“Girl with one foot in the grave. My mother was dying while I was still inside her, but Aunt Zissi saved me.”
“Why are you interested in me?” Will asked in a sudden rush of courage.
“You are a good fighter. You have a style that is, how should this be said? It is unique.”
Was that a compliment?
“Of course it is a compliment. Besides, you know the other thing that interests me?”
Will shook his head.
“You like to bake bread. It is strange to see a fighter making something beautiful to eat.” She paused. “I have seen much fighting, poverty. Hunger. Disease.”
Will nodded slowly. It was unusual to hear this expressed here, in the Kingdom, when the idea of an empty belly was a missed breakfast.
“Far from here, the land is empty. The only sound is the wind and the calling of the crows as they feed upon the dead. Smoke rises from burning towns, stone walls lie ruined. Piles of skulls tower beside the road. Wild dogs feed upon the dead. Great armies ride where they will; no one stands against them.” She sat quiet for a moment, then clapped her hands on her thighs. “That is why I wish to talk with you. They are coming closer; death is spreading.”
Bracing her shoulders, she sat upright, her shadow large on the wall behind her. “Rosa sees this. We must prepare. This is why I need your fighting.”
“Me?”
“I have watched you. You may have noticed?” Will nodded. It was hard to ignore the silent figure gazing down from the battlements, watching him and Marven spar in the early morning light.
“You move as though you can see what your opponent will do next. You duck, weave, draw him in, and then you disable him. It is very interesting. I have seen much fighting, of course, guns, spears, knives, even fists. But not your style. It is systemized, like a dance, but powerful.”
“Thank you.” Despite his fear, Will was excited. Someone saw what he was trying to do! His fighting was like a dance. A dance of battle. “I try to read the language of my opponent’s body, see what he will do next.”
“Could you do it with weapons?”
Will shrugged. “I suppose. Something not too large. Not a sword, too heavy, too long, it would throw you off balance. A spear creates too much space. It might work with a knife, or two knives ...” The weight of the blade, the movements required to present hilt, blade, to catch the blade of the opponent, to stab. He danced the movements in his head, adapting his stance. His hands closed, fists squeezing as he grasped invisible knives.
“We learn fighting with daggers,” he said. “But that’s like sword fighting with a shorter blade. The same moves: tierce, parry, thrust, guard. That’s not what you mean?”
The Enchantress shook her head. “I am not familiar with your words. But I mean dancing. That is what you do.”
“What about Marven?”
“Marven?”
“My partner.”
“He is good,” she nodded, “but you are the dancer.”
Will agreed. He tried to rotate his body, to present shoulders, elbows, to vary his stance. Marven moved like a block. “Why?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why do you want me to develop this?” After all, fighting is about killing. Will thought of smoke rising from his village, about smoke rising from other villages, skulls and slinking dogs. Death waits for us all, but fighting might delay him for a time.
“Yes. That is why.” She patted his knee. “Do not look so serious. You enjoy it. I have seen your face as you move. The other boy, he sometimes appears sad, but you smile as you dance. And,” she added, “I have a task for you. I need you to teach the girl.”
“The girl?”
N’tombe nodded slowly, her voice adding emphasis. “The girl. Yes,” she answered Will’s unspoken question. “The Princess. She is more important than she knows.”
Are you mad? Will thought. I can’t teach her to fight. He wasn’t brave enough to say it out loud, but doubtless the Enchantress heard him anyway.
Chapter Fourteen
Will the Teacher
“Me? I am to learn fighting?”
“Do you mind?” N’tombe sat by the open schoolroom window. The cobwebs had gone and the room felt fresh and dust free.
Anything would be better than French. “Of course not! When can I start?”
I would not have been so excited at having N’tombe as a tutor if I’d known she’d actually meant to teach me. I had hoped that teaching would be a hobby, a sort of a sideline to casting spells and enchanting people. Unfortunately not. N’tombe took education seriously. She had been a teacher at the village school, fluent in French, English and “several native languages’. She was used, so she said, to recalcitrant pupils. Therefore, despite my best endeavors to remain ignorant, some education leeched its way into my brain.
