The Story of Silence

by Alex Myers

  ‘What actions merited a reward?’ Alois piped up, and Silence noticed that the pages across the table were leaning close.

  A familiar flush rose up Silence’s neck. ‘I happened upon Lord Wendell’s daughter, about to be attacked by a wolf. I fought the beast off.’ He held out his arm, with the gouges still scabbed over.

  The pages breathed an appreciative sigh.

  ‘My father killed the wolf,’ Wendell said, his face red. ‘Not you.’

  ‘If you’re talking, you’re done eating,’ Master Waldron called. Down the length of the table, pages stuffed crusts of bread in their mouths and swallowed what remained in their mugs. ‘To the pells.’

  To one unversed in sword training, the pell might appear little more than a denuded tree trunk. But, in truth, the pell has brought misery and woe to many a young man. Even Earl Cador, toiling long ago as a page in King Evan’s court, had been brought to tears before this wooden foe. Silence had never seen such a thing as a pell, but as he strode along behind Master Waldron, they left the keep for the yard, turned behind the stables, went out through a garden where chickens already pecked, and emerged in what looked like a strangely truncated forest.

  A dozen blocks of wood, each as tall as a man, stood planted firmly in the ground. Each bore marks of battle, chips and chunks had been broken loose, dents had been battered in. ‘A pair to a pell. A waster and a shield,’ Master Waldron called. Silence, confused, grabbed Alois’s shoulder as a drowning man might seize at a floating branch. The younger boy led them to a shed along the wall of the yard and they, along with the other pages, picked up a wooden shield, its leather handles smooth and slick, and a waster – a blunted sword that Silence heaved with both hands.

  ‘Alois, help him get ready,’ Master Waldron said.

  They stood in front of one of the battered pells, and Alois strapped the shield to one of Silence’s forearms and handed him the waster to hold in the other hand. The two were heavy, dragging his shoulders down, but they seemed to balance each other, cumbersome though they were.

  ‘Ready stance!’ Master Waldron called. Silence looked down the line of pages, a full dozen of them standing each before their pell. He stepped forward, waster up, his shield in front of his chest. Alois whispered instructions he couldn’t quite hear – his ears were ringing. Perhaps it was the roar of the sea, perhaps it was his own excitement. He had a sword, and a shield. He was learning to be a knight at last!

  Something pushed him from behind and he toppled forward, trying to catch himself, but made clumsy by the weight of the shield. He fell in a heap to the ground and Alois bounded over to help him up. ‘Ready stance,’ bellowed Master Waldron, who had been the one to shove Silence. ‘Right foot ahead. Angle your body. Hold that sword here.’ He yanked the waster up and out. ‘And the shield. Not straight up and down.’

  Silence’s face burned and his ears rang louder. He stared at the pell. Master Waldron’s footsteps crunched away on the sand of the yard. ‘And steady! Advance! Strike high.’ Silence had no idea what to do and risked a glance; the other boys were stepping in and swinging their wasters, so Silence did the same, whack, whack, whack, whack, metal met wood down the line. The impact shuddered down Silence’s arm as the waster bounced off the pell. ‘Keep your sword up. Up!’ Master Waldron bellowed. ‘Your shield, too!’ Horrified, Silence noticed that he’d let his shield droop almost to the ground. He hauled his arm up. For a piece of wood, the shield was awfully heavy.

  ‘Retreat! Circle left. Feint!’

  Again and again, they were ordered to attack the pell. Soon, Silence’s sword hand was numb, his shoulder aching. And just as he thought he couldn’t keep the shield aloft any longer, Master Waldron called out, ‘Switch!’ and he nearly collapsed as Alois took the equipment from him. His breath came in heavy gasps and he fought the urge to put his hands on his knees and pant like a dog. None of the other pages was doing so. But his surreptitious glances down the line showed that they, too, were sweaty-faced and rolling their shoulders. Now Master Waldron barked at this new set of attackers. Silence was happy to see that he corrected Wendell’s stance twice. And as his breathing grew steadier, he calmed a bit and paid attention to what Master Waldron was saying – how tight to grip the sword, how to angle the shield. Silence’s body moved in response to the commands, quite unconsciously, practising the steps, tilting his hips. ‘That’s it, boy,’ Master Waldron said appreciatively as he drew near to correct Alois’s form. ‘That’s how you’ll improve. Practise on the pell, practise off the pell.’

