He and Howard also became good friends. The lad was so impressed by Don’s tales of the elders that he asked his father if he could buy some old books to read. This greatly pleased Lord Edward who felt that the boy had shown too little interest in reading and pen-craft. He had often counseled the boy that some lore-wisdom was a good quality in a man since it helped him decide difficult problems and raised his esteem in the community. Too much had the opposite effect, unless, of course, one was a lore-man.
Don often accompanied Lord Edward or Howard as they went about their duties, overseeing the affairs of their estate. Though only sixteen years old, Howard clearly did the work of a man. Don learned the rudiments of horsemanship and the lay of the land around Westerly. The Cash River flowed near the farmstead, coming from a deep gorge in the mountains to the west, and flowed east until it made a loop towards the South at Stonegate. Many small canals led out of the stream and created a rich network of fields and orchards.
Whenever he could, Don talked with Rachel. She seemed to enjoy his company and was interested in the stories of his life in Goldstone and his recent adventures. Though Don rarely saw her alone, he often told tales of long ago while sitting in the great hall before the fire. Lord Edward’s family and his retainers were appreciative. She sat with the others and smiled into his eyes. Sometimes the old gate guard played the taro, a stringed instrument popular in the South, and Rachel often sang. Her voice was sweet and pure. Sometimes she sang love songs, and it was then that Don’s heart hammered in his breast and temple.
One day, he and Rachel went for a ride. Past fields where fall-sown grain was growing and through herds of rust-red cattle they went. Frisking calves showed white faces and pink noses to a world that was all-new. Rachel was plain spoken and direct. She teased Don about his clumsiness on horseback but admitted that he was improving slightly.
“For,” she giggled, “when I saw you ride away to Stonegate, you looked like a sack of wheat strapped to the saddle.”
“That is a fine way to talk,” he returned, smiling. “You would laugh at a man that was riding to his doom?”
“I wept for you, you know,” she said, suddenly serious. “I knew you could not be a servant of the Prophet.”
“In that you were right,” he said with a glance to the south, toward Stonegate. “But I have had enough adventure for a man of peace.”
“Nonetheless,” she said over her shoulder as she spurred on, “I notice you still carry your sword. It might be well if you learned how to use it.”
Her comment struck home. Don realized that he would be of little use in a fight if they should meet danger, and he was embarrassed. He tried to keep up with her as she galloped down a well-worn trail, and he admired her skill with her mount. She was nothing like the swooning maidens in the old tales.
Though quiet, Don was a good story teller and usually not at a complete loss for words. Yet he sometimes had difficulty knowing what to say to Rachel. Little by little, though, he found himself telling of Goldstone and his life there. She agreed that the decision for him to leave, though forced upon him, was no doubt for the best, and was perhaps fated so. She pointed out that in traveling one meets new people, which can be a great advantage. To this he heartily agreed.
She smiled freely and was even cheerful when overseeing the hardest of work such as a washday or housecleaning. The hall served meals to a large company every day, and overseeing the preparation of food was a heavy task that Lady Wilma and Rachel shared. Thursday was butchering day, and a large steer was slaughtered every week. This was not always enough to feed the household, so this was supplemented by fowl and sometimes a pig. Once they even had river trout. The meat was aged in a deep stone vault or cellar to the rear of the main house.
Naturally cool, the cellar held tons of ice sawed into blocks and stored in sawdust, which lasted until the snow again fell. They also traded for sausage and other cured meats from the market in Westerly since they did not trouble to make these things themselves.
Rachel laughed often, for the household was a warm one, and her laughter was like the tinkle of silver bells. One night as she and Don stood on the western step, he kissed her, as much to his surprise as hers. She had twisted away and fled, and he had cursed himself, even as he treasured the memory. He half expected her father’s rebuke at breakfast, but no one had said anything. Rachel was as friendly as ever. He did, however, notice Lady Wilma watching him with a thoughtful expression on her face and saw that she kept Rachel busier than usual during the next few days.
Finally, the time came when his arm had healed. Lady Wilma removed the stitches with her own hand and pronounced herself pleased. Don knew that he must go and made himself ready. On the next morning, he was bidden farewell by all.
Lord Edward assured him that he was always welcome to return again for guesting, and remarked aloud that a skilled man with a pen and numbers would be welcome in most large households, should the lore-master have no need for his services. Don thanked him for this advice and his hospitality. Lady Wilma embraced him as he left, and Rachel did likewise, which did not displease him.
Howard rode with him to give him company on the road and to return the horse that Don had been lent for the ride to town. At the gate, they turned and waved farewell again. Don thought he saw tears on Rachel’s cheeks, but he may have been mistaken.
The ride was not a hard one, and by forenoon they came in sight of the west gate of the city. Howard told him that it was called the “Gate of Weeping” because here, atop the wall, the women of Stonegate watched their men go off to war. The stone walk behind the battlements was said to be stained white with salty tears.
