He was surprised when his feeling of interest in the boy was apparently returned. As Calhoun dutifully followed the fearless Fulk, his teacher and master, Gislebert began to shadow Calhoun, his freckled face appearing behind every post, corner, and tree.
Fulk had immediately intimidated the vaunted knights of Lord Thomas, and he and Calhoun were given the choicest bunks in the tower garrison. One morning Calhoun awoke and was surprised to see Gislebert sleeping in the straw beneath their wooden bunks. From that night on, the straw beneath Calhoun’s bunk became his accustomed place, and Calhoun came to accept the boy as easily as he accepted the night terrors that routinely troubled Gislebert as he slept.
In the warm light of morning, neither of them spoke of the trauma of nighttime, and the days at Warwick offered enough activity to keep all three busy. Lord Thomas led frequent hunting expeditions into the forests not only to feed the army in training at the Warwick garrison, but also to hone the boys’ riding and hunting skills. The knights led the squires in team drills, to teach them to act as a unit, and Lady Clarissant often asked an audience with the young men to enlighten them in the important social skills of dancing and composing verse.
When not participating in group activities, each squire endured private training from his master. Fulk directed that Calhoun’s mornings should be reserved for sword practice. On these mornings, Calhoun helped Fulk into his forty-pound armor, then, while Fulk sharpened his sword and dagger, Gislebert climbed onto Fulk’s upper bunk and dropped the hauberk over Calhoun’s head. The hauberk, a shirt of tightly-woven mail, weighed nearly twenty pounds and covered Calhoun from neck to knees. At first Calhoun complained that the sleeves of his hauberk were too long, but Fulk only laughed and admonished Calhoun to grow faster.
Sword practice was exhausting. Before Fulk would allow Calhoun to engage an opponent, the boy had to stand in front of a wooden tree stump and slash at it from the right, from the left, from upwards, from downwards, from behind, and from all sides. Once his right arm was thoroughly exhausted, Fulk ordered that he repeat the exercise with the sword in his left hand.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Calhoun complained one day, dropping his heavy sword in the dust. “There’s no sport in striking a tree stump.”
“Your muscles are weak, particularly your left arm,” Fulk answered, the corner of his mouth drooping in derision. “Or you would not be tired. But perhaps a little motivation would help.” Fulk walked over to the charred remains of the previous night’s fire and picked up a blackened coal. On the bald tree stump he drew two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.
Calhoun laughed. “Who is that? An infidel, or you, mighty Fulk?”
Fulk’s eyes glinted in appreciation of his student’s wit, but he did not allow himself to smile. He merely walked back to Calhoun and crossed his arms. “I think,” he said slowly, regarding his artwork, “I think it bears a resemblance to the miller in Margate. What is the man’s name?”
Calhoun straightened and looked into Fulk’s snapping eyes. “His name is Hubert,” he answered.
“Ah, yes, and now married to the lovely Afton,” Fulk answered, raising an eyebrow. He spat into the dust and looked back at his young charge. “Are you still tired, Squire Calhoun?”
Calhoun bent and picked up his sword. He steadied it in the sunlight and watched the blade gleam. “I think not,” he answered. And he charged the stump again.
***
The squires and pages did not eat with the nobility, but in the kitchen after serving the knights, the lord, and his lady at dinner. Calhoun did not mind carrying a jug of ale and filling the cups of the thirsty knights, for dinner at Warwick meant two things to Calhoun, and both were dear to his heart: the sight of Lady Clarissant and talk of battle.
The loud knights loved nothing better than to talk of both recent and historical battles. Calhoun heard names he had known from his history lessons with Raimondin, but here in this living tableau the men who lived now only in war stories became as sharp as the swords that hung from every knight’s belt. At every meal, blood flowed freely, courage ran high, and the glory of a righteous cause always brought certain victory. The gory tales did not disturb him in the least, indeed, the only night he felt any discomfort at all was the night he fought to hide his pride when his grandfather, Lionel, was praised as a sterling warrior.
