Twelve short months ago, he’d left the Castle with the sunrise, and made an easy morn of it, reaching the ferry by noon. The Ferry man had been expecting him, so he’d crossed to the Outside with ease. Save for an altercation with the donkey, who’d tried to kick out the boards of the boat.
Under the willow trees were the caravans of the tinkers. Black-haired children saw him and called to him, laughing.
‘Tell your fortune, young man?’ called a woman. She had gold earrings and a red headscarf. ‘Only a silver penny.’
‘It’s not a fortune I’m after,’ said Will. ‘It’s repairs. For the pots.’
‘Pots, is it?’ laughed the dark-eyed woman. ‘We can do that too.’
She told his fortune for him anyway, while her man repaired the pots. ‘You’ll travel far, young man. Very far. Look.’ She traced a palm crease with a dirty fingernail. ‘And I see love, true love. There’s death, and friendship and maybe, maybe …’ she stooped closer to Will’s hand, peering hard. She whistled, long and low. ‘Well, I never! You must take care, young man.’
Will snatched his hand back.
The woman smiled at him. Her teeth were black and broken but her eyes were kind. She stood up, and curtsied. ‘My lord,’ she said. ‘It is an honour to serve you.’ Then she laughed and called to her man in her own tongue.
As he loaded the pots back onto the donkey, she whispered, ‘Be wary on the road ahead.’
‘Why?’
‘This morning, another traveller passed over the strait.’
‘I saw no-one on the road.’
‘She is not easily seen,’ said the woman, seriously. ‘Mind,’ she added, ‘watch over the girl. She is young, but she is strong. You must take care.’ She grabbed Will’s hand firmly. ‘You must take care.’
What, Will wondered, had the woman seen?
That day had been the last day of normality. Now Will felt as though he was caught on a wheel that turned relentlessly, dragging him with it.
Autumn sped past like a runaway horse. There was a brief pause at Christ’s Mass, when he visited his aunt and uncle at their bleak and unloving farm. At least now that he was older and somewhat larger, Aled was politer to him than previous. Aunt Agnes, awed that he saw the princess near on every day, said little to him save to ask him questions about royalty.
Uncle Wavern barely spoke at all, but then he’d never been a man for speech. There were no more belts on the back, though. Will part-wished that his uncle would try it; then he’d really see a thing or two.
Usually, the practice bell caught him unawares, so Will would have to scramble from bakery clothes into his fighting jerkin. The ’prentices laughed at him as, day after day, he’d dash from the kitchens with garments hanging from him.
Guard practice lasted until the light failed. Sergeant Ryngell — usually just known as ‘the sergeant’ — varied the topic daily, and neither Will nor the other guardsmen could figure any method to his teaching. Sometimes, it might be falls and tumbles. Or weaponry — how to build a bow or a spear. Once they paid a visit to the armoury, a place of heat and steam, where the Master Armourer explained how to make a sword. On Mondays, if the light was good, they spent two hours at target practice with a long bow and arrows.
‘Don’t look at the arrow, men,’ called the sergeant. ‘Think only of the target. You must be the target.’
They learnt close-quarter fighting with staves. They were too young, Sergeant Ryngell said, for swords. They’d only hurt themselves and then he’d be held to blame. Will thought of Aled and his missing thumb. On wet days they did tactics and the sergeant taught them chess. Sometimes they discussed ancient battles, how long-dead kings had won ancient victories. Will found this boring. It wasn’t his history; it wasn’t his land.
Besides fighting, they learnt other things: moving with stealth; concealment; ropework. This last was terrifying, but strangely interesting. They learnt how to build a bridge with a rope, and how to climb sheer cliffs. The outer walls of the Castle were surprisingly easy to climb, provided one had a good anchor for the rope and didn’t look down. The inner keep, though, said the sergeant, was near impossible.
Will wandered into the inner keep to see. The gates here were heavy oak, but unguarded and open. The space was like a huge courtyard, empty of everything save for that tower. Staring at the walls, he circled the keep. The stone was tightly laid, with no crevice or ledge to give one grip. It was a different colour to the outer walls; here the stone was dark grey, almost blue in the sun. He stroked it. It was cold under his fingers and very hard.
