by Alex Myers
Pate tried to get up. ‘Nooo!’
And so Silence lifted his baton high as his shoulder, then whipped it down to crash against Pate’s helm. The boy, who had barely risen to one knee, sprawled once more in the dirt.
‘The victor! Maurice!’ called the knight.
He took the congratulations that Alfred offered him and stripped out of the armour, panting with exertion. Then he helped Alfred don the greaves, the chest plate, the gauntlets. Silence strapped the shield tightly to his friend’s forearm and fitted the helm snugly on. ‘Good luck. God be with you,’ he said, giving him a light cuff to the side of the helm.
A different knight officiated at this match; Silence wrapped his arms around himself, shivering as his sweat dried, and watched as Alfred took on his first opponent. In two quick blows, it was all over. Alfred’s opponent took the baton to the side of his ribs, staggered, dropping his shield low, then Alfred landed a hard blow to his helm, toppling him. Done.
There was a wait for the next round of matches. Several knights came by to congratulate them both and ask where they hailed from, who had trained them. A few others jeered, calling, ‘Won’t be so lucky next time!’ and ‘Wait till you fight someone your own size.’ It was true that Alfred’s opponent had been a good bit smaller, the size of Alois the last time Silence had seen him. ‘Don’t heed them,’ Silence said. ‘You fought well.’
He donned the armour and fought a boy younger than him. His opponent danced about, making Silence chase him. The boy moved swiftly and deflected several blows on his shield. But when Silence finally landed a blow to the boy’s shoulder, the judge called, ‘Point!’ and his opponent yelled, ‘I yield, I yield!’ as Silence struck another blow to the leg.
‘Needs a lesson in courage, that one,’ Alfred said as they wrangled him into the armour. The gauntlets were now slick with their sweat, the helm moist from their heavy breathing. ‘Looked like he was about to piss himself.’
‘Strange,’ Silence said. He tightened the leather straps of the chest plate. ‘When I fight, I feel this … buzzing … in my chest. A sort of warmth there. And the whole world narrows down, to just my opponent and me.’
Alfred turned and stared at him, his eyes sparkling, a smile touching his lips. ‘I feel the same. It’s almost akin to being in love.’ Then he crammed the helm on and took to the ring.
This time, he and his opponent were equal in size and reasonably matched in skill as well. Alfred swung first; his opponent parried and countered. They circled. They clashed again. Alfred landed a blow to his opponent’s ribs; his opponent took the blow and immediately returned his own, swinging his baton hard against Alfred’s thigh. Alfred stumbled to the side, lowered his shield for a moment and bellowed. It was agony for Silence to hear.
Then they circled again, Alfred limping a bit. His opponent pressed the advantage, forcing Alfred to move towards that side and Alfred again stumbled; his opponent took a mighty swing … at nothing. Alfred had nimbly hopped away – the limping had been a ruse. The crowd roared and hollered as Alfred landed his own mighty blow to the ribs. His opponent staggered. Alfred rushed in, pressing hard, cutting with his baton, short little strikes, forcing his opponent back, trying to get inside his guard.
Abruptly, his opponent dropped his baton and swung with his gauntleted fist, punching right to Alfred’s face. Alfred didn’t raise his shield in time and took the blow. The crowd roared some more as the opponent wound up another punch. But this time Alfred sidestepped and brought his baton down on the back of his opponent’s head. The boy took one more step and then dropped to the ground. ‘Yield?’ Alfred’s voice came muffled and thick. No reply.
‘The victor!’ cried the officiating knight.
Alfred staggered over and Silence helped him with the helm. Once it was off, his friend’s face was revealed to be in an awful state. The punch had pushed the visor of the helm into his forehead, making a sharp, deep cut. Blood poured down over his eyes and Silence could see already the blue-purple of a bruise rising up on his cheek; that had been a mighty blow. Alfred wobbled as he stood, his eyes unfocused.
Knights and other squires offered him congratulations, pounding his shoulders. With each friendly cuff, Alfred wobbled some more. ‘Sit,’ Silence hissed. Alfred dropped down. ‘Here, take this.’ He offered him a rather dirty kerchief. Alfred dabbed at his face, looked at the kerchief and frowned, as if surprised to see blood there. ‘He has knocked the sense out of you,’ Silence said, wrestling to get the shield and plate loose. Alfred just grinned.