At Warwick’s table he heard again the stories of King Arthur. Endeline had loved to tell these stories to her children, but her tales of the Round Table and Camelot had been laced with romance. Here at Warwick Castle, where femininity and romance were allowed only for adornment, the tales were more bloody, the villains more fiendish, and the victors more courageous.
The knights also told stories of recent history, tales of the Holy Land, reports of skirmishes with infidels and the exploits of Knights Templar who gave their lives in the defense of holy pilgrims.
Occasionally an older knight would stand and ask Lord Thomas’ permission to tell a true tale. Calhoun was surprised one day when Fulk requested such permission.
“My father was one who heard Pope Urban speak of the necessity of an expedition to reach Jerusalem,” Fulk began his chronicle. “The pope spoke of how the infidels had destroyed the altars of God after polluting them with barbaric practices. The infidels had circumcised Christians, spreading blood on Christian altars and pouring it on the holy fonts. They cut open the bellies of those whom they chose to torment with a loathsome death, tying them to a stake before tearing out their bowels, dragging them, and flogging them. Finally, merciful death took these Christians as they lay on the ground with their entrails hanging out.”
The sounds of eating and drinking stilled as Fulk paused. “It was an eloquent cry, and the promise of complete absolution of sins and certain salvation was enough to send thousands into battle to redeem the Holy Land. The knights sewed crosses on their garments and many swore never to return to their homes, but to live and die in pilgrimage. I was two when my father left on the business of Christ.”
Calhoun leaned against the wall, his water jug on his hip. He knew that Fulk had spent time in the Holy Land, but he had never heard the story of Fulk’s father.
“It was a dangerous journey, fraught with battles on the way,” Fulk continued, his hair shining darkly in the dim torchlight. “The infidels could not understand our rules of warfare, but they were tenacious. On a hot day in July, innumerable Turks swirled forward to surround the forces of God. The Christian knights formed a battle line around their camp, against which the Turks fought fiercely, expecting to gain the victory. The Christians were cut off and unable to maneuver.”
“Through the heat of the day, however, the line of God held. A second part of our army marched to the rescue of the valiant defenders, and they fell on the Turks like the wrath of God. Soon the Turks were ensnared, and their camp, with a wealth of gold, silver, horses, camels, and sheep, fell like bounty into the hands of God’s people.”
“That was the beginning of the end. A year later, the spirit of Bishop Adhemar appeared to one of the holy knights and promised victory after nine days if the army of God would fast and make a barefoot procession around Jerusalem. The army obeyed, and a great column wound its way across the rocky slopes of the Holy City, holding crosses and chanting psalms.”
“Nine days later, the army of God marched into the city, killing every infidel in its path. The horses waded in blood up to their knees, nay, some say it was up to the beasts’ bridles. They say, my brothers, that it was a just and wonderful judgment of God.”
Fulk’s face was as smooth as marble as he sat down, and Calhoun felt oddly cheated, as if Fulk had posed a question without giving an answer. Lord Thomas must have felt the same way, for he leaned forward and asked: “And what do you say, Fulk?”
The corner of Fulk’s mouth lifted in a half-smile, and he stood again and bowed to Lord Thomas. “Begging your pardon, my lord, it is not my place to sanction the judgments of God. I am a man of the sword, I live by it and I shall u
ndoubtedly die by it as did my father. Such a man as I cannot presume to speak for God.”
Lord Thomas clapped his hands together in appreciation. “There, my fellow knights, you see the proper heart of a warrior. His is not to question or presume, but to follow orders into battle and the glory that follows victory.”
“After such a story, I fear we need a song to lighten our hearts,” Lady Clarissant said, lightly tapping her husband’s arm. She smiled at a waiting troubadour who had recently arrived at the castle. “Sing to us of kings and lands far away,” she told him, the pearls in her hair gleaming like tears upon silk. “A sweet tale of love, not of battle.”
The traveling minstrel bowed toward the lady and began his story in song, but Calhoun did not listen. His head was filled instead with visions of the future glory he would win in battle and the enemy blood he would spill to avenge Fulk’s father and the thousands of men who had died before him.
