Beon steeled himself against the pinch of humiliation he felt, unwilling to show how the words made him feel. “But sir, I’ve been—”
“And you do not speak unless I give you permission. I see you have much to learn, boy—most notably, about your station in life. Well, you’re Lyndon’s problem now,” Lord Gall had said, turning to Sir Lyndon. “Have him muck out all the stalls each morning before sunrise. That should break him of his filthy habits.”
And so it went. For the first full year, until the new batch of young pages arrived to be fostered, Beon slopped out the muck in the stables. Nothing had frustrated Beon more than yet another delay in his training, but he was also wise enough to see that if he did not keep his mouth shut and do what he was told, he risked even more setbacks and that would simply not do.
During that time, he’d known quite well that all the training would be geared towards learning horsemanship and how to fight with the various weapons used by knights. Not wishing to fall behind, he’d use sticks or tools he’d found around the stables to practice his swordplay. He’d also gleaned what he could by closely watching the knights with their horses while he spread fresh hay into the stables.
Since he wasn’t allowed to join in with the other pages, Beon had time to get to know Sophia and her little brother, Marcel, building a bond and friendship stronger than with any page. He’d discovered that Marcel was a good lad to plot mischief with as they mapped out the labyrinth of secret passageways here at Bamborough.
Sophia always tagged along, and Beon found he didn’t mind as much as he’d first feared he would, her being a girl and all. The chestnut shade of her hair intrigued him as candlelight danced over the lighter strands, drawing out the red within the brown. The guileless look in her blue eyes when she’d first peered out at him from behind the brocade draperies had instantly made him think of the cherubs depicted in the tapestries hung along the walls of the great hall.
Once that first year had ended, Beon found it wasn’t too much of an adjustment to shift from using sticks as swords and other makeshift weapons to the wooden versions the knights used for training. Secretly, Beon wanted to skip to the real weapons, but he hoped if he proved himself with these toys first, he might be able to speed up the process. But, as it turned out, he wasn’t always given a chance to show off his skills. For example, when the Knights had them recreate battles on piggyback while using wooden swords and shields. Beon was most often the ‘horse’ in such exercises, much to his chagrin, simply due to his size and age.
When it came to the many physical challenges, however, even if they were games, Beon was rarely in contest with anyone. Many of the lads called him an arrogant coxcomb because of it. He didn’t mind their jealousy, as it only confirmed his superiority and fortified the hope that his plan to progress quickly would succeed.
Beon remembered from watching the pages and squires at home that great emphasis would be placed on endurance and strength, so he’d kept up with that as well. When it came to moving sacks of wheat to stockpile the kitchens, or piles of rocks to repair walls, or buckets of water to feed the livestock and care for the knight’s horses, Beon executed the tasks without complaining as the younger boys often did. Anything was better than mucking out the stables, even though he loved being around the powerful animals.
Despite hating it at first, being restricted to the stables had given Beon yet another advantage over the other boys. Several of the knights in residence at Bamborough Castle had destriers. By spending so much time with the beasts, he knew each horse intimately, as well as the Knight it belonged to. Lord Gall’s destrier was called Goliath, and the beast was as cranky as its owner. However, none was as fine as Sir Lyndon’s horse. Sir Lyndon had smiled as he told Beon the story of how he had acquired it. “I was gifted this fine animal by the King himself after a victory over the Scots at Halidon Hill. Your father had also been one of the commander’s of the King’s army that day. That’s when your family was given Brentworth, only a few short years before you were born.” Beon had perked up with pride for his father when he heard the tale.
Lord Gall was often out among the knights in the lists, practicing his swordplay or instructing them in their stratagems. Again, Beon had listened as he refilled the wheelbarrow with fresh hay. He suspected this gathering of information would serve him now.
