The Story of Silence

by Alex Myers

  As the weather grew warmer, the pages could spend more time outside the hall, running through the castle yards, playing elaborate games of hiding and leaping out at each other. The other servants cursed them, or laughed, and occasionally would join in with the running and chasing. One day, when the pages had been released from their chores, they ran wild through the yard behind the stables, where a flock of sheep and goats were kept. Wendell split them into two groups. ‘Hunters.’ He pointed at the group he was in. ‘Quarry.’ He pointed to the other group, where Silence stood beside Alois. ‘We’ll say two paternosters. Bounds are here to the kitchen.’

  And with that, Silence’s group set off. They scurried behind a goat pen and conferred, deciding to lay a false trail by thumping on the side of the storehouse, as if they were climbing inside, and then quietly sneaking over to the sheds where the goats and sheep spent the night. With much (muffled) giggling they did so, Alois mouthing the paternosters to keep track of the time. In the shed, they were surrounded by the familiar smell of dung and wool and straw, and paused as they adjusted to the dimness. Then the boy at the head of the group saw a rickety ladder and pointed. They climbed into a tiny loft crammed full of straw; they drew the ladder up after them and sat in the near-darkness waiting. Quiet. Still. They could hear the sheep outside, bleating. They could hear the sea, far off but still roaring. They sat with their knees to their chests and Silence thought, these are my fellows. We will be squires together and knights together and fight together. Then came the calls and whistles and sounds of the other pages. ‘Did you check here?’ ‘Go over there!’ The pounding of footsteps as they ran about.

  Below them, the door of the shed opened, letting in a burst of sunlight. ‘Check back there.’ That was Wendell’s voice. Alois inched over to the opening they’d climbed through and peeked down. ‘I see you!’ Wendell shouted. And then, even louder, ‘In here! They’re in here!’ The other pages pushed through the door and began shouting up at them. ‘We win! We win!’

  ‘No you don’t!’ Alois called back, his voice high and thin. ‘You can’t get up here!’ The other pages took up his taunts and began heaving handfuls of straw down, coating the boys beneath.

  ‘Get a ladder!’ Wendell said.

  Now bits of straw floated through the air, along with taunts and curses and threats. Silence scooped up an armful and waited for the page to approach below to set up the ladder, then hurled the straw right in his face. ‘Aaah! Aaah-choo!’ He nearly fell off the ladder with the force of his sneeze.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Master Waldron’s voice boomed through the shed. ‘All of you, get out!’

  Still giggling and sneezing, the pages trooped down the ladder and out into the sunshine, lining up beneath the man’s gaze. ‘This is why boys aren’t given free time,’ Master Waldron said. ‘Look at you all.’ Silence glanced down the row; they did all have enough straw sticking to them that they looked like thatched roofs. For himself, another sneeze was building and his back itched terribly where some straw had got beneath his tunic. He wriggled his shoulder blades, which didn’t help. ‘You are due for your lessons. Do you think Father will welcome you into the chapel in this state? I want you all to strip off your tunics, shake them clean, wash yourself in the barrel there, and go to your lessons. And then I’ll see you at the pell.’ He paused. ‘Well?’

  Immediately the other pages pulled their tunics over their heads. Wendell stepped up to the barrel by the shed, which was brimful of rainwater, and began splashing water on his bare neck and shoulders. Silence glanced at him, glanced at the others, busily shaking the straw from their clothes. It would feel nice to take the tunic off … and his chest didn’t look any different from theirs … but if his father saw him, or Griselle saw him …

  ‘You as well, Silence. You’re as dirty as the rest of them,’ Master Waldron said.

  ‘Sir. My father has ordered me to do all my washing in my chamber,’ he stammered. This rule, meant to protect him, was going to be his downfall. They would wonder and they would, at best, think him deformed.

  ‘Very well,’ Master Waldron said. ‘Your father is correct. It isn’t fitting for an earl’s son to wash in the common yard. Get up to your chamber, then. And you will still meet me at the pell later.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Silence said and turned to hurry off, his arms itching fiercely.

  ‘Too good for us, then?’ one page hissed.

  ‘Weakling, weakling,’ another taunted, sing-song.