***
The only cloud in Calhoun’s bright horizon was Squire Arnoul, self-proclaimed leader of the band of squires by virtue of his uncommon size and his distant relation to King Henry. Sixteen years old and already as heavy as Fulk, Arnoul had set his small probing eyes upon Calhoun’s slender frame from the moment the entourage from Margate Castle arrived at Warwick. The eagle stare of Arnoul was not easily distracted, no matter how oblivious Calhoun was to it.
“You should watch Arnoul,” Gislebert warned his new-found friend as they returned to the garrison after supper one evening. “He hates you, we can all see it.”
“He hates me?” Calhoun frowned, then shrugged. “What have I done to the big lug? I have nothing against him.”
“Still, he dislikes you,” Gislebert insisted, his face brightening to the point that his freckles were nearly obliterated. “He was the leader here before you came.”
“He can be leader still, for I direct no one,” was Calhoun’s reply. Gislebert looked at the ground in silence. Calhoun’s easy-going attitude was precisely what drew the other boys’ loyalty, but a carefree warrior did not last long in a contest.
***
The news was directed into the stream of consciousness one hot afternoon, and just as ants know when a meaty morsel has been dropped under the table, so the pages and squires knew that a contest between Calhoun and Arnoul had been arranged. Fulk and Jerome, Arnoul’s master, had agreed that the squires were ready for a wrestling match after dinner.
“Watch your back, for Arnoul is as strong as a lion,” Fulk warned Calhoun as he lifted off the boy’s heavy hauberk. “But he is slow as a bear, so you must be quick. Let him see what you are made of, and then let him win.”
“Let him win?” Calhoun’s mouth opened in disbelief.
“Yes,” Fulk answered. There was no teasing gleam in his dark eyes.
“But why? Just because he’s the king’s cousin? That means nothing to me, and I can beat him easily.”
“If Arnoul means nothing to you, as you have said, then it will cost you nothing to allow his victory,” Fulk answered, slapping Calhoun on the back. “You have two glaring weaknesses, young squire, and neither will be overcome without practice. So do as I say, and allow him the victory.”
“What weaknesses?” Calhoun growled.
Fulk smiled. “Don’t you know?”
“My left arm is weak,” Calhoun admitted grudgingly. “But what else? I can think of nothing else, for I can best any squire here in hunting, riding, jousting--”
Fulk held up a hand. “Enough. We will see today how you fare against Squire Arnoul. Prepare yourself, for he approaches.”
Arnoul stepped inside the wrestling circle inscribed in the dust and scowled at Calhoun. Sweat glistened from his heavy chest even though they had not yet begun the match, and the boys who watched from outside the circle drew expectant breaths. Gislebert chewed on his thumbnail, but Calhoun knew that behind him, Fulk watched with a calm smile and sharp eyes.
Calhoun crouched lower than Arnoul so that the bigger boy’s shadow blocked the sun from his eyes. He circled with the confidence of a stalking cat, his hands loose and open at his sides, and watched and waited for Arnoul to make the first move. It was so unfair of Fulk to ask him to lose the fight! He could beat Arnoul on his own terms, and wasn’t victory always better than defeat?
The pages and squires around the circle had been joined by the knights of Warwick, their interest piqued by the stature of the contestants. Above him, Calhoun heard a shuttered window creak open; that meant either Lord Thomas or Lady Clarissant was watching, too. Lord Thomas would undoubtedly favor Arnoul because of his relation to the king, but Calhoun felt unusual confidence in his strength. Today, in this hour, he could willingly defeat even the king himself.
Gislebert broke the unbearable silence: “Pin him, Calhoun! You can do it!” The sound stopped Arnoul’s suspenseful circling, and he lunged for Calhoun’s leg. Calhoun spun quickly, as nimble as a maiden, and Arnoul landed in the dust. Above him, Calhoun heard a gentle laugh--so it was Lady Clarissant who was watching. Her gentle laughter only propelled his determination to win. He would not only beat Arnoul, he would pound him into the dirt. Today was marked for Arnoul’s total humiliation.
