by Helen Gosney
“Rowan, will you still have time to help with the riding later?” Ross asked, “I don’t want to keep you from your sabre practice.”
“Aye, I’ll be there, Ross. Just after lunch, in the stables, isn’t it? And don’t fret, Stefan will soon let us both know if he thinks I’m not training enough,” Rowan laughed as he set off again.
Ross smiled to himself as he watched Rowan run to the recruits who’d stopped around the other side of the horse yards. Sergeant Benni was a good man, but there was a reason he’d never be more than a sergeant. Rowan didn’t have that problem; he’d been Captain of Den Siddon after all. If he said jump, these lads would jump and hope like hell it was high enough. The recruits looked stunned as he spoke softly to them, but they quickly dropped and did their ten pressups before running on, Rowan close behind them. They caught up with another bunch of stragglers who were walking, but broke into a trot as they were overtaken.
“Right, you lot. No more messing about. If you’re not back at the parade ground by no more than ten minutes after me, you’re going around again unless I can see you’ve made a bit of an effort,” Rowan said as he jogged backwards beside them, “Truly, you’re worse than a bunch of three-legged slowworms.” He turned around the right way and set off after the rest of the recruits. The stragglers looked at him in horror as his long easy stride quickly ate up the distance between them and the leaders.
“Bloody Hells! Do you think he means it?” one of those who’d been walking panted.
The two who’d done pressups nodded gloomily.
“Oh, aye, he means it all right. And the bugger’ll probably come with us again too,” one of them said morosely.
“What I want to know is, how is he so bloody fit when he’s got silver hair like that?” another walker said as they all tried to get a move on. None of them wanted to do another circuit of the horseyards in the biting wind.
“Didn’t you listen, you bloody idiot? Didn’t you see his tattoos?” the other one who’d done pressups demanded, “He’s Red Rowan!”
“Great bloody Gods protect us,” the walker whispered devoutly.
They straggled into the parade ground a little after they should have, but Rowan could see by their red sweaty faces and heaving chests that they’d put a lot more effort into it coming back.
“’Tis your lucky day, lads. No more running for now, but…” he tried not to smile as the momentary hope faded from their faces, “Since you all came in together and I didn’t see who was actually last, ten pressups from all of you, please. Now. And the rest of you, are any of you any good at somersaults, backflips, handstands?”
A few recruits nodded cautiously, their eyes wide with trepidation. They’d quickly realised that Rowan was indeed a very different proposition from Sergeant Benni.
“Daft lads, I won’t bloody bite you. I was going to say to you, if you want to incorporate them into your warmdown, then do. It’ll keep you supple. ‘Tis handy for upsetting folk sometimes too. Keep going, lads, and when you lot doing the pressups finish, get going with the warmdown, please.”
The recruits tried not to stare again as Rowan flowed through his own warmdown, gracefully turning backflips and somersaults and walking around on his hands as he always did as he cooled off. He was pleased to see some of the recruits starting to do the same.
As the session finished, Rowan said to the recruits, “Now lads, clean yourselves up a bit, please. Your next instructor won’t thank me if I send you to him all sweaty and smelly. And then I want to say a few words to you. Don’t worry, I won’t quack on too long in this cursed wind.”
He washed and towelled himself dry as the recruits did, but they noticed to their dismay that he hadn’t raised a sweat. He buttoned his shirt, put on his silver-studded vest and faced them all.
“Well, lads, I’m sorry to have to say that Captain Fess was right, on the whole,” he said when the recruits were clad again, “Some of you did quite well, but as for the rest… bloody useless, most of you. My old Gran could do better. But that is going to change, believe me. I won’t always be as kind to you as I have been today. You may think I’m a bastard now, but soon… well, soon you will know it for certain.” He smiled at them. “Off you go, lads, thank you. I think you’ll find Lieutenant Krellin will be nearly ready for you at the archery butts.”
**********
9. “A spirit of adventure.”
The next morning Rowan watched the recruits straggle across the parade ground, with varying degrees of stiffness and enthusiasm. They didn’t have to like getting fit, but fit they would be, he thought cheerfully. Still…
They came to attention and saluted him smartly.