  ‘Good thing he is the earl’s son,’ Silence heard Wendell say, ‘otherwise such a coward would never be a page.’

  Silence’s face burned as he jogged across the yard, and when he reached the hall, he broke into a hard run, pounding down the corridor and up the stairs to his chamber, where he stripped off his tunic and threw it to the floor. Hot tears flooded his eyes and he angrily wiped them away. He was not a weakling. And he couldn’t help being the earl’s son. Nor could he help his Nature. He poured water into a basin and splashed it on his face, his shoulders, pulling stuck bits of straw off his arms.

  He stared into the speckled mirror, his chest bare and pale. He had a bruise on his left ribs, purple-blue, from where he’d been hit while sparring; the padded jackets kept ribs from breaking, but a hit still hurt. Otherwise, his torso was smooth and unmarred. How was he so different from the other pages? He was taller than many. Skinnier than most. He would never have Master Waldron’s barrel chest, but nor would he ever have a bosom like Griselle’s. Would he?

  No. He flexed his arms so the cords of his muscles stood out. He looked at his forearms, tanned from where he rolled back the sleeves of his tunic to do his chores. The gouges from the wolf had lost their livid red, settled into the mottled brown of scars. Three of them, traced from elbow to wrist. No. He would not ever look like Griselle or Lady Elizabeth. He stared hard at his own face and found it utterly unreadable: not handsome, with the perfect Cupid’s bow of lips. Not beautiful, with its broad cheeks chapped from wind and sun. Not plain, for his eyes were the restless green-grey that he often saw in the ocean’s waves. Just … everything, nothing. He picked off the last of the straw and shrugged a clean tunic on, then hurried down to the chapel.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The midsummer festival approached, the biggest event at Tintagel, with jousting for the knights, and sparring, wrestling and other contests of skill for the squires and pages. Griselle, on orders from his father, had forbidden Silence from entering any contest – they didn’t want him drawing attention to himself through winning or through losing – and he chafed at the restriction. The closer the festival drew, the harder Master Waldron worked them, but he also let them watch Tintagel’s knights practise as well, freeing them from their lessons with the priest to do so. They’d sit on the side of the yard and Master Waldron would narrate what the knights were doing: Watch that footwork! See how he feints! Or explain the points of balance when one held a lance.

  The pages watched in awe and when the knights tilted against each other, they took bets on who would win. Sir Steven wore all black; his family – a wife and four children – had died in a bout of pox that had left the knight terribly scarred. And, it was said around the keep, also left him filled with a terrible rage. Certainly it seemed that way when he fought, even against Tintagel’s other knights. Most of the pages feared him, though Wendell often bet on him and won. Sir Lewis had a dozen favours to choose from when it came to decorating his helm, one from every eligible maiden at the keep, but he was luckier with the ladies than at sparring or jousting. The pages loved him because he would tell them stories at the fireside, but no one would place a bet upon him. And everyone, of course, would bet on Sir Jackin. The ladies still swooned for him, though he was married. For he was tall and sturdy, but not as beefy and thick as Sir Gregory. And he was clever and well spoken, but not the type to deliver a dry lecture, like Sir Lervais.

  On one fine summer morning, the pages loafed and watched as Sir Steven battered at Sir Gregory, landing blow
after blow on the heavy knight’s ribs and shoulders until at last Sir Gregory cried mercy. And with that, Master Waldron ordered all the pages up. ‘There’s a very apt lesson from Sir Steven in how to work at the pell. And also a lesson in being merciful.’ He led them away from the yard and set them in their usual pairs. ‘Think you all of St George, patron of our good King Evan. Think of how St George fought against his dragon for a full day and into the night before killing it. That is how a knight must fight – with courage and strength. A battle isn’t won in a single blow.’ Silence shuffled his feet against the well-packed dirt of the practice yard.

  ‘Set your stance! And strike to the ribs!’ Master Waldron called. Silence brought his waster down, the blunted blade ringing against the wood, sending a shudder through his arm to his shoulder. ‘And back, retreat and regain your stance!’ Two steps back, his feet shuffling against the sand of the practice yard. He held his shield before him, his sword hilt even with his hip, blade cocked and ready.