But pinning the bulky boy would be a challenge. Calhoun knew that even if he threw himself directly on top of Arnoul’s shoulders, his weight would not be enough to bring the bigger boy down. He circled, his hands dancing like taunting puppets, and waited.
Streaked with dirt and perspiration, Arnoul regained his feet and immediately lunged toward Calhoun again. Calhoun allowed his opponent to grasp his right leg, then Calhoun swung his left leg over Arnoul’s body and sat firmly on the boy’s back, grinning down at his quarry. Arnoul’s eyes bulged in frustrated anger and he flipped Calhoun onto his back, but Calhoun wriggled out from underneath the more awkward boy and darted away, dancing on the edge of the circle just out of reach of Arnoul’s grasp.
Arnoul staggered to his feet and caught Calhoun’s left arm. Calhoun countered by grabbing Arnoul’s outstretched arm with his right, then he twisted his body around so he was underneath Arnoul’s bulk. By jerking Arnoul’s arm and heaving the boy’s body across his back, Calhoun flipped Arnoul head over heels into the dirt. Arnoul, the bully of Warwick Castle, lay in the dust and gasped for breath.
In one movement, Calhoun pressed Arnoul’s shoulders onto the ground and held them there. “The victor!” Gislebert shouted, running into the ring and clapping Calhoun on the back. Calhoun waved his arms in jubilation while the male chorus cheered his victory. A quick glance to the castle window assured him the Lady Clarissant had also seen and approved.
Only Fulk did not smile. He withdrew into the garrison and left Calhoun alone to claim his conquest.
***
“I ought to send you home right this minute,” Fulk snarled, in the privacy of their chamber in the garrison. His hot breath blew into Calhoun’s face, and he spoke through clenched teeth: “You disobeyed an order, and other squires have been hung by their heels for less.”
Calhoun tried to smile at his master. “I could not see the advantage in losing,” he answered, waving his hands, “when there was so much to gain.”
“And what did you gain?” Fulk retorted, his huge hand grasping Calhoun’s neck. “You have gained a bitter enemy in Arnoul, but by losing you might have gained a friend. You have gained a smile of Lady Clarissant, who would have given you the same smile in pity had you lost. You have gained suspicion from your master, because I will not be quick to trust you again. You won one contest, but lost a greater battle, because you were not able to control your own spirit in obedience. The weakness I spoke of earlier, young Calhoun, has grown wider and deeper today than I imagined it could.”
Fulk released Calhoun abruptly and stalked away. In the semi-darkness of the garrison, Calhoun rubbed his throat and blinked back tears from his eyes. He did not understand all that Fulk had said, but perhaps he had made a mistake in winning--
“Calhoun?” Gislebert appeared from t
he shadows. “Don’t feel bad, Calhoun, your master will only be angry for a little while.”
By the sword of St. Denis, the wide-eyed mouse had heard everything! “Get away from me, you little rat!” Calhoun screamed, balling his hands into fists. “Stay away from me!”
Gislebert turned and fled while Calhoun sank to the floor and buried his head in his hands.
Thirteen
Fulk was more reserved in the weeks that followed, and Calhoun missed the easy camaraderie they had shared at the beginning of their time together. Fulk had always been a tough taskmaster, but now he allowed Calhoun to take the full brunt of his mistakes, never softening either his words or his blows as they trained.
Even though Calhoun later apologized for the outburst that had hurt Gislebert’s feelings, he regretfully noticed that his relationship with the younger boy changed, too. The open admiration that had shone forth from Gislebert’s eyes was muted into wary respect. The lad still slept in the straw beneath Calhoun’s bunk, but he no longer accompanied Calhoun throughout the day and was less quick to offer his thoughts.
Fulk’s prediction about Arnoul was realized. The vanquished Arnoul did not become Calhoun’s friend, but instead befriended every knight, squire, and page in the castle. Though he lagged behind Calhoun in physical skills, he excelled in cunning and conversation. Every night after supper, when Calhoun retired to his solitary garrison room to sleep, Arnoul entertained the other men around the open fire in the courtyard. Their ribald laughter echoed throughout the night and stirred Calhoun in restless sleep.
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