However, today marked Beon’s fifth real day of training—his chance to keep putting what he’d learned to the test—and Lord Gall stood alongside Sir Lyndon, observing the progress of the pages. All the boys were deathly afraid of the Baron and performed even more poorly when he observed them…except for Beon. Beon was unafraid of the battle-worn baron. Perhaps because he was used to being around blustering and brave noblemen. He felt an odd kinship with the Lord Gall. Although he was a little reluctant to admit it, Beon thought they might be alike in many ways and that someday, after he had proven himself above all other knights, he too would be a baron or even an earl. He had not been born into his nobility; his father had fought gallantly and won it. But Beon felt it was his destiny to expand his father’s name, and there was no limit to his ambition.
One after another as the other pages were thrown from the pony by the swinging quintain, the Baron would laugh along with some of his other knights as the boys ended up on their backsides. Sir Lyndon never laughed. He would bark words of encouragement or instruction, but never belittle the young students the way Lord Gall was prone to do.
“You are far too soft on these lads, Sir Lyndon,” Lord Gall would laugh, “Just wait till I get my hands on them—just wait till their first siege! Then they will know how soft they really are…like lambs to the slaughter!”
One boy puddled himself in his stockings at those words. Beon had felt sorry for the lad as he watched the boy’s blue eyes turn glossy with embarrassment, and he decided then that he would always defend the weak when he finally became a knight.
But now it was Beon’s moment to prove himself as a page. He slowed his breath and steeled his gaze on the approaching quintain. As he approached the target, Beon couched his lance as he’d been taught, substantially reducing the amount of flex in anticipation of the lunge. He steadied himself and took aim. The pony was panting furiously, but he ignored the horse’s strain. Sensing the best moment, he thrust the lance forward, and…twak!
Beon knew he’d hit the target dead on, but Sir Lyndon’s words remained sharp in his mind, and he was ready for it when the sack swung toward him. He bent his torso, ducking his head down to the side of the horse’s neck. The sack whooshed above him, missing him completely, but Beon’s abrupt maneuver had thrown the pony off balance, causing it to drop its head forward and hit its muzzle on the ground.
The pony’s sudden slip sent Beon soaring over the horse’s head as it went down in a tumble of dust and mud. While in mid-air, Beon let go of the lance and tucked into a tight roll as he hit the ground. After coming out of the somersault, he landed roughly on his feet and slid about three yards. When he came to a halt, he saw that the pony had already sprung up and started galloping toward the stable like the devil. Dust began to settle around him, and Beon noticed everyone staring at him, their eyes wide and mouths hanging open.
Suddenly the other Pages erupted in cheers. Sir Lyndon shook his head slowly and grinned like he wanted to chuckle but kept it contained. For the first time since the training exercises had begun, Lord Gall was not laughing. In fact, he had a strange look on his face, as though he tasted something very sour.
“Come here, son of Sir Everard,” the Baron said.
Beon went and stood before him.
“You are unarmed. You’ve tossed your weapon away. You may land like a cat if thrown from your horse but much good it will do you if you have tossed away your weapon.” With that, in one fluid motion, the baron drew his sword, and, using the flat side of the blade, slapped Beon’s feet from underneath him. He landed with a hard thud on his back in the mud. Heat rose within Beon, and he jumped to his feet to face Lord Ga
ll, but as soon as he turned the Baron had the point of his blade to Beon’s neck. Beon stood, frozen, panting. After a tense moment, the Baron dropped his blade and smiled coldly.
“You’ve got a hot one here, Sir Lyndon…it is yet to be determined if he is brave or stupid. He is certainly bull-headed and belligerent toward authority…”
“Go gently, my lord, he is still learning the ways—” Sir Lyndon began.
“Go gently indeed,” Lord Gall interrupted as he swiped his long sword a second time, slapping Beon’s feet from under him yet again.
“I would stay down this time, boy. You may have inherited the arrogance of your father but none of his talent or skill…and you still have no weapon.”
Lord Gall was distracted at that moment by shouts from the castle. Servants were calling for the Baron to come at once. He left Beon and the other pages without a word. Wearing an expression of worry, Sir Lyndon followed Lord Gall.
