The man turned and announced she was worthy, but she detected less enthusiasm than he had for the others, almost as if he had been hoping she would succumb to the blow.
Beverly returned to her position. As the Commander knelt, so too did the initiates. The Holy Father now gave a long speech, and Beverly’s knees began to ache in this uncomfortable position. Finally, the devout man ceased his incessant droning, and the trumpets blared. King Andred approached with Marshal-General Valmar following behind him, carrying a sword upon a plush cushion. The king grasped the sword and held it high in the air, instantly hushing the entire Cathedral.
“Since the time of our ancestors,” he said, in a strong, clear voice, “men have come forth to serve this kingdom. We stand here today to welcome our brothers to the Order of the Sword,” he said, then paused, “and our sister,” he added quite unexpectedly.
He strode over to a kneeled Sir Bertram and laid the sword on his left shoulder. He began speaking, and Beverly was reminded of a story she had heard. The tradition had always been right shoulder then left, but King Andred, in his first ceremony as king, had made a mistake and done it in reverse. It was now the tradition to do it thus, and she wondered at the ego of a king who could not admit his error.
The king shifted to the next knight, and she berated herself for not paying attention. He performed the same ritual, chanting the words in a monotonous tone, first laying the sword on the left shoulder, then the right. He made his way down the line repeating the gestures until he came to Beverly.
He smiled down at her and placed the sword upon her left shoulder. “The Order of the Sword was created years ago to recognize the skill and honour of those who proved themselves worthy. Do you claim this honour?”
“Yes,” she replied in a loud voice.
He placed the sword upon her right shoulder. “Recite the oath,” he said.
“I do hereby swear to place the safety of my sovereign above my own, to faithfully serve the crown in all its majesty, to the end of my days,” she proclaimed.
It was only after she completed the litany that she realized she had made a mistake; she was supposed to serve the king, not the crown.
The king ignored the mistake or didn’t notice it.
He walked back to his original position, turned, and faced the crowd. “Be it known,” he said, “that these men and women have been inducted into the Order of the Sword, and that from this day forward, they should be shown all the courtesy and respect that is their due. Arise, Knights of the Sword.”
The knights struggled to stand, for they had been kneeling in armour for some time. Finally upright, Beverly felt the blood begin flowing back into her lower legs.
The choir sang as the king was escorted out of the Cathedral. The knights followed out in single file, back down the nave to the atrium, where they could relax. It was done, the ceremony was complete, and now she was officially Dame Beverly Fitzwilliam, Knight of the Sword.
Eighteen
Life at Court
Summer/Autumn 952 MC
The king spared no expense to entertain his guests with the elaborate celebration that followed the investiture. All the new knights, and many of the guests drank to excess and gorged themselves, save Beverly, who was more modest with her drink and the food that she ate. It was astounding the amount of drink the knights could imbibe, and she politely refused when ‘dared’ to drink a large tankard of ale. It was tradition, the other knights insisted, but she would have none of it. There were stories told of battlefield prowess, but Beverly was sure that most of them were made-up. The details didn’t seem to fit the stories, and her experiences were quite different.
Most of the nobles presently residing in the capital were in attendance, including her father and the Brandons. She sat at the table of honour for some of the evening, but as it wore on, she moved to sit with her family, beside little Aubrey. Not long after joining them, Aubrey indicated she needed to visit the garderobe. Lady Mary was about to take her, but Beverly insisted, so the two of them made their way from the room on their mission. Stepping into the hallway, they were directed up a set of stairs, where a small room had been set aside for the guests. At the top of the stairs, as they neared the second floor, they heard talking. The stairs opened into a hallway where they saw a richly clothed man pushing a woman up against the wall. The lady was struggling to stop him, but he was ignoring her complaints, with his hand already under her dress.
Beverly quickly assessed the situation. Telling Aubrey to stay where she was, she moved forward and grabbed the violator by the back of his neck, her other hand clutching his belt. She hurled him against the far wall, and the mongrel sank to the floor in a drunken stupor. She knelt over him to see if he was still breathing, and then turned to his prey, who nodded her thanks as she fled down the hallway. Aubrey left her spot of safety with her hand out for Beverly to lead her away. The two of them continued on their way, ignoring the man dozing in the hallway, silently agreeing not to talk about this.
They returned to the festivities a little while later to overhear her father and uncle talking.
“…they’re not sure who did it, but the man’s going to have a massive headache,” her father was saying.
“What was that, Father?” she asked.
He turned to face her, “Oh, you missed some excitement, my dear. Sir Jeremy, over there, was attacked by someone. They laid a beating on the poor fellow; he’s very upset about it.”
Beverly looked over to see the man she had thrown against the wall. “How terrible,” she said in a neutral tone. “Do they know who’s responsible?”
Her uncle piped up, “No, but he swears it was a bear of a man, very large and very strong. Aubrey, you were up that way, did you see anything?”
