Squire

by Tamora Pierce

  “You have?” Kel asked shakily.

  “Remember the night you took me to your room to give me a letter for Mindelan, since your brother and I were going that way?” Cleon grinned. “I wanted to kiss you then, but your maid and her friend were there.”

  “Oh,” Kel whispered. I sound stupid, she thought, furious with herself for saying doltish things and for blinking at him like a thunderstruck deer. I had plenty to say to that Groten swine, she thought. Lerant, too.

  Cleon kissed her again.

  “Kel?” Raoul called. He sounded close. “Are you here?”

  They sprang apart like startled rabbits. By the time Raoul entered Kel’s tent through the flap that connected it to his own, Cleon sat on the cot, offering seed to Crown, as Kel finger-groomed the griffin.

  “It’s Cleon of Kennan, isn’t it?” Raoul asked Cleon, who got to his feet and nodded. Raoul continued, “Aren’t you two hot with the flap closed? Kel, someone put your name on the boards for tilting tomorrow.”

  “That’s right,” Kel replied as she went to open her front flap. “I had a philosophical discussion with Ansil of Groten. We couldn’t resolve our differences, so we decided to settle it with the lance.” Like a page’s excuse for having a black eye—“I fell down”—philosophical differences were always to blame for a quarrel settled in a joust.

  “Well, come into my tent when you have a moment,” Raoul said. “We’ve some points to discuss. Kennan.” He saluted the older squire and went back into his tent.

  It was a dismissal, albeit a polite one. Cleon frowned. “You have to do this?”

  “Yes,” Kel replied firmly. “If you’d been there, you’d agree.” She met his eyes, willing him to look at her, to see she was also Squire Kel, not just his friend Kel, not just the girl he had kissed.

  “Oh, blast,” Cleon said ruefully, hooking his hands in his belt. “I’ve jousted five times already since this progress began.” Meeting Kel’s eyes, he tried to smile and put the lie to the worry in his face. “Shall I wait for you here afterward? I’ll wear a yellow silk tunic and a crown of willow leaves, and carry a bottle of horse liniment to salve your wounds.”

  The image of him thus dressed and equipped made Kel giggle helplessly. She stopped only when Cleon pulled her into a corner invisible to passersby and kissed her again. Then he strode out of the tent. Kel pressed her fingers to lips that throbbed from this new and different use. Finally she went to see Raoul, Jump and the sparrows following in her wake.

  Raoul sat at his camp table with a pitcher of juice and two cups. He motioned to the second chair. Obediently Kel sat.

  For a long moment Raoul scratched Jump’s ear. At last he said, “I hear this from women of the Queen’s Riders, the ones who want to command. Men who join the Riders are able to fight alongside females, or they don’t last. But what the women say is that if they take Rider men as lovers, and it’s found out, they encounter trouble. Men who dislike their orders offer to work it out in bed. Jealousies spring up, particularly if the woman and the man are in the same Rider group. If the woman is in command and the man isn’t, they’re both mocked by other men, and the woman gets treated like a trollop.”

  Kel looked down. “Sir—”

  “Nobody makes men surrender private life when they take up arms, Kel,” Raoul said, filling their cups. “We only ask that such lives happen off duty. It’s more complicated for women. It’s not fair, but I think you already know the world isn’t.”

  Kel nodded, sipping grape juice. How many knight-masters would have done this differently, even hurtfully? How many would have said nothing until Kel was so deeply in a mess that she would never get out of it? Only Raoul would treat it as another lesson in the intricacies of command.

  “I understand, sir,” Kel told him. “I do know there could be problems.”

  Raoul fiddled with his cup. “As for issues of the body—sex, pregnancy, and so on—perhaps you should discuss those with a woman.” He cleared his throat. “If you want to discuss them with me, it is my responsibility—”

  “No, no!” Kel interrupted, alarmed. She didn’t know which of them would be more embarrassed. She didn’t want to find out. “I’ll ask Mama, truly I will!”

  Raoul grinned at her, his cheeks redder than usual. “Oh, good. I’d probably make a botch of it. I’ve talked with young men, of course, but even that’s been rare. Usually by the time I get them they know where babies come from.

