Grannit
J.P. Ashman
What a man would give for armour such as his.
‘And you are?’ the knight said, sun gleaming from polished plate.
‘Grannit, my lord.’
‘Granite, as in hard as?’
‘No, my lord, Grannit as in…’ Grannit held his hand out to the scribe beside the knight, beckoning toward the quill.
The snooty scribe pulled away, as if he might catch something, and looked to his liege lord before handing it over. Grannit nodded his thanks and wrote his name before the quill was snatched away.
‘Where did you ride in from, Master Grannit?’ the knight asked, clearly amused at the exchange.
‘I walked in, my lord, from Rowberry.’
The knight’s eyes widened almost as much as the scribe’s had when Grannit had proved he could write.
‘Grannit of Rowberry, then,’ the knight said.
‘Grannit of wherever you like, my lord, if it means I can fight for you.’
The whitest smile Grannit ever saw presented itself, along with a satisfied nod.
The knight stood, polished armour shining, surcoat almost as white as his smile.
‘Sir Silver,’ he said, holding out his hand.
Grannit took the offered hand and shook it once, as firmly as he could. The white smile intensified.
‘Pleasure to have you with us, Master Grannit.’
‘Pleased to be here, Sir Silver.’
Nodding at that, Sir Silver motioned to a large bell tent further down the lane. ‘See yourself to the quartermaster and ensure you are outfitted in my colours. And see if they can’t do something about your lack of arms and armour, too.’ He winked, and Grannit was taken aback to find a gold penny in his palm.
The weight of the thing struck Grannit more than its brilliance, but before he could thank Sir Silver, the knight gestured to the next man, or boy, in the column. Grannit suddenly felt old at sixteen years. Most of the lads lining up to sign-on looked younger. Mind you, it was said that Grannit had aged two years for every one he’d lived. His craggy face aged through pox, as it was.
The quartermaster’s tent was dark and stifling. Thick with the smell of oil, iron, leather, and farts, the last striking Grannit as he stood there, waiting for the fat bastard to notice him. Grannit cleared his throat for the third time.
‘I heard your first cough, son.’ A set of narrow eyes peered up. ‘What is it you want?’
Grannit licked his lips before answering. What don’t I want? A full harness of plate like Sir Silver’s would be preferable. ‘Liveried…clothes?’ He was unsure what he’d be allowed, so he started with that.
A grunt was all he received in answer. A grunt and the loudest fart yet, followed by a sigh from the big bastard.
‘I’ve a white tabard around here you can throw over your shoulders. That’ll mark you as one of Silver’s lads—’
‘Sir Silver,’ Grannit corrected. ‘He’s a knight, and a knight should be addressed correctly.’
The wheezing that followed went on long enough for Grannit to realise it was laughter.
‘Ballsy bastard, aren’t you? Sir Samorl praise you, son, but I like you. Fuck the tabard, you fight like you speak and you’ll be lasting long enough to need more’n a damned tabard. Wait there.’
Cursing his outburst and offering a prayer to Sir Samorl at the same time, Grannit watched as the quartermaster shifted his weight over to a particular sack at the back of the tent. Rummaging eventually produced a blue and white striped gambeson, its diamond quilting sewn in blue stitching. Grannit gaped. It was less than he hoped for, but more than he’d realistically thought he’d get.
‘This should fit you, lad.’ The quartermaster held up the gambeson, which would surely come to Grannit’s knees as well as his wrists. He hesitated before asking Grannit’s name.
‘Like the stone?’
Grannit managed to hide the sigh and merely nodded, eyes still on the gambeson.
‘Well, Master Grannit, my name’s Dell Taylor, but my mates call me Needles.’ He patted his paunch with his lump of a right hand. ‘An ironic name, I know, but it’s aligned with my trade, I guess.’ He grinned brown, rather than the white of Sir Silver, and shuffled over. Grannit noticed Needles’ lame left leg for the first time.
Once the gambeson sat across Grannit’s broad shoulders and hugged his chest, Needles made a rumbling sound and shuffled off to another sack. ‘Belt!’ he shouted, needlessly, waving a dark brown length of leather above his head before bringing it over. ‘You’ll need something to keep that gambeson tight about the waist; scrawny shit.’ Needles grinned as he tied the belt, the elaborate knot looping through to hang barely below Grannit’s business.