“There is one catch,” she said.
I picked at the desk with a fingernail. Could I carve something on it? A helpless prisoner sits here, awaiting rescue? “What?”
“You have met your teacher before.”
* * *
The morning was overcast and chill and the last of the autumn leaves cracked underfoot. N’tombe had organized a practice arena, a rectangle of white sand, built under the trees.
“It will be private,” she said, “and sheltered from the wind.” She sighed. “A sandy-floored clearing! It reminds me of my village.”
The gate clanged as someone entered. Should I smile with pleasure at the sight of my rescuer? Or should I be haughty, a disdainful princess? Will seemed different from my memory of him. It had been only six months, he couldn’t have changed that much. Yet he looked taller, broader; older than the boy with the noisy donkey. He was still dark-haired, dark-eyed and serious, though, and the extra height suited him.
He wiped his hands on his hose, swallowed nervously and gazed at the trees. This part of the Castle would be new to him, for only royalty were permitted in the pleasure grounds.
Watching someone else view my woodland playground made me look at it afresh. This small, tree-filled space was a decorative version of the wild; its ancient trees were pruned and trained into strange shapes that mimicked those of nature. Will’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he bowed and looked at the gate. Was he seeking escape?
“I told you!” I hissed at N’tombe. “He won’t be able to teach me anything.” Oh no. I hadn’t meant to sound so rude.
He stiffened, his face growing pinker. I swirled my skirts and tried to stand tall and princess-like. I’d worn my best bodice for this occasion. It was gold-embroidered and sparkled in the early morning sunlight. Nurse had told me it set off the color of my hair.
Wide-eyed, Will looked at N’tombe. “I can’t teach her.”
“She’s just embarrassed,” said N’tombe.
“I am not!” I said.
“Yes she is,” my traitor tutor said.
Will stopped inspecting the gate and looked at me. “Does she read your mind too?”
“Yes! All the time.”
“Does it annoy you?”
“That’s why she does it. She’s naturally cruel.”
N’tombe cleared her throat. “Children. When you have quite finished? Will, meet Lady Dana. Lady, here is Will.”
“We’ve met,” I said stiffly.
“But we’ve not been introduced formally,” said Will. “And I can’t fight someone I’ve not been introduced to.”
I tried to ignore the dimples in his cheeks and tried not to smile back.
“Actually,” he added, ruining the moment, “I can’t teach you. I don’t think I’m up to it.”
“What do you mean?”
He stared at N’tombe, his eyes looking anxious.
“It’s your clothing, Princess,” N’tombe said, and chuckled.
“I’m sorry, Lady,” Will said. “It’s a nice dress, I’m sure. That top is very, um, bright. But it will get in your way. You need to be able to move.”
As though I wasn’t there, N’to
mbe asked, “What should she wear?”
He shrugged. “Hose. Like me. A jerkin. Something that allows movement. You don’t want it too loose, though, or it can be used against you. And you need to have your hair tied back. Like that is no good. It’ll get in your eyes.” Will set his shoulders square, preparing, maybe, for royal indignation.
I wasn’t indignant, though. Not at all.
“Did you hear him?” I turned to N’tombe. “He said I can wear hose.”
Will’s eyes seemed suddenly wary.
“No,” agreed N’tombe. “You never know.”
“What?” I asked.
Will spluttered. “It’s like, you never know where you are with girls. One moment you’re all snooty and dignified and now – it’s as though I’ve given you a birthday present.” He looked at his feet and his face reddened again.
I scowled at N’tombe. Be nice. He’s shy.
She made a face and spread her hands wide, telling me she’d stop.
“Will,” I said gently, “you have given me a present.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been trying to steal another set of hose for six months. Nurse is threatening to burn my old ones. She says they’re not fit to be seen.”