  “Now, Ansil of Groten. He’s a hesitater. Right when he should set for his impact, he flinches. You can use that.”

  After that night’s service Kel visited her mother. They had talked about lovers and pregnancy, how these things happened, and how important it was to decide if she wanted children when she chose to bed a man. Still, then it had been all theoretical. With Cleon looming in her mind’s eye, she wanted her mother’s practical advice.

  The gods were with her: Ilane of Mindelan was alone in the tent she shared with Kel’s father, Piers. She looked up from the book she was reading and smiled at her youngest daughter. “This is lovely,” she said as they kissed one another on the cheek. “I haven’t had you to myself in ages. How goes all?”

  Kel feared that if she didn’t blurt the problem out right away, she might lose courage later. The story spilled from her lips in a muddle, one that Ilane needed a few questions to straighten out.

  “Well!” she said finally, sitting back in her chair. “You’re in a unique position, I’d say.”

  Kel had thought of several descriptions for her problem, but “unique position” was not one of them. “How so?” she asked.

  “Why, most young noblewomen don’t have your freedom,” replied Ilane. “Our families are so determined to keep their bloodlines pure that they insist their daughters remain virgins before marriage, poor things. You don’t see that nonsense in the middle and lower classes. They know a woman’s body belongs to herself and the Goddess, and that’s the end of it.”

  Kel was trying to remember if she’d ever heard the matter put in quite this fashion. She hadn’t.

  Ilane leaned her chin on her hand. “I’ve often thought the nobility’s handling of sex and marriage in their girls is the same as that of horse breeders who try to keep their mares from being mounted by the wrong stallions.”

  Kel sat bolt upright. “Mama!” Hearing such things in her mother’s deep, lovely voice made them even more shocking. She expected this kind of phrasing from her male friends, not her mother.

  “You can’t say this to noblemen, of course.” Ilane got up and went to the small fire that burned in front of the tent. “Tea?”

  Kel automatically stood to get the cups. Before she realized she didn’t know where they were, her mother had placed a small table between the chairs and was setting out all she would need. Kel sank into her chair. “Why can’t this be said to men?”

  “The good ones are too romantic to like it, and the bad ones don’t care. My papa was the don’t-care sort. I overheard him once describing me to a potential suitor. Even though I had small breasts, he said, my hips were big enough that I should foal with ease. It would be easy to find a milk nurse once I dropped a healthy son.” Ilane deftly put a tiny scoop of powdered green tea in each of the large, handle-less cups, then added water from the iron Yamani pot. She took up the whisk, beating Kel’s tea, then her own, into a green froth. They bowed to one another Yamani-style, then sipped.

  Kel sighed with gratitude: she loved freshly made green tea. She enjoyed another sip, then asked, “So what’s my unique position?”

  “Since you’ve decided against a noble marriage, you may bed whoever you like,” Ilane replied. “You can choose, Kel. If you and Cleon want to go to bed, you can.”

  Goose bumps rolled down Kel’s arms. “But I don’t want to choose anything like that! I want my shield—I’ve given up everything for it. And—” She remembered how it had felt, knowing that she cared about Cleon. It had thrilled and frightened her. “I don’t want to be distracted,�
� she admitted, feeling small with guilt. It seemed selfish, put that way. “I don’t think I want to bed anyone, Mama. We were just kissing, that’s all.”

  “Kissing may lead to more serious things, my darling,” Ilane said, cupping Kel’s cheek in one cool, long-fingered hand. “A girl may be carried away. It’s not always love. Lust may feel wonderful enough to be mistaken for love.”

  “I just want my shield,” Kel whispered. “I’ll deal with the rest later. The—complications.”

  “Perhaps you should see a healer,” Ilane suggested. “Get a charm to keep you from pregnancy, until you’re certain you’d like to be a mother. Then, if you do get carried away, you can surrender to your feelings.” Ilane grinned wickedly. “Goddess knows your father and I did.”

  Kel gulped. She did not want to think of her parents getting carried away. “Well, I certainly don’t want babies,” she admitted when she could speak again. “But if you think I should get the charm, I will.”

  Ilane shook her head. “Think about it for yourself. Then decide.”

