The Story of Silence

by Alex Myers

  Why was the noble course always so arduous? Silence, once he’d bundled up all his gear, sat and waited.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Seldom had a night felt so long. For a time, Giles played his harp while Silence sharpened his basilard and then his belt knife. The grating of the whetstone rubbed at Silence’s patience; he was sitting beside a man who wanted to murder him. He longed to confront Giles, to press the basilard against his chest and make the man confess. Make him understand the evil he had contemplated, make him repent. But justice would be better served if he could catch him in his sin. It was more dangerous, to be sure, but more just. And that merited the risk.

  Giles went downstairs to refill the jug of wine (not that he’d offered any to Silence) and Silence took off his jacket and boots and stretched out on the pallet beside the bed. Giles came back and resumed his harping, the low light of one squat taper flickering throughout the room. He played ‘The Ride of the Fairy Knight’ and, had Silence been asleep, the song surely would have haunted his dreams, with its story of a knight who loved a lady from Fey, who set him impossible tasks and so he rode endlessly, desperately. Silence lay on his side, his eyes lightly closed, alert to any sound, any movement, for the chance that Giles had reconsidered and thought he would murder Silence in his sleep.

  At last, Hob’s footsteps pounded on the stairs. The ropes of the bed sighed as Giles stood and eased the door open. Silence listened to the mutter of the two minstrels in the stairwell.

  ‘Quiet, you fool. He’s asleep,’ Giles hissed.

  ‘I heard you the first time,’ Hob replied, his words tumbling into each other.

  ‘You’ve been out half the night. I heard the watch cry just now.’

  ‘Well, we have something to celebrate, have we not?’

  ‘Keep your voice down or you’ll wake half the inn and the stupid boy.’

  ‘You think we ought to kill him now?’ Hob whispered. ‘It’s easier if he’s asleep.’

  ‘We’d have to carry the body out tonight,’ Giles hissed back.

  ‘Where’d he put his silver?’

  Inside the chamber, Silence rose from the pallet and stood, barefoot, his heart pounding, by the door, his basilard in one hand, his belt knife in the other, their hilts slick against his sweating palms.

  He saw the latch of the door lift up, heard the wood squeak as someone pushed against it. Giles entered first, stooping to peer into the room. Silence lifted his basilard high and brought the pommel crashing into the side of Giles’s head, shouting, ‘Thief!’

  Giles dropped to the floor, landing hard on his knees, both his hands clutched to his scalp. Silence lunged towards Hob, who raised his hands in surrender, crying, ‘It’s us! It’s Hob!’

  Silence grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and pulled him inside, flinging him hard in his rage. Hob stumbled over Giles and pitched forward onto the bed. ‘If it’s you,’ Silence said, ‘why did I hear you speak of killing and silver? Those words floated through my dreams and woke me. I heard someone say we ought to kill him now and where’d he put his silver.’ His voice shook with righteous anger and he stepped closer to Hob, looming over him, basilard at the ready. ‘Was that my dream?’

  Hob’s gaze faltered, fell on Giles, who was on all fours now, then back to Silence. ‘No-o-o. That was what we said. What he said.’ He pointed at Giles. ‘He wanted you dead.’

  From the floor, Giles tried to say something, and Silence poked him with the tip of his basilard. ‘You dispute that? Help him up.’

  When both minstrels were seated on the bed, Hob with the pale wildness of a man fighting for sober thought, Giles with his hand clapped to his temple, Silence levelled the tip of the basilard at them. ‘Kill me in my sleep, eh? Have I wronged you in some way? Speak now, and we’ll make things fair.’

  Hob shook his head, his jowls swaying.

  Silence drew his shoulders back and lifted his chin. He stood as Master Waldron had taught him, one foot back, toes turned slightly in. Knees bent, prepared to spring. He was ready. But first, he wanted to teach them a lesson. ‘If I’ve done you no wrong, then why are you contemplating evil against me?’

  In a sudden, sodden burst, Hob spilled it all out. Their jealousy, their greed, the whole situation with the countessina. He was weeping by the end, and Silence heaved a sigh, letting his shoulders relax a bit. At least he’d made them feel remorse …

  ‘No!’ Giles roared, leaping up from the bed. He drew his belt knife and lunged for Silence, slashing madly. ‘You little upstart! You piece of dung!’ With each slash, Silence stepped back. This was no knightly contest, and the best he could think was to avoid getting cut, wait for Giles to tire, and hope for an obvious opening.