Beverly looked at Aubrey, putting her finger to her lips. “No, Father," her cousin responded, "we didn’t see anything."
The table turned to a different subject, and no more was said on the matter.
* * *
Beverly awoke early the next morning, ready for the start of her new life. She went to report to the administration office but found nobody there. It soon became quite apparent that not many knights were awake after the previous evening's debauchery. She was used to the discipline of the Keep; patrols had to be mounted, soldiers posted to lookouts and such. She was sorely disappointed to see the lackadaisical manner of the Order of the Sword. Technically, the order formed the Royal Bodyguard, but many of its knights were assigned elsewhere. The king did this to defer the cost. Knights under service to a noble were paid and supplied by that noble, rather than the crown, so it was in the crown's best interest to farm them out whenever possible. In years gone by, a knight swore fealty to a noble who, in turn, was sworn to the king, but the current king's grandfather had changed all that. He had insisted that all knights swear direct obedience to the king. It was part of a gradual tightening of rules that drew more power into the hands of the sovereign.
She was musing over this very fact when she noticed a fellow new knight. “Sir Preston,” she called out.
The young man turned at the sound of her voice. “Oh, Lady Beverly,” he replied.
“Dame Beverly, now,” she corrected.
“Sorry, Dame Beverly. I suppose I must get used to that now.”
“Where is everybody?” she asked.
“Most of the knights are still in barracks, though I saw a couple out in the practise yard.”
The practise yard sounded like an excellent idea, so she nodded her thanks and headed in that direction.
The barracks were located at the back of the Palace and formed a square around the practise yard. It was quite sizable, and Beverly appreciated the extra space compared to the cramped yard at Bodden. She was walking through the archway looking at the cobblestone flooring when she passed two knights off to the side. One was leaning his back against the wall, while the other stood just in front of him. They were deep in conversation, so Beverly paid them no heed. Just as she passed,
the second man stuck out his foot, and she stumbled over it. Hearing the men laugh, she turned angrily to face them.
The knights both looked at her with smiles on their faces, and the one who wasn’t leaning puckered his lips in a kissing motion. She stepped forward and struck with the flat of her palm against his chest. He fell backwards, into his companion, knocking them both to the ground. She stood, glaring at them, enjoying the sudden look of fear on their faces. Good, she thought, if they fear me, they’ll leave me alone.
“Problem, gentlemen?” she said in a polite tone.
“No, not at all,” one of them said, “my mistake.”
Beverly turned and continued to the yard. She started her normal practise movements, carefully testing her footing, pivoting, swinging the sword. She soon got into her rhythm. Her motions were graceful, though it was not something that crossed her mind. Other knights began to watch, but she ignored them. She found the yard large enough that she could practise her drills in a circular pattern, rather than having to constantly back up as she did in Bodden. Her day's training complete, she strolled over to the well to draw some water. Nearby, a large knight stood, moving to intercept her. Arriving before her, he leaned against the well, blocking her access. She had no choice but to halt.
“So you’re the new knight, I presume?” he stated more than asked.
“I’m Dame Beverly, yes,” she answered, in a neutral tone.
“Well, Dame Beverly, we have certain traditions here. You don’t want us to treat you differently, do you?”
She crossed her arms. “No, of course not. All right, I’ll bite, what’s the tradition.”
“Well,” the sizable knight said, a sly smile crossing his face, “women who come to the well have to pay the toll.”
Beverly frowned, but knew she had to go through with this. “What, might I ask, is the toll?”
“Well,” he said, standing up straighter, “you can give us a kiss or touch us.”
A smile crossed her face; she knew where this was going, and she had the perfect solution. “So let me get this straight,” she said in her most innocent voice, “I can either kiss you or I can touch you?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“And where do I touch you?” she asked.
The knight pointed at his groin, “Right here, my dear.”
She looked at his groin and smiled, “You're going to uncover it, aren’t you?” she asked sweetly.
The knight's eyes lit up; he obviously had not expected this to go so well. He dropped his pants revealing a modest set of family jewels. “Ready when you are, my dear.”
“All right,” she said, “close your eyes. Here it comes.”
She drove her armour-plated knee into the man's groin, and he collapsed like a sack of potatoes. He was writhing on the ground in agony, and those who were watching were suddenly holding themselves as if they shared the big man's pain.
“That’s what I think of your tradition,” she said, “and only my father calls me dear.”
She leaned down close to the squirming man's face, “Do we understand each other?”
The man squeaked out his capitulation.
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling vindictive, “I don’t think the others can hear you.”
“Yes,” he yelled out through gritted teeth.
She stepped over him and drew some water, while two other knights rushed over to carry the casualty away. Serves him right, she thought, the man was an arse.