Will grinned.
“I will look for some new clothes, Lady,” said N’tombe. “We will be back tomorrow, Will. Better not show your mother, though, Princess.”
I curtsied to him and this time he bowed easily, as though he wanted to see me again. I tried not to worry about showing my legs in public. He’d already seen them before. At least this time I wouldn’t have coal dust smeared across my face.
* * *
I had thought learning to fight would be fun. But on the morrow anticipation faded fast to boredom.
“Stop arguing,” Will said wearily. “Do you want to learn or not?”
“I want to learn fighting. Not standing around with my knees bent. It’s boring.”
“You have to learn the stance. Look, it’s like tennis. You like tennis, don’t you?”
I shrugged. “I suppose.”
“I don’t play it, of course,” he said. “It’s only for royalty.”
He spat “royalty” from his mouth as though it were a dirty word. He must have seen the anger cross my face because he held up a hand. Truce.
I bit my lip.
“My point is,” he added quickly, before I could say anything, “that you have to learn how to stand before you learn how to move.”
“So?”
“So, bend your knees. If you crouch you can spring away quicker. Now, put your hands beside your jaw. No, not like that, your fingers are all floppy. You need to keep them palms open, but alert. So if I try to hit you in the face you can block me.” His fingers were warm on my hands, his grip firm, business-like.
I put my hands to each side of my mouth.
“No! Like this.” He put his hands up in a guard stance. “See?”
I tried again.
“That’s better. Now, one leg forward. So you’re lunging forwards. Both knees slightly bent, weight on the front knee. Good. Now the other leg forward. Good. Hands in guard position. Good.”
I concentrated, trying to look fearsome. I could see his eyes crinkling in a smile, but he held his lips still.
I scowled. “You’re laughing at me.”
“I’m not. Really.” He bit his lip and tried to keep his voice level.
What must I look like? A short, red-haired girl trying to seem a serious fighter? To an armed man, the only thing I’d hurt would be his funny bone.
“This was a dumb idea!” My hands formed fists.
“Hey, that’s quite good.”
“You’re laughing again.”
“No. Just then – you got the move right.” Will spoke rapidly. “See? All you need to do is lunge forward, see, then swap your weight, just like you did then, and lunge forward. As though you’re dancing.”
“Oh.” I tried it. He was right. It did feel like a slow dance. A slow, boring dance. “Why do I need to do this?”
“Because stepping forward gives you more reach, but this way you keep your base nice and stable, see?” Will demonstrated. “Try and push me over.”
I pushed him, feeling the hard muscle on his shoulder. It probably felt like a tap from a flea. “Hard to move me, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Lunging backwards, that is stepping backwards with one leg, keeping both knees slightly bent, lets you get out of the way quickly. You can draw your enemy in that way too, until he overreaches himself, loses his balance, and that’s when you come in to one side, hook one foot around his ankle, and over he goes.”
He pushed me and I fell into the sand. I glared up at him and he looked suddenly nervous.
Then I smiled, and his face relaxed. “Will, can you show me that again?”
* * *
Will planned my lessons carefully. Because he’d taught himself through instinct, he’d never had to name any move, or explain out loud. Later, he told me that the night before each teaching session he practiced each sequence, trying to fully realize the potentials of each stance and thrust. “The lads think I’m daft.”
He was a thorough teacher. And once I’d got over having to learn the basics, I loved it. Our fighting was like the best of dance, tennis and riding. But without the rules: no saddle etiquette, no courtier arguing a match point or trying to flirt. With fighting I could be aggressive and it wasn’t seen as unfeminine. It was just a way to win.
Every day save the Sabbath I rose with the sunrise bell and went to the practice arena to warm up. Will usually arrived a later, as he needed to set the loaves for the baking. I worried about him having to work so hard.
“I don’t mind,” he seemed surprised at my concern. “It helps me warm up.” It was true; he didn’t need to stretch as I did.
