by Gahan Hanmer
Maxine gave me a square wooden plate, a two-tined iron fork, and a wooden spoon, and I began to help myself. In imitation of the others I used my own dagger to cut the meat.
"Where is everybody?" I said between bites.
"The king left at first light," said Sir Leo. "He's a very busy man, especially when he's just come home. Everyone else went to the monastery to hear Mass. Gordon here can show you the way after we have our fencing lesson." One of the soldiers nodded. He had thick, curly blond hair and a marvelous, oversize mustache.
"All right, Sir Leo," I said. "I'll be happy to help you any way I can. What time is it, anyway?"
They glanced at each other, and there was an odd silence.
"Did I say something foolish?"
"No, no, Sir Jack," said Maxine. "Never mind about thinking you're doing anything wrong. Just give yourself time to get used to the way things are. But, you see, no one can tell you what time it is because we don't have any clocks."
"There are no clocks?"
Sir Leo shook his head. "There are no clocks anywhere here, Sir Jack. They don't exist."
"Not one?"
"Not even one."
"There's a sundial in the monastery courtyard," said Maxine.
"Oh yes," said Sir Leo, laughing, "but the only person who can read it is the abbot who made it. It doesn't tell the hours but just marks the time for prayers."
The oddest thing about this discovery was that it didn't seem to matter. If there weren't any clocks, then there weren't any clocks. So what? Who needed clocks?
"Well, how much time," I said, "roughly speaking of course, would you say I have to catch up with them at the monastery?"
Leo laughed. "I don't know. But if you miss them at the monastery, you'll catch up with them at the castle."
"There's no risk of losing anyone because there's nowhere to go," said Maxine. "Keeping up with the king is another story, but that's because he has so much to look after, God bless him."
"Then let's have our fencing lesson, Sir Leo, and I'll be on my way."
"Very good, very good," said Leo, jumping up. "I've been looking forward to this."
"My sword's in the barrack. I'll . . ."
"Gordon, get the gentleman his weapon," said Leo.
"What did the king tell you about me?"
"He said you were a champion. He said you were an inspired swordsman."
"I was a competitive fencer in college, Sir Leo. I took some trophies at regional competitions. I taught stage dueling in the theater. I collected swords until my lifestyle got too drifty for that sort of thing. But just to let you know, Sir Leo, I haven't had a sword in my hand for a good many years. Will you give me time to warm up?"
He answered me with a polite bow. Time meant nothing here. There weren't even any clocks. I suddenly realized I was very happy about that. No clocks at all. All right!
I undid the clasp of my cloak and draped it over the bench. Gordon helped me into my harness. Then I walked out into the meadow to make sure I had lots of space as well as lots of time. The sword swung gently in its scabbard, and I let the rhythm of its swaying enter my body. I let it walk me around in circles to the left, then to the right, squares and triangles, stopping and starting, until I felt the physical familiarity that I had been anticipating. We weren't jarring against one another. We weren't pushing each other around. We were part of the same whole, that sword and I, and yet I had never held it in my hand.
When the right moment came, I felt it. A feeling is hard to describe, but let's just say I felt permission from the spirit of the sword. Dropping my arm down across my body, feeling my arm moving through space, pushing away the air as it fell, I enclosed the contours of the hilt with the sensitive skin and bones and muscles and nerves of my hand, my thumb and two fingers feeling for the junction between the blade and the crosspiece, taking hold with gentle friction, feeling the haft against my palm.
Now the blade freed itself from the scabbard, sliding out smoothly as though it moved by itself on the tiny ribs of a snake. It spun out on the end of my arm and began to cut the air.
Ah, how this sword wanted to cut something! How frustrated it must have been, lying in a dark scabbard with no chance to do what it was made to do. The weight of the blade pulled me round in a circle and I spun with the sword while it cut the air.