Beon couldn’t decide if he was more determined than ever to prove himself to the baron or if he hated the man. A shadow fell across him, and Beon looked up to see that all the other boys had gathered around him. Two of them reached down on either side of him and hoisted him up off the ground. They dusted off his tunic and cleared a path for him toward the stables. He nodded his thanks and walked toward the castle with head held high. As he approached, he heard a sound that sent chills down his spine. The servants had begun to wail, so much grief in the cry that Beon turned pale.
Chapter 3
What Brings the Rain
Sophia watched, her vision blurry from emotions, as Mother was lowered into the ground behind the church, her body wrapped tightly in a white linen shroud. She found she’d felt utterly numb for the past day—unable to speak and unable to cry. Her prayers had been answered. Her baby brother had indeed survived. But how could she have been so remiss as to forget to pray for Mama’s life? Sophia berated herself as the priest blessed her mother. The entire parish had made the long walk from the castle through the middle of the small village to St. Aidan’s in complete silence. She had made this walk many times at her mother’s side, holding her hand, through wind, rain, and sunshine. But never more. And it was all her fault.
Father had not spoken a word either, and his silence seemed more frightening than his typical rants. His expression told her that he was positively furious. Red-faced, a clenched jaw, and something Sophia suspected was murderous rage. Watching him closely, she wondered if he might burst at the seams. After Maerwynn had been covered over, the crowd began to disperse. Sophia kept her eyes fixed on Father, but she could hear the weeping continue as nobles and servants alike drifted away. Still, her father stood, like a stone. As the din of mourners died off, Sophia wasn’t sure if anyone else remained for she refused to look behind her. She refused to look anywhere but at her father. She didn’t know why, but she was looking for something. Waiting for something. A sign perhaps.
Slowly, her father’s eyes traveled from the earthen mound up toward the heavens, his mouth twisted with disgust. With his eyes still lifted to the sky, he spat upon the ground in front of him. After a beat, he turned and walked away. Sophia found that she was breathing at a quick pace. What did this mean? Why was her father angry? Did he blame himself as well? Did he blame God? If her father was enraged enough to spit in God’s eye, then he must have truly loved Mama. If he blamed God as much as Sophia blamed herself, then he must have had real feelings for her. A wave of emotion swept over her when a sense of intense fear seized her gut. What if Father were to find out that she was to blame for her mother’s death, having only prayed for the baby’s life all those days and nights?
Sophia began to cry, the tears creeping up on her, snatching her breath away. She was heaving before she knew it and was frightened by the way her body reacted to this new concern. Rushing to the mound, she threw herself onto Mother’s grave, wailing. After a moment, she felt someone kneel beside her and lay a comforting hand on her back. When the scent of lavender touched her nose, she immediately knew it was Nurse.
The woman stroked her head and hummed a low tune that calmed Sophia. Once her breathing had slowed to a more normal pace, Sophia lifted her head and laid it in Nurse’s lap. When she did, she noticed that all of Father’s pages had remained, along with Sir Lyndon. They stood at attention, as if on watch. Everyone else was gone. She thought it strange that they had stayed when it was apparent the rest of Father’s troops were on their way back to the castle along with him.
Before she could think any further, Beon stepped from the ranks. He held something in his hands and carried it ceremoniously toward her. She sat up and wiped her face. Beon knelt before her and handed her something folded in a white linen kerchief. Furrowing her brow, she gently opened the folds. When she peeled back the last fold, a bird was revealed—a bird in flight, carved out of wood. It sat in her palm on the cloth as if against a white sky. The detail was beautiful, and just the sight of it made Sophia’s heart feel warm.
The tears began to flow again as she peered up at Beon.
Speechless, Sophia just stared at him, her fingers sliding over the finely etched lines making up the wings and feathers.
As gallant as any knight, the boy rose from his knee and bowed to her. He turned and walked back toward the other pages. As he approached the line, the boys parted and let Beon continue past the church, then fell in behind, and followed him back down the hill toward the castle. Sir Lyndon bowed to her as well, before turning to leave with the others.
