by Alex Myers
‘Which one will be your new mother?’ asked Wendell. In the past month, his voice had hopped around and now had settled low.
‘What?’ Silence said and faced the boy; he had avoided looking at Wendell for a while and was surprised to see that his chin had sprouted a few coarse whiskers.
‘Well, isn’t your father going to get married again?’ Alois piped up. ‘I’d think he’d want to.’
‘If he does,’ Wendell said, ‘Silence had better be on his guard. I bet the next earl’s son will be a good bit stronger than him. And better with a sword.’ He guffawed.
Silence shoved more stuffing into the jacket and sewed up the hole; his ears were burning and he longed to take the jacket and throw it in Wendell’s face, but that would not do. He was the earl’s son. How he hated that phrase. Soon enough, the talk turned to tomorrow’s contests, and Silence ended up sitting by himself, as the others jostled and bragged and swore they would win.
The great hall had never been fuller, at least that Silence had seen. Griselle had scrubbed and combed him, muttered at how much he was growing as she buttoned him into a fine jacket, one that boasted Cador’s crest embroidered on the breast. ‘This is beautiful,’ Silence said, when he saw the stitches. The crow had a little bead for an eye, which glittered and caught in the firelight.
‘Thank you,’ Griselle said. ‘I worked that myself.’
And he took her hand and gave her his best bow and a kiss.
Griselle giggled. ‘Oh my. Be careful or you’ll charm the ladies.’
But it wasn’t Silence the ladies were interested in. Wendell had been correct: Earl Cador had no fewer than three young women seated at the high table with him. Silence walked the length of the hall, slowly, shoulders back, as Griselle had instructed, giving a solemn nod to all those he knew. It was strange to see the order of the hall so changed, and the colours and sounds as well. Squires wore tabards with their knight’s colours – green and yellow and crimson and more. The knights themselves took up four tables, pressed close on the benches. The pages stood to help with serving and Silence heard them hiss as he walked by. ‘So pretty,’ one of them whispered with a giggle.
Shoulders back. He came at last to his chair at a table below his father’s; he sat next to Griselle, of course, and was pleased that Sir Jackin and Lady Elizabeth also shared the table. His father entered along with three barons – the fathers of the three young women at the high table – and a hush fell over the hall. ‘It is Midsummer’s Eve,’ the earl said. ‘We celebrate the light that has been returned to our world. The summer sun and all its glory. We will leave the hall this evening and light our bonfire on the highest of Tintagel’s cliffs, that all may see our faith and hope and light.’
The priest offered a prayer, which Silence half-paid attention to – something about the fire being for John the Baptist – but he was much more interested in studying the three ladies at his father’s table. They seemed … young. Older than he was, certainly, but younger than Lady Elizabeth. One had hair the colour of flax, braided and wrapped around her head in a ring and skin as pale as milk. Another wore an elaborate headdress of rich fabric, covering her hair entirely; she had long eyelashes and a slight smile on her lips. The third had brown hair with hints of red-gold and skin dotted with freckles. The prayer ended and Silence watched as his father said something to the freckled lady, making her laugh.
Voices rang out against the stone walls; pages and servants scurried about, delivering long wooden troughs of food to the low tables and silver platters to the high tables. The steward himself oversaw the serving of Cador’s table, sniffing at the jugs of wine that were brought. It was hard to talk with all the hubbub and blather, but Griselle managed to shout across to Sir Jackin, ‘And when will you tilt, good sir?’
‘At midday tomorrow, my lady. The fairest jousts are when the sun stands directly overhead.’
‘I haven’t seen a tourney since I was a girl,’ Griselle said to Silence. It was hard for him to imagine her as a girl. ‘Younger even than you.’
‘And which contest will you take part in?’ Jackin asked Silence.
Griselle answered for him. ‘None. It would be unseemly for the earl’s son.’
‘Truly, my lady? I would think the earl would be proud to have his son compete. All the other pages will.’
‘Silence is not like the other pages.’ She sniffed and delicately speared a piece of venison with her knife.
Silence’s ears rang with the noise of the hall and also with a quiet fury at his humiliation. Yes, he was at Tintagel, but he wasn’t really a page. It wasn’t fair.
