The Story of Silence

by Alex Myers

‘The Count of Nevers is proud of you. You serve him well. You should go with him …’ Cador’s voice trailed off. ‘I still hope that the law may be changed. Perhaps, when all this fighting is ended, King Evan will see his mistake.’

  Silence tried to picture what his father envisioned: Silence living as a woman? To his father, perhaps this seemed to be a return to rightness, but to Silence it was revolting. He had never lived as a woman, never thought of himself as one. But for his body, he was a man. He put his hands on his knees, spread his fingers wide. ‘I will not trouble you after this. I will go back to Nevers.’ He stood up. ‘I do not know why we are thus, Father. What have I done to shame you? What have I done to make you cast me away?’

  Cador stood too, drew his cloak about him. In the shadows of the tent, he looked older, haggard. ‘It is not shame …’ he said, his voice husky. ‘It is … I see you and I think of my love …’ His voice cracked. He shook his head, cleared his throat. ‘I think, too, whenever I see you, of the wrong I have done. I have gone against Nature. I have created disorder. You ought to have been a girl, a woman. Instead you are a monster. That is a terrible sin.’

  Silence reached out and placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. It was a gesture he had long craved, all through his pagehood, from Cador. But there had been no touch, no intimacy, no gesture to suggest connection. ‘What I am, is of my own making. Any sin of yours is long since absolved.’ He bowed and walked stiffly from the tent. What he wanted to say, but did not, was that it was no sin, but a blessing. He was, he felt – he knew – who he was meant to be.

  The scouts soon brought reports on the encampments around Winchester, how the five rebel barons had arrayed themselves near the castle, how the peasants had fled to the forest, their homes and crops and flocks decimated by the rebel army. The Count of Nevers and Earl Cador drew up plans and argued about lines of approach. They delayed their journey by two days in order to let the horses rest and for the men to prepare arms and armour. Lord Howell came to give instructions to Alfred and Silence as the two of them were running through sword forms with some squires.

  ‘Seems strange to me, but your noble father does not wish you to be in his honour guard,’ Lord Howell said.

  Silence mopped his forehead with a rag. ‘That suits me fine,’ he replied.

  ‘You two are to be with archers and a small company of foot, with six other knights. Sir Anselm will lead the charge.’

  Anselm was one of the older knights who served the Count of Nevers, a veteran of many campaigns. And if his sword arm was not as strong as it once had been, he more than made up for it with his wisdom and calm demeanour. ‘Very good,’ Alfred said, and they resumed their training.

  When they broke that final camp and rode the last stretch of road towards Winchester, Sir Anselm told them of the exact plans, how the archers would weaken the lines of foot and horse they faced, softening them up, as he put it, and how the charge would be led. ‘After that, it’s all a bloody melee,’ he concluded. ‘We’ll see what fight these barons have in them.’

  Winchester’s walls rose higher than any castle’s Silence had ever seen, though in other ways it felt less imposing than Tintagel. But he didn’t have long to contemplate the matter. The rebels’ ranks stood neatly arrayed, banners raised. Beneath him, Wind shifted and shied away from Alfred’s mount; Silence squeezed the horse with his knees and brought him back into line. If the barons had time to prepare their armies, it at least meant that King Evan, holed up in the castle with his men, was, hopefully, also ready to charge out when the battle began.

  Silence rode down the lines of the footmen and archers, calling out words of encouragement, pausing to help two soldiers who were trying to fix a broken shield strap. The archers had their bows under canvas, as the morning mist hadn’t lifted yet, their arrows waiting in bristling quivers. At last Lord Howell conferred with Sir Anselm, and the old knight had his banner lifted, an indication that they would take their position.

  Off they rode, to the west, at a light trot, the archers and footmen jogging along. They stayed out of range of the barons’ archers, ducked for a time behind a small hill, and clambered up the back of that hill to gain height over the soldiers below. It wasn’t much of a rise, but the elevation was enough to give their archers an advantage.

  Then came the call of the horn, a long, winding note. It was a sound that called Silence to himself – or maybe from himself; a sound that made every stray thought fly from his head so that he heard only the thump of his heart, the push of his blood, saw only the enemy before him. Another horn sounded, and Sir Anselm cried, ‘Now, now!’