  Silence darted to the side and nearly tripped over Hob’s harp; he could hear the strings plink and chime as the instrument tumbled over. Giles took another wild slash and another. The second came near enough that the blade caught in the sleeve of Silence’s shirt.

  ‘Got you!’ Giles crowed. ‘I’ve stuck the little bastard!’

  But he’d pierced only fabric, and with his knife stuck there, Silence pressed his advantage. He raised his basilard, saw the look of terror in Giles’s face as the minstrel realized he had not dealt Silence a blow at all and … couldn’t bring himself to skewer the man. Instead, he reached out and grabbed Giles’s wrist where his hand was tangled in Silence’s shirt. A tight squeeze, pressure on the inside, and Giles’s knife fell to the floor with a clatter (he had Alfred to thank for showing him that trick). Then, almost gently, Silence tugged the minstrel’s arm, as if pulling him close and threw him over his hip. Up, up, Giles’s long legs were like a windmill through the air, and over – he landed on the floor with a terrible crash.

  Silence paused, waiting to see if someone would investigate all the banging and pounding, but raucous calls and snatches of song rose up the stairs; the revelry continued unabated, and their knocking about was just one more restive aspect of the fair. Before Giles could recover, Silence poked the point of the basilard into his back, right below his ribcage, pushing hard enough for the tip to go through Giles’s jacket and shirt, pierce the flesh. So he’d feel it.

  Silence’s heart raced; he felt a shimmering rush come over him, the same as he’d felt when sparring with Wendell, the same as he’d felt when the wolf attacked him. ‘How dare you think to kill me to cover your own sins,’ he seethed. ‘I’ve served you without complaint this past year. I’ve guarded you from robbers. And this is how you repay me?’

  He pointed at Hob. ‘Give me my fair share of the winnings.’ Hob slid off the bed and hurried to his baggage.

  On the floor, Giles gave a muffled roar. ‘No!’

  Silence pushed the basilard in a little further. ‘What was that? Do you lay an honest claim to those coins?’

  ‘It isn’t fair!’

  Silence released some of the pressure on the point and Giles went limp. ‘What isn’t fair?’

  ‘That you should be handsome and have a fine voice and be charming and courteous and wield a sword … that you should be able to do all these things, when most can scarcely do half.’ His words came out wretched and strangled.

  Silence took the point of the basilard away, but remained ready, wary as he gestured to Hob. ‘Give me my coin.’ Hob handed him a purse and Silence tucked it behind his belt. He grabbed his bundle of clothes and his lute and kept the basilard held before him. ‘If I hear that you have besmirched my reputation in any way, I will hunt you down and send you both to hell.’ He backed out of the room, sheathed his basilard and hurried down the stairs. His legs quivered, barely supporting him as he settled his belongings over his shoulder. Whatever shimmer, whatever strength of rightness he had experienced in that room had dissipated, making him feel as if he’d just run a race: breathless, sweating, heart pounding. He squinted towards the horizon, or what he could see of it in the tangle of the city. It was an hour, perhaps more, until dawn. Further down the street, he found a stable and climbed into the l
oft. The stable boy woke with a frown, but Silence offered him a penny and tried to sleep.

  Greasy porridge with strands of greens and pork filled Silence’s belly later that morning. He had walked back to the fair, which already jostled with activity. Would some noble recognize him from yesterday’s competition and offer him a position at his court? Did he want that? It wouldn’t be bad to live as a minstrel. He passed the stage where he’d sat yesterday – without Hob and Giles, it might even be a good life. The dirt ground, littered with the shells of nuts and the seeds and pits of various fruits, waited empty for now.

  He wandered towards the long line of stables, where squires wrestled coursers into harnesses and led them out for exercise before the tilting. Already, the tapping and pounding of the smiths filled the air. ‘Watch out there, minstrel!’ someone called and Silence stopped short. A courser, none too happy about being pulled from its stall, was rearing up, with two grooms trying to quiet it. ‘Get out of the way,’ one yelled at him. He stepped back and tried another route.

