The Story of Silence

by Alex Myers

  ‘Another point,’ Alois said. ‘Two for Silence.’

  Silence settled back, balancing his weight, toes turned ever so slightly in, and readied himself for Wendell’s next attack. His breath came quickly, in shallow gulps; he knew what he was doing. He knew Wendell wouldn’t hold back and merely score a point, as Silence had done. He’d strike and strike hard … and Silence, skinny and light as he was, wouldn’t be able to match that. But he remembered what Sir Jackin had told him and steadied his breath, letting a grim sort of joy suffuse him.

  Wendell feinted low and Silence almost dropped his shield to catch the blade, before realizing that Wendell’s sword was actually angling up. It was awkward, but Silence managed to dart to the side, stumbling a bit.

  ‘That’s right,’ Wendell taunted. ‘Retreat, coward!’

  Silence noticed that Wendell’s breath sounded jagged as well. He found his balance again and held out his blade. Wendell came faster this time, leading with his shield, then shifting at the last minute to slash his blade down and across. Master Waldron would have told Silence to step inside his opponent’s guard, to cut close and, if he must, grapple with him. But Silence ignored that advice and did as Sir Jackin had instructed, stepping back (one of the watching pages cried out, He’s retreating some more!) and swinging his blade low, catching Wendell in the side of the thigh.

  ‘Point!’ Alois shrilled. ‘Silence has three!’

  Silence let his shoulders drop. His heart raced in his chest, and he could already feel that as soon as the excitement drained out of him, he would be exhausted. He tucked the practice sword under one arm and extended his hand to Wendell. ‘Well fought,’ he said.

  ‘That last point shouldn’t count.’ Wendell didn’t hold out his hand.

  Silence shrugged and turned about. If he could get out of this gear, neither his father nor Griselle would be any wiser … oooof! Something crashed into him from behind, driving him face-first to the ground, and a heavier weight landed on top of him, pinning him down. Then he felt fists banging into his ribs. He flailed his legs and tried to twist away, but only managed to turn over, which put him face to face with Wendell. Silence held up his hands as Wendell pummelled at him, the blows landing hard despite the padded jacket. Then Wendell aimed a fist at his face and Silence managed to turn his head, so Wendell’s fist crunched hard into the metal helm. He howled and Silence took that opportunity to wriggle free. He had a strong desire to kick Wendell, but the boy was cradling his hand, and Silence didn’t feel it would be valorous, so he just stalked away.

  Or tried to.

  He had taken no more than two steps when he heard a roar that arrested him. ‘What’s this!’ It was Master Waldron, his one eye round with disbelief, his face crimson with fury. He stalked past Silence. ‘Attacking your opponent while his back is turned!’ He grabbed Wendell by the neck of his padded jacket and hauled him to his feet.

  ‘My hand,’ Wendell sniffled.

  ‘Serves you right. Go up to the keep and they’ll help as they can.’ He gave him a shove. ‘And you!’ Waldron rounded on Silence. ‘Did your father the earl not forbid you from sparring? And here I thought you an honest boy.’

  ‘He forbade me from competing. And as this wasn’t the contest …’

  ‘You know perfectly well that he intended you not to spar. You have made quite a spectacle of yourself.’

  Silence looked up and saw that it wasn’t just the pages standing around, but grooms and squires and a few knights. He groaned.

  ‘Come with me. Get that jacket off, and that helm. Alois, help him. Your father will give you suitable punishment.’ Silence did as he was ordered and pulled on the fancy coat over his now sweaty and dusty shirt and leggings.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  Master Waldron dropped his voice as he forged a path for them through the crowd and back towards the tilting pitch. ‘That was the best sparring I’ve seen from you. You handled Wendell deftly.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be expecting that of you in practice sessions now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ That is, if his father let him keep practising. ‘It was easier to fight because it felt real.’

  ‘Ah.’ Master Waldron smiled. ‘That is true of the knight on the battlefield as well as the page at the pell. Up you go.’ They had reached the pavilion where, under a canopy of blue and gold, Earl Cador was watching the tilting; the three visiting barons with their wives and daughters also sat nearby. In the back of the pavilion perched Griselle, busily working on some embroidery, and now and then glancing up and peering out at the jousting. ‘Good lady,’ Master Waldron said, offering her a short bow. ‘I found young Silence fighting. I have chastised him strongly and he knows he has offended your orders. He ought to be punished. But he also ought to be praised; he fought well and nobly, unlike the other boy.’ Another bow, and Master Waldron walked away.