Don and Howard said farewell before the lore-house. They embraced and vowed to see each other soon. Don lifted his satchel from off his mount and again clasped Howard’s hand. They wished each other well, then parted. Howard rode rapidly back to the gate, not looking back. Don would miss his pleasant, attentive company, he realized.
His satchel was well-filled with gifts from Lord Edward, which replaced nearly everything that he had lost. He had two spare grey tunics sewn by a seamstress of Westerly, trousers, underwear, and other needful things. His books, of course, were irreplaceable, but several sheets of costly parchment lay neatly rolled in an inside corner, a gift from Rachel. Wilma had made up a packet of herbs, useful for various illnesses. He felt that he was ready to make his way in Stonegate or wherever fortune led him.
The lore-master of Stonegate was sufficiently prosperous and respected to have a house of his own. It was a fine, large building on a paved side street near to the west gate and to the bathhouse. It was of stone for two stories with a third floor of half timber and stucco, high gables, and a fireproof roof of red clay tiles. It was a Stonegate law that no roof in town could be built of anything that could hold a spark. A swinging sign with crossed quills and a scroll announced the business of the place to the passerby. Don entered the front door and announced himself to the doorkeeper. He explained why he did not have a letter of introduction.
“Very irregular,” spoke the old man, severely. “I suppose you can back up your story of the lost letters. I do remember something about the spoiling of a caravan several weeks ago.”
Don assured him that he was indeed Lore-master Fisher’s son, and that he did wish to talk to the lore-master. The older man finally agreed.
“A lore-man, he says,” muttered the doorkeeper as he turned away. “A lore-man without any books. Well, you keep yourself here in the foyer. I shall ask if the lore-master will see your likes.”
Perhaps a half hour later, Don was shown into the study. He learned in passing that the lower level of the house held a large hall and smaller classrooms, and that the second floor held a large library and copying rooms for scribes and advanced students. Copies of the city records were maintained here as well. The rear of the building held a comfortable apa
rtment for the lore-master and his wife, as well as his private study. The third floor was for storage and also had rooms for lore-men and scribes. A large wing held a kitchen and dining hall.
The lore-master’s name was Duncan of Stonegate. He was shorter than Don’s father, and wore his beard shorter as well, barbered to a point in front. But his frame was as slender, his eyes as blue and hair just as white. It was soon obvious that his tongue was as sharp, as well. Don wondered for a few anxious minutes if he had really bettered himself by leaving his home for an equally bitter life in the South. They began their conversation in the High Tongue.
Lore-master Duncan accepted Don’s story with nothing more than a raised eyebrow. He seemed quite well informed about Don’s trial and his recent stay at Westerly-Stead. He did inspect Don’s Fisher pendant and examined a well-thumbed codex from a nearby shelf. He then called a clerk and asked for the citadel accessions. The clerk returned shortly with a wooden box, filled with records. Motioning Don to a seat, the lore-master read some loose sheets carefully. Then he put all the documents aside and cross-examined Don on his knowledge of elder times. Completely at ease now, and on familiar ground, Don answered readily. Finally, the lore-master nodded.
“Lore-man Donald,” he resumed, “I have reviewed the court records of your trial, and I see that you came out of the matter quite well and gained honor besides. I also see that you can thank the Raiders for the loss of your letters and books, just as you said. Did any of the lost writings concern elder weapons?”
“No, Lore-master,” answered Don, quickly. “Books of such nature could never have been taken out of Goldstone. They would be too precious to Lord John, and, frankly, of little interest to me. Some of the books did hold great potential for advancing farming and the mechanic arts.”
“Hmm … Yes. Well, Lore-man,” continued the lore-master. “I am fully persuaded that you are what you seem to be. You are well trained and are a credit to your famous father. I am prepared to offer you a post as my assistant. I will, of course, send Lore-master Fisher a message to advise him of your arrival and confirm your story. In return for your services, I can offer you room and board, a new tunic and cloak annually, and sixty silver Stonegate mills, also annually. In return, you must serve me and the lore-house faithfully, observe the law of the city, pay a tithe to the city treasury annually and serve in her army when needed. You may not tutor for pay without my leave. Are these terms agreeable?”
“They are more than fair, sir,” blurted Don, surprised. “But I had hoped, if I may be so bold, Lore-master …”
“Yes. Go on.”
“I had hoped to be relieved from the need for war-service. This is the custom in Goldstone for lore-men, and I assumed elsewhere as well.”
“It was the custom here until quite recently, as well. In fact, it is still true for those of us who are greybeards. But Stonegate needs all her young, able-bodied men, and you have shown courage. I am afraid that you will have to serve, if called.”
“Very well. Then I accept your terms with great thanks. The pay is more than I had hoped or expected.”
“You may execute this agreement, then. Fill in the amounts as we agreed.”
The lore-master pushed forward a parchment that comprised an agreement, scribed by a true calligrapher. Don took his pen from his case, accepted an offered inkwell, entered the terms in their proper places, and signed his name. The lore-master also signed, then marked the parchment with red wax and sealed it with a signet ring.
“Welcome,” said the lore-master, warmly, smiling for the first time. They stood and shook hands.
