At wrestling Gil also excelled because the quicker boys could not escape his grip, and the stronger boys were not as agile and clever at applying leverage and switching holds. Gil had taken wrestling in school, and from a bear, which these lads apparently had not.
Horsemanship was another matter. No one could understand how a lad his age could have gone through his whole life having never mounted nor ridden a horse. But his lack of basic skills made him not just atrocious, but a laughingstock.
8. Warsteed of the Ghostlord
Then one night as he was sleeping, Hwydydwg, Drwdydwg, and Llwyrdydwg came to him in a dream and explained that they could give him extra lessons by night on how to sit properly and post and so on. Gil said, “How is this happening? How can you come when I am asleep?”
Hwydydwg said, “Saint Eloy is a friend of ours, and Saint George, who loves all horses and all horsemen who love them. By their permission we are come.”
Drwdydwg said, “Fear not! A fall from a mare in a dream will do you no harm, and no matter your exertions now, you will be well rested in the morning.”
And Llwyrdydwg said, “Humans and horse are much alike. Some are maverick and run alone, and some are stallions and run with the herd. Both know how to lead and how to follow. You have yet to find the knight who shall be your true master and teacher; for you have exchanged no oaths with Bertolac and are not bound. You are a maverick still.”
Gil said, “What can I give you in return?”
Hwydydwg said, “Be kind to all steeds, both true horses and the elfin Destrier. The fairy horses do not age and cannot be slain, yet none of them is his own master. Beasts lack the power to pray to the heaven from which their riders fell. Many an elfin steed is tormented by the memories of those high blue fields.”
Drwdydwg said, “Do you think humans crave Heaven? Not half so much as we horses; for the shining blue fields run on forever, and the old angelic swiftness which we here on Earth can only foreshadow, there is in its full strength. Running in Heaven, we can outrace the bearded comet. Rarely in waking life can we recall this, and when we do, aha! Swifter than arrows, our hoofs!”
And Llwyrdydwg said, “Do not wonder that there are steeds in Heaven. Is it not promised you that the Prince will return riding a White Horse?”
He awoke refreshed, and, the next morning, when no one, not even Bertolac, could mount up the Destrier, who was bucking and tossing his mane, Gil asked if he could have a try. Everyone laughed and hooted at him, and Sir Dwnn grew red-faced with anger and grew two feet in height, but cold-voiced Sir Iaen said it would be good for the boy to learn humility.
Gil approached the beast, petted his nose, and asked his name, which was Du Y Moroedd. Gil asked about his mother, how she was doing, and other small talk like that. The Destrier said, “I was once the steed of Gwynn ap Nudd, who rules the Land of Ghosts. Should the weight of elfs grown gross and heavy as their spirits slowly become solid be allowed to touch my spine?”
Gil said, “How did you come to be in Sir Bertolac’s service?”
“He overthrew the Lord of Ghosts in mortal combat, for he knows the secret of life and death.”
Gil turned and looked at Bertolac, a strange look in his eye, for he was puzzled. He wondered what Bertolac was.
One of the squires called out, “Are you just going to pet and nuzzle the beast all day, Year-to-Live? Your time is running short!”
Gil turned back to the stallion. “Let me ride you, and I will tell you a secret.”
The Destrier twitched his ears suspiciously. “What kind of secret?”
Gil said, “A good one.”
The Destrier said, “I can hear you are telling the truth. A good secret it is!”
So Gil, with some awkwardness, climbed up.
“Put your weight back. No, more the other way,” said the horse, and he coached Gil into the proper posture until it felt right on his back. “Now, the secret is…?”
Gil leaned and whispered in his ear, “In Heaven you can run on the shiny blue fields forever, swifter than a comet! Remember?”
The Destrier obviously did remember then, for he reared and neighed and raced away downslope faster than he had ever run before and cleared the stream in one jump.
Bertolac stared after the boy on his speeding steed with a strange look in his eye, for he was puzzled. He wondered what Gil was.
9. Page Pence
Gil asked Du Y Moroedd to bite and misbehave whenever Gil was not around. Gil said, “I’d like to get a reputation for being good with horses.”