When the meal had ended, the earl led the procession out to Tintagel’s cliffs. A mass of wood had been piled up: stumps and driftwood and everything that would readily burn. Over the salt in the air, Silence could smell the pitch, the stickiness of oil that would speed the flames to catch. Earl Cador raised his flaming brand high over his head. ‘For Cornwall!’ he shouted and touched the brand to the pile of wood. It erupted in flame, causing some of those nearest to leap back.
‘Look!’ someone behind him called. Silence turned and saw the man pointing, south down the coast of Cornwall. A burst of orange flared up … and another … and another … this one smaller, further away. It was marvellous to see, this line of fire all down Cornwall’s coast, this reminder that they were not alone in this night.
The notes of a harp rang out, clear and dancing. The crowd shifted and turned to give Sticks the bard some room. His boy had settled him in a chair a safe distance from the fire. The old man bent over his harp, looking especially frail in the firelight. ‘It is tradition,’ he said, his voice much stronger and louder than his weak frame would suggest, ‘that at midsummer, I tell a tale of Tintagel. Perhaps of how it was built; or of the time Earl Colan repulsed a band of raiders who threatened Tintagel’s walls. But tonight …’ The old man lifted his head, his hands pausing on the harp strings, and sighed. ‘Tonight I feel there is magic around us.’ He looked around with his sightless eyes, his voice dropping lower. ‘Do you feel it?’
Silence, despite the heat radiating out from the massive bonfire, shivered. The wood popped and hissed as it burned, shooting out showers of sparks; the air quivered, swimming before Silence’s eyes.
‘So I’ll tell the story of Uther and Tintagel.’
A murmur rippled through the crowd; pleased and excited, they settled on the rocky ground. Griselle arranged her skirts carefully and sat next to Silence.
‘Now Uther had fallen in love with Igraine,’ Sticks began, his fingers sounding notes on the harp, the melody mixing with the rise and fall of the waves against the cliffs below. ‘It always begins with love.’
Griselle put an arm around Silence and pulled him close. He leaned his head down to rest on her shoulder, heedless of how he would look to the other pages.
‘He simply had to have her. So he begged Merlin, that great and terrible wizard, to help him. And Merlin pondered this request and struck a bargain with Uther. I will give you Igraine, if you will give me the son born of your union with her.’ The notes of the harp stopped and Sticks said, in a lower voice, ‘Don’t ever bargain with Merlin.’ Silence gave another little shiver and nestled closer to Griselle. The harp picked up again. ‘Merlin brought Uther to the edge of Tintagel. Yes. To this very spot. And here,’ Sticks struck the harp so that a cascade of notes shimmered off it, ‘here, Merlin transformed Uther, putting a glamour upon him, so that he looked like Igraine’s husband, Gorlois. Well. Igraine was a good wife.’ The men around them chuckled and someone let out a long whistle. ‘She welcomed Uther to her bed. How was she to know that she was being unfaithful?’
‘Most women don’t care!’ a man shouted. Laughter rose up, but louder were the calls for him to hush.
‘Now, outside Tintagel’s walls …’
The warmth of the fire and the warmth of Griselle cradled Silence and he drooped down into sleep, the bard’s story skimming across his dreams. A glamour. Transformation
. Appearing to be someone else … wouldn’t that be … nice … Then Griselle was shaking his shoulder, gently. ‘Silence, he’s calling you,’ she hissed.
‘Where’s the earl’s son? Bring him here.’
Silence stood and picked his way through the crowd of people to stand beside Sticks. ‘Honourable Bard? How may I help you?’
Sticks smiled his toothless grin. ‘Listen to this boy,’ he said to the crowd. ‘Is he not the model of courtesy? Like the earl himself. And you’ll have to tell me, for I cannot discern on my own, is he handsome?’
‘Very handsome!’ a woman called. And it wasn’t Griselle.
He heard guffaws and laughter and knew without looking that it was the pages.
‘How could he not be?’ Sticks continued. ‘For Nature always shows. A good Nature reveals itself in beauty. And you come from a handsome, noble father and a beautiful, virtuous mother. Now. Let’s sing.’ He played the notes of a melody, one that he had taught Silence, one that they had sung together throughout the spring. Silence stood beside the bard; he couldn’t bear to look right at the crowd before him and so closed his eyes. That was better. He could focus on the notes.