  The archers set their stances, drew back – Silence watched them, taut and focused, and felt as if he were the bowstring being arched and pulled, full of tension waiting to be released.

  ‘Let fly!’

  And the arrows flew. At this distance and with shreds of mist hanging low, it was impossible to see precisely where the shafts landed, but Silence could sense roiling in the field below, men scampering and scrambling. Arrows came in reply, but few reached the front ranks of footmen, who held their shields up.

  ‘Horses! Lances! To the line!’ Silence and Alfred rode in the centre of the rank of knights; for now their beavers were raised and their lances straight up, their horses walking forward, closing the distance. Ahead, they saw an answering line of horsemen. Then came Anselm’s next command. ‘Ready!’ And they lowered their beavers, couched their lances, settled their shields. ‘Charge!’ A dozen horses leapt forward, spurred by their riders, and Silence felt as if they were a wave rolling towards the shore.

  Wind crashed through the opposing line. Silence let him slow, shake his head, before wheeling him to charge again, scattering foot, breaking into the open field. Already, the lines of both sides had scattered into near chaos. Groups of footmen clustered near the knights, advancing crablike towards the enemy. Silence made a quick count as he turned Wind once more; Sir Anselm had been unhorsed, as had two other knights. He rode towards Anselm, slashing out with his sword, clearing his way through the rabble of foot soldiers.

  But he arrived too late; a knight on horseback had swung his mace and landed a blow to Anselm’s helm, sending the man face forward to the ground. All Silence could do was grimly spur Wind and charge the knight with the mace; the man barely had time to raise his shield before Silence struck with his sword, aiming for the shoulder joint. His blow landed, not cleanly enough to sever the arm, but hard enough to make it impossible for the knight to lift his weapon. The man bellowed something – he may have been asking for mercy – but Silence refused to hear; this man had offered Anselm no quarter. He swung again; the knight made a feeble effort to cover himself with his shield, but Silence’s sword clouted his helm and knocked the knight from the saddle. He left it to the foot soldiers to finish the job.

  The horn sounded again, faint and distant now that his panting breath filled his helm. He turned Wind towards the call, heard hoofbeats and realized that the gate of Winchester must have opened at last and King Evan’s men were pouring forth. He spurred Wind as the horn sounded again. He slashed with his sword, raking passage through the lines of foot. The drumming of another horse behind him made him pivot, even as Alfred’s voice called out – ‘Friend, friend, it’s me!’ Alfred pushed ahead, and Silence rode on his left flank, the two of them jabbing and cutting and making their way to the horn, which whined again and again.

  The knots of the enemy grew thicker now, with knights still mounted and surrounded by clusters of spear-wielding foot soldiers. Silence and Alfred slackened their pace to let their own footmen catch up. Alfred called something to one of the enemy knights and the man shouted in return. It was all garbled to Silence’s ears, but the tone was clear enough: You’re a dirty bastard and I intend to kill you right now.

  Silence raised his shield in salute to another enemy knight, who replied in kind. He wore a tabard of red and blue over his heavy plate, and let loose a cry as he spurred his horse. Silence waited for
a moment, then pressed his knee sharply against Wind’s ribs, making the horse shy to the side, so that the red and blue knight’s slash missed Silence entirely and left his shield side exposed. Silence quickly landed an overhand blow, missing the knight’s head but hitting hard where his neck met his shoulder. He recovered and slashed once more, a hard cut to the man’s arm that made him drop his shield. That was all the opening the footmen needed, closing in to stab the horse and the rider, and Silence could focus on the next knight.

  Beside him, Alfred yelled as he grappled with his foe. Even though they were engaged with the enemy horse, the horn kept sounding, shrieking over the melee, and Silence wondered at that – was it King Evan? Or the Count of Nevers? Or one of the barons? All he could do was press and cut his way towards the noise.

  One of the enemy knights landed a mace on Wind’s flank, making the horse stumble. Wind tried to right himself, as Silence awkwardly deflected another blow with his shield. This was a moment Silence dreaded, that he’d heard Sir Onfroi warn of in his evening lessons at the manor house, the moment when a horse went lame or wild or could not keep its footing. A knight on a horse commands the battlefield. A knight on his feet survives the battlefield.