The Destrier said, “But you are good with horses! I like you just fine. You still don’t post properly, but keep trying. No need to be sneaky about it.”
Gil said, “I don’t think it is sneaky to ask a friend to let you show off your talents, right?”
And so after a few days when it became clear that Sir Bertolac could not mount his prize stallion unless Gil was there petting the horse’s nose and holding his bridle, Gil was assigned additional duties as a groom. As it turned out, these additional duties carried additional benefits.
One day, Bertolac on his high war steed and Gil on one of the squire palfreys, Dry, trotted out along the riverside and picked their way from hillock to hillock through the swamp.
Bertolac said, “If you do groom duty, I am expected to give you a silver pence on Michaelmas, or some other like wage. It is called the Page Pence.”
Gil said, “Sir, the wage I request is Sundays off. I need to go to pray and to visit the nearest chapel.”
Bertolac looked at him askance, then turned, and carefully inspected the surrounding woods. “Aaah. eh. Prayer is not exactly a normal activity for elfs.”
Gil said, “Sir, I am not exactly a normal squire.”
Bertolac said, “You know that Alberec has secret police, and spies, and informers, not to mention torture chambers. It is all things that we elfs taught you humans, which you made your own during the Age of Reason, when the final masquerade to hide all trace of elfin overlordship was complete, and all magic and glamour were removed from man. But we also have exquisite variations of our own, nightmare chambers, and witches who can charm the truth out of a born liar, and necromancers who can continue to torment the ghosts of those who die under torture without relent, allowing them no escape.”
Gil said, " ‘You humans’? You have decided I am a human, Sir?"
Bertolac sighed. “Do you deny that you are human? The Sons of Adam are a sacred race, set apart from nature, and only they can shed tears for their sins. For a time, I thought you were a magician, a human using the black arts to impersonate one of the Night World, but magicians have their tear ducts stopped up when they sign their contract of blood. And you are not a Vanir. You could pass for one, but when you stand next to Fjolnir son of Freyr, the difference is obvious.”
“Who?”
Bertolac rolled his eyes. “You blacked his boots last night. The yellow-haired third squire who acts a prefect.”
Just then, perhaps by accident, a flock of birds stirred out of the reeds and seeing Gil, rushed up in a clamor of wings and happy greetings. Some of them shaded his head and fanned his brow with their wings; the others dove into the midges, flies, and bugs nearby and cleared the air of them. Birds were sitting on Gil’s shoulders and on his head.
Gil carefully moved aside a Coppery-tailed trogon that was blocking his view of Bertolac’s surprised face. Gil said ponderously, “Sir, I am not denying that I am a human being.”
Bertolac said, “Aha! That means… wait…”
The Destrier said, “It does not mean anything. If he does not say anything about who he is, he is not denying anything either. Use a little horse sense.”
Bertolac patted the horse absentmindedly on the neck. “Okay, I suppose that it does not mean anything. But why do you want to go to pray? Are you not afraid of Alberec and his secret police?”
Gil said, “No, Sir. Because it is the King’s wish that I stay alive and be trained well enough to compo
rt myself as knight, as much as can be in few months, so that the world will see me go to the Green Chapel.”
The wind started blowing at just that moment, and the sun came out from behind a cloud, and the slanting beams fell on and around Gil and Bertolac. Bertolac scowled up at the sun and said, “It is unchancy to say that name aloud, where the sun might hear you.”
Gil said, “Sir, nonetheless, I cannot present myself to the Green Knight at the appointed hour if I am in the King’s dungeon.”
Bertolac said, “Why do you wish to pray? It is a habit that erodes the self-esteem, exasperates friendships, and creates contention and dispute. A true man would stand on his own!”
Gil said, “Sir? Is that your lesson to me as a knight? To be self-serving? If so, I will depart here and now, not even returning to Uffern House for my possessions, but fleeing away from you with all the speed I might.”