Another squire helped Silence into the armour as his name was called for the next match. ‘Maurice! And Jean of Le Blanc!’
True to his name, the squire Silence faced wore white-painted armour, chipped and dented in places. They faced each other and raised their swords.
The officiating knight raised his hands and the crowd quieted a bit. ‘This is the final match! To the victor goes the purse!’
Silence registered this with surprise. He hadn’t paid attention to the details of the scoring, as he’d been distracted by Alfred’s injury. ‘Ready!’ He settled himself, weight on the balls of his feet. ‘Begin!’
Le Blanc fought with care and finesse. He struck a few times, but lightly, not expending too much energy. Silence parried a slash and countered well, hitting Le Blanc’s helm, making it ring. The boy shook his head and carried on. His blows were stronger now; he battered Silence’s shield and tried to get inside his guard. Silence thought of Sir Jackin’s advice long ago and feinted low, then cut high, landing another solid blow.
But Le Blanc wouldn’t cease his pressing. Even when Silence drove the pommel of his baton into the side of Le Blanc’s head, the boy kept pushing to get inside. He drove with his shield and swung his sword. Silence tried to step to the side, tried to lift his shield to catch the blade, but Le Blanc had achieved what he wanted; he’d locked Silence’s shield down with his own and now his blade sliced down.
Silence gave a cry, ‘For St George!’, and wrenched himself away. He could feel his shoulder tearing … no! that tearing was the leather strap of the shield, ripping in twain, and Silence was free! Le Blanc’s baton sliced through the air and hit the ground next to Silence’s shield.
With his opponent off balance, Silence pressed the advantage, stabbing quickly with his baton, then dancing back and readying a slash. It felt odd not to have a shield, as if he were naked. He swung his blade around and landed a blow to Le Blanc’s shoulder. Another to his ribs, a blow that drove Le Blanc to his knees. He struck once more and his baton landed with a crack on the boy’s forearm, making him drop his blade.
‘Disarmed!’ called the officiant.
‘Yield?’ Silence called.
‘I yield.’
Silence reached out and offered a hand to Le Blanc, who took it. They both raised their visors and gave each other short bows. ‘Well fought,’ the boy said.
‘You as well,’ Silence replied. This was how it would feel to be a knight. Not skulking about in darkened inns. But fighting in broad daylight. With clear rules and opponents as full of virtue as he was. He stooped and picked up the boy’s baton, offering it to him, then fetching the shield. Hopefully it would be easy to repair the leather.
He hurried out of the ring, through the cheering crowd, to see how Alfred was doing. But no sooner had he reached his friend’s side than he heard voices calling their names. ‘Maurice! And Alfred of La Marche!’
The noises of the crowd rose in a new hubbub, then abruptly fell as two guardsmen pushed a path through the rabble to allow a man – resplendent in a blue and gold jacket with a rampant lion, red tongue curling from his mouth, embroidered on the breast – to walk into the ring.
‘The Count of Nevers,’ said Alfred, dropping to a knee. Silence followed suit.
‘You both fought valiantly, and it is my responsibility to see that such valour is rewarded,’ the count said. ‘To Alfred and to Maurice I award these purses and medals. Rise.’
They stood an
d took the purses and the gold medallions.
‘I knew your master well, Alfred, albeit when he was a younger man. I am sorry for the loss of him. I would have you in my household, and I know Sir David would approve.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Alfred said.
‘As for you, Maurice,’ the Count of Nevers said, pausing. Silence met his gaze, studying the count’s olive skin tone and closely trimmed beard – the hair dark except for a few white whiskers. ‘Whom do you serve?’
‘No one, sir, save God.’
‘Have you been dismissed from service for some disgrace?’
‘No, sir.’
‘How came such a well-trained squire to the middle of the Moulins Fair, completely unknown?’
‘It is a story only a bard could tell, sir,’ Silence replied, bowing to show that he meant no disrespect.
The count stared at him for a long moment. ‘That is a story I must hear. But I suppose to get it told in full, I must take you into my service. Very well. You will join my household, too, if it suits you.’