It was a gentle song, about love and summer, as so many songs are. And Silence and Sticks sang it together. Silence’s voice rose up and it seemed to him he would soon start to float above the ground, suspended by the notes coming out of him. But summer will come to an end. That final line, a final ripple from the harp, and then just the sound of the fire crackling, the waves smashing rock. The crowd sighed and whistled and clapped and called for more. But Sticks sighed and seemed to shrivel a bit with the song’s end. He reached out and grabbed Silence’s wrist. ‘He’ll come back, won’t he?’ he said, tugging hard at Silence’s arm.
‘Who, sir?’
‘Merlin. He’ll come back?’
‘So the stories say. That he’ll return for Arthur.’
Sticks shook his head, his lank white hair quivering. ‘For the one true knight. He’ll come back. And mark: he’ll come back here.’ Sticks’s boy helped him up, and a trio of minstrels with lutes took over, joined by a fool capering in a patchwork cloak, with bells worked into his shoes and hat.
A few knights clapped him on the back as he made his way back to Griselle. She was dabbing at her eyes and, heedless of those around him, clamped him in a tight embrace, sobbing against his shoulder. ‘So beautiful, oh! I wish the seneschal could hear you. Oh!’ And then she wiped at her eyes again and cleared her throat. ‘I should say it is time for sleep. They’ll be revelling out here all night.’ Silence took her elbow and they wove their way through the crowd, back inside Tintagel’s walls, and up the stairs to their chamber.
While Griselle brushed out her hair, humming to herself, Silence stood at the window, looking at all the bonfires flickering in the dark.
Pennants snapped in the stiff breeze off the ocean, and the air smelled of the smoke of last night’s bonfire. The crowd smelled of last night, too: smoky, yes, but also the sourness of too much wine. Silence wove through the crowd of people around the pitch. The pages had already left the hall by the time Griselle had pronounced him presentable, forcing him to don the same jacket as the night before, and reminding him that while it was a day of festivities for others, he had to represent his family and the honour of Cornwall.
It was not fair.
The pavilion the carpenters had built was crowded full of lords and ladies eagerly watching the tilting. It had begun already, Silence noted with despair, though these were just the hedge knights, the landless ones that no lord had taken into service. Master Waldron had warned them of such knights, how they likely had fallen into sin. ‘Too much drink, too much love of feasting, or perhaps they gamble it all away on dice, or spend it all on ladies. Mark them, boys,’ Master Waldron had said. ‘Mark them and make certain you do not become like them.’
But, thought Silence as someone’s lance exploded in a brittle burst, making the crowd cheer, they were also knights. He had finally climbed up the slope enough to see the pitch below, see one knight, with a red shield chequered with black, wheeling his horse about, and lifting the visor of his helmet. The other knight lay on the ground, his shield beneath him, and a few squires were hurrying out to assist him, for he wasn’t moving. Silence heaved a sigh. It would be a while before the next joust. So he pushed back into the crowd, past the women selling bread and pastries from baskets, past the fool, still capering and jingling his bells.
Grooms and squires led horses through the crowd, the animals nervous and tossing their heads at the noise. Past the stables, the crowds thinned a bit, and Silence could move more easily. Here a course of quintains had been set up where the squires would compete; the wooden targets ranged across a long yard, half a dozen that the squires would ride through and try to hit with their lances. Next to this, Silence saw with an ache, the pages were readying for wrestling. Master Waldron and a couple of guardsmen stood beside the ring that had been demarcated, and Silence could see half a dozen of the boys he trained and worked with, stripped down to their leggings, waiting to grapple and throw and pin each other. He couldn’t stand to watch. So he wandered further, arriving at the archery field. Grown men, some of them guards, some of them shepherds, drew their bows and let fly at distant targets. Five arrows and then the targets would be brought in and compared by Sir Badon, one of his father’s eldest knights. Silence watched as a man with a scraggly beard landed all his arrows in the circle in the middle and Badon handed him a purse. ‘Well done!’ Then Badon’s gaze fell on Silence. ‘The earl’s son!’ Badon said loudly (he always spoke loudly, for his hearing was close to failing). ‘Would you care to try?’