  Three rounds of battering the pell. On the last, Master Waldron commanded them to ‘Strike like St George!’ and if it hadn’t been for that, for the idea of a dragon and a lady to rescue, Silence thought he might have collapsed. As it was, he could barely lift his arms to put the waster away. The last time he had been this sore was when Cook had him churning butter all day.

  ‘Hurry now! To the stables.’

  They were handed over to grooms, and, under the watchful eye of Master Waldron, made to saddle and armour a horse, as if readying it for a knight. Then take all of it off. Do it again. At last, though, they each saddled their own horse, leading them out of the yard and onto the green, rocky grounds that stretched beyond Tintagel’s walls. Clopper tossed his head and whuffed at Silence, who resisted the urge to lean forward from the saddle and stretch out along the creature’s neck. He often did so at Ringmar, but it wouldn’t be proper here. He ventured a little scratch between the horse’s ears and left it at that.

  The breeze tickled them steadily, a cool relief, as they rode, and soon Silence’s sweat had dried. That and the sea air left him feeling salty as cured meat. Master Waldron rode a fine horse of his own, so dark brown it was nearly black, a gelding that must have seen its share of battles, given the marks that scored its flanks (though, unlike its rider, it still had both its eyes). For a time, they just rode, warming up the horses, and Silence was grateful for the chance to learn the terrain, for the rocky ground was most unlike the mossy sponge of Ringmar’s woods, and the open dome of sky and sea felt peculiar after the forest’s enclosing arms. Clopper shook his head and danced away from the other mounts, now and then nipping if one came too close. Silence had to admit that he felt about the same amount of skittishness as his mount.

  At last, when they reached a flatter stretch, Master Waldron had them line up and ride close, practise tight turns at a trot and then at a gallop. Master Waldron showed them how he could turn his horse without his hands on the reins at all, and had them try. Clopper trotted along and, when Silence squeezed with his left thigh and dug in with his right heel, the horse wheeled about, neat as you please. It was a trick the groom had taught him long ago, during the hours they spent together.

  ‘Well done!’ Master Waldron cried. ‘You may not know a waster from a ladle, but you can ride. Even on a carthorse like that.’

  Silence wanted to clamp his hands over Clopper’s ears. He was no carthorse! But he sat tall and straight in his saddle and said only, ‘Thank you, sir.’

  There were lessons with the castle’s priest, where pages read aloud from the Bible and Silence struggled to stay awake – when had he ever been so tired? And more chores to be done. And, at last, dinner in the great hall. Griselle dragged him away from a game of dice to get him ready for dinner.

  ‘But the others, they don’t …’ Silence protested when Griselle tugged him off by the collar of his jacket.

  ‘The others are not Earl Cador’s son,’ she snarled. He shook himself free and trudged up the stairs ahead of her. They had been given a chamber high up, a small but airy room, with two narrow windows where the wind whistled past. If he leaned out, he could look straight down to the sea, though the view made him dizzy.

  Griselle poured water from a ewer into a basin. ‘Off with those clothes. Look how dusty you are.’

  Haw, haw. Silence jerked his head up from the buttons of his jacket, saw a big crow perching on the ledge of the window.

  ‘Shoo,
you nasty thing!’ Griselle flapped her hands at the bird, which merely turned its head to gaze at her with its other eye. ‘Mooch! Get it!’ The cat raised its head from where it slept on the bed, gave a beady look to the bird, and went back to sleep.

  Silence stepped over to the window and gazed steadily at the bird. What a funny eye it had; jet black and shiny, but sparkling with intelligence, wit, even. The way its beak curved, it looked amused. ‘Begging pardon, Bird,’ Silence said. ‘Griselle and I need to ready ourselves for the earl’s table.’

  Haw! it laughed, but it spread its wings and took flight.

  Griselle gave a little shudder as it flapped away. ‘I ought to like crows better, I suppose, given that they are on your father’s crest. But ever since …’ She shuddered again. ‘Give me that tunic,’ she said, resuming her normal imperious tone.

  Silence stripped down and washed his face at the basin.