‘It does, sir. Very much.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Silence rode away from Moulins on a tan and white horse belonging to the Count of Nevers, which had a gentle and easy gait. A good thing it did, too, for though the ride was not long, it had been a year since Silence had ridden at all, and his legs were soon sore. Despite this, it felt pleasant to be on a horse after a year of walking the roads of France. Pleasant, too, to be riding with Alfred and the count and the handful of retainers who had come with him to the fair. Pleasant to hear the creak of saddles, hold the smooth leather of the reins in his hand, breathe in the smell of horse – that warm and oaty scent that made him feel at home. Pleasant to turn to the count and ask him, ‘Could you tell me, m’lord, some of the history of Nevers?’
And the count, smiling behind his thick moustache, had indulged him. ‘I am a cousin of King Evan of England, at the first remove,’ he began. ‘The House of Nevers began with my ancestor …’ and on and on, through fifteen generations (or so. Silence may have lost count). When he ran out of ancestors, the count regaled them with stories of the landscape they rode through. When this bridge had washed out in a flood before the planting had begun. When these crofters had suffered the loss of their flock owing to a terrible plague. When this town had built their church and he had given golden candlesticks for the altar and each year they held a mass in his honour. This was a lord who loved his land and who knew it well.
‘I must think on which knights you will serve,’ the count mused on their second day of riding. ‘There are many worthy lords, but I would see you well placed, as suits your talents and disposition. Now, I know you are both good at sparring. But how are you with a lance?’
‘I’ve never learned to joust,’ said Silence.
Alfred, who rode a large but aged gelding he’d been given by Sir Ancient, the horse’s head drooping low as it plodded along, said, ‘Nor have I.’
‘Truly?’ the count cried.
‘I had no horse but this one,’ Alfred said. He seemed to droop as much as his mount.
The Count of Nevers shook his head. ‘It is a hard thing for a knight to grow old, and for fortune to settle against you. You both ought to have learned years ago. Well, well. I will think on it.’
They rode through fields of ripening barley, past a muddy pig yard where sows lazed in the sun, the flies buzzing thickly around them. The count drew his mount close to Silence’s. ‘Where do you hale from, Maurice?’
‘I’ve lately been at La Marche.’ He glanced over at Alfred. ‘Apprentice to two minstrels.’
‘Yes!’ the Count of Nevers cried and his mare tossed her head. ‘It was you who sang at the festival! I thought as much.’ He laughed merrily. ‘A squire and a bard. I suspected as much when I saw you had a lute.’
‘I did indeed sing at the fair,’ said Silence, and though he very much wished to be just a squire (and then to be just a knight) he didn’t insist on this point; he knew that what appeared to be a direct route could prove endless and what seemed a diversion could lead to the desired destination.
The count laughed again, his eyes crinkled up in merriment and the bit of his cheeks visible above his brown beard and moustache were round and pink. ‘You are a man of few words. But tell me, before La Marche where were you?’
‘A minstrel always moves about,’ Silence said.
The count shook a large finger at him. ‘That won’t do, that won’t do! Not at all. Tell me your lineage, your heritage, the hammer and anvil that forged you! One look at you and it is clear that your Nature is noble.’ And he laughed again.
Silence couldn’t help but blush. The Count of Nevers wasn’t wrong, of course, but Silence could hardly admit the truth about either his lineage or his Nature. ‘I beg you, my lord, to let my history go unquestioned. Think of me, if I may be so bold, as the Fair Unknown. For like him I was raised in the woods, far from other children, and had a strange but wonderful upbringing.’
The Count of Nevers leaned close, his bushy brown eyebrows upraised. ‘Fascinating! You were raised in the woods?’
‘Truly, my lord, I was. I grew up at a remote hunting lodge, far from any keep or castle, deep in a wondrous forest.’ Silence hesitated, not wanting to reveal any more. ‘I trust, sir, that you know the story of the Fair Unknown?’ Silence hardly paused for a beat. ‘No? A shame! Let me tell it, in all its glory …’
And so, as they rode from Moulins to Nevers, through fields thick with the drowsy green stalks of oats, Silence told them that tale and then another and another. And gave a quiet prayer of gratitude to Hob (and even to Giles) for teaching him so many tales; for having a ready supply of stories is most important when you don’t want to disclose your own.