  He felt Wind struggle, felt the shudder of his right hind leg, and Silence knew that the best thing was to get off the horse’s back – hope that his mount could shake off the lameness. Worse would be to let the horse be killed beneath him; he’d be likely to perish in that chaos of reins and limbs. So he roared, hoping to alert Alfred to his plight, and leapt from Wind’s back.

  Hitting the ground hard, Silence immediately engaged a spearman – poor fellow, he didn’t stand a chance against a knight. But there were so many foes, pressed about. On horseback, it was possible to attack and defend against more than one at once, but on foot, he had to face them one at a time. He made quick work of those nearest, giving time for his own guardsmen to catch up. They soon flanked him, and he could hear their ragged breathing, see how many of them had blood-splattered armour.

  Silence caught sight of Alfred, still atop Storm. ‘To Sir Alfred!’ he cried.

  They pressed through, a neat wedge, the footmen holding off many who tried to approach, and Silence slashing those that drew nearest. Forward, inch by inch. Or was it forward? It seemed they were moving away from Winchester’s gates, but in a battle, seldom did the cardinal direction matter – what mattered was pushing against the enemy, pushing to where help was needed.

  At last they reached Alfred’s side, and for a time, the fighting became easier. Hacking and cutting, like at the pell – he could almost hear Sir Waldron’s voice: Fight like St George!

  And then something clanged into his helm, making his vision spark. Not a hard blow, but enough to dent the helm so that its edge dug into his forehead; he could feel blood flood down his face. He staggered as he pressed forward, barely raising his shield to deflect an axe stroke. In fact, he didn’t deflect it; the axe lodged in his shield and his foe struggled to get his weapon loose. Silence wrested his shield to the side, yanking the knight off balance, and striking with his sword right on the knight’s helm. The man abandoned his axe, and instead he drew a short sword and lunged at Silence. Silence stepped to the side and swung his blade overhead once more, a blow that crushed the helm and sent the man to his knees. But not before he’d lodged his sword neatly into the rib joint of Silence’s plate. Silence felt it there, a sudden flaring of pain. The blade stuck for a moment in his side and then fell out, thumping to the ground. It hadn’t gone too deep. Silence let the pain subside to a throb, let himself be reassured that he could breathe and move. Press on.

  There was a blessed gap in the fighting around him and he tried to find the source of the horn, which sounded again. Straight ahead. The Count of Nevers’ banner rose up, faltered for a moment, and fell.

  ‘For the count!’ he cried and pushed into the fray, his footmen steady around him. Hacking, slashing, cutting at legs, swinging down at helms, leaving his foe fallen, wounded, broken, he pushed through, reaching the spot where the banner had wavered. Yes, there, the squire holding it lay on the ground, his tabard bloodied beyond hope, the banner beside him. ‘Raise it up!’ Silence commanded, and one of his guardsmen got it aloft. ‘To the count!’ he cried again.

  Above him on the slight slope where they fought were Earl Cador and the Count of Nevers, side by side, both still ahorse, their honour guard ringed about them. One of the rebel barons pressed against the guard, his warhorse kicking. The baron’s knights fanned out, surrounding the honour guard.

  Silence spotted Alfred and, further away, a pack of knights wearing King Evan’s colours rode towards them. If they could hold off this baron for a few more minutes, help would come. He pressed forward with a great yell; several of the baron’s knights wheeled to face him, and he felt a wave of hopelessness as he contemplated attacking two seated knights. A few of Silence’s spearmen pressed bravely forward, and though the knight easily felled one with a blow of his sword, the other drove his spear deep into the horse’s chest. The animal reared before collapsing, and Silence let his guardsmen handle the knight. As for himself, he faced the other mounted foe.

  Pure luck made Silence stumble so that the knight’s first slash missed him entirely, allowing him to close in and cut at the man’s leg, nearly hamstringing him on that side. He rolled along the horse’s flank, knowing he was harder to strike if he kept close, and he cut with his sword at the horse’s rear leg. A scream worse than a human’s, and something struck Silence, sending him to the ground in a terrifying jumble; he struggled to his feet once more.