  ‘And did you do well today?’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  ‘And did any of the boys give you trouble? Or ask you odd questions?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And were you able to do what they did?’

  Silence picked at some grime beneath his fingernail. ‘I know that you are worried about my Nature revealing itself. And I know that I will have to work harder than some of the boys. The waster is heavy and so is the shield. But I will manage.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ she said, smoothing his hair back. The chamber had a looking glass, a speckled thing, with streaked silver. Not as good as a clear pool in the woods, but a luxury nonetheless, and Silence examined himself as he pulled on fresh leggings and a tunic, still the dark brown that the pages wore, but worked with a fine embroidery of green vines and red berries and, here and there, a crow with a berry in its beak. His face and neck and hands were chapped red by wind and work, but his legs were pale and smooth. Nary a hair upon them, nor a mark. What a contrast! He marvelled at this, the hidden parts of him and the parts of him that were seen, and supposed it was true of all people, that they kept much of their flesh hidden, much of their selves hidden as well.

  He picked at the scabs on his arms until Griselle stopped him. ‘You’ll only make the healing longer and the scars worse.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a scar or two,’ Silence said. ‘Though not quite so many or so like Master Waldron’s.’

  ‘I should say! Hurry now, down to the hall.’

  The steward met them and led them to the high table, which, unlike the rest of the tables in the hall, was circular. Silence could see that the other pages – not looking particularly well scrubbed – stood at their own table below. ‘Can I sit …’

  ‘Hush!’ Griselle chided. ‘Your father.’

  Earl Cador entered, deep in conversation with a younger man. Behind them trailed Master Waldron, a lady on his elbow. Once they reached the table, Cador took the chair that faced out towards the hall, placing Master Waldron on one side, the younger man on the other. Griselle sat beside Master Waldron, Silence beside Griselle, and the lady beside him. ‘Friends,’ Cador said, spreading his arms and speaking loudly to the whole hall, ‘I welcome you. All that is mine is yours.’ He gestured to the priest, who said a (rather lengthy) prayer, and then all were seated.

  Griselle introduced Silence to the lady beside him: ‘Lady Elizabeth, wife to Sir Jackin, who is seated next to the earl.’ Silence rose and bowed to Elizabeth.

  ‘You do me too much honour,’ she said with a charming smile. She wore a white coif and simple garland around her hair, which was nut-brown and glossy. Her eyes were a clear blue and sparkled as she smiled at Silence. ‘How are you finding Tintagel thus far?’

  ‘It is wonderful,’ he said. Laughter and hoots rose up from the tables below and he cast a longing eye at the boys – pages and squires, and men – knights and guards – who sat down there. ‘Is your husband a knight?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Elizabeth replied.

  Then Cador cut in. ‘Sir Jackin is newly raised to the knighthood, and newly married as well. He presented himself most ably in defending against the raiders this past harvest season and was raised up.’ He clapped Jackin on the shoulder. ‘I fear King Evan will call him for service at Winchester.’

  Jackin, who had a square jaw and red-brown hair that curled just above his ears, blushed a bit at this praise and said, ‘I would be honoured to serve King Evan, who is known far and wide for his justice. But, to be most honest, I would prefer to stay and serve you, my lord, for Cornwall is home to me and you are a most generous lord.’

  Silence waited as the others served themselves from the platters on the table and then reached in to fork meat and greens and grab a hunk of bread. As he ate, he studied Sir Jackin, noting how the man was attentive to his wife, offering her choice pieces of meat from his own plate; he noted how he nodded at what Cador said, and laughed at a story Master Waldron told, but judiciously, not the braying that sounded from the table below. Silence admired how he wore his tunic, which, like the other knights’, was black and embroidered with the earl’s coat of arms, belted with a simple strip of leather, well oiled and well worn, and how the knife with which he cut his meat had a perfectly honed edge.

  When the servants came to clear the plates, Jackin leaned towards Silence. ‘And how did you like your first day of training?’

  ‘Very well, sir. The riding better than the pells.’

  Jackin smiled broadly and glanced at Master Waldron. ‘I daresay few like the pells.’

  ‘Like or not, they’d be wise to spend their time there. Battering a pell is more like combat than anything else. Especially your pretty jousting.’