His breathing sounded too loud in the empty space. The tower in the middle seemed suddenly immense and hostile. A crow called.
Later, Will thought about the stonework. It looked much older than the rest of the Castle. And that tower. What was its purpose? Where, he wondered, was its entrance? He’d circled the entire tower but had never seen a door.
The mid-morning bell rang, and the princess had to leave, which annoyed her. ‘I hate lessons,’ she said. ‘I’d much rather fight.’
‘What do you learn?’ Will asked.
‘Sums and grammar. And French. I hate French verbs. N’tombe insists I learn them.’
‘Why?’
Blue eyes dancing, the princess whispered in his ear, ‘To mess with my mind!’ Her breath was sweet on his face.
For a girl, the princess was a good fighter. She was surprisingly fast. Sometimes, she seemed to blur and once, when Will was really tired, she appeared to break apart, to drift into light. He’d called a break at this point. Really, he needed to stop the early mornings.
How much longer could he continue this double life? Baking until sun-up, sparring to sundown. But how to say no to a princess? She needed him. Well, not him exactly. What she needed was freedom — and that was what fighting gave her.
Although, there were moments, when she touched his hand or they locked together in a hold, that he felt a flood of warmth. Such moments, though thrilling, were terrifying. That he, an orphaned foreigner, would ever meet the royal family had seemed unlikely enough. And now he saw the princess every day.
The king’s advice still troubled him. How could he, who’d only killed a boar, and that by accident, train a lady to kill? And why would she ever need to do so? And what of N’tombe — what armies had she seen?
Will rarely dreamt. When he hit his bunk he was too tired to do naught but sleep. Rising early before the other guards meant he tended to go to bed earlier than them. So straight after the compline bell he headed for his bunk. Shivering, he crept into bed, pulling the rug up over his shoulders.
Thinking of fire and warmth, Will fell asleep. Only to see a fire in his dreams. He hovered above a burning town. Not his own; here the land was flat and there was no sea. In the distance were more fires — other towns burning. The moon was full. The fire leapt high, casting flickering orange shadows over the grey, moon-washed fields. A crowd of men stood at the edge of the flames, laughing as the tall buildings burned. They were dressed in mail that glowed orange from the fires.
Behind them, horses grazed and tents, grey-white in the moonlight, billowed in the breeze. Flags, black against the darkness, were decorated with shaggy ropes, like the tails of the horses. Equipment of war surrounded them: carts and bags and piles of weapons.
Dreaming, Will travelled closer to the watching warriors. They seemed slight, almost woman-like in their build. He’d always imagined soldiers as large, heavy-set warriors with enormous beards. The flames crackled and roared, but not loud enough to drown the screams. The soldiers laughed and held their hands to the warmth of the burning town.
A man, his clothes alight, dashed from the gate directly towards the army. Calmly, a soldier fixed an arrow to a bow and shot the man in the chest. He fell directly in front of Will. The arrow quivered as the man gasped. Air hissed from the wound in his chest.
The moment changed. Daylight. Like a bird, Will watched from the air as the soldiers called their horses to them
. The village was a blackened ruin. Smoke drifted from the remains of the houses, and corpses dotted the plains.
The soldiers mounted quickly, forming small groups. They seemed well armed. All had curved swords and large quivers, stuffed full with arrows, attached to their saddles. Most carried bows. So many men, so many horses. Flags cracked, spreading wide in the wind. A red beast on a green background. A dragon.
Was this the army N’tombe had seen?
Will woke sweating. Today, he would talk with Sergeant Ryngell. How could one overcome such a host?
The sergeant didn’t laugh at Will’s coming to see him about a dream. He’d listened intently, his eyes concerned. Once he’d nodded, as if in answer to an unasked question. Will found this unquestioning acceptance of his dream more concerning than the dream itself.
Again, Will told of the soldier, the arrow and the man collapsing in front of him.