The following morning, the count ordered that they turn from the northerly track they’d been taking and deviate to the east. ‘We’ll go to my manor house.’ He smiled broadly at Silence. ‘I think it will remind you of where you grew up, perhaps?’
‘We aren’t going to court at Nevers, my lord?’ Alfred asked.
‘Oh, you’ll get there eventually. But, as it happens, one of my knights, Sir Onfroi, is convalescing at my manor house. He had a terrible case of the pox and needs to recover his strength and everyone knows that the countryside is better than the city for healing.’
Silence mumbled a sort of agreement, though he felt a certain despair. Not going to court?
‘Sir Onfroi,’ the count pressed on, ‘is one of my best jousters. One of the best jousters. I have seen you both spar, and if we can get your skills with the lance to match your skill with the sword … Well! Nevers will be known far and wide.’
‘Thank you, my lord, that is most considerate,’ Silence said. He glanced over at Alfred, who looked just as crestfallen as he felt, slumping in his saddle. It was a bit like going back to being a page.
By that afternoon, they had reached the manor house. It stood at the crest of a slope lined with grapevines; at this time of summer, the leaves were a dark green and the grapes just forming. Small children ran about with upturned brooms, racing through the rows to keep the birds at bay; as they rode up the track, they heard the yipping of dogs, the squeals of children, and the raucous cries of crows, angry at being denied the fruit. The manor house rose up before them, a stone-and-timber structure with a steep slate-shingled roof and walls covered in climbing vines. A groom ran out from the stable as they approached.
‘My lord!’ cried a red-haired man as he emerged from the manor.
‘Sir Onfroi!’ The count swung down from his mount while the groom held the bridle. The count embraced Sir Onfroi and then held him at arm’s length. ‘You look much improved in health.’
‘Thanks to the lord’s mercy, and your generosity,’ the knight said, bowing low; his red hair, thick with curls, hung below his ears. His face was pale and marked here and there with pox-scars. But they seemed well healed, not the angry red of a recent wound. Silence dismounted and let the groo
m take the reins. He bowed to Sir Onfroi, one hand held against his chest.
‘This is Maurice,’ the Count of Nevers said. ‘And this is Alfred.’ Alfred, too, bowed. ‘They were victors at the Moulins Fair in sparring …’ As the count continued his introduction, Silence studied Sir Onfroi. The knight was about the same height as Alfred, so Silence stood a head taller. His cheeks were not just clean-shaven, but seemed not to sprout whiskers at all, which gave him a youthful look, though Silence thought he must be a decade older than he himself was, based on what the count had told them of Sir Onfroi’s jousting career.
‘It is a great pleasure to welcome you as squires,’ Sir Onfroi said to them both when the count had finished his explanation. ‘I will see you trained to be fine jousters and perhaps, with God’s help, we will all return to court together.’
‘Marvellous,’ the count said. ‘And how is your wife? And your children?’
‘Stay for dinner and judge for yourself,’ Sir Onfroi said. ‘They are healthy and enjoying life in the country.’ The two men began to stroll across the yard. Silence and Alfred exchanged a look and then went to the stables to help with their horses.
‘See what you’ve done,’ Alfred muttered as they brushed his ancient mount (the poor horse’s hair came out in great clumps). ‘Telling him you grew up in a hunting lodge. Now we’re in exile in the sticks. I wanted to go to court.’
‘It isn’t my fault! It’s just as much to do with you not knowing how to joust. And he said we’d get to court.’ Silence turned away to find some oats for the horse; he wouldn’t admit it to Alfred, but he was just as disappointed.
It may not have been the court of Nevers, but the manor house was certainly lively. There were guardsmen and grooms and a hunt-master and a dog-boy and a cook and a dozen servants besides. And Sir Onfroi had a wife, Lady Catherine, and six children, all of them boys and all of them red-headed (though Lady Catherine had brown hair). ‘At least you can tell she’s remained faithful to her husband,’ Alfred had joked to Silence when he’d met the whole brood. Sir Onfroi was an earnest and pleasant man, but also a man of strict rules. He and his wife sat together, joined only by the priest, at a raised table for dinner. The rest of the household, from the hunt-master to the servants, sat at a long table beneath them in order of rank.