‘It’s not very long,’ Grannit complained, looking down. ‘Sir Silver’s hung to his knees.’
‘It’s free, you cheeky shit.’ Needles shoved Grannit by the shoulder and barked a laugh. ‘Anyhow, Sir Silver’s belt is plated in silver. I doubt you expected that as well, eh?’
Grannit smiled for the first time, but shook his head.
‘Good. There’s plenty of knights knocking around without the kit or coin of Sir Silver about their person. But who knows, son, you might make it up the ranks one day and be knighted yourself. Stranger things have happened, especially in these parts.’ He winked and sat back onto his chair, sighing as the weight left his legs.
‘I can only hope, Needles.’
‘Needles?’ The quartermaster laughed. ‘Only my friends call me that, son. It’s Master Taylor for now. Now, now, no sulking in here. I don’t doubt it’ll be long until we’re glugging gallons of ale together around a fire.’ It was Needles’ turn to lick his lips. ‘You’ve something about you, Master Grannit, and you’ll do fine in this company if you keep that something about you at all times. Understood?’
Grannit smiled again and nodded. ‘Understood, Master Taylor, and thank you.’
‘No need to thank me, son, just don’t rely on that padding too much, eh? It’ll take harder hits than most people would think, but it won’t save your life if the blow or thrust is right, or lucky.’
Grannit patted his chest and understood. ‘Sir Silver said to pick up some arms and armour. He gave me this.’ The golden coin gleamed despite the poor light.
‘Shit a block of, well…granite, why not… He gave you that? Truly? I mean, I know he’s richer than a dwarf and all, but…’ Needles filled his cheeks and let the breath out slowly.
‘Aye, Master Taylor, he did.’ Grannit grinned and handed it over.
‘Well, son, I ain’t no smith, but I tell you something for nothing, a coin like this in my pouch ensures I’ll see you right. He said arms and armour, did he?’ Needles frowned whilst eyeing the gold penny.
Grannit confirmed it whilst looking about the tent. His hopes died a little as he noticed a complete lack of iron.
‘Sort that face out, son.’ Needles got to his feet with a groan, led Grannit to the tent flap, and pointed across the way. ‘My mate, Trout, is a journeyman smith. I kid you not. Take this thong to him…’ Needles held out an intricately twisted and knotted leather thong, and Grannit took it, confused. ‘Take it and give it to young Trout. This’ll show him you came from me, and he’ll sort you out.’
‘And the coin?’ Grannit asked, staring from thong to penny, leather to gold, unsure whether he was being had.
‘The coin stays with your mate Needles, son. And Needles sees his own are set up right.’
With a shove, Grannit stumbled out of the tent and into the sunlight, thong in his hand, his feet carrying him to the smoking smithy across the way.
Pushing a sword into a man’s chest, through iron links and the wool-stuffed padding beneath—not to mention through skin, muscle and between ribs before piercing the doings inside—was tougher than Grannit thought. The psychological barriers were almost as tough as the physical. Until the second man came at him, that was. The barriers fell away altogether by the third and fo
urth, but by Sir Samorl did Grannit’s right arm ache. All the pell hacking in his lifetime couldn’t have prepared muscles he’d never felt ache before from burning as he thrust and thrust and thrust some more.
‘Bollocks,’ Needles said to Grannit that night, whilst they sat around a fire, sewing clothing and skin, working burs out of blades and attempting to remove the rust that appeared after the lightest of rains.
Grannit looked up, the stitches pulling skin taught across his neck. He’d been lucky, his mates said. Lucky the lunge he’d almost avoided hadn’t ran through his neck and out the other side. Still hurt like a blind barber had been at him though.
‘Bollocks to what, Needles?’ Grannit maintained his frown. He’d been surprised, then proud, then sick, then quiet after the battle, but after the stitching, and the small-beer they’d had their fill of, the stories had come out and he was proud again. So, to have his best friend call out bollocks to his story nearly had Grannit surging to his feet. Anyone else and he would have, blood still up after a day’s bloody work.