“Not to put too fine a point on things,” continued the older man, “but are you skilled in the use of the sword that you are wearing?”
Don felt his cheeks redden. “No,” he admitted. “I suppose it must seem foolish of me to wear it, but—”
“No. I really do understand,” said the lore-master. “But next week you will start training. I hate to lose your services, but you are our only hale young lore-man, though several clerks also serve when called. You will certainly learn how to use the sword. In fact, I am counting on you to do very well in your training and so increase the honor of our house.”
“Well, I will do my best, of course,” returned Don, in a puzzled tone.
“We have long been accused of cowardice, you know. That is why I finally agreed to provide a lore-man for service in the levy. That is why your adventure actually helped you earn a place here—helped far more than those missing letters would have.” He looked away. “That is also why you are worth sixty silver mills.”
Understanding finally began to dawn. The irony struck him as he was shown out by the same clerk that had brought the records. The clerk carried his satchel up a flight of stairs and showed him to his room. A plain, small room it was, with a dormer window facing west. The room had a bit of a musty smell and flyspecks covered the window. But the bed was comfortable with clean linen, and a small fireplace took up one corner. There were stout shutters and a bar on the door. A roomy cupboard and a trunk were provided for his belongings, with a lock. Beneath the window was a small but adequate desk, and one wall was taken up by bookshelves and pigeonholes for scrolls. He was given a ring with keys for the door, trunk and desk drawers.
All in all, the lodgings were more than adequate. The room was as good as his old one in Goldstone, perhaps better. The view of the mountains and the rooftops across the street was pleasant. He was content.
The bad point, he learned over the next few days, was the food. The quantity was more than adequate, but the quality left much to be desired. It could not match Lady Wilma’s table by any stretch of the imagination. He was not overly concerned about the matter, though. It could be borne.
Don spent the week trying to learn the lore-master’s ways and examining the library. He wrote a brief note to Lord Edward thanking him for his hospitality and also to Lord Thomas, thanking him again for his aid at the trial. He included a short note to his father, which was included with the letter that the lore-master had promised to send. Don took on the task of putting the historical documents into better order and started the scribes on updating the master index of codices and scrolls.
The appointed muster day came quickly. He was told to bring his sword and any other weapon that he might possess and report to the citadel. So it was that at daybreak, he again climbed the grassy knoll as a free man to the same keep that he had recently entered as a prisoner.
The first morning went by quickly and easily. Don’s name was entered on yet another roll, and his weapon carefully noted as well. Then he was carefully examined by a healer, much as a man might examine a horse at the marketplace. Don’s scarred arm was closely examined, but he was finally pronounced fit. At that, he was released, and told to report the next day, at daybreak, in work clothes.
The next morning found Don stripped to his waist, exercising with the others. He was glad for the hardening that his recent activity had given him, for he was able to keep pace with the others. Most of the activity consisted of stretching, followed by a run of perhaps a half-mile. Then the instruction began with spear and shield drill.
All day they spent in pairs with padded shafts thrusting at wooden shields. First, one would thrust while another would parry; then they would exchange places. It soon lost its novelty. Instructors paced behind the pairs, growling instructions, now demonstrating, now correcting. They were told and told often that they were the most awkward lot that had been seen for many years. The day did not go by quickly, but it did finally end. Don trudged back to the lore-house, exhausted and bruised to the bone. He wondered what he would have to do to persuade Lord John to let him return home.
The following day, Don and the others ran four times around the citadel and drilled with the blunt spear and shield until noon. Then, after a bowl of stew and a brief rest, wooden swords were passed ou
t and sword and shield instruction began. This proceeded like the other drill, except that several trainees proved very adept and were separated from the others. Don was not one of those.
Sword and shield drill lasted the rest of the day. The trainees were paired off, as before, one with the sword, and the other with the shield. It became quite clear that shield work was as important as swordplay. Don soon learned that no one could long defend himself against a swordsman, even an amateur, by use of the shield alone. The leg was particularly vulnerable, as Don’s bruised left knee soon bore witness. It was also obvious that the sword was much quicker than the spear, and in many ways harder to parry. But the thrust of a spear could still come quite quickly, and the sword was little used for thrusting.
Don saw that the spear was slower in recovery after a thrust, which was its greatest weakness. But head knowledge was not enough, he had to gain body knowledge as well. The third day was a repetition of the second, with exercises to begin, followed by spear and shield and sword and shield drill. As they ate their bread and soup at noontime, two instructors gave a demonstration with blunted steel swords and steel-edged shields. Their arms legs and hands were well armored, and their faces were covered with special guards. The difference between these men and the trainees was woefully apparent. Don and his training partner for the day, a happy, freckle-faced lad named Daniel, glanced at each other with sickly grins. The speed and power of the blows and the agility of the shield work were very impressive. They were evenly matched, but finally, one delivered a blow to the other’s helm that gave a clang like an alarm bell. That ended the contest.
“I wouldn’t want to trade blows with them,” remarked Don, as the demonstration came to an end.
The Stonegate Sword Page 7