  His manoeuvre may not have killed the knight, but it had got Silence past that line of attack, closer to where his father and the Count of Nevers fought. He could see the Count of Nevers raise his sword and hack into the fray; he could see his father sway in the saddle, teetering for a moment, saw his horse try to kick out, the pink froth at the animal’s mouth, saw the horse collapse, and his father thrown back. Silence roared and slashed wildly, trying to get closer.

  The air inside his helm clung humid and stale. His arms shivered and trembled; he had reached the end of what his strength permitted. But ahead, ahead, the baron on his grey horse, and Silence charged, crashing past a guardsman. The baron held his focus on the Count of Nevers’ sword, so Silence could duck beneath the baron’s horse – a foolhardy manoeuvre – and, with one strong stroke of his sword as he ran beneath the belly of the beast, cut loose both the baron’s saddle girth and the horse’s entrails. The animal let out a horrid shriek, and the baron nearly matched its pitch as the two of them collapsed to the ground. Silence tried to pivot about and finish the attack, but his knees gave way and he sank to the ground. He had done all he could.

  Across the field, a horn sounded three short blasts. Horses and knights swirled around and Silence was dimly aware, as he tried to gain his feet, that the patterns of motion were changing. The barons’ men were no longer engaging, but were riding off, up the slope, and here came the thunder of King Evan’s men as they charged after the rebels. Once the line of battle passed, Silence let himself fall again to the ground; it was too much effort to stand. He wanted to take his helm off. He could feel the world sway around him, his vision sparking …

  ‘Here, now,’ Alfred called, reaching a hand out, leaning from his saddle. ‘Up you get.’

  It took all his strength, but Silence grasped Alfred’s wrist, letting the other man pull him to his feet. Once standing, Silence leaned against the flank of Alfred’s horse while his friend got his helm loose. ‘Gah. You’re a pretty mess,’ Alfred said.

  ‘Just a little cut,’ Silence tried to say, but it came out as a hopeless mumble. The fresh air tasted so good.

  ‘Steady now.’ Alfred slipped down from the saddle. ‘I’d try to get you up, but it doesn’t look like you have the strength to ride. Let’s let Storm lead us back to Winchester, eh?’

  So Silence leaned against Storm’s flank and Alfred held his arm on the other side
, bearing him up, and the three of them made a slow procession towards the castle.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Someone humming? Chanting? Praying. Silence felt as though he were on a boat, rocked by waves. But he was being carried, slung between four men. And one walking alongside, praying. The waves rocked him and he could not stay alert. Could not. Could not. A jostle. He tried to scream, but all he could do was grunt. Moan. Let the waves wash over him …

  Pain woke him. A wicked bolt of it, and he did scream, tried to clutch his side, but that made the pain worse. ‘My lord, I will …’

  Silence squeezed his eyes shut, clenched every muscle in his body, and sucked in a breath. Opened his eyes. A young man stood before him, wearing a tunic with the crest of King Evan on the breast. A neat young man. Grey stone walls. He must be in Winchester. He tried to sit up, couldn’t. Managed to get one elbow beneath himself. Grated, ‘Untie all my straps. Get my greaves off.’

  The young man complied. Silence closed his eyes, panting. Where did it hurt? Everywhere. But mostly his side. And his head. A throbbing that made his eyes ache. The young man was loosening the straps of his chest plate. Silence propped himself up higher, though the motion made him wince, suck in a sharp breath. And this was the worst part, getting the mail shirt off; it felt as though he were being peeled out of his own skin. And then, relief. For a moment. He grabbed at his ribs. ‘Go, go,’ he grated to the young man. ‘Bring me water and wine.’

  ‘I’ll find a healer.’

  ‘Never mind the healer. Just an ointment, to cover the wound.’

  The young man dashed off. Silence lay back and studied the chamber. If he closed his eyes, sleep – or unconsciousness – would drag him down, and he couldn’t let that happen. It was a small chamber. The bed he was on, a candle stand. A plain table against the wall. But the most important part: there was no one else in it. He grunted as his side gave a throb. Being the son of an earl did have some benefits.