  Ahead, low barriers made of rope and logs formed five rings. A page, little more than eight or nine, swept the dirt within one of them, brushing away pebbles and litter. ‘Are these for wrestling?’ Silence asked. The page nodded and kept sweeping. ‘Has it already happened?’ Another nod. ‘Did you wrestle?’ And another. ‘Win?’ A shake of the head.

  ‘That’s why I’m sweeping,’ he said.

  ‘Next year, then. Why are you sweeping if the wrestling is done?’

  ‘Sparring,’ he said.

  ‘How do they spar here?’ Silence asked.

  The page frowned at him. ‘Same’s they do everywhere. Each has a baton, and a shield, and wears a hauberk and a helm. And greaves. And gloves. And they hit each other.’

  Silence smiled: he remembered when he thought the whole world was the same as the small piece he lived in. With a nod to the page, he moved on. Perhaps he’d come back to watch. Past the rings, he saw a crowd of boys and moved towards them, pressing into their jostling midst.

  Far at the front – he could only see because he was taller than most – a beleaguered clerk took down names that were shouted at him. This was clearly the list for the sparring. And there, a few steps ahead of him, Silence spotted Alfred, the unruly mess of his dark hair curling about his ears. He elbowed through to his friend.

  ‘Alfred! At last!’

  His friend shouted, ‘You won’t believe what’s happened!’

  ‘I could say the same,’ he screamed back. ‘Let’s get free of this press.’

  They settled on a bench by the empty sparring rings. ‘Listen,’ Alfred said, his eyes feverish, his heavy brows arched. ‘We arrived two days ago, and Sir Ancient saw the healer and took the concoction she brewed for him before bed, but he never woke the next morning!’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘I sent word out, and his niece lives nearby and will arrange the burial.’

  ‘What will you do?’ Silence asked.

  ‘For now, spar in this tourney. And then,’ he shrugged, ‘return to La Marche, I suppose. I haven’t a place anywhere else. Where are Hob and Giles?’

  Silence launched into his tale, which left Alfred with his jaw hanging open. When he’d recovered enough to speak he said, ‘So, did you kiss her? Did you …’

  Silence’s face grew hot. ‘Are you mad? I have just overcome attempted murder, and you ask me if I kissed a girl?’

  ‘Not a girl, the countessina.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you were so enamoured.’

  ‘She’s a subject of much concern among the squires.’ Alfred arched one eyebrow. ‘But I see your point. You thwarted an attempt on your life – won’t that make a fine song! – and now I can put the same question to you. What will you do?’

  Silence had been asking himself that same question all morning. He knew what he needed was courage, plain and simple. For the crow had reminded him: he knew what he wanted. He had only to admit it to himself and then let that desire guide him. No more being pushed around by others. He ought to listen to the voice within himself. The voice that sounded clear and true, a bell cleanly struck. The voice that said now, that had said his whole life: I will be a knight. ‘Is there time to sign up to spar?’

  ‘You?’ Alfred said. ‘But you won the song …’

  ‘I’d rather spar,’ Silence said. ‘Can I share your arms and armour?’

  ‘Of course,’ Alfred said. And with that, Silence pressed back into the crowd of squires to add his name to the list. The clerk looked up and asked, ‘Who’s next?’

  Silence said, ‘Me.’

  ‘You?’ the clerk said, laughing. ‘That’s a lute, not a sword, boy.’

  Though he sounded friendly, the words made Silence bristle. He had trained for years. He had killed two robbers. But this man knew none of that. He heard the squires around him laughing, a sound that brought him back to Tintagel, to the daily humiliation and taunts he endured. ‘Nonetheless, I will enter.’ He held out a mark.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Maurice.’

  ‘Whom do you serve?’

  ‘God,’ he replied. ‘I have no other master.’ It sounded dashing and courtly.

  ‘Well, then, Maurice. Good luck fighting with your lute.’

