“Can you tend a mule?” the knight asked.
Pocket had been a scullion his entire life, not a stable boy. He nodded anyway.
“Good,” Sir Corc said. “You will lead him and feed him. Brush him down at night. Mind his hooves for stones. His comfort will come before your own. On a journey such as this, it must be so. Understand?”
Pocket nodded again. “Does he have a name?” He knew it was a foolish question. Sir Corc would never name an animal. Pocket was already thinking of what he would call him.
“Backbone,” Sir Corc said. “I call him Backbone.” Pocket was pleasantly surprised and managed not to show it. “This too shall be yours,” the knight said, handing him a bundle.
This time, Pocket failed to keep the shock and joy from his face. It was a long jerkin, sized to fit him and made of finely woven wool, lightweight yet sturdy and warm, but it was not the quality that made him marvel, it was the colors. It was deep crimson and pale grey, quartered in front and halved across the back; the colors of the Valiant Spur!
Pocket held it up reverently in front of him, unwilling to take his eyes off it, lest it vanish from between his fingers like smoke. All his life, his clothes had been threadbare and tatty, the rough garments of an orphan. His shirts were little more than sacks, his breeches castoffs that Moragh had washed and repaired. He had never owned shoes. Not until Sir Corc handed over a solid pair made from hide and leather, along with a wide belt complete with pouch. Pocket donned them all, the jerkin sliding over his servant’s garb, hiding it from view. Knights were given to a little vanity and for the first time, Pocket knew why. He could not stop looking down at himself and wished he could run back to the castle so that he might admire his new raiment in a looking glass, and if the other castle servants should happen to see him, then so much the better.
Suddenly, the prospect of leaving no longer frightened him. He felt prepared for the road and the world it traversed. He was so unconcerned with the perils of the journey the jerkin might as well have been mail. He strode over to Backbone’s bridle and took the thick guide rope in his hands. He looked Sir Corc full in the eye.
“Lead on, Sir. I am ready.”
The knight nodded, but remained where he was. “Soon,” he said looking back towards the castle. “We await one other.”
Pocket’s mouth twitched. One other? The Knights Errant always traveled alone! But then again, he was here, why not one more? But he could not help but feel disappointed. Sir Corc could be taciturn, but the idea of sharing the journey, just the two of them, was an exciting one and this mysterious third felt like an intruder. He was about to ask Sir Corc who would be joining them when something caught his eye amongst Backbone’s saddlebags. A well-worn scabbard was thrust through the ropes and Pocket’s eyes fell upon the wide cross-guard, long grip and round pommel of a very familiar sword. But why did Sir Corc have it? He did not even fight in the tourney! That sword belonged to the Dread Cockerel.
Only it didn’t. He did not win the tourney, at least not with honor. And Pocket himself had spied the deadly knight leaving the Roost in the pre-dawn hours two days after the tourney. He had been hunting bird’s eggs in the nests clinging to the castle’s eaves, risking the venture only in the bitter watches of the night. He froze at some movement in the Inner Bailey below and then shivered when he saw the tall, terrible form of the Dread Cockerel, striding out the gate like a threatening storm cloud. And he had not borne the sword, Pocket was certain. By rights it belonged to…
“Squire Flyn,” Sir Corc said flatly.
Pocket turned and saw the young coburn amble confidently into the trees. He bore his quarterstaff in hand, a rucksack slung over one shoulder. Pocket felt his hair tingle at the memory of the squire’s skill in the melee. Four against one and he emerged the victor! Pocket found he was feeling more agreeable to the prospect of a third traveling companion after all.
Flyn approached with easy strides then stopped before Sir Corc, a bemused expression on his face. Sir Corc was broader across the shoulders, but Flyn was of a height with the knight and looked him boldly in the eye.
“The Grand Master explained this arrangement to you?” Sir Corc asked.
“He did,” Flyn said with a laugh.
“And you agree with it?”
The same laugh, “I don’t.”
“All squires must go on errantry before they are spurred, young Flyn. It is tradition.”
“Alone,” Flyn countered, his tone friendly. “It is tradition they go alone.”
“And in their sixth year,” Sir Corc said, his voice rising slightly. “You have squired only two years. You travel with me.” With that Sir Corc turned and started out of the copse.
“I won the sword,” Flyn said to the knight’s back.
Sir Corc stopped and it was a long moment before he turned. “You did. You won it. Because a good knight died at the hands of one not worthy to wear the mantle of this Order. But seeing as the death of Sir Tillory was not enough to strip one knight of his spurs, I see no reason why it should cause another to win his. Your valor and skill at arms has been noted and rewarded. You are going on your errantry and should you return, you will be knighted. Be content with that.”
“I would have beaten him,” Flyn said lightly.
Sir Corc’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“The Dread Cockerel,” Flyn shrugged. “I would have beaten him.”
Sir Corc shook his head slowly. “Valor and skill at arms. The Grand Master said nothing about brains.”