  Silence opened his mouth to apologize, but Griselle didn’t give him even one word. She rose and grabbed him by the sleeve of his coat and pulled him away, not even pausing to tuck her embroidery into her basket.

  He didn’t resist; he didn’t try to explain. He followed meekly along, through the crowd, across the fields, past the gatehouse and into the keep. Right up to their chamber, where she shut the door and said, ‘How dare you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry. But I didn’t enter a contest; I did no more than what happens every day …’

  ‘You won’t be wriggling out of this one. Everything, everything your father and I do … it is to keep you safe.’

  The guilt and contrition he’d felt disappeared in an instant. He pulled free of her and stood for a moment in quiet shock and then said, his voice louder than he intended, ‘That’s not true! The only reason my father cares for my safety is so he can protect his claim to this land, this castle, all the wealth of Cornwall. That’s what he cares about, not me!’

  Griselle met him with a flinty look he’d never seen from her. ‘At least he cares about you that much. That is a strong reason to keep you safe and alive and maybe even happy. Try being a girl in this world. Try being the seventh daughter of a lord with a small holding.’ She sniffed and squared her shoulders. ‘Try that, and then tell me that your father’s care is irrelevant.’

  Silence turned and paced to the window ledge, where Mooch was curled in a patch of sun. He ran a hand down the cat’s spine, soothing himself (but probably annoying the cat). ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And I’m sorry that you are just a piece in a larger game. But we all are. And we must let ourselves be played and look for any opening we can take.’ And she gathered him in her arms and gave him a firm embrace. ‘You’ll be staying up here for the remainder of the day and the evening as well.’

  So he sat with Mooch and the two of them watched the ocean’s waves. Or Silence watched and Mooch slept. Now and then he could hear shouts and cheers and boos and he imagined Sir Jackin riding on his charger, a beautiful black horse named Glad. He re-enacted his fight with Wendell, narrating it for Mooch. ‘And then I scored my second point, like this!’ The cat watched with one green eye, not bothering to open the other one. The sun took its time sinking low, and at last a servant came in to feed the fire and deliver dinner: a bowl of broth and a thick slice of bread. Mooch took the opportunity to slink out, no doubt to find better food, leaving Silence all alone.

  He wondered, as he dipped the bread in the broth (invalid’s fare!), why today’s sparring had gone so well. Every other day had been difficult, or a disaster. It had, as he had told Master Waldron, felt real. But it was more than that. Something had come over him; a strength, a power … he knew Wendell didn’t respect him, didn’t think him worthy, and that had fed Silence’s strength somehow. He went to the ewer, poured water in the basin, and splashed it across his face. The water in the basin shuddered, stilled. He thought of that nymph – if she had really been there and not just part of his youthful imagination – in the s
pring at Ringmar. Hadn’t she said, he’d have knowledge and power beyond the other boys? That he’d be not just other but more than what they were? Perhaps that is what had filled him today: the awareness that while they were just one, he was both.

  Silence was allowed out the following day, but only in Griselle’s presence. She brought them to the shaded pavilion and there they sat. The tilting hadn’t started, but that didn’t stop a gaggle of ladies from gathering and working on their sewing. Silence recognized Lady Elizabeth, Sir Jackin’s wife, and a couple of his cousins and aunts. The three young women who seemed so interested in his father weren’t there; perhaps they had gone out for a ride or were still readying themselves in their chambers. He couldn’t quite fathom the way of women.

  Silence longed to get up and move about, to find Clopper and take him across the fields, or even to help muck out the stables. The women held up yarn and compared fabrics and tittered and joked and Griselle threw her head back and laughed loudly at something an aunt said.

  ‘What a fine boy,’ one lady remarked, smiling at Silence. ‘You’ve raised him to be so polite, Griselle.’

  ‘And so tall. Why, I recall when he was born, he was sickly,’ a cousin said.

  ‘And such fine hair, just like his father …’ the woman tittered. ‘Look how he blushes! What rosy cheeks.’