  They were finishing their tea when her father strode into the tent. He was a short, stocky man who stood only as tall as his wife’s shoulder, a man with Kel’s own brown hair and dreamy hazel eyes. Just now there were no dreams in his eyes, but crackling awareness. “Kel!” he snapped. “You’re jousting against Ansil of Groten?”

  “What?” cried Ilane, sitting bolt upright.

  Kel let a little sigh escape. More explanations—just what she needed.

  Fall-Midwinter, in the 18th year of the reign of Jonathan IV and Thayet, his Queen, 457

  twelve

  TOURNAMENT

  The night crept by. Kel lay awake, listening to the noises of the progress, until she finally dozed sometime before dawn. She slept late for one of the few times in her life. It wasn’t Raoul’s preparations for his day that roused her, or the activity of those neighbors whose tents were pitched on the same “street,” but the searing pain of sharp claws digging into her head. Kel sat up with a yelp, wide awake, as the griffin clutched her scalp harder still. Jump barked, the birds shrilled, and Raoul shoved through the flap between their tents.

  “Kel—Mithros help us,” Raoul said.

  Kel reached up and closed her hands on feathers and steely muscle. The griffin let go of the hair he gripped so energetically with his forepaws and clamped his beak on her finger. He kicked at her scalp with his hind claws.

  “I’ll get his breakfast,” Raoul said hurriedly, and ducked back into his tent. Kel gritted her teeth and patiently unhooked the griffin from her scalp. The bite on her finger wasn’t so bad. The griffin had closed on muscle and bone, not a soft spot. She could endure that better than claws.

  Once she had him captive, she got up and carried him over to his platform. The moment she let go, the griffin hissed and launched himself into the air, clumsily chasing sparrows around the tent. Kel swore under her breath. He had learned to fly at last.

  By the time Raoul came back with food, Kel had created a leash from a strip of leather. While the griffin ate from his dish, something she had taught him several weeks before, she tied the leash around his leg. As soon as he finished, the griffin turned and bit the leather, severing it.

  “Chain?” Raoul asked.

  Kel shook her head. “He’ll rust it like he did the cage. Let’s see how well behaved he is.” She felt the top of her head. It was tacky with blood.

  Raoul took over, sponging away blood and applying the ointment Kel used on griffin wounds. She winced as it stung in the deep scratches, but didn’t try to pull away. The ingredient that made it sting would clean the cuts. There was never any telling what was on his claws, so she scoured all the damage that he did to her with the strongest cleaning ointment she could find.

  “He would pick today,” Raoul said as he finished and wiped his hands. “Did you sleep at all?”

  “Some,” Kel said with a shrug.

  “Well, get dressed and we’ll have breakfast.” Seeing she was about to refuse, Raoul shook his head. “You need a big meal now and a small one at noon,” he informed her. “What’s the point to a joust if you’re too weak to last?”

  Kel bowed to his experience and obeyed. The morning crawled by. So did the noon break in the tournament proceedings. At last, clad in tilting armor, a visored helm under one arm, Kel waited for the fighters ahead of her to finish their match.

  It’s a beautiful day for it, she thought as she squinted at the cloudless sky. Autumn was in the mid-September breeze off Lake Naxen, carrying brisk air that made the flags and pennants around the field crack.

  A beautiful day to fly into the dirt, she thought ruefully. That wasn’t important. Even if she lost, she’d have protested Sir Ansil’s poison-spreading. She had to try. It might force him to look twice the next time he bullied a young man, though Lerant must never know that. She had told him she would defend Raoul’s name so she wouldn’t hurt the irritable standard-bearer’s pride.

  The field was clear. The chief herald, who instructed the jousters, rode toward Kel. Sir Ansil was at the other end of the field with his friends. Kel had banished hers, including her animals, to the stands. She wanted silence before the fight, time to sink into her Yamani self and prepare.

  “You still mean to do this, Squire Keladry?” the herald asked.

  “I do, sir,” she replied calmly.

  “Very well. You have three runs in which to knock your opponent from the saddle. This is considered a victory. If your lance breaks, and lances do, the field monitor will give you a new one. If your horse is lamed, you may either accept a mount provided by the Crown, or concede the victory to your opponent. If neither of you falls from the saddle in three runs, the judges”—he pointed to the box below the king’s where they sat—“decide the victor from the strength of blows delivered and accuracy of hits. Do you understand me?” Kel nodded. “Then take your place in your designated lane. Listen for the trumpet to start.” He rode off.

