The Story of Silence

by Alex Myers

  Silence grabbed a few beans from the vines as they hurried back through the gardens, crunching them as Alfred peppered him with questions. ‘Who was that? Where have you been?’

  ‘What’s the great rush for?’

  ‘The count has summoned us; no doubt dinner will be soon. Perhaps he will assign us to serve a new knight. Who was she?’

  ‘Ame,’ Silence said. ‘That’s all I know.’

  Silence found his lute, arms, and armour (such as it was) neatly stacked in a storeroom beside the stable. He and Alfred dug through the meagre baggage they’d packed (it felt quite long ago that they’d departed the manor house); Alfred muttered about why it was that the lady had approached Silence … how no ladies had said anything to him … and eventually they came up with clean tunics and leggings, plain brown, nothing fancy. Alfred stripped his leggings off and (with some pride) showed Silence the bruise the mace had made on his thigh. His flesh was pale, flecked with dark hairs, and the bruise already bloomed purple. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not much,’ Alfred said, though Silence suspected he was lying. Alfred tugged on his leggings.

  Silence examined his own clothing; his tunic was passably clean, but his leggings were coated with mud and dried blood – not his own, but acquired during the battle. He reached under his tunic and untied the leggings, thinking of his father’s long-ago injunction, and Griselle’s repeated reinforcement, that he should never, never, change in front of anyone. But how could that be avoided in a squire’s life? He simply kept his shirt on; it hung almost to his knees, and pulled on the fresh leggings underneath. ‘That’ll have to do,’ he said and set the dirty leggings on his shield; he picked up his lute and the two of them walked to the keep.

  For such short notice, the kitchens had put together a fine feast. A whole roast pig sat on the high table – Silence could smell it as soon as he entered – baked with apples all around it. Venison in a thick gravy filled trenchers on the lower tables, alongside baskets of bread. Guardsmen from Nevers and from the keep stood by their benches and Silence looked around for the table of squires, but before he and Alfred could take their places, the Count of Nevers’ voice boomed out. ‘There they are! Alfred and Maurice! Over here, if you please.’

  They hurried down the hall between the rows of benches towards where the count stood at the high table. He gestured for them to stand at a table next to Sir Jean. Silence was relieved to see that, though the count wore finery – a coat of rich blue – Sir Jean appeared just as plain as he and Alfred. But he was baffled as to why the count had called them forth.

  He gazed up at the high table; there sat the priest who’d officiated in the chapel, Lord Burress and a lady who must be his wife, for she had linked her arm in his. A boy, likely their son, who looked old enough to be a page, and, next to him, Ame. She had removed her veil. Her light brown hair sparkled in the firelight and her eyes caught his, held them a moment.

  Lord Burress and his wife stepped to the front of the dais and the hall fell silent. ‘Friends! We welcome you to this humble hall. I pledge again today, my sword, my service, my life, to the Count of Nevers. It is a true noble, a true knight, who rides to aid another, who stands by his word.’ And Lord Burress bent his knees in a low bow; his lady dropped a graceful curtsy. And the Count of Nevers indulged them with a smile that lifted his moustaches.

  ‘I know,’ said the count, ‘that if the needs were reversed, you would ride to my aid. Thus is the bond between us. Thus should be the bond between all men, and especially all knights.’ He paused and raked his eyes over the hall. ‘And we must take a moment to mourn those who have left our ranks.’

  Lord Burress gave a signal and servants scurried to fill cups and mugs with wine. Around the hall, there was scraping and scuffling and muttered words. Then quiet as the Count of Nevers raised his cup. It was a fancy goblet: silver worked with gold. Silence, holding his own earthen mug, watched the goblet dazzle in the firelight. The count raised it high. ‘To Sir Onfroi! To his memory!’ The hall drank deeply. ‘We will mourn him richly at Nevers and tell stories of his valour long into the night. But this night, we are all weary from battle and I would not delay our feast any longer.’ More shufflings and mutters of appreciation from the hall. The count raised his hand. ‘But to say this! When one knight falls, another steps into his place. Today, two will step into Sir Onfroi’s place. Both worthy. Both valiant. Already they have upheld the virtues of knighthood. Maurice. Alfred. Are you ready to take the sacred oath?’