“Thank you lads,” he said, “Tell me, have any of you ever played scramble ball?”
They stared at him in amazement, but there were a few “Aye Sir”s and “Not for a while, Sir”s, as well as a couple of “What, Sir?”s too.
“Good. ‘Tis a great Trollish invention. I thought we might try it today, instead of frightening Lieutenant Ross and those poor silly colts out in the yards again. What do you think?”
The recruits stared at each other, astonished. Nobody ever asked for their opinion and it’d been made very clear to them that it wasn’t wanted, ever.
Rowan smiled at them.
“Speak up, lads. I know I’m a bloody civilian, but I still expect an answer from you. So… another nice run around the horseyards, or a game of scrambleball? ‘Tis up to you. Or maybe you’d prefer to run up and down the tower half a dozen times? Or around the battlements, say, three or four times? Perhaps down through the town to the river and back through the pine forest?”
“Twice?” he added mischievously.
“Bloody Hells! No, Sir!” somebody said.
Rowan looked at the sandy-haired lad who everyone else was carefully edging away from and tried not to laugh. He’d almost forgotten how comical life in the Guard could be at times.
“Costa, isn’t it?” he said.
The lad mumbled “Aye, Sir,” unhappily and looked at his feet, wishing he’d had the brains to just shut up like everyone else.
“Well, Costa, since you seem to be the only one here with a tongue and the wit to use it, you can make the decision for today. What’s it to be?”
“Er…” Costa raised his head a little, “Er… scrambleball, Sir. Um… please, Sir.”
“Good decision. ‘Tis bloody cold out in the yards today. ‘Twas frosty earlier, Sword Master Stefan nearly had kittens when one of his Trophy squad slipped over and turned his ankle. So, scrambleball it is… Don’t fret though, the rest of you, we’ll still be running on other days. Now, how many of you are there? Eighty-two, three?”
“Eighty-four, Sir,” Costa spoke up, heartened by Rowan’s not having snapped his head off, as Sergeant Benni certainly would have.
Rowan nodded.
“Seven teams of twelve, then. It’ll be too many, of course, but we’ll try it and see what happens… you always need a spirit of adventure with scrambleball! Organise yourselves please, lads, while I go and find a ball. And warm up too; I don’t want anyone getting hurt.” He thought of something else. “Dammit! ‘Tis best to play this on grass, else the healers will have words to say to me. Hmm… we’d better not use the Commandant’s chamomile lawn, I suppose… it simply won’t stand up to it and we don’t want Mrs. Telli after us. ‘Tis too damned small anyway…”
He thought some more. No, there was really only one place big enough and flat enough, apart from the cobbled Parade Ground. Well, the lads would simply have to run about enough to keep themselves warm, he decided, and all the frosty bits should be evaporated by now.
“Sorry, lads,” he said, “It’ll have to be the horseyards after all, I think. Well, not all the way there, there’s a good big flat bit about halfway, where they train the horses… still up for it, or would you rather just run again? The tower’s just there and ‘tis out of the wind…”
“Scrambleball, please, Sir,” came the cho
rus as he’d thought it would. He nodded, pleased with the success of his idea.
“Good. Now, I’ll need a couple of lads to come with me to the Supply Sergeant, please, and the rest of you can go down to the yards. Warm up on the way down there and keep warm. I don’t want anyone pulling a muscle or worse. Those of you who know how to play the game can tell the others. Let’s go, lads, we’ve not got all day to mess about.”
Costa and a big lad named Tyne hurried to keep up with Rowan’s long stride as he headed off to the Supply Sergeant’s lair.
“Sir… why are we going to Stores?” Tyne asked warily. Sergeant Merrill was widely considered to be a very grumpy old bugger, even by the standards of Supply Sergeants, and naturally the recruits had heard a lot of worrying stories.