The barracks were two-story structures with a common area on the ground floor. At one end was a set of stairs that led to the men's sleeping quarters while at the other end were stairs leading to the captain's office. The second floor was three-quarters bunks and one quarter for the officer, but there was no door adjoining the two. The Barracks weren’t set up to house women, so one of the captain's offices had been set aside to offer her some semblance of privacy. Beverly found this arrangement satisfactory, and she settled in without too much trouble. The others were most accommodating since the encounter at the well, and though she despised the necessity of it, she was pleased with the results.
Over the next few days she came to understand there were no official duties for her to attend to, but while searching through the captain’s office, she discovered a number of interesting books she recognized as ledgers. Upon further inspection, she discerned that each knight was supposed to contribute to a common fund, which would then be used to pay for ‘entitlements’. These could include paying for entertainment, extra food or wine, or even man servants. The records indicated that nothing had been collected in months, and after making some enquiries, she discovered why. The previous captain had been Valmar, and after his promotion to marshal-general, nobody had taken his place. She resolved to fix this discrepancy and approached the other knights directly. She didn’t seek command over them, merely to have them pay their dues and make some arrangements.
Most of the knights were young, arrogant men, full of desire for food, women and drink, and not necessarily in that order. There were a handful of decent chaps in the mix, but they were often the ones to pull the guard duty. She was not sure how that worked, but came to the conclusion that coins in the marshal-general's pocket could get anyone out of their responsibilities. She approached these dedicated men first, and after getting a positive response, starting in on the rest. Within two weeks almost everyone was on board, and when they used the new funds to purchase some fine wine, the final holdouts joined in.
Keeping track of the funds was the easy part, for she kept meticulous accounts. The biggest problem was collecting from the more spendthrift individuals. She resolved to fix this situation permanently in the third week. She hired a cook to cater a special meal for the knights, but those who were not paid up in full had to watch their companions eating an elaborate dinner. After that, all the knights in the company kept their dues paid.
* * *
The summer grew into autumn, and things settled down into a regular routine; boring, but predictable. A few of the knights, perhaps shamed by her constant training, had begun practicing on their own, and they asked her to teach them. There was only a few, but it gave her something to do, and she found the work enjoyable, yet she yearned for something more worthy of her skills.
As the cooler weather approached, she was asked by a small group of rather embarrassed knights if the fund might be used to bring in women. Beverly was shocked by this request, but after careful thought concluded that it might curb their lecherous tendencies toward the women of the Palace. Uncharacteristically, she found herself planning on going into town to hire prostitutes, an act that she didn’t have a clue about, nor had ever thought she would ever need to know anything about. Realizing that she was out of her depth on this, she sought out help from some of the more discreet knights, and then made the arrangements. It proved a success, but she didn’t get much sleep. So noisy were they beyond the thin wooden wall that she choose to stay at the Bodden Manor for the night, to gain some privacy. Lying in her comfortable bed, she reflected on the life she was leading and decided there must be something better. She resolved to see Marshal-General Valmar in the morning to find out how her talents might be put to better use.
* * *
Her first task of the day saw her at the Palace, making enquiries on where she would find Marshal-General Valmar. As luck would have it, his office was just a small distance from her barracks. She didn’t have an appointment, so she had to sit and wait for an opening. The marshal's aid hinted that a small donation could speed things up a little, but she refused. She hated to think that the man in charge of the army was such a scoundrel, but the evidence kept piling up. Valmar had saved the king’s life, well, actually she had saved his life. Valmar had just used his horse to collect the king. Since then, he had been made a marshal-general and was now one of the king’s closest confidants, some even said, his closest friend. There was a lot of resentment amongst the aristocracy, for Valmar was not born a noble. Not to say you had to b
e a noble to be competent, for Saxnor knew Gerald Matheson was not one, and he was very competent. Valmar, on the other hand, couldn’t, it seemed, even organize his own clothes.
For half a day Beverly sat in the hallway until Valmar happened to come out, probably to go and eat. She followed him and spoke up.
“Marshal-General, sir, might I have a word?”
Valmar turned around, irritation showing on his face. “What is it?” he demanded, not appearing to recognize her.
He was notoriously bad at remembering faces, and she wondered if this was some sort of mental weakness or if he just didn’t care to take the time.
“I was wondering if you might have an assignment for me?” she asked.
“No,” he said, and stormed off, annoyed with the interruption to his day.
Beverly fumed; this was no way to run an army. She sat down and thought it through, coming up with a simple solution. It would take some time, but she was sure it would work. For the next two weeks she researched Valmar's schedule, then she started showing up everywhere he went, always with the same question. The result was inevitable; after only two and a half weeks of constant interruptions, he gave in. She would report to his office in the morning to receive her orders.
Nineteen
Royal Bodyguard
Winter/Spring 953 MC
She reported to Marshal-General Valmar’s office in her full armour. The aide escorted her in while Valmar sat behind his desk, nursing a tankard of ale, glancing up at her approach.
“Dame Beverly,” he directed, “do have a seat.”
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