  They each went down on one knee before the count, bent their necks, and waited. The priest came over with holy water. Lord Burress’s son brought forward the count’s sword. The count set it before them, point down, and had them recite an oath of fealty. It was not the same as the one which Silence remembered hearing all those years ago at Tintagel, but his mind had been numb then … numb with jealousy, dull with anger and resentment. ‘To help those who are helpless, to judge fairly and speak only the truth …’

  Alfred put his hands on the pommel of the sword; Silence put his hands on Alfred’s. The count held them both there and the priest intoned a blessing. ‘Rise, Sir Alfred, Sir Maurice. Rise and join our ranks!’

  The hall erupted in cheers; mugs were raised and playful thumps landed on Silence’s back and shoulders as they took their seats next to Sir Jean. He ate and drank and laughed as the knights told stories of when they had sworn the oath. At length, weary and light-headed, Silence stood and bid his fellows good night. ‘Play a song for us!’ they said, and the squires joined the cry. ‘What, are you too good to sing for us?’

  Silence waved them away, but took up his lute. He played ‘The Blessed Fields’, which had been a favourite of Sir Onfroi’s. And then, though he was tired to his core, he began the lighter melody of a round dance and soon the hall was reeling; dogs yipped and dodged through legs. Lady Burress and the Count of Nevers touched hands and circled, then he passed her off to her lord. Some knight had taken out a set of bones and put a merry beat to Silence’s song and he played on.

  The knights of Nevers rode up and down the coastline over the following days, looking for any sign of more raiders, for any sign of rebellion. The peasants were worried; many had lost their crops and it was much too late to replant. Lord Burress and the Count of Nevers took pains to reassure them, but the devastation was evident. Burned fields stretched for acres and the crisp smell of smoke followed the knights everywhere.

  The knights! Silence had to remind himself that he was now Sir Maurice. Not much had changed, admittedly. Lord Burress had been generous in opening his storerooms, giving him a shield to replace his own (Alfred’s, which was in much worse repair, had also been replaced) as well as a chest plate. ‘Not that we expect a fight, but it is better to be prepared.’

  Silence had contemplated the shield for quite a while. It had come painted green and white, with two red arrows. The crest of a forgotten knight. Since he served Nevers, he should have it painted in the blue and yellow. But as a knight, he could add his own mark. What would it be?

  For now, he simply scraped away the old paint, smoothed the wood, and covered it in white-wash. Alfred, who had asked that Nevers’ lion be painted on his, took to calling Silence the Fair Unknown, and one old retainer of Burress’s told him that a blank shield brought bad fortune. But Silence liked it.

  After a few days of recovering, the Count of Nevers began to make plans to return to his own holdings. Alfred grew excited – no more manor house, no more country isolation. They would be going to the city. Lord Burress would be sending his son with them to be a page, and he readied a farewell feast for them.

  But while the venison was still roasting on spits by the kitchen, five horsemen came galloping into the yard. Alfred and Silence had been throwing knives with some of Lord Burress’s knights and they turned at the sound of hooves. A banner flicked out, showing a field of green crossed by two yellow slashes. ‘Lord Howell,’ said one of Burress’s knights.

  In short order, the
Count of Nevers and Lord Burress received the message and summoned their knights to the hall. ‘Word comes from King Evan,’ the count said. He gestured to the scroll laid out on the table, held flat by four wooden blocks. ‘As you know, King Evan and I are cousins, of only one remove’ This fact was well known, indeed; the count seldom missed a chance to mention it.

  Silence leaned over and read, while the count said, ‘Evan reports that five of his barons have joined together in revolt. These five have gathered armsmen and he thinks they will soon ride to Winchester. He has summoned all the men he can muster, but fears it will not be enough. He calls on us to come to his aid.’