Now the meadow was only a blur around me, the outer edge of a vortex of energy. I clung to the hilt with just the tips of my fingers, just enough to keep it from flying away. Finally I brought the spinning under control and planted my feet, though the meadow still wanted to keep spinning around me. The sword continued to spin at the end of my arm, rotating on the axis of my wrist in circles, elipses, and figures-of-eight. I watched it closely as it wove patterns in the air like a bird drunk with the joy of flight.
The sword was full of energy now. I brought my elbow in against my side and began to control that energy by making the circles smaller and smaller, pushing the energy forward and focusing it into the point. With my thumb and two fingers at the fulcrum just ahead of the crosspiece, I swung the tip of the sword back and forth, back and forth, now a little circle, now a half circle and back the other way, focusing on the tip, for the true genius, the real daemon in a rapier is in the point—evasive, cunning, and devious.
Now I began to weave my defenses into the spirit of the blade while the energy was hot and new. The parries, which deflect your opponent's steel harmlessly past your body, are all along the sides of the blade. A good parry is very subtle, changing the direction of a cut or a lunge just enough that it misses its target. There are seven parries for the rapier, and I began to drill them over and over to lock them into the memory of my arm, hand, and blade, honing them down to the absolute minimal movement, because any excess energy in the defense is lost from the energy of the attack.
Then I began to put it all together: extend the arm to align the point, lunge over the bent knee, recover the balance, parry, disengage to the opposite side of the attacking blade, and disengage again and again with little half circles. Which side am I on? Are you sure? Are you sure? Extend, lunge, recover, cut to the cheek, cut to the knee, extend, lunge, recover, parry, disengage, disengage . . .
Advance and retreat with quick little steps, knees bent, thighs flexed, the soles of the feet gripping the earth, advance, advance, retreat, advance. Now the battle is on, and may the best man win!
The blood sang in my ears. Back and forth across the meadow I fought to the death with an imaginary opponent who was wily, vicious, and incomparably fast. Back and forth we pressed each other to the limits of our endurance until finally I broke him on my wheel and ran him through the heart.
Sinking to my knees, I felt very good. For one thing I had gotten some exercise and the blood was now rushing around inside my body. That will always cheer you up. Also I really liked my sword. If I was going to be a knight and carry a sword, I couldn't have chosen a better one.
My intuition was that the sword had been designed and made from start to finish by the same person, someone who continued working on it until he was completely satisfied with its integrity as both a weapon and a work of art. It was truly a piece of practical sculpture. The way the curved bars of the hilt flowed into the crosspiece and into the knuckleguard was like the flow of running water, natural and organic. It was like the way the sword felt when it danced in my hand, vital and unobstructed.
As to its size and weight, I thought it was a very successful compromise, for it was fast enough to keep up with a light blade, and strong enough not to be intimidated by a heavy one.
Most of all I liked its personality. It was beautiful, but it didn't flaunt its beauty. It was deadly, but it didn't brag about that either. It had self-esteem and it also had humility. It was a hero's sword.
When my heart stopped pounding, I walked slowly back to the table. I had taken a chance allowing myself to become so transported in front of people who might easily misunderstand. But Sir Leo gave me a low bow of appre
ciation.
"Sir Jack," he said, "my father was a soldier, and he taught me what he knew, which was discipline and daily drill. But I see that you are a true artist, and I am honored to be your student."
"Thank you, Sir Leo," I said. "I feel as rusty as the Tin Woodman of Oz. But I'm sure we'll have a good time practicing together."
It was an enjoyable lesson. Leo's style was formal and stiff, not suited to a rapier, but he was motivated and a quick learner.
"That's enough for today, Sir Leo," I said finally, taking him aside. "The most important thing you have to learn is to quit treating your sword like an inanimate object. It has spirit, intelligence, and a style of its own. You need to make that discovery. Are you willing?"
"Yes sir, I am."
