate blade, to Sir Thomas.
The remaining knights formed a circle, while both fighters leaned their shields against the wall, before entering to face each other.
Sir Edward stepped between them, holding his sword in the air, while each took their stance. Sir Edward waited while everyone went quiet, and then sliced his sword downward, uttering a loud, “Begin.”
The first assault came from Sir Thomas; a full body slam that caused the startled younger knight to stagger back, reeling from the blow. Sir Thomas tried to repeat his manoeuvre, but this time Sir Miles stepped to the side, striking a weak blow that careened off the older man's armour.
Sir Thomas bellowed in frustration and wheeled about to face his attacker.
“Enough!” came a roar from behind them, announcing the arrival of the Sergeant-at-Arms, as he stepped into the circle.
“What's going on here?” Gerald demanded.
“This man,” yelled Sir Miles indignantly, “has insulted my family honour. I demand satisfaction!”
“This weasel,” said Sir Thomas, his temper flaring, “is a snivelling toad who-”
“Shut up! Both of you,” yelled Gerald.
Beverly had never seen Gerald so upset, and stood to get a better view.
“This - will - stop - right - now,” he emphasized each word as he spoke. “Return to your billets.”
“I will not,” an indignant Sir Miles yelled. “I have been insulted.”
Gerald turned on Miles with a look of fury. “Listen to me you little shit,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t care if you're a prince of the realm, in this Keep you do as I say. Do you understand me?”
“That’s right,” said Sir Thom
as, “listen to the sergeant.”
“Shut up,” Gerald yelled, turning on Sir Thomas. “I’ve just about had it with you lot. You live a life of privilege in the great cities, and then you come out here where people are dying, damn it, and you have the gall to be insulted? I’m not putting up with this shit anymore! From now on, you’re on guard duty until I say otherwise.”
“You can’t do that,” they both uttered in unison. Beverly giggled into her hands; it was comical to see great knights acting like spoiled children.
“Knights do not do guard duty,” added Sir Thomas, "that’s for a job for foot soldiers."
“That’s right,” agreed Sir Miles, now in accord with his rival.
“I’ll take this to the baron,” threatened Sir Thomas, his previous adversary now nodding in agreement.
“Fine, let’s go see him right now!” declared Gerald, straining to keep his voice calm.
Beverly turned and ran. She knew her father was in the map room, and wanted to be there before they arrived. If they got there first, she might not be allowed in, but he would never kick her out if she were already in the room.
She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, taking every second step on the stairs to shave precious moments off her time. Bursting into the map room, she saw her father sitting at the table and took a moment to catch her breath.
Normally the map of Bodden fully covered the table, but he had rolled it up and was picking away at a plate of meat and cheese as he perused a book. Surprised as she rushed into the room, he looked up and asked, “Something wrong, my dear?”
“No Papa, why would you say that?” She didn't want to reveal the coming storm and tried to look relaxed.
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