  Silence continued to read, reaching the point in the letter where Evan’s retainers were named. With a jolt, Silence saw the name of his father. Was Earl Cador even now riding to Winchester? Was Sir Jackin at his side?

  The Count of Nevers interrupted his thoughts. ‘By this time, I suspect the barons have ridden upon Winchester. Perhaps King Evan has vanquished them on the field of battle. Or perhaps he is holed up in his castle.’

  ‘Or perhaps he has been overrun,’ added Lord Burress.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the count said. ‘Whatever the case, we should ride to his aid. If he has already defeated them, which I fear is unlikely, perhaps we can be of use in another campaign. And if the king has died, there is the matter of succession to be settled, and the House of Nevers has a stake in that.’

  Lord Burress took up the thread. ‘And if, as is most likely, the king is besieged in Winchester, then we can break the siege, for which he would be most grateful indeed.’

  ‘Quite,’ the Count of Nevers agreed. ‘Thus we ride out. Lord Howell,’ he gestured to an older man with a grey-streaked beard, ‘will find boats for our passage. My knights will make ready their horses and see to their armour. Lord Burress will gather more guardsmen …’

  As he began to list names and call for messengers, Silence and Alfred bowed and took their leave. ‘England!’ Alfred crowed. ‘Imagine …’

  But Silence could imagine all too well. It took him little time to gather his few belongings, check on Wind. The yard bustled with guardsmen and carters; the kitchen had been thrown into chaos, the feast preparations still underway and now, the orders to ready supplies for travel. Silence could hear the cook shouting from across the yard. He slipped out of the stable while Alfred still attended to Storm and wended his way through the side-yards and gardens.

  He wasn’t looking for her, but he was rather hoping he might chance upon her … and, good fortune, there she was. Ame. She had her little brother with her and the two of them were chasing after a butterfly. But they turned as they heard Silence’s approach and the butterfly made good its escape.

  ‘Sir Maurice,’ Ame said.

  Silence bowed to her. ‘My lady.’

  She wore no veil today. A garland of flowers – squash blossoms by the look of them – encircled her light brown hair and she smiled easily at him. ‘What brings you to the gardens, good knight?’

  ‘I wished to answer your question.’

  Ame settled on a wooden bench and Silence sat down beside her, careful to leave a proper space between them. The boy tugged his hand free of his sister’s and went off in pursuit of some other animal, dodging and leaping between the garden beds. ‘And?’

  ‘If I were to marry, I would tell my lady wife that she should speak her mind honestly. Always.’

  Ame laughed, a sound like a merry waterfall. ‘Ah! Sir Maurice, you would have her be a man?’

  ‘It is not honesty that makes one a man or a woman. And it is not speaking, either. I have known men who are quiet and women who are loud …’

  ‘But a wife,’ Ame pressed. ‘Her mind must be her husband’s, at least I have been told that. When two are joined together, they become one.’

  ‘That seems to me to be a loss. Rather two should remain two. In joyful service to each other.’ He felt Ame’s fingers rest against his own and did not dare to look down at his hands. ‘But I am in no rush to take a wife,’ he added. She laughed but didn’t move her hand from his. They sat and watched the boy as he pursued a mouse, poking into a hole in the wall with a stick.

  The sunlight and shade dappled them as they sat and Silence wondered what it would be like to take a wife; would a woman understand him? Perhaps Ame would understand him better than a man would – for she knew what it was to watch and listen and want and be told, you cannot. How strange, to think that he might find companionship and understanding in women, that world he had long been trying to avoid.

  ‘Does it feel different, being a knight, now?’

  Silence considered this and said at last, ‘Do you know the story of the selkie?’

  She didn’t and so he told it; and the boy stopped poking at the mousehole and came over and listened as well. As Silence spoke, the smell of the sea, which wasn’t far off, after all, seemed to grow stronger, and Ame gasped and seized Silence’s hand tighter when he reached the part about how the woman sneaked down to the sea and stole the selkie’s skin and hid it from him (for this time, he told Griselle’s version of the tale). And when he finished, the boy cocked his head and proclaimed, ‘That woman is quite evil and mean, to trap the selkie.’