"Good. Three times this week I want you to take your sword out in the woods and just play with it. Forget discipline and drill and just let whatever happens happen. If it starts to talk to you, listen to what it has to say. Don't plan anything ahead of time. At the end of the week you can tell me what you learned. All right?"
"I will be happy to do as you say."
"Good job, Sir Leo. Now I want to start catching up to my friends."
Sir Leo was the kind of man who didn't have to be told twice. Before I knew it, I was riding down the road with the blond-haired, mustachioed soldier as my guide. It occurred to me that I probably should have stayed with Sir Leo and picked his brains about exactly what a knight represented in this kingdom, and what we did with our time. There was no time here, of course, not in the way I was accustomed to thinking about time, but I assumed there would be something expected of me sooner or later.
I tried to remember what Albert had said. I was to beat him at chess occasionally. I was to tell him when I thought he was being an ass, but surely not in front of the common folk. I was to look past the shadows into the true meaning of things.
And I was to help him make his kingdom a beacon in the darkness. That was all I knew so far, and that didn't exactly amount to a job description.
"So what do you do exactly, Gordon?"
"I'm a soldier, sir. I follow orders. Right now my orders are to take you to the monastery. You could easily find it by yourself, but if you took the wrong turn at the covered bridge, you'd wind up at Earl Griswold's manor house instead of at the monastery."
"When you say Earl Griswold, do you mean that he's an earl, like a titled gentleman?"
"Yes sir," was Gordon's simple reply. What a place this was! I felt like a curious child who didn't know what question to ask first.
"What other things do soldiers do, Gordon? Help me out. I'm so new, the whole kingdom is a mystery to me."
"Well, sir, we keep order on market days. People can get very stirred up on market day about one thing or another because they often have a nip or two or three. So we're always there to settle disputes and break up fights if we have to. Also we will go around with the collectors who collect the tithe because that can get touchy too. We take turns standing guard at the castle. That's pretty dull duty most of the time, but of course it has to be done. We work with everyone else at harvest time. We round up stray cattle, look for lost children—a little bit of everything. Being a soldiers is mostly just being around and being ready in case you're needed."
Then all of a sudden he cried, "Ho! Shoo! Shoo! Git!" With practiced ease, he swung his iron-bound staff over his head and charged into the trees. Just as abruptly he stopped, backed his horse out, and fell in beside me again. He looked a little put out.
"What was that all about?"
He shook his head. "Just a Pict, sir. I don't care for them."
"A what?"
"A Pict, sir. Didn't anyone tell you about the Picts?"
"The Picts?" Was he joking? The Picts were one of the ancient peoples of Great Britain, driven into Scotland by the Britons and the Romans. "Was he painted blue?"
"No, sir, our Picts don't paint themselves blue, but if they took it up, it wouldn't surprise me."
"I didn't see anyone. What do they look like?"
"Oh, you'll see plenty of them in time. They're all over the place."
"But what do they look like?"
"Well, they . . . You see, they're . . . Oh, I don't know how to describe them," he said with some exasperation. "They're animals, you could say, except that they're not, of course. And they look like trees or rocks but not exactly. Anyway, I don't care for the Picts, and I think the king is far too soft with them. I'd run them all out of here if it was up to me, but I suppose the king is entitled to his own opinion."
Gordon laughed at his own joke, and then fell silent. He seemed to have retreated into his thoughts, and I wasn't too sure what to say to a man with a big iron-tipped stick who saw things in the bushes that he couldn't describe.
The trouble was that now I was on the lookout for Picts. It crossed my mind that maybe Gordon was playing a joke on the newcomer, but I had already taken the bait. My curiosity was aroused, and I wanted to see one for myself. What exactly was I looking for? Anything beyond the ordinary sights of forest and meadow. But didn't he say they looked like rocks or trees? I was certainly playing the fool.
Then I began to feel like I was being watched, and how can one be sure about a thing like that? We all have obscure senses outside the ordinary five; and those extra senses can register subtle perceptions. But we can also imagine things, and I wasn't sure which this was.