Flyn laughed at that with genuine amusement. “Well put! You have me! Indeed it is you who has been given the least courtesy by our Grand Master, saddling you with my thankless company. My apologies, sir.” Flyn extended his hand. Sir Corc regarded it for a second or two and then took it wordlessly.
“But,” Flyn added as they clasped arms. “Coalspur is mine.”
Pocket watched as Sir Corc’s expression curdled. He released the squire’s hand, stepped over to the mule and pulled the big sword free from the harness. He tossed it to Flyn with a jerk of his arm. “Then you can carry it.” With that the knight turned and began walking away.
Flyn stood cradling the weapon and looked at Pocket for the first time. “I guess we had best follow.” Then he winked.
Pocket could not help but smile. He pulled on the guide rope and Backbone responded, plodding dutifully along. Flyn walked next to him, using his quarterstaff as a walking stick, the great blade propped up on his shoulder.
“I fear I owe you an apology,” he said after a dozen paces.
Pocket furled his brow. “Me?”
Flyn smiled. “Well, the mule has nothing but to thank me. I lightened his load, after all. So yes, my apology is for you.”
“For what?”
“You served the squires at Coalspur’s funeral. I’m afraid I was responsible for that nasty fall of yours…or rather my leg was. Very sorry about that.”
Pocket remembered feeling such shame at the time. It all seemed so petty now. “It’s fine.”
“I thank you for your pardon,” Flyn said. “If it is any consolation, I fell many times myself that night and unlike you, I have no one but myself to blame.”
Pocket smiled again. It was hard not to in Flyn’s presence.
“What shall I call you, my generous little friend?”
“Pocket.”
“Very well, Pocket. And you may call me Flyn…or Bantam Flyn if you prefer. In fact, I think that’s what I prefer. Yes. And why not? All the greatest knights have titles and it appears I am the greatest of all squires! Best to embrace it, eh? After all, I am to be the wayward babe in this trio of travelers. And we certainly have our wet nurse.” Pocket followed Flyn’s gaze up to where Sir Corc marched well ahead. Flyn laughed and gently bumped Pocket with his staff. “I hope that does not make you the whipping boy!”
“I am the page,” Pocket said.
Flyn looked down at him, his face a mask of exuberant curiosity. “Indeed?”
Pocket gave a deep, assured nod of his chin. “Yes.” He pointed at Sir Corc, then at Flyn and finally at himself. “Knight. Squire. Page. As it should be.”
Flyn repeated Pocket’s indications with his staff, but he said “Wet-nurse. Stripling. Whipping boy.” And they both laughed. “No, I jest! You have the right of it. Much more suitable, Master Page. Well then, do you know any songs?”
“A few,” Pocked replied.
“Excellent! You will teach me your few and then I shall teach you my many dozens!”
They walked the day away, passing over the rough highlands and windswept hills that surrounded the Roost. The castle must have disappeared from view at some point, but Pocket never noticed. He led Backbone along the rocky trails and talked and sang with Bantam Flyn. Sir Corc stayed well in the lead, rarely even wasting a glance back. They hiked through the herd lands of the Dal Riata, the shepherds and their children watching them as they passed, some of the men raising a hand to Sir Corc in greeting. The knight always returned the hail, but never stopped. He set a brisk pace, familiarity with the land giving speed to his steps.
They reached the coast just before dusk, the boulders grudgingly giving way to flat ground just before the surf. The sun had deserted them not long after midday and now they faced the ocean under a sky choked with grey clouds, spitting rain. A small fishing village squatted miserably on the shore, the stones of the little huts turned black in the rain. As they approached, Pocket saw several men standing out in the weather next to a small wharf. They wore thick woolen cloaks against the rain. Their beards were long, ragged and dripping and in their hands were thick spears with heads of pitted iron. A currach was tied to the wharf and Pocket saw two figures huddled in the vessel, clutching each other against the sea spray. Sir Corc had reached the village ahead of them, but stopped some distance from the wharf. When Pocket and Flyn reached him, the knight was staring at the small boat.
“Come with me,” he said. “But say nothing.” He snapped a look at the squire. “Do nothing.” And with that he headed for the wharf. Pocket followed, apprehension growing with every step. He glanced up at Flyn who gave a simple shrug. As they approached, the four men stood where they were, staring like wet beasts. Sir Corc walked purposefully forward and Pocket noticed he wore only a dirk at his hip. Sword, shield and mace were still strapped securely to Backbone.
“Which of you are conducting these two across?” Sir Corc demanded.
None of the men answered, but one held up an arm. The knight approached him and began speaking in low tones, the wind and roar of surf swallowing their words. Pocket and Flyn stood amongst the remaining three, who stared with the blank boldness Pocket had grown to recognize in the pitiless bullies of the castle. Three pairs of sunken, dim-witted eyes looked down on him, the thoughts behind them shallow and violent. None of them were even glancing at Bantam Flyn and took no notice when he drew the greatsword.
“Coalspur kept very good care of this blade.”
Every head turned to find the squire casually inspecting the steel.