‘The weapons,’ said the sergeant. ‘What type of mail did they wear?’
Will shrugged. ‘It was just a dream. What does it matter?’
‘It matters, lad. It matters.’ Sergeant Ryngell walked to the window and stared out across the practice ground below. In the distance, the forest was the bleached brown of late autumn and there was snow on the distant mountains. ‘Do you remember any detail at all? The flags? The shape of the spears? The bows?’
The flag. ‘There was something on the flag. An animal, of some sort.’
‘Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere. An animal, eh? Was the flag coloured?’
‘Green, I think.’ Suddenly, Will wasn’t sure. Colours look different in dreams. ‘You should ask the princess.’
‘Why?’
‘She had a dream once. She told me of it. I think her telling made me dream too.’
‘She dreamt of this army?’ The sergeant stood at the window, but he didn’t seem to notice the view, or the boys at their practice.
‘Sir? Is it important?’
Sergeant Ryngell went to his table. Maps, partially unrolled, covered the surface like paper logs. Impatiently, he pushed them aside. One fell on the floor and rolled under a chair. Will picked it up.
‘You don’t survive as many battles as I have, boy, without learning to tell what is needful from what is not. And if your princess dreams of armies, it behoves us to pay attention. Tell me what she told you, then tell me again of your dream. And tell me about the shapes of their weapons. You learn a lot about an army from the weapons they carry.’
16
Fighting to Win
Will was quieter than usual for the next week. Every day we did our usual morning’s practice, but he said little afterwards, just shrugged himself into his tunic and departed the practice arena, leaving me staring. Had I offended him?
After a week he admitted yes, something had been worrying him. ‘I’ve been talking to Sergeant Ryngell,’ Will said, ‘about fighting to kill.’
‘And?’
‘He said he’d help us.’
‘Will I learn how to fight with a sword?’ I liked this idea. I would cut an impressive figure with a blade in my hand. My name could be engraved on it. Gems would be nice too. Rubies would be best, as they’d match my hair.
Will shook his head. ‘Have you ever held a blade?’
‘No.’
‘They’re very heavy. The sergeant says: “You bludgeon your opponent to death or chop bits off him.” In the end, the fight comes down to how strong you are. I’m sorry to break it to you, Princess, but you will never be as strong as a fully grown man.’
I pouted. ‘Do you think I could use a lance, then?’
‘What?’
‘You know. A lance. Like at the tourneys. You gallop along the lists with it held out in front of you and try to poke the other knight off his horse.’
He stared at me, eyes bulging, then choked.
‘What did I say?’
‘You can’t be serious!’
‘What do you mean?’ I would look majestic in armour. I could get it gilded. It would sparkle in the sun.
He snorted. ‘Look. Lance work is effective if you’re on horseback, fighting against people in armour. It looks exciting in a tournament, doesn’t it?’
I nodded enthusiastically, imagining myself galloping in front of a cheering crowd.
‘And what,’ said Will witheringly, ‘if your opponent is an archer?’
‘What?’
‘A good archer can stop a knight without getting near his lance.’
‘How?’ I didn’t think an arrow could go through metal armour.
‘You shoot the horse,’ he said.
Shoot a horse? How terrible!
‘Listen,’ he said patiently, as though I was a slow-witted child. ‘You’ve got to think outside the rules. That’s what the sergeant said the army would do.’
‘What army?’
He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. The point is, a lance might look good, but it probably won’t work for you.’
I sighed. He was right, but still. It would have been nice to look impressive like my brothers, Owein and Alden, who had great chargers and armour that sparkled in the sun. They would never give up their lances or their swords.
As though touched by winter’s snow, I shivered. In my dream, the warriors who had so nonchalantly beheaded children had had bows attached to their saddles.
‘What do you think your advantages are?’ Will asked.
I tried to focus my thoughts. ‘I’m fast,’ I said slowly. ‘My punches are accurate. I’d probably be good with a blade, provided I can get in close.’ I was accurate with my hits in tennis too. ‘I could try archery.’