“Just going to give our manners a bit of an airing,” Rowan smiled at his puzzled face. “Remember this, lads. You’ll get a lot further with a bit of politeness than you will with throwing your weight around, even when you’ve got a bit of rank behind you. Especially with Supply Sergeants. Miserable old buggers, most of them are, obsessed with damned paperwork, and they seem to like going out of their way just to be bloody difficult. ‘Tis best not to give them an excuse.”
Supply Sergeant Merrill was most surprised and not very pleased to have someone knocking at his door so early in the day. He moved his assistants aside to see off the early-comer himself. He was even more surprised to see the Champion and two wide-eyed recruits waiting there politely.
“A good day to you, Sergeant,” Rowan said as he acknowledged Merrill’s hasty salute, “Would you be able to give us a nice sturdy box for the lads to use as the goal in scrambleball, please? If ‘tisn’t a trouble to you? I’m sorry, but I’ve got no paperwork for it…”
“I don’t think you’ll need it for just an empty box, Sir. Don’t tell anyone else, mind. Hmm… Scrambleball, Sir? How big a box do you need?” Merrill frowned thoughtfully, surprised and gratified to find himself on the receiving end of the Champion’s legendary politeness.
“About… um… this by this…” Rowan indicated with his hands, “And about… so deep, if you’ve got one handy.”
Merrill rattled around a bit and came back triumphant.
“Like this, Sir?” he asked.
Rowan smiled at him.
“Aye, that’d be perfect, thanks. Can we keep it?”
Merrill nodded, much to the recruits’ surprise.
“Aye, of course you can, Sir. It’s a good strong box.”
“Aye, ‘tis. And it’ll need to be too. My thanks to you,” Rowan said. He started to turn away, but remembered something else. “Now, this might be stretching things a bit… and truly, I don’t even know if they’ll still be here, but the Guard never throws anything out, so they probably are… long woven ribbons, coloured ribbons? The previous Commandant had the idea of us plaiting them into the horses’ manes and tails for special parades, the bloody useless old… your pardon, Sergeant, lads. I forgot myself.” He tried to look contrite and almost succeeded. “We never actually did it, of course. They’re a bit too wide, apart from anything else. Would you happen to know if you’ve still got them?”
Merrill looked at him in astonishment.
“Funny you should ask that, Sir,” he said slowly, “We found a whole lot of woven ribbons about five or six years ago, during an extra good spring clean, and the cursed things turn up again every year. Nobody seems to know what the hell they’re for, they’ve been here since at least Captain Johan’s time… but we thought we’d better keep them when there are so damned many of them. We thought somebody’d be sure to pop up wanting them if we just threw them all out.”
“Aye, well, you were right too, and here we are,” Rowan laughed, “Now, I’d be grateful if we could have some of the ribbons as well, please, if you’re sure you don’t want them. If you do, I’ll go down into the town and get some more, because I’ll have to cut these. And I’ve, um, got no bit of paper for them either…”
“No, don’t worry, Sir. Nobody’s bothered about them in a dog’s age and I doubt they’re going to now. They, er, might take a bit of finding, though, Sir…” Merrill said. He’d got sick of the bloody ribbons turning up every year like the proverbial bad penny and he’d stored them… hmm, where the hell were they now?
“’Tis no rush for them and I certainly don’t expect you and the storemen to drop everything and find them now. How about if I come back in… um… three or four days?”
“Aye, we’ll find them for you by then, Sir,” Merrill said, grateful again for Rowan’s renowned courtesy and consideration for others and his proper respect for paperwork. Most who came to Stores expected things to magically appear before they’d even asked for them. Demanded them, in most cases, with no please, thank you or kiss my foot, Merrill thought sourly. Was it any wonder Supply Sergeants were known as miserable old bastards?
Rowan thanked him and headed off. He handed the box over to the recruits.
“You see? Good manners cost nothing and always get results. ‘Tis easy. Now, can you take this down to the others, please? Thanks. I’ll find a ball from somewhere and meet you down there. Off you go, lads.”
**********
Rowan was tossing a red leather ball spangled with blue stars from hand to hand as he trotted around a corner and very nearly ran the Sword Master down. Only the excellent reflexes of both men saved them from disaster.