“Sharp,” Flyn continued, thumbing the edge. “Sword this big…doesn’t need to be sharp in truth. But it is. That is admirable dedication to one’s weapon.” Flyn seemed to come out of his revelry, noticing the men for the first time. He smiled at them in a self-effacing manner. “And look at me mistreating it! Baring this fine, sharp steel in the rain? In the salt? I must be a fool!” He fixed the men with a hard stare and his voice dropped. “Why else would I do it?”
The men found they had better things to stare at than Pocket. He looked at Flyn and nodded his thanks.
The squire winked. “You get to oil it,” he said as he returned Coalspur to its sheath.
A long, low moaning drifted over the crashing water and drew Pocket’s attention to the boat and its occupants. He could see them clearly now. A woman clutched a young girl, faces and hands fish-white in the wet cold. The woman shivered, her face drawn, lined with anger and grief, but she did not weep. Her energy was placed into the embrace, holding the girl to her, struggling to keep her still. The moaning came from the girl, a toneless, almost bestial sound pushing past her thick tongue. The poor child’s face was witless, the skull underneath misshapen and over-large. She moved in a constant, clumsy jerk, fighting incomprehensibly at the world around her. The woman grappled tirelessly, at once calming and restraining.
“Pocket!”
Sir Corc’s voice made him jump.
“Bring a blanket from the mule!”
He jumped to the task, fetching it quickly and jogging over to where the knight stood staring balefully at the man. Sir Corc took the blanket from Pocket and shoved it roughly into the man’s arms.
“Now,” the knight all but spat the word. “Have you been properly paid?”
The man looked down at the blanket, his thumb running over the thick weave. He looked up at Sir Corc, a grin splitting his sopping beard, teeth gapped and rotten.
“There are two of them.”
Sir Corc seethed, but the man just stood there grinning his ugly grin. Pocket looked at the knight, water plastering his feathers, his comb quivering with barley contained rage. Sir Corc ripped the dirk from his belt and Pocket flinched away. When he chanced a look, the man was still grinning, holding the weapon greedily.
“See they make a safe crossing,” Sir Corc warned him and walked away. Pocket followed and they went back to where Flyn waited with the mule.
“We will stay the night here,” Sir Corc said. “Tomorrow, we hire a boat to take us to Grianaig.”
“And whither are they bound?” Flyn indicated the two in the currach with his head.
Sir Corc looked at the boat for a long time. The man to whom Sir Corc had given the blanket and dirk was walking down the wharf, laughing and chatting with the other three. He climbed into the boat and unfurled the single sail while the others untied the craft from its moorings. The woman clutched the girl and looked at nothing as the craft left the wharf. Her face was placid, but her arms continued to stave off the girl’s awkward struggles. That face haunted Pocket long after it was lost from view. The boat was barely visible when Sir Corc finally answered.
“They are banished. Sent to live as exiles, along with all the others on some accursed island in the Knucklebones.”
“Others?” Flyn asked. “Other what?”
“Women,” Sir Corc answered. “The cast offs. Poisoners. Those whose insanity make them too dangerous to live amongst others. Those given to sorcery or who couple with…” He broke off and glanced down at Pocket.
“The gruagach,” Pocket finished the statement.
Sir Corc nodded. “The place they are taken. Taken…and left, is called the Isle of Mad Women.”
Pocket looked out over the flinty waters. The boat was gone from sight.
“That girl was simple!” Flyn declared. “Simple and misshapen! But she was not mad!”
“I know,” Sir Corc replied, his voice full of disgust. “It is not the girl who is deemed touched. It is her mother. Who else but a mad woman would refuse to abandon so flawed a child?”
“You paid them!” Flyn took a step toward the knight. “You paid that cur to dump them on some island?!”
Corc’s voice remained steady. “By human tradition, the women must pay for their passage. If they do not, it is likely the boatman will throw them over the side before they reach the isle. The woman had nothing to give.”
“How do you know that wretch won’t take your trifles and then dump them over just the same?!”
“Humans are a superstitious lot,” Sir Corc replied. “A blood price has been paid. He will not break such a bargain.”
Flyn was incensed. “We could have saved them! You! You could have saved them! Cut down those four dogs, not buy them off! This should not stand, sir! The Order should do something!”
“What?” Sir Corc asked flatly. “Do what? This stands, my young squire, because it has stood for hundreds of years. It is human tradition at its most cruel,
but it is their tradition. There are places like this all across the Tin Islands. Not just here in Albain, but all over. Sasana, Kymbru, Airlann. They all have wharfs like this one and boats full of sorrow and they are all bound for that one isle. What can our Order do against that? Go to war with every human clan that casts off its undesirables? With fifty knights?”
“We could go to the isle,” Flyn said defiantly. “Rescue them! Take them away from there! Where is your courage?!”
Sir Corc approached the squire, leaning forward until they were almost touching, beak to beak.
“It has been tried,” Sir Corc told him. “And failed.”
Bantam Flyn did not flinch from the closeness of that stare. “Isle of Mad Women!” he scoffed in the knight’s face. “Where do they send their mad men?”
Sir Corc was quick to answer.
“They sit on the councils that judge the women.” With that, he turned and walked away.
NINE
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 17