In awe, a shuddering breath escaped her as Sophia looked down at the bird in her hand, wishing she could fly away. But she had not the strength to do anything at all. She wasn’t sure if she cared to do anything for the rest of her life.
As though the heavens began to mourn her mother as well, droplets of moisture began to fall from above and Nurse got to her feet. But Sophia was not ready to leave her mother. With one hand she clutched the little bird to her chest, and with the other, she reached forward and pressed it to the cold earth as it became mottled with raindrops.
It wasn’t long, however, before Nurse bent down and pulled Sophia up gently, saying, “Come, my sweet child.”
Perhaps in protest, the rain began to pour in earnest as they made their way through the gravestones and down the hill toward a future that seemed bleak and uncertain. Rising up before her, Bamborough Castle looked as though it was being consumed by mist and rain while the sandy waves crashed beyond.
Chapter 4
Get Thee to a Nunnery
Seven long years of intense training had passed since the dark and dreary day of the burial. Images of Sophia’s tearstained face had haunted Beon ever since. And whenever he saw an angel within a tapestry or painting, he was again reminded of the heartbreak visible within Sophia’s blue eyes. But as Beon knew well from experience, life was not fair. If he could find a way of keeping the destruction of death from ever touching Sophia again, he would do it without hesitation. Knowing it was simply a fanciful wish, he set the idea aside.
Beon would admit that he’d been too busy to think of the girl often, but today was different. He was literally on his way to see Sophia for the first time since her mother had died. Beon hoped during her time away from home that the innocent joy and curiosity might have returned to her eyes. Even though it was common to do so, Beon had not been pleased when Sophia was sent away to the convent on Lindisfarne Island. It just didn’t seem fair to isolate her from everyone she knew so soon after her mother’s passing.
The convent lay just off the coast about a day’s ride north of Bamborough Castle. Lindisfarne had long been referred to as Holy Island due to its inhabitants of monastic monks and nuns who had created a bastion of faith in the secluded place. He’d been told that Sophia now lived with the nuns at the Lindisfarne Priory and the fact that it wasn’t far away made him feel guilty for not seeing her until now. But aside from never being free of his duties long enough to make such a trek, it wasn’t proper for a young man to even consider
visiting a girl of marriageable age without very specific intentions.
Sophia had returned home for visits only a few times over the years, at Christmas mainly, but Beon had always returned to Brentworth to celebrate with his family. Whenever Father caught him staring distantly out the window, he would tease him by asking, “Do tell me, Beon, who have you left your thoughts with at Bamborough?” But he’d never been able to admit aloud that it was Sophia’s angelic features filling his mind.
He’d only heard about her rare visits in passing. Sir Lyndon would give him an update now and again. For the most part, Beon’s thoughts had to be occupied with his training and advancing his career as a knight. He longed to join his father on the field and make him proud.
However, the Baron still seemed extremely disinclined toward Beon. The man was impossible to impress. And the more unjust Lord Gall was in regards to his advancement, the more determined Beon became. In Beon’s mind, the Baron had intentionally delayed making him a squire, even though his fourteenth birthday had come and gone years ago, with the excuse that he had ‘started late.’ What did that matter if he was superior to the other pages in all areas of their training? He could best most of the squires as well, for that matter. Beon’s fingers tightened around the reins at the thought, his teeth pressed together in frustration, the sound of his horse’s hooves clacking against the stony path echoed in his ears.
Beon knew without a doubt that he had excelled in his studies and training. He was respected by both the younger pages and the older squires alike. Even those that were jealous of his abilities still showed him respect. In addition to building up his physical strength, Sir Lyndon had insisted that Beon increase his mental acumen by reading in his spare time. There were not many books to be found, but Beon read whatever he could get his hands on. Poetry, histories, ballads, even maps. He was learning about previous battles and strategies, and he was thirsty to prove himself once and for all. War was happening all around him, just beyond his reach. King Edward III was tireless in his conquests, whether on the front against France, or against the Scots. Not to mention the insurrections that would often occur on England’s own soil. Beon was awaiting his chance to go to battle and trying his best not to let his impatience cause him to make an error.
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