  He and Alfred picked a spot near the sparring circles where they agreed one of them would guard their belongings while the other one sparred, taking it in turns. The clerk called all competitors to attention, and the priest standing beside him raised his hands, at which sign everyone knelt in the dust. Pater noster … Silence bowed his head. His father, who was somewhere in Cornwall … what would he say to him now? Silence found he didn’t care, which wasn’t a noble thought, but there you have it. He bowed his head and prayed along with the others, turning his thoughts from his father to Griselle. And, in the moment afforded for private prayer, he mumbled words of apology, wishing for her to be comforted. Then he made the sign of the cross over his chest and opened his eyes.

  The clerk cleared his throat and announced the pairings and the rules. Victory was declared when one party yielded or could not rise without assistance. A point would be awarded for each cleanly landed strike to the head, the body, the legs. Two points for disarming. Three points for a yield. And so on. The judge would call out the points and they would be tallied at the end of the round. The winners of the first round would advance to the second after a short time for refreshment. Simple. These rules would allow for a quick brutal match, or for a soft squire to yield before he was injured, and a display of skill rather than merely strength.

  Silence had drawn a squire named Pate for his first match, in the third circle. And as he swung the baton in big loose arcs to limber up, he gazed across the rings, looking at the ranks of boys, young men, readying themselves for the fight. How would he measure up? Alfred helped him with his shield and gloves, and he stretched and lunged and got the feel for the balance. ‘You tend to wait too long to make your first strike,’ Alfred said.

  ‘And you tend to rush in,’ Silence replied.

  ‘I’m trying to help,’ Alfred said, as he adjusted a strap on the helm.

  ‘I know. I do tend to wait a while, it’s true. But the weapons master at …’ he broke off; he never mentioned his birthplace ‘… where I grew up drilled it into me that the first minutes of a match are better spent observing than swinging.’

  ‘I grant you, but …’

  ‘Now is not the time for an argument on strategy,’ Silence said, as the bell rang to call competitors to the ring. ‘I’ll get you your armour back as quick as I can.’

  Alfred thumped him on the back. ‘Good fortune to you.’

  After so many weeks sparring Alfred in padded jackets, with blows pulled in order to avoid harm, the armour weighed heavily on Silence. He rolled his shoulders and shuffled his feet, as he waited for his opponent to finish adjusting his helm. An older knight officiated, calling them both to the centre of the ring. ‘Pate.’ He gestured to his left and the boy
took his spot. ‘Maurice.’ Silence stood opposite him. ‘Ready.’ They raised their batons. Alfred’s helm fitted him well enough, allowing a thin slit of vision, the sight of the boy before him, iron-clad and stocky; he could hear his own breathing. ‘Begin!’

  Pate swung his baton almost immediately, cutting towards Silence’s torso. Silence tried to twist aside, but the heaviness of the armour slowed him and he only got his shield in place; the blade crashed into it, knocking the shield against Silence’s side, pushing the breath from him. Ooooof. A clumsy start, he berated himself, then pushed the thought aside. Focus. He got his stance ready again, saw Pate swing his baton again, trying to press his advantage. This time, Silence was ready, standing his ground as the baton rose up and began its descent towards him. He dodged at the last possible instant, and Pate had no choice but to finish his swing, letting the baton crash to the ground. Silence sliced with his own baton at that moment, landing it heavily on the boy’s shoulder and then whirling away. ‘Point!’ the judge cried.

  Pate gave a muffled yell. He lifted his baton, but Silence could see the blade waver; the blow he had landed had weakened his opponent. Pate gave another yell, this one sounding full of pain and also anger. The yell of someone trying to get his courage up. Silence waited. A wounded animal, a hurt person, they were dangerous. They were reckless. But an opponent’s recklessness could be used to one’s advantage.

  They circled each other, Silence drawing each step out, feinting now and then to get a response from Pate. He could see the other’s patience wearing thin, see his sword arm waver, trying to hold the baton steady. Pate gave a bellow and charged, leading with his shield, swinging his sword in a wide arc.

  It was easy to step to the side. Easy, even in armour, to stick his foot out and send Pate crashing to the ground. Easy to step beside his sprawled body and nudge the blunt baton against his back, just as he had done the previous night to Giles. ‘Yield!’ he called.

  ‘Never!’ Pate cried.

  The crowd roared, yelling and jeering. Silence gritted his teeth and tried again: mercy was a virtue. ‘Yield, I say!’