He nodded and tousled my hair. ‘And you’re short. You can duck under your opponent’s field of vision.’ I grabbed his hand and twisted it behind his back. Will laughed up at me. ‘Deceit. That’s your weapon. One peek from your blue eyes — and your man is helpless.’
I pulled his arm harder and set my knee in his back. I’d dislocate his shoulder if he spoke again.
And so we began training with weapons. At first it was just Will and me, playing with sticks. Which doesn’t sound terribly impressive and didn’t have the glamour of a ruby-inlaid blade or gilded armour. We began by getting the feeling for the weight of the staves, just a little longer than Will’s forearm and made of thick oak.
We practised as we did for our kicks and punches, taking it in turn to hold the leather pad, while the other thumped away and tried to muscle the other backwards or kick their legs out. Will always managed the former, but I was better at the latter.
Winter was upon us, with howling squalls that threw lines of ice and sleet across the practice ground. Canvas walls were fitted to protect us from the worst of the wind.
I stopped thinking of Will as my teacher. We explored these new techniques together, working as friends. His hot breath on my cheek as we grappled, and the smile in his eyes as I tried to hold him down, both infuriated and pleased me. I was not a plaything. I wanted him to see me as an equal.
He was strong. When he had me in a hold, his arm firm about my waist, I could not break free. ‘Shall we dance, Princess?’ he whispered, laughing. I twisted in his arms and for a moment, our faces were just inches apart. He sobered, suddenly silent, a glint in his eyes I’d not seen before. I smiled and smashed my head forward, tripping him neatly as he flinched back.
Later, we moved to fighting each other, incorporating throws and kicks into the movements, sometimes even trying neck holds. Oh, the bruising! Plunging full face into the sand, thumped in the arm with a heavy stave, winded with an elbow in the gut. Even Will, with his speed and strength, was damaged.
At the mid-morning bell I staggered back to my chamber to lie recumbent on my bed for fully half an hour. I don’t know how Will, who was expected to complete his normal guard training in the afternoon, managed.
Sometimes I became distracted by his proximity, the warmth of his skin, the laughter in his eyes. Those moments were fatal; he would usually seize m
y lapse in concentration to dump me on the ground. I think, though, that he also had times like this, for when he had me in his arms, my own arms pinned to my side, he was surprisingly easy to throw.
In a way we felt as though we were starting a journey of discovery. For no-one, said Will, had tried this style of fighting before. The feint, drawing your enemy in, the twist, throwing him, the quick blow to the head or neck. It was the element of deceit that appealed to us, the concealed aggression.
The exercise kept us warm and, in truth, it was just as well we’d started this more intense work as the weather grew colder. Sustaining this in the heat of summer, with the flies and smells, would have been harder than coping with ice-cold fingers and toes.
N’tombe continued watching from the edge of the practice ground. I felt pity for her, used as she was to a hotter clime. She came to resemble Nurse in her dress, muffled with cloths and swaddled in fur until all one could see of her was a nose protruding from a collection of garments.
After a month we progressed to two staves, circling them in motion in front of us or beating the practice pad as though we were drummers in a play. As we trained, the seasons slowly changed; the trees budding, birds calling, but still we danced our long slow dance, a pas de deux of death. At night I dreamt of fighting, of clashing wood, of trembling arms, of the struggle to retain one’s position, to dodge the opponent.
Spring arrived, much to N’tombe’s relief. As the world warmed, she began to reduce the amount of clothing, one layer at a time. Then came summer, and she began to smile again.
With summer came my birthday. I was now fourteen, old enough for Mother to murmur of ladylike fashions. Since these generally meant lowered bodices, tight lacing and elaborate hairstyles, I tried not to listen.
Mother began inviting me to her chambers, to eat small cakes with other women and listen to gossip — of maids and men and other such trivialities. I never knew what to say on these occasions, so to fill my mouth I ate pastries and small, perfectly formed cakes. Once, I nearly choked and had to be patted on the back until I could breathe again. I was not a social success, although doubtless I was a cause of much happy gossiping.
A Necklace of Souls Page 13