“And drown in the swamp. It is larger than it seems. The lands we call Yaganechito that stretch from Louisiana through Texas to Mexico are a territory the elfs bought from Napoleon back in the day, but human maps and human minds cannot show it, and the nations and tribes that Jackson attempted to destroy still flourish here, and the passenger pigeon still flies in myriads along the coasts. How do you imagine to pass through it freely?”
Gil was smiling at this news, for it was the first time he had heard that he was still on Earth and still in North America. How it could be midwinter in North Carolina and the middle of a heat wave in Southern Louisiana, he was at a loss to explain.
Bertolac said, “Why are you smiling? Does the prospect of death in the Sitimacha swamp or Aztec desert amuse you? Hidden from Christian men, the Aztecs have preserved their nations and customs as well, and it is ill to fall into their hands.”
Gil said, “Sir, should I perish due to your neglect, I trust you will in good faith report the details of your disobedience to your master, the King. Perhaps you can dress up as me with an illusion and go to the Green Chapel in my stead.”
At that moment, the soft, strange, wonderful sounds of church bells ringing in the distance floated across the black pools and reed islands of the mire. Gil asked a quetzal bird, “What bells are those?”
The little bird answered, “The bells belong to Saint Francis de Sales, whose cathedral this is. It is attended by the Sisters of the Holy Cross, who serve Our Lady of the Seven Dolors.”
Bertolac clapped his hands over his ears, squinted up at the sun, grimaced, and took one hand off one ear to shade his eyes. He also answered, “Those are the bells of the White Christ. Storms and witches are confounded by the sound. Have you truly never heard them before?”
Gil said, “I have not heard these bells before. Do they belong to the same Saint Francis who is friends with the bears?”
The little bird said, “No, that is a different Francis. This one is the patron of the deaf. We love him because, although we sing along with all creation every dawn all the praises due the creator, there are men who cannot hear us.”
Bertolac said, “I don’t know to whom they belong. Have you truly never heard church bells before? Count yourself lucky. You must be from Utgard or Ulcoldir or the drowned city of Hy Brasil. What are you? A land-going merman of some sort? A very short giant?”
Gil said, “Sir? I await your answer, Lord. Do you seriously mean to tell me a knight should live for selfish pursuit of self-esteem? Should I dismount and flee from you?”
Bertolac said, “Hmm. I can tell you are not bluffing. Very well: a knight’s life is a life of service, as is his death. His life is a life of honor, as is his death. A knight’s life is this: never to do outrage or murder; to flee treason; to give mercy to him who asks mercy; to protect the weak and defenseless; always to do ladies and widows succor; never to force yourself upon them, but to respect the chastity of women; not to take up battles in wrongful quarrels for love or worldly goods. And in all things to serve your liege lord in valor and faith.”
“Sir, that is well spoken,” said Gil. There was a tear in his eye. Hearing such solemn, solid, old-fashioned words, words that affirmed using one‘s strength to save the weak, to help women, to be true and loyal, and more… weary as he was with the harshness of Uffern, hearing such words made his heart soar.
Bertolac said, “Squire Swan! You have still not told me why you wish to pray. It is not safe for folk of the Night World.”
Gil said, “A message from Saint Eloy came to me in a dream and did me a great service. I realized that I am in a deeper danger than I thought, and I want the aid of so mighty a holy man, and of Mary, and the other Saints, and of the Prince of Heaven. Did not King Arthur say once these words? More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.”
Bertolac, to his immense surprise, answered him by saying, “Wherefore, let thy voice rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats that nourish a blind life within the brain, if, knowing God, they lift not the hands of prayer both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round Earth is every way bound by gold chains about the feet of God.”
Gil listened with his mouth hanging open. He had not known the rest of the quote or had not remembered it. It was from one of the books about King Arthur that Gil had read. Up until this moment, Gil had been convinced that the elfs knew nothing of those books. Why else would parts of the story of Arthur that every schoolchild knew be a shocking surprise to the elfs? But here was Bertolac rattling off the words without a pause.