  Kel rubbed Peachblossom’s nose. “Let’s scorch him, Peachblossom, what do you say?”

  The big gelding stamped, ears pricked and alert. Kel gave her helmet to a field monitor, then mounted. Once she was in the saddle, she accepted her helm and put it on.

  She wanted an extra advantage today, more than she’d had in training with Raoul or knights like Jerel. When the trumpet blared, she told Peachblossom, “Charge.”

  Muscles bunched under her. The gelding flew at his top speed down the dirt lane, hooves thundering in packed dust. For those brief seconds Kel felt like an army of one. She loved no one so much as her horse.

  Down came her lance, aimed at Sir Ansil’s shield. The long weapon was a feather in her hand. Ansil brought his lance down a breath behind Kel. He doesn’t think I’m for true, she thought, her focus narrowing to her target. He doesn’t think I’ll hit.

  She struck his shield dead-on; he struck hers. Her side went mildly numb. Her lance shattered; his didn’t. She turned Peachblossom and rode to her start point. This time she checked the lance that was handed to her. She was suspicious of a lance that broke on the first strike.

  “You needn’t worry, squire,” the field monitor assured her. “These is always under our eye. It’d mean a summer mendin’ roads if we was bribed to pass a flawed lance.”

  Kel smiled at him, feeling better. She lowered her visor and urged Peachblossom to their place, her grip on the new lance steady. Ansil gulped water as his friends slapped his legs in congratulation. His destrier did not like their closeness and snapped at them. Like most lone knights, Ansil rode a stallion. Kel thought that was a mistake. Peachblossom was stallion-mean when he wished to be, and he would never take off after the scent of mare.

  At last Ansil waved to his friends, rode to his place, and brought his visor down. He nodded to the chief herald, who gave the trumpeter his signal. As the call rang out, Kel told Peachblossom, “Charge.” He exploded down the lane.

  Kel rose in her stirrups, sure and calm. She had Ansil
cold. She knew it from the position of her lance, from the feel of her saddle between her knees, and from the way the air rushed through her visor. Here came Ansil’s fraction of hesitation Raoul had mentioned. Kel struck her foe hard. The coromanel on her lance point rammed just under his shield boss. She popped him from the saddle and sent him flying. The stallion reared, screaming, as Ansil smacked the ground in a clatter of plate armor.

  Kel brought Peachblossom around and waited a safe distance from the stallion. She prayed she hadn’t killed Ansil, though she was fairly sure she hadn’t. Field monitors, including a healer, surrounded the fallen knight, removing his shield, helmet, and gauntlets. The healer peeled back an eyelid.

  Ansil snarled and cuffed him aside. He sat up very slowly. Joren and the Tirrsmont knight helped him to his feet. He swayed, then waited, eyes on the ground, feet planted wide. Then he looked up. Seeing Kel, he walked toward her. She thought he might collapse when he ducked under the barrier, but he hung onto it until he collected himself.

  When he reached Kel, he sneered up at her. “This proves nothing, wench.”

  Kel said icily, “That doesn’t sound like what you’re supposed to say, Groten. May I remind you that you just lost?”

  “Had we swords—” he began.

  “Do you think I don’t know how to use a sword?” she wanted to know. “You lost. All those traditions you like tell you what comes now.”

  Ansil swallowed. “I repent me of the calumny you took from my words with regard to Lord Raoul,” he began.

  “I took nothing that wasn’t there.” Something had gripped Kel’s tongue to make her most un-Yamani-ly frank. “You called my knight-master a dolt,” she continued. “I accept that you wish you’d kept quiet. You called Lerant of Eldorne cur and traitor. You will apologize to him, before witnesses, or we shall return here tomorrow and you can test my skill with a sword. Understand?”

  Ansil muttered something, until Kel thumped his shoulder lightly with the butt of her lance. He glared at her. “You won’t live until the Ordeal,” he snarled. “One of us will spear you through your bitch’s heart. I will apologize to Eldorne—need you be a witness?”