  And his sister replied, ‘Why, she is just in love.’ And the boy went back to playing in the dirt.

  Silence said, ‘I think often of what it must feel like, to belong in two places, to be of both the sea and the land. To have two skins. To be able to peel one off; how freeing! And yet, how awful it must be to get trapped, to have one’s skin taken away.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ame said after a pause. ‘I should like to be able to shed my skin now and then.’

  Silence smiled at her. ‘I understand that feeling very well,’ he said and thought how Griselle had said much the same all those years ago in Ringmar: that women had to bend to the will of the world, to the will of men, though they, too, had wills of their own.

  They sat in the garden until the sun dipped below the wall, slanting them in shadow. They could hear the groan of cartwheels and the shouts of the cook and smell the rich savour of roasting meat. In a moment, the bells would sound for Nones. In a moment, they’d be feasting and toasting farewell. In a moment, Silence would be riding off to war, riding back home. In this moment, Ame slipped her hand from beneath his and unwound a ribbon that had been holding the squash blossoms in her hair; they fell, orange and gold, floating down to her lap. She handed the ribbon, which was a deep crimson, to Silence. ‘Will you wear it? And think of me, stuck in my one skin.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Word came by dawn that, indeed, King Evan had been holed up in Winchester, followed by a report that Lord Howell had secured boats for their passage and Alfred and Silence were put in charge of loading them. And so, after riding from Lord Burress’s keep to the harbour, they spent a hot, boring day yelling at labourers to get boxes and barrels into the proper holds.

  During the pauses in this labour, Silence found himself staring out to sea, as if through the mist and distance he could see the waiting shore. Cornwall. Some part of him wished desperately to return, imagined even that Griselle would be on the wharf waiting for him, that he could beg her forgiveness … and some part of him wished that the Count of Nevers had received a missive that summoned him to Jerusalem instead.

  The boats were loaded, all men and horses were aboard, and the tides ran favourable for their passage. The Count of Nevers’ ship cleared the harbour wall first, then the one that carried Silence and Alfred.

  ‘What is bothering you so, Maurice?’ Alfred asked as they leaned over the railing.

  ‘Nothing,’ Silence said reflexively.

  ‘You look as though you’re at a funeral.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I know you can’t be worried about the battle …’

  ‘Of course not.’ The battle would be a relief. ‘I’ve never told you where I’m from,’ he said at last.


  ‘You are the knight from nowhere,’ Alfred said. It had become the joke at the keep: Maurice, the fair unknown.

  ‘I come from Cornwall,’ he admitted. ‘It is awfully strange to be headed back again.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘My father didn’t want me to be a knight,’ Silence said.

  ‘What sort of father doesn’t wish his son to be a knight?’ Alfred exclaimed. ‘Unless he had promised you to the church?’

  ‘I am his only child. I think he feared for my safety.’

  ‘Does he yet live?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Silence said. ‘It feels daunting to think of facing my father. He must think me dead.’ Of this, he had no doubt. His father would not believe Silence could live as he did, as a boy, in this world. What horrors his father must have imagined had befallen him.

  ‘Don’t fret so much,’ Alfred said. He threw an arm over Silence’s shoulders. ‘He’ll welcome you home. He’ll forgive whatever you have done.’ Silence longed to lean his head down and let it rest, cradled against Alfred’s neck. But he could not. He accepted, instead, the easy comradely warmth of his arm about him. He tried to feel a greater joy, the joy of achieving what he’d waited for for so long. A knight! Back to Cornwall, as a knight! But his heart didn’t manage the leap. For he knew Alfred’s words weren’t quite right: it wasn’t so much what he had done as what he was. And what he was not.

  Nervous guardsmen stood on Portpira’s docks and the local lord bowed low to the Count of Nevers as he disembarked. ‘Oh, my good count, I am so glad that you arrived. We have been worried …’

  The Count of Nevers held up a hand; his beard floated on the stiff sea breeze. ‘I bring a full retinue of men-at-arms. Have no worries, simply tell us where we should direct our force. Winchester?’