  ‘You are not woodsmen,’ Master Waldron yelled as he walked along the row of pages. ‘And the pell is not a tree trunk. So do not treat your sword like an axe.’ He paused beside Silence and lifted his eye patch to scratch beneath. Silence tried to catch a glimpse of what the patch normally hid, but he saw no more than reddened scar tissue. ‘Thrust to the head!’ came the command. Silence made a quick lunge, darting out from behind his shield with the dulled point of his waster, banging it against the pell. ‘And reverse cut to the neck.’ Reverse cut meant he should swing the blade over his head and land the blow. He knew that. And he knew it was a useful cut to make when an opponent’s blade got stuck in one’s shield. But knowing these things didn’t help. As he arced the blade, he fell off balance, and his blade clanged off the pell at knee height.

  ‘Follow through,’ Master Waldron scolded. ‘Mind how they do it.’ He called, ‘Again!’ And Silence watched as the pages along the line of pells took two quick steps back, set their stances, lunged forward, made their thrusts, and swung their swords around to land a cut to the neck. ‘You see?’ Master Waldron asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Silence said. He looked down at the burly weapons master, whose chest bulged like a barrel, and whose arms were thick as a smith’s. For all his height, for all his effort these past months, Silence could not manage many of the moves at the pell. The straightforward strikes and thrusts, yes. The retreat and advance and side-angle, some of the time. But the trickier manoeuvres evaded him.

  ‘You must not be lazy, my lord, on account of being the earl’s son,’ Master Waldron said. ‘Try it once more.’

  Now the other pages watched as Silence ran through the moves. He could hear them laughing, now and then a taunt, a hissed, ‘Couldn’t kill a mouse!’ He tried to ignore them and instead focus on the thrust, his legs extended in a long lunge. Now, swing the sword; he twisted his wrist, feeling the waster tug at the sinews of his arm as he willed it to come around cleanly. No. The blade angled low once again, striking rib-high on the pell.

  ‘Weak,’ Master Waldron said. ‘You aren’t trying.’

  ‘I am …’ Silence grated, but was careful to keep his comment quiet. Master Waldron did not tolerate disagreement. His cheeks, already flushed from the effort of striking the pell, burned even hotter as the criticism rained down on him. He could hear Wendell snickering and couldn’t bear the thought of all the pages staring at him. He would not cry.

  ‘Practice is the antidote to weakness. One hundred times, Silence.’ Master Waldron turned away and ordered the other pages to clear off.

  Laughter rang as the other pages trotted away from the practice yard. Just him, out here on the pell. Be like St George. How Master Waldron loved to tell them that as they worked. But Silence felt no courage, no nobility, no strength. He let his arms hang heavy, his waster and shield useless weight. He stood there until he could no longer hear chatter or footsteps. Until he was certain he was alone.

  He stepped back and began the forms. Strike to the ribs. Retreat. Set his stance. He would do this a hundred times. And a hundred times he would come close to doing it right, but not quite make it. Or he’d manage the reverse cut once at head height, but not again. He kept a dull count with every failed strike. One. Two … Sixteen … Twenty-four. Sweat dripped down from his hair, streaking his face, joined perhaps by a tear or two. He would not cry. He snorted back a noseful of snot and bit his lip to keep it from trembling. Reset his stance. Twenty-five. Twenty-six.

  ‘Hold there,’ came a deep voice behind him, and Silence turned around, letting the point of his waster drop to the ground. ‘I hope you wouldn’t do that with a real sword,’ said Sir Jackin.

  ‘No, sir,’ Silence replied, lifting the blade up. ‘Never.’

  ‘You must practise as if it is a real sword. Practice is how you’ll become a knight.’ He wore a boiled leather jerkin and his own sword, belted at his side. The breeze off the ocean picked up his red-brown curls and swept them across his forehead.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Silence mumbled. Though what he wanted to say was, what’s the use? I’ll never be a knight.