  Earl Cador laughed and, catching the bemused expression on Griselle’s face, said, ‘Sir Jackin is highly favoured in this season’s tilts.’

  ‘Oh! Will there be jousting?’

  ‘Indeed, but not until midsummer. Till then you’ll have to content yourself to watch him practise.’

  Servants brought pitchers of steaming mulled wine, the odours of the spices rising up. Griselle poured Silence a cup and mixed it with water. From below, he heard the sound of a lute, and cheers from the men, and turned to look. An old man sat by one of the hearths and the pages and squires had gathered around as he tuned his instrument. ‘Go on, then,’ Griselle said and gave him a gentle push. Silence rose, bowed to his father, and scurried off to sit with the pages.

  Down here, the hall was darker, except in the circle of firelight. Smellier, too, for the rushes on the floor needed to be changed (Griselle had ordered them freshened most every day at Ringmar) and the boys and men pressed close against each other, and the air smelled of grease and sweat and sour wine. Silence found Alois and settled beside him, where he could see the old man with the lute, perched on a stool. ‘That’s Sticks, Tintagel’s bard,’ Alois whispered to him as the man began to pluck at the strings. The bard had long white hair on the sides of his head and none on the top. The firelight reflected off his broad forehead and cast his face in shadow. He played with his eyes closed and Alois whispered again, ‘He’s nearly blind. He has a boy to lead him about.’

  Now the lute picked up a merry melody and some began to clap along. Sticks smiled, pushing up the wrinkles on his cheeks and revealing a mouth with only a few teeth left, then started to sing. From such an old face, Silence expected a croak, but the bard’s voice rang clear and strong. Low, yes, and with a touch of a growl, but a lovely voice. He sang a song about the spring, whistling for the birdsong, and shushing his breath for the howl of the wind, and reached the chorus and sang it through twice: green grows the heather, and fair is my love, spring comes to Cornwall and hope from above … then paused in his playing and called, ‘Who will sing it with me, now?’ He gazed out at the assembled boys and men, but Silence could see that his eyes were milky and filmed over. ‘Once more!’

  Silence picked up the words and the melody and sang along; he was one of the few who did, though, joined by a baritone guardsman and a couple of raucous squires. His voice was higher an
d clearer than theirs, and Sticks paused again. ‘Who is that?’ he called, his eyes roving wildly. ‘Whose is the high voice?’

  All faces turned towards Silence and he felt his heart thud in his chest. He hadn’t meant to draw attention to himself. He wished very much at that moment that he could slink into a dark corner and disappear, but that would not be courageous, nor would it be honest, so he said, ‘Mine, good sir. I’m Silence, son of Earl Cador.’

  He heard Wendell whispering to a fellow page, heard snickers and Wendell’s guffaw, but he ignored them. He was Earl Cador’s son, nothing would undo that truth.

  The bard made an awkward bow from the stool. ‘Come closer, my lord. Closer. Sing with me again.’ And they sang through the chorus twice, their voices twining together, a sound that made Silence’s skin prickle with delight. His own voice rose out of him as if it were an animal beyond his control, something that longed to run free, and he let it go. When they finished, many in the hall clapped. Silence shot a glance up to the high table, and saw Lady Elizabeth applauding, and Griselle dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. His father had leaned back into shadow, his face unreadable. ‘What other songs do you know?’ the bard asked.

  ‘None, sir.’

  The old man smiled and put a hand on Silence’s shoulder. ‘I will enjoy teaching you. At least until your voice breaks.’

  And so the spring passed. Master Waldron worked the pages from earliest morning until all light was gone. Silence practised with his waster and scurried about chores and was punished for falling asleep during prayers. He earned praise for his horsemanship and was the nimblest of the pages when it came to the trials that Master Waldron set up – leaning from the saddle to scoop a stick from the ground, or weaving his horse at full gallop through a line of stumps. Though he learned the sword forms ably enough and could work them smoothly on his own, Silence struggled to strike the pell the way Master Waldron wanted and, when set to spar in a pair, he could defend himself well, angling the shield effectively, but seldom landed a blow on his opponent. Even Alois, the youngest and smallest of the pages, earned more praise for his strikes. At every available moment, Wendell would tease Silence for this. Wendell held sway in the group and so Silence would hear the other pages hissing at him as he passed: Weakling. Coward.