“Sorry, Stefan,” he laughed, “I didn’t mean to nearly flatten you like that.”
Stefan grinned at him.
“What the hell are you doing with that ball, Rowan? And where did it come from?”
Rowan told him and he grinned again.
“The lads had better have an extra half an hour or so before they come to me then. You’ll barely get started otherwise,” he said.
“Thanks, Stefan. We’ll be better organised next time, if there is a next time.”
“Ha! I think there’ll be a lot of next times, Rowan. You’re a genius to think of it,” he became more serious, “Rowan… would you mind if I brought the recruits down to watch you sparring some time?”
Rowan stared at him in surprise and shook his head
“Of course I don’t mind, but you don’t have to ask, Stefan. Everybody else just turns up if they want to watch us,” he said, “’Tis a good idea, they can see the whole lot of us together, see our different styles. They might even learn something if they’re not careful.”
“Aye, they just might. Thanks, Rowan. Um… do you think you might be able to come to one of the first-year classes too, and you and I could show them slowly what we do…? I want them to see the sparring, but it’ll be too fast for them to see the ins and outs of it. And maybe the second year lads as well?”
“Of course, just let me know when you want me. I suppose it’s too soon to know if any of them might be any good with a blade?”
“Aye, it is a bit. But there’s a couple of the new lads who at least know which end to hold. Mind you, I wouldn’t trust any of them with an actual blade, they’d kill themselves.”
Rowan laughed.
“Well, we can’t have that, Stefan. Think of the bloody paperwork you’d have to fill in. Aye, bring them down whenever you like. And of course they can come any morning if they don’t mind getting out of bed a bit earlier.” He thought about it and laughed again. “No, that might be a bit too much to ask. ‘Tis only us daft buggers down there in the cold before breakfast.”
“Aye, so it is,” Stefan chuckled.
Rowan joined the recruits a few minutes later, laughing to himself as he tossed the ball from hand to hand again. The trolls would laugh themselves silly if they had to play with a ball like this.
“Sorry, ‘tisn’t the real thing. I had to borrow this from the Captain’s lads and I promised them we’d not harm it, so make sure you don’t, please. But if you find you like the game, I’ll get a proper ball for next time,” he grinned at the recruits. They certainly looked happier about this than run
ning around the battlements. Mind you, he couldn’t blame them. “I ran into Sword Master Stefan – literally, as it happens – and he said you can have an extra half an hour before he wants to see you. Now, is everybody ready? More or less know what to do?”
“Aye, Sir!” came the enthusiastic reply. None of the lads was worried about what the ball looked like.
“Aren’t you going to join us today, Sir?” one of them asked.
“Aye, I’ll join you when somebody falls in a heap, but until then, I’m the referee. The trolls don’t always have one, but I think we will. And remember, the trolls don’t play this to deliberately hurt anyone and you’re not going to either. A few bruises don’t matter, but anything more than that does.” He remembered something else. “The trolls do have a…” he said something completely incomprehensible, “… And I think we should as well. Hmm… these’ll do the job.” He moved to the side of the flat area and picked up four of the little poles they used to teach the young horses to jump and placed them on the ground in a square.
He turned to find the recruits staring at him in a mixture of confusion and wonder.
“What’s wrong, lads?” he asked, puzzled by their baffled faces.
“Er…”
“Umm…”
Rowan tried not to roll his eyes.
“I’m not going to bloody bite you! Costa! What’s the problem?”
Costa wondered how he’d suddenly become the spokesman for the group, not realising that Rowan simply didn’t know all of their names yet and he didn’t like to call people ‘you there’.
“Costa?” The lad had been the only one to speak up earlier, so Rowan saw no reason why he couldn’t do it now.
Costa pulled himself together hastily.
“Sorry, Sir,” he said, hoping he wasn’t blushing, but knowing that he probably was, “Er, no disrespect intended, Sir, but what did you say just then?”
“I said I’m not going to bloody bite you, but I’m starting to think I might have to bite somebody very soon, just to get some damned sense out of all of you,” came the calm reply.