  ‘I would wish those lips upon my daughter,’ another woman said. ‘Oh, tush. Not in that manner! I mean only that he has such a delicate Cupid’s bow.’

  ‘But he is manly. Look at his nose! Just like Cador.’

  Silence could bear no more, and so turned to the aunt sitting next to him and examined the work she held in her lap. Brown vines spiked with thorns climbed the sides, framing a forest scene, with trees and a half-done stag. ‘Your weaving is most impressive, my lady.’

  ‘Weaving?’ she said, quite loudly, it seemed to Silence. Laughter spread across the pavilion.

  ‘Weaving? Is that what you call this?’ his aunt said, amusement clear in her voice.

  ‘Yes, my lady? I mean to say, I know that you weave tapestries and this to me looks like a tapestry in miniature and …’

  More laughter. Lady Elizabeth leaned over. ‘Now, Demi, how would you expect this fellow to know one end of a needle from another? He has no sisters, and he has been raised to be a knight.’

  ‘I thought knights knew their needles. Seems they’re always boasting about them!’

  The others giggled, but Lady Elizabeth laid a hand on Silence’s wrist. ‘This is embroidery, my dear. Where you draw thread through cloth to make a pretty picture. There’s sewing, like what one does to mend a shirt. Tapestries are made on a loom. That’s weaving.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, my lady.’ He enjoyed the light touch of her hand on his wrist; how gentle it was, and how delicate.

  ‘You are a kind boy to sit with us. And you’ll grow to be as handsome as your father, I can tell; you are nearly there already.’ She lifted his hand in her own, turning it over. Her hands were so pale that he could see the blue-green veins beneath the skin, while his were reddened and marked with fresh cuts and older scars. And her fingers felt soft, making him aware of how chapped and calloused his palms were, one knuckle swollen from sparring. ‘No, these are not hands that will ever become acquainted with an embroidery needle. And the world is better for it!’ She smiled at him, her face pixie-like, with her pointed chin and very red lips and sparkling blue eyes. ‘You must be enjoying a day of rest; I’ve heard Jackin speak of a squire’s life, and I know they keep you busy.’

  ‘I am a page, my lady, that is all.’

  ‘Poof. You’ll be a squire soon enough.’

  It was some relief when they sent him to fetch a pitcher of wine. He returned with wine and a basket of pastries as well. By the time they finished eating, others began to arrive, and the women tucked their embroidery and sewing away. Earl Cador approached and everyone rose. He offered a kiss to aunts and cousins, and one to Griselle as well, and then welcomed the three barons, their wives, and their daughters to the pavilion, gesturing for all to be seated. Silence, he ignored completely.

  The tilts began. Silence couldn’t see perfectly, tucked back in the shadows of the pavilion, but well enough. And he tried to enjoy it; the thundering hooves, kicking up clods of dirt. The streamers and favours that fluttered from the knights’ helms, the sickening cracks and thuds of lances against shields. But some thought lurked within him. That this was where his father wanted him. Dressed nicely as a boy. Among the women. Quiet and in the shadows. His father did not want him to seek glory, to be a valorous warrior, to be known far and wide for his bravery. He wanted a meek and docile and mostly invisible child, barely known to the world. The thought made his stomach churn and tie itself in knots.

  Sir Jackin’s bout did something to relieve the ache in his guts. Lady Elizabeth was granted a seat beside Cador for the match, and one of the barons’ wives took her hand for comfort. There was Glad, pitch-black and glossy, snorting and prancing as he waited. Across the pitch, Sir Rolf’s squire was helping his knight to mount. Sir Rolf had come down from King Evan’s court, to ride in the lists and represent the king’s court, and Silence studied this unknown knight: how his armour was darker and less shiny than Jackin’s. How the visor of his helm came to a point. How his shield bore Evan’s crest upon it, with the addition of a rose at the base. He got astride his horse, a grey and white mount, every bit as large as Glad, and took the lance that his squire offered him.

  The two knights rode to opposite ends of the pitch. Cador stood and raised his hand, then called, ‘Begin!’ The squire standing beneath the pavilion let the flag dip, and the knights immediately spurred their horses and pounded towards each other. The crowd began to call and cheer and yell and whistle and the horses ran straight; neither one shied. And each knight held his lance firm, crashing into each other in an explosion of wood. One of the horses screeched and whickered. Jackin wheeled Glad about and, voice muted by his helm, called for another lance, but Sir Rolf was leaning forward over the neck of his horse.