Bertolac nodded sagely. “I had forgotten you were Arthur’s man. It is an incredible and unbelievable claim for you to make, but I begin to believe it.” Bertolac heaved a sigh. “I cannot stand against one of Arthur’s orders. Since he told you to pray for him and for yourself and your friends, I will not contradict him. He once came to Caer Sidi, you know, and the elfs did not triumph in that encounter. I grant you leave provided you take all precautions that the others of my kind do not discover it.”
“What precautions?”
“Can you cast the illusions to hide you from prying eyes?”
“I cannot.”
“If you are an elf, you must be as sunk in sins as Modsognir to have lost so much. How could you forget all we once knew? Bah! I will have Granny Squannit the Witch arrange to cover you up until you leave Yaganechito. I am no fool to ignore so clear an omen: we are very near the border. You have to cross a bridge of wood and then a bridge of stone, and you will be in the world of men again, where the mists are thin. I reckon it to be seven miles from the edge of the Wildlife Refuge to the center of Houma, where that cathedral is. On horseback you should be able to go and return in the time allotted. I can show you the simple trick all Night Folk use to place their swords and armor partway in the mist so that we can walk among men, without our weapons being seen by them, or recollected if they are. It is our most useful elfwork, and anyone can learn it.”
“I am grateful to you, Lord.”
“Do not be. You have failed to count the cost. It is already April, and you have proven yourself all but worthless so far. We have eight months left to make you worthy of being the lowliest and most raw of knights. Each day must hold two more hour’s worth of work to make up for the twelve hours lost!”
“Yes, sir.”
10. One Last Thing
They rode on for a while. Bertolac at one point squinted at Gil’s face and said, “One last thing: report to me before dawn tomorrow in the Gentleman’s Wardrobe.”
“Sir?”
“You have an unlikely growth of hair on your cheek, and it must be scraped clean if you are to be presentable to the humans at mass.”
Gil, surprised, rubbed his jaw, and felt the wiry fur of a bit of beard there. He had not looked in a mirror for weeks, and he wondered fearfully if the hair was coming in silver, like the hairs of his head, or dark, like the hair of his eyebrows.
Seeing his look, Bertolac must have misinterpreted it, for said in a soft and almost kindly voice, “You have
no father, no uncle, nor grown brother to show you?”
“I have no one, sir.”
Bertolac pursed his lips, looking a little grim. “I will have a maiden boil water and bring soap, and I will show you myself the art of shaving. Every boy learns this when he becomes a man. I will have our witch fetch you an oval shard of volcanic glass to strop into a proper razor. It keeps an edge better than a knife of bronze or flint. It is only a shame that…”
He caught himself and closed his mouth, but Gil knew what he had been about to say. It was only a shame that the squire Year-to-Live would only make use of the art of shaving for the year he had to live.
“I am grateful, sir,” said Gil.
Bertolac was silent for the rest of the ride.
Chapter Eleven: Sabbath Day
1. Stockings and Swamp Herbs
Bertolac was as good as his word. Gil was given an extra two hour’s worth of work to cram into his eighteen available hours of work, training, hazing, and fatigue on Friday and Saturday. When Ruff read the ever-twisting elf-runes from the duty roster, he growled and said Gil was off duty Sundays.
Friday afternoon, after lance practice, between rushing to thatch the roof of the ice-house, to peel potatoes, to climb a rope in full armor, to put an arrow into a clay pigeon, to haul water buckets from stream to cistern, and to mend an older squire’s ripped stockings, he managed to arrange with the older groom (who looked like an ape) and the under cook (who looked like a stump) to have a satchel of bread, cheese, and bologna readied for his Sunday breakfast and to have Ceingalad, one of the two coursers, assigned to his use for that day. The chore of waxing and polishing the saddle, stirrups, bridle, halter, reins, bit, harness, and martingale was added to his load to complete before Friday night lights-out.
He managed this only by asking shy and fidgeting Foxglove, the witch’s maid, to swap chores with him. She would sew the stockings for him, as he was no hand with a needle. In return, he would gather purple loosestrife, fennel, henbane, mint, mugwort, and silkweed from the swamp. She did not want to do it because she was afraid of snakes, Will-o’-the-Wisps, and drowning.
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