A twig snapped and I spun my head around, but there was nothing to be seen. Slowly I scanned the woods, looking for any movement as we rode along.
Now I began to hear something very faint, like someone crying. When I focused my attention, the sound stopped. Then I thought I heard it again.
"Looking for Picts?" Gordon was smiling. "You'll see more of them than you want to as time goes by."
"I thought I heard someone crying. Did you hear it?"
"No," he said, but the smile vanished. Now Gordon was listening carefully too.
Then I heard a scream. It was muffled and cut off short, but it was surely a scream. Clapping my heels into Pollux's ribs, I bounded into the woods and made for the direction of the sound.
In a little clearing there were two teenage boys with fancy cloaks, booted and spurred, and they had a farm girl held down with her dress pulled over her head. One of them held the hem of her dress in one hand as though it was the mouth of a sack, and the other boy was kneeling between the pale, kicking legs. They both turned as I came crashing into the clearing, and the one on his knees gave me an insolent smile. It pleased me to see the expression change when I scrambled off my horse and kicked him in the face. The other let go of the girl's dress and tried to scuttle out of reach, but he wasn't quick enough to dodge a kick that doubled him up and took his breath away.
The first boy picked his sword off the ground as he jumped to his feet. "I'll kill you!" he screamed as he stumbled backwards, hauling up his tights.
"Come and do it then, you little coward." Given the way he was waving that sword, I didn't think I had much to fear.
The girl had untangled herself and sat cowering against a tree. The dress was torn and she had to hold it together to cover herself. She might have been fifteen years old. Her face was very pale.
The boy raised the sword over his head and rushed at me. I took two quick steps under his guard, grabbed him by the wrist, and with a snap, shook the sword out of his grasp. Then I gave him two short pops in the face with my fist that bloodied his nose and split his lip.
"Stop, Sir Jack!" Gordon shouted, as his horse crashed into the clearing. "That is the prince!"
The front of his tunic was still balled up in my fist. Albert's son! I pulled his face a few inches closer to mine. Yes, there was a resemblance, all right.
"What the hell did you think you were doing, young man?" He twisted in my grasp, and that made me yank him in closer. "Answer me, Prince!"
"Who are you? Mind your own business!" he blurted out. "How dare you touch me so?"
Loo
king at him through a red haze, my fist went back to stretch him out on the ground.
"Easy, Sir Jack," Gordon said, "for I'm bound to protect him from harm."
I was already too angry to think straight, but Gordon was behind me with his iron-mounted knocker, and I couldn't very well ignore him. I turned, pulling the boy around between us. "What should I do with these two, Gordon?"
He looked uncomfortable. "You could tell the reeve that this happened." What was a reeve? Gordon looked as if he had no better idea than I did what to do.
"I'll talk to Alb . . ." I began to say. "I'll talk to the king as soon as I see him."
"Impertinent!" said Albert's son. "You'll be sitting in the dungeon when my father hears about this!"
"You've got ten seconds to get out of my sight," I told him, and he lost no time retrieving his sword and disappearing into the woods.
"Who's this other boy?" He was still lying on the ground, panting.
"He's Lord Bennett's eldest."
I took hold of his ear and stood him on his feet. "You're hurting me," he whimpered.
"Try that ever again, and I'll tie your ears in a knot." I gave him a rattling kick in the backside and off he ran. Soon I heard the sound of horses pounding away through the brush.
"It's all right, honey," I said, turning to the girl. "You're safe now. What's your name?"
"Please, sir," she began pleading, "don't let my father find out. Please, sir, I'll be more careful, I promise I will."
Gordon said, "The knight asked you what your name is, girl."
She rose quickly to her feet, still holding her torn dress together, and dropped me an awkward curtsy. "I'm Anna, sir."
"Why are you worried that your father will find out?"
"He'll beat me, sir. He'll say I should have been more careful."