‘Bollocks, son, to a lifetime at the pell not helping you. War’s a lifelong business if you want to be a knight. You’ve spent barely a cycle of the moon with the earl’s army and far less at the pell. `Course your arm’s aching. `Course your sword felt like a log a short way into the scrap.’
‘That won’t last?’ Grannit asked, dared hope.
Needles spat and shook his head, eyes on his bronze needle as it passed through leather, repairing the sole of Grannit’s left boot. Not Grannit’s original boot, mind, but half of the pair he’d taken from a corpse on the field.
‘How long then until I can fight all day without my arm and shoulder and `morl knows what else burning?’
A grunt of a laugh and Needles looked up. ‘I never said that would happen, son. But did you see the knights? Did you see Sir Silver whilst on the field?’
Grannit shrugged and shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Oh, I guess you were busy. Well,’ Needles began to explain, leatherwork needle jabbing at Grannit like a miniature sword, ‘Sir Silver and the like train and train and train. They wear their armour almost all the time whilst on campaign, unless we’re completely free of danger. They wear it and they fight in it, be it against the pell or one another. They practice with sword and lance and hand, on foot and from the saddle. Why?’
‘So they can be the best,’ Grannit said, easily.
Needles rocked his thick head from side to side. ‘Yes and no. Of course, they want to be the best, but war, especially battle itself, isn’t just the art of combat and strategy. It’s fitness! A tired man might slip up, literally if he’s too exhausted to stay on his feet. Your arm fails to lift that pig-sticker you got there…’
Grannit frowned down at his arming sword. He was immensely pleased with it despite it being at least one other’s before he got his hands on it. Sir Silver’s gold penny, given to Needles, had gone a long way. Arming sword and rondel dagger. Padded gambeson and kettle-helm. Grannit never expected to have such gear so quickly. All he needed now was some damned maille to stop his neck being opened up again in the future.
‘If that sword,’ Needles went on, clearly recognising the hurt in Grannit’s face at the slight against his sword, ‘lags your arm enough to miss a parry, you’re for the dirt. Simple. If those legs of yours give out, bringing you to one knee like you’re ready to receive a title, then your kettle-helm won’t do shit all to protect the nut inside.’ Needles mimicked a flailing fall as the firelight danced across his grimacing face. ‘You bloody well fall flat in some of the shit weather we get up here on the border and you’ll drown in the mud and puddles as lads from both sides scramble over you, taking you for a corpse. And what then, son? No knighthood for you, eh? No Sir Grannit of Rowberry then. No. Your boots are another’s, as is your iron lid and your sharps.’
‘Fitness keeps you going.’ Grannit voiced his understanding. He may understand words, or enough to write his name and a few other bits, but life on the march and fighting, real fighting, not the sort he’d grown up with in Rowberry, all fists and sticks, was a continuous lesson.
‘Fitness keeps you fighting, son. Fitness, the likes of which Sir Silver possesses, keeps a knight thrusting and hacking and slashing and jabbing. They move like a shade, flowing from one stance to another, working their swords or hammers or `morl knows what with both hands. Their legs move in practiced ways to put them where they need to be for strike or defence. But their fitness must allow it, Grannit lad. Their breathing and concentration must remain constant because you can bet your teeth that one slip up through exhaustion, just one, will be exploited by the bastard opposite or to the side. Armour may take a blow, but a knight on a knee has his soft bits prodded until he’s pumping red across his shiny plate.’
Grannit watched as Needles pretended to jab his tiny bronze sword up under his arm, then his eyes before moving to the back of his knees and, finally, and with the most enthusiasm, between his legs.
‘Jab, jab, jab,’ he said, ‘and the best knight is dead. Fitness, son. Fitness is what keeps you at it, bastard man after bastard hobyah after bastard adlet. And those latter foes, mark my words, they keep on coming even when they’re stuck twice, even thrice.’ He tapped below his eyes with his finger. ‘I’ve seen the fuckers, son. I’ve seen them go at men, jaws snapping, spears sprouting from their backs like hedgehogs, with arrows making them look like my pin pads down here.’ He pointed his toe at one, bristling with pins. ‘What beats a mad foe like that, eh? Finesse with a sword or the fitness to keep on swinging it?’