  Sir Jackin stroked his chin. He kept his beard close-shaven and his fingers made a scrtch, scrtch as he stood there, legs spread in a wide stance, staring first at Silence, studying him from toes to head (it was not a menacing look, but it still made Silence tremble; what did Sir Jackin see? Could he tell what was missing? What was hidden beneath Silence’s leggings?) and then put a hand to the weathered wood of the pell, idly picking off a few splinters. ‘The trouble,’ he said slowly, ‘with arms instruction is that the master tends to think there is only one way to do something.’ He untied his sword from his belt and held it out to Silence. ‘Hold that for me, a moment.’

  Silence gawped at Jackin but took the sword; a knight’s sword … holding it was a squire’s job. Jackin rolled his shoulders forward and backward, swung his arms, as if limbering up, then held his hand out. ‘Pass me the waster.’ Silence did so and stood back a step, the sword in its scabbard warm in his hands, as if it glowed with its own power, and watched as Jackin took a few practice swings. Then the knight said, ‘What is right for one man is not right for another. After all, would another man’s shoes fit you?’

  ‘Hardly, sir.’

  ‘Exactly. And just as Master Waldron’s boots would pinch your feet, his strikes are ill-fit to your body. You’re near as tall as I am.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Silence said. ‘I’m taller even than my father.’

  ‘And taller by far than Master Waldron. And thinner too.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Silence agreed, rather less happy about this fact.

  ‘I looked the same when I was your age,’ Sir Jackin said. ‘That’s why I’ve been watching you. You remind me very much of myself.’

  ‘I doubt that, sir,’ Silence said. ‘You are at the top of the lists for the tourneys, and I struggle to …’

  ‘You sit a horse as well as any knight of the keep. It’s only your sword form that suffers.’ He lifted the waster and set himself in ready stance before the pell. ‘You will never strike like Master Waldron does. And he will never understand that as anything but weakness. It isn’t weakness; it is simply that a long, thin body like yours has no strength for such a swing as this.’

  Sir Jackin flowed through the strike, the lunge, the thrust, and the final reverse cut. ‘I can land it,’ he said, ‘but without any power. Practise, and you will land it, too. But never, ever use it on the field. For a body like we have,’ Sir Jackin continued (and Silence felt a swell of pride to think that he had a body like Sir Jackin’s, who everyone said was tall and handsome and stately), ‘we must use our limbs to our advantage and not get entangled close. Try this.’

  He stepped back again, made the initial strike and retreat, the thrust, but then he darted back once more, sweeping low. ‘With long legs, we can stay out of range of our opponents and strike to our advantage. Take them out at the knee or ankle. If Waldron tried that, his enemy would be right upon him. Try it on me.�
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  Silence did, a dozen times, sweeping Jackin’s legs out from under him, trying a different sort of reverse cut, swung underhand. ‘And push with the shield more,’ Jackin said. ‘Waldron will teach you every time to get in close. But for you, create distance, that is crucial.’ Silence did as he was told, sweat streaming from under his helm. Jackin stood, long arms crossed over his chest, correcting footwork, but mostly watching. ‘Very nice,’ he said at last. ‘I hope that soon, with your father’s blessing, I can take you as a squire.’

  Sir Jackin’s squire? Every page wished for such … but why would Jackin want him? And more pressingly, would his father ever permit it?

  The knight swept around, his cloak brushing up the yard’s dust in a dashing sweep.

  ‘Back to the pell. You owe Master Waldron a hundred reverse cuts. While you are a page, you must follow his rules.’

  At last the midsummer festival arrived. Nobles from across Cornwall gathered, filling the chambers of Tintagel; hedge knights pitched tents in the fields outside the castle walls, or crowded in to share a spot in the straw of the stables or kennels. Master Waldron had kept the pages busy spreading fresh lime on the walls, sweeping the hall, and dragging massive rakes across the dirt of the pitch. Carpenters filled each day with a ceaseless pounding as they assembled a viewing pavilion and shaded rest areas for the ladies.

  And how many ladies there were! While the pages readied the gear for sparring – mending tatters in the padded jackets, adding extra stuffing to the gloves – they watched a procession of women ride out on ponies and palfreys, baskets on their arms. ‘Going flower picking, I bet,’ one of the pages sneered. Silence didn’t think he’d mind an afternoon picking flowers, but knew better than to say it.