Silence paused. Griselle and his father had forbidden him to compete. But they hadn’t said he couldn’t shoot a few arrows. ‘I would,’ he replied and stripped off his jacket, which was too stiff and confining; better to shoot in just his shirt. Sir Badon offered him a bow and quiver and Silence strode to the line, stringing the bow and testing it – how did it flex, how did it balance. Then he nocked an arrow, drew it back (this was his favourite moment in archery: when everything was full of tension), and stared down the shaft before letting fly (and this was his second favourite, when all the tension was released). He fired off all five quickly and two boys ran in with his target; he had landed all his arrows on the target, but only one in the central circle. ‘Admirable!’ Sir Badon said. ‘You’re ready for the hunt!’
‘Ready to be a shepherd, more like,’ said a voice behind him.
Silence turned around to see Wendell standing there. ‘Why aren’t you wrestling?’ he asked.
‘I’m saving my strength for sparring. Wrestling is for the younger boys. And archery is for the peasants.’
Silence opened his mouth to defend yeomen, but stopped himself. It was beneath him to argue with Wendell. He grabbed his jacket, nodded to Sir Badon, and stalked off.
But Wendell wouldn’t leave him be. ‘They say your father will end this festival by raising up new knights. And new knights means new squires.’
Silence strode on, head up, ignoring Wendell.
‘But I suppose you will remain a page. Or will your father send you back down to Ringmar? Why bother training you any more? It’s clear you’ll never be a knight.’
At that, Silence stopped. ‘I will be a knight,’ he said.
Wendell smirked. They stood near the wrestling ring, where two pages grunted and grappled. ‘Care to test your strength?’
‘I’m not allowed to wrestle.’ Silence’s voice quavered a bit, but he held Wendell’s gaze.
‘Surely your father would allow you to spar?’ He lifted his chin towards the level ground next to the wrestling ring, where another group of pages milled about, helping each other don the padded jackets and strap on the wooden shields used for sparring.
Silence bit his lip. From the distant tilting pitch came the roar of the crowd. He should go back there. He should sit beside Griselle. It would be fun to watch Sir Jackin
joust …
‘Coward,’ Wendell sneered. ‘Spar me to three points, that’s all. The first to score three points wins.’ He spoke loudly and some of the pages turned their heads to look at them. ‘You know I’ll beat you bloody.’
‘You will not,’ Silence said. ‘I’ll fight you right now.’ And he stormed down towards the group of pages, finding Alois and demanding that he help him get ready. Soon Silence’s torso was muffled in padding and a plain wooden shield weighed down his left arm. Alois held on to his fancy coat as he watched from the edge of the field. Silence adjusted his helm – it kept slipping forward – and then picked up the wooden practice sword. He marched to the centre of the field and waited for Wendell. The other boy approached and called out, ‘I’ll score three faster than you can cry for mercy.’ They faced each other, just a few paces separating them, and raised their swords.
‘Get him!’ one of the watching pages roared and they took that as their signal to begin. Silence had no doubt who the other pages were cheering for. The sun shone down upon them, and it was as if the helm magnified the warmth; Silence felt himself swell. And the heat … the world outside his helm (in the narrow crack that he could see through the visor) wavered and swam. He held the sword before him, feeling full, feeling ready.
Thwack. Whack, thwack. Wooden swords met wooden shields. Clack, clack, thwack. And sword met sword.
Wendell lunged towards him, cutting with his sword at chest height. Silence raised his shield, slid the blade off, stepped inside and tapped Wendell on the chest with his sword, enough to say, I got you. Wendell grunted and pushed Silence away with his shield.
‘Point!’ Alois shrilled from the sideline. ‘That was a point for Silence!’
Now Silence slashed high; his ears buzzed, his mind ran clear as one of Ringmar’s springs, a merry trilling that flowed through him; Wendell caught the blow on his shield and stepped inside, just like Silence had a moment before. But he hadn’t angled the shield properly and Silence pivoted, leaving Wendell stepping into empty air, so that Silence could slide behind him. He tapped Wendell between the shoulder blades. Grunt.