Grannit nodded slowly whilst working his aching shoulder.
‘The fitness, every time,’ he said, eyes on Needles.
‘No.’
Arm dropping by his side, Grannit’s brow creased. He opened his mouth to speak.
‘Both!’ Needles cut in and corrected him. ‘Deft skill and fitness alike. That’s why a knight’s a knight and you’re just a lad with a sword—’
Grannit made to protest.
‘—for now!’ Needles added. ‘For now, son.’ And he winked.
The day was hot, and it felt like the longest in Grannit’s life. It’s true that waiting in camps drags on, as does marching, but there’s something about a battle that makes every moment feel like an age. Whether it’s manoeuvring according to barked orders and tooting horns, or crashing into flanks and shoving and clambering, stabbing and kicking and slashing and, truth be told, biting, if it comes down to it.
Grannit’s muscles burnt. His sword-arm felt leaden and his feet throbbed. He was sure his soles had worn through again. March leagues and they last…until the moment you need them. Mud sucked at his feet and hard edges poked through, catching and stumbling him in ways that would see him fall were he not an experienced, and fit, man-at-arms.
He swayed to the side to avoid an incoming spear thrust. As the shaft past him by, he grabbed it with his left hand and pulled its wielder towards him whilst stepping in. His sword pressed through the hobyah’s stomach, which was a feat considering the muscle packed into that space.
Jaws gnashed at Grannit’s face, but not for long. The length of the day led to many staggering and swinging lazily on both sides. Not Grannit. He pumped his burning arm, threshing the insides of the tall goblinkin whilst keeping its head back with a well-timed grab of the neck. He squeezed and he stabbed and he twisted his sword whilst choking the already dying hobyah.
The burn in his arms and legs and lungs was familiar now. He’d never lost it, he’d merely become used to it and knew, as Needles had told him again and again before he’d left the world via consumption, that Grannit would never lose that burn and exhaustion, not in battle where he’d be tested beyond anything he could put himself through during training. No, he’d never lose it, but he’d come to appreciate it, manage it, and when it counted most, push through it. He knew now, had done for some years, like Needles had said, that the burn was a good burn. That it was the growing and hardening of muscle.
Grannit knew that after this fight, should he survive, Sir Samorl think him willing, he would be stronger and faster and fitter for it. As long as he didn’t succumb to the softening touches of life as a soldier; strong ale and mead and over-eating as some men did when given the opportunity. No, Grannit knew that the pell and the yard and the battlefield itself was what he needed. Because, one day, he would become a knight. And he was damned sure he was close as he finished off the last hobyah standing and raised his longsword to cheers all around.
‘String me up and let the rooks have my eyes,’ Grannit said to Sir Silver as they walked from the burning village. It’d been years since they’d faced goblins and hobyahs, and this last fight had been a close call.
‘How do you think I feel, Sergeant Grannit?’
Grannit looked sidelong at the greying—now aptly named—Sir Silver. ‘Fair one, my lord. Fair one.’
Sir Silver smiled and stopped. It took three paces for Grannit to realise and retrace his steps.
‘My lord?’ Grannit asked, noticing the thoughtful look on Sir Silver’s face.
‘I’ll not survive another fight like that, sergeant.’
Grannit frowned. ‘Goblins, my lord?’
‘Who or whatever, sergeant. I don’t have the life in me to go on. I slipped, you know?’ He paused, his rhetorical question seeming to stall his meaning. ‘No…I stumbled. There was no mud in that village, so dry was this summer. There was nothing to catch my foot.’ He looked down at his blooded plate legs and sabatons. ‘My knee gave out as I stepped back, and I almost left you all to meet Sir Samorl.’
Grannit made to speak, to tell Sir Silver he was wrong, but the ageing knight—not a ten-year older than Grannit—held up his gauntlet to halt Grannit’s words, gold-chased fingers splayed.
‘It gave out because I’ve not the strength I had. I spend less time at the pell and at tilt, especially the latter, because it hurts my bones, sergeant. It hurts my everything. Old wounds and old bones and old muscles wasting away.’
Art of War Page 20