N’tombe, silent as a shadow, stood beside the arena and watched us. She was probably there in her role as a chaperone, but I tried not to let this irritate me. I was lucky to have this chance. Most princesses would never be allowed to even hold a sword. Yet here I was, learning to grapple a man onto the ground, studying how to maim or kill.
It was fortunate that the practice ground was private. At the end of our two-hour training session (timed by the mid-morning bell) I would be covered in dust, my hair awry, my hose torn. N’tombe often had to procure new ones.
At first, my skin was stained purple with bruises, but over time these decreased. One measure of my improvement, I suppose.
I learnt the basic moves first: forward lunges, backwards lunges, the basic punches, left, right and elbow jabs. Surprisingly, I could move whip-fast, “like a snake,” Will said admiringly, when I slipped a fast kick to his jaw.
“Hah!” I shouted in triumph. This was a rare event, because Will moved smoothly, his movements so fluid that he seemed to flow from one posture to the next, and so fast that his hands blurred.
“Time out, Lady,” said Will, leaning on his knees. “I need a breather.”
I considered him, this tall young man, an orphan and exile. He was a patient teacher. Better than all my governesses. Busy too – baking and guard training. He’d told me he was in bed by sundown. No wonder. “Do the other boys laugh at you? For teaching a girl?”
“Sometimes,” he said, panting. “But actually, I think they’re jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Not everyone gets to practice with a princess.” There was a wry twist to his mouth.
What to say? When I was trying to push him into the dust, or twist his arm behind his back, I forgot that he was a commoner and I was a royal. That is the thing about fighting: everyone is equal.
“Does that worry you?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
Dead leaves rattled across the practice ground, piling around the edges. The gardeners had strung a canvas roof overhead to keep the rain off the sand arena. Next week they were going to put up wal
ls; the winter wind was chill and the clean smell of snow hung in the air. Soon, the real cold of winter would arrive. Will looked up at the striped orange-and-red shade.
“It looks like a carnival.” He turned to me. “You’re a princess. I’m a nobody. What happens to me if you’re hurt?”
“I get hurt all the time,” I pointed to the bruises on my shoulder.
“That’s nothing,” he said. “We’re fighting. What if I make a mistake and dislocate your shoulder or break your leg? You could get seriously injured.”
“Do you hold back,” I resented the idea, “because I’m a princess?”
“Look. I’m from Outside. And everyone knows you’re the King’s favorite.”
“I am?” Then I realized what Will was saying. He had no family to lay claim to him. No one to protect him if I were injured. Yet, I wasn’t learning properly if he was holding back.
“I’ll talk to His Majesty,” said N’tombe. We turned, startled. We’d forgotten she was there.
* * *
The next day we had a visitor. “Daddy!” I called, waving.
Will stood stock-still, a horrified expression on his face, then plunged onto his knees in the sand. “Your Majesty.”
Daddy patted Will on the shoulder. “Up you get, lad. I understand you’re teaching my daughter to fight?”
Will nodded, then clambered upright. Awkwardly, he brushed the sand from his hose.
“And is Dana a good fighter?”
I wondered how he’d answer this.
He temporized. “She’s improving, Your Majesty.”
I made a face at him.
“Excellent,” said Daddy heartily and vaguely. He wasn’t much of a sportsman. His true passion was growing things; crops and soil. If Will had said I was doing well at ploughing, then his eyes would have lit up. “I promised N’tombe that I would stay and watch. Please, carry on.”
We began with our usual simple, slow-motion sparring, avoiding contact. Will turned and kicked sideways, heel first, toward my head. I moved back slowly, bending away from the blow, twisting, kicking for his ribs with my toes. I tried to move as though in water, each movement purposeful yet infinitely drawn out. He leant back, moving into a handspring, staying on his hands. This part of the practice was fun; I had to concentrate, but didn’t have to seek an opening all the time. It was all about the balance and the breathing.
The SoulNecklace Stories Page 12