  Jackin lifted his visor. ‘Do you yield, sir?’ he shouted.

  Rolf straightened up. ‘No, no,’ he said, but his voice was weak. Using only one hand, he turned his horse about and returned to his squire. A heavy pause as both knights readied for a second charge. Jackin held his lance aloft, waiting for Rolf. But the king’s knight needed extra ministrations from his squire. It was clear that something had happened to him, and the squire bound up Rolf’s shield arm, wrapping it tightly to his ribs, then gave him the lance. Sir Rolf approached his line unsteadily, but nodded to Cador, who again yelled, ‘Begin!’ then settled by Lady Elizabeth. ‘I would Sir Rolf had yielded,’ the earl said. ‘Look how ill he sits his horse.’

  But it was over too quickly for Silence to study it. They charged, Rolf’s lance went wide of its mark, while Jackin’s landed square. Rolf hit the ground hard, his horse trotting away, as squires rushed to aid the knight and bring the horse in. Jackin led Glad in a circuit of the pitch and then stood before the earl. Cador offered him a purse and Jackin drew near to take the prize, and also to take a kiss from his wife, sweaty, radiant with victory, with a small cut oozing blood on his cheek. Silence watched every move that Jackin made as the crowd roared approval. Some day. Some day. He’d be a knight like that.

  With the jousting over, the lords and ladies began to disperse from the pavilion. Some headed off to observe other contests or to enjoy the shows of musicians and mummers. Griselle seemed content to sit and sew all day and Silence sat by her side, staring longingly out at the grounds, at all the flags of the visiting nobles, flapping on Tintagel’s walls. The boar of Baron Milbroke, the great stag of Baron Nout. The crow of Cador above them all. When at last Griselle rose to leave, Silence took her sewing basket on one arm and offered her the other. ‘Such a kind boy,’ she murmured and together they walked up to the castle, stopping now and then for Griselle to examine the wares of the visiting merchants: perfume and shimmeri
ng fabric and ground spices. When they reached the yard of the keep, Silence saw that the pages were at work, sweeping and clearing away dung and debris. Already, smoke rose in great gouts from the side yard near the kitchen, and Silence could smell roasting pork. He was determined to walk across the yard with his head held high and ignore any insults that might be whispered at him.

  ‘Hsst, Silence!’ Alois called, sweeping closer to him to be heard. ‘Look at Wendell’s hand.’

  Silence couldn’t ignore that and glanced around. Wendell was awkwardly holding a broom, his left hand bound around in strips of cloth that totally obscured his fingers.

  ‘Good fight,’ said another page. ‘He deserved what he got.’

  Now it was a struggle to hold back a smile as he escorted Griselle up the steps to the hall. ‘Go to the priest,’ Griselle commanded when they stood at the foot of the stairs. ‘Make your confession. Pride, disobedience … I see the smirk on your face. You are glad to have wounded that poor boy. Go. You’ll be saying prayers until dinner if you confess all your sins.’

  Silence handed Griselle her basket and stalked towards the chapel with stiff steps. Confess all his sins. He wouldn’t. Or he couldn’t. He couldn’t confess the deceit that lay at the heart of who he was. The chapel, wreathed in shadow at this hour of afternoon, felt cold and damp. The priest, in a little cabinet off to the side (heated by a brazier), heard his confession and gave him penance. Silence knelt on the chilly stones and began his prayers. Was the deceit his? Or was that a sin that belonged to his father? And didn’t the Bible say something about the sins of the fathers being visited upon their children?

  He clicked the final bead on the final rosary just as horns blasted at Tintagel’s gates, calling all to the feast. He hurried from the chapel, shivering until he reached the great hall, which radiated heat from the press of so many bodies, and made his way to his table just below the dais. This evening, Sir Jackin and Sir Rolf joined Earl Cador and the three barons at the head table. Lady Elizabeth sat beside Jackin, looking pretty in a blue dress embroidered up and down the front with roses and lilies. Sir Rolf looked a little worse for the wear of the day: he had a bruise on his cheek that matched the hue of Lady Elizabeth’s dress and had his left arm tied in a sling across his body.