The Story of Silence

by Alex Myers

  She held out the vial, and he kissed it. ‘I will,’ he replied. She, too, kissed the relic and slipped it beneath her gown.

  With the help of the seneschal, Silence erected a pell beside the herb garden, and fashioned a sort of waster for himself, not perfectly balanced, but a heavily weighted club that he could swing at the pell and use to keep himself strong. And so, for the next few days, he battered away, ignoring Cook’s complaints that he was giving her a headache. He counted, each night at dinner, how many days he had been away from Tintagel. Five now … his father’s wedding celebrations would be over. The nobles would be returning to their keeps, the pavilion would soon be dismantled. Silence could imagine how the seasons would turn. Summer to autumn, his father would ride to fight the raiders, autumn to winter and everyone hunkered in the hall. Spring, and new pages and squires would be raised up. Everyone would earn the rank he deserved, go off to serve the king, to fight against rebels and invaders. Everyone but Silence, who would stay here. Forever.

  That night, lying in the dark chamber, he felt Ringmar to be a prison. More pleasant than a dungeon, but a prison nonetheless. In the morning, he rose and wrapped the muslin tightly around his chest, pulled on leggings and a plain tunic. He ate bread and drank milk with Griselle and helped her trim the overgrown rose garden. He felt odd. Not sick, but strange. It was as if the world swam before him, like the heat shimmers that a fire threw into the air. But now the world didn’t just waver; it felt like he was looking through thick glass, into another time. Years from now; Griselle had a hunch to her shoulders, and her hair had gone grey. The rose garden flourished, with shoots crawling up Ringmar’s stones. More moss on those stones, more grey in the muzzle of the hound that slept by the door. Older. Slower. All the same.

  He shook his head to clear his vision, but it dissipated slowly and, as if compelled, his feet led him up to his chamber. Go. A voice within him urged this. Go. He took another set of clothing, equally plain as that which he was wearing, the basilard that Master Waldron had given him. He dug in the trunk that stood against the wall and found one of his thick winter cloaks. Further digging uncovered a small purse that contained a few coins, gifts on saints’ days, a few that nobles visiting Tintagel had given him, and a pair of golden earrings that Griselle had told him once belonged to his mother. He piled all this within his cloak and went down to the stables to saddle Clopper, tying the cloak and its contents behind the saddle. Go.

  And he rode off. He rode past Lord Wendell’s hall to the first crossroads. He turned right, away from the roads that led, eventually, to Tintagel. He rode until dusk, his belly aching with hunger, and cursed himself as a fool for not taking food. But that would have raised suspicion. So he apologized to Clopper for making the horse go hungry, and the two of them settled on the edge of a field for the night; Clopper at least could browse on the grass and leaves.

  The next morning, he took the horse’s head in his hands and gazed into his eyes. ‘Can you find your way home? To Ringmar?’

  Clopper whuffed and Silence reached up to scratch between his ears.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll see you again,’ he said and led the horse to the track, pointed him back the way he had come, and gave him a pat on the flank. The little horse tossed its head and set off. ‘Goodbye.’ And Silence set off in the opposite direction. He didn’t look back. That day, he walked until dusk, stopping once at the edge of a field and picking a few greens and some carrots that were rather small; he gnawed on these before going to bed. In the morning, he struck his flint and lit a few branches, letting them burn for a while, then taking the soot and ash and smudging it through his hair, darkening it by a few shades.

  Once again, he took to the road, stopping while it was still early morning at a manor house, which was set back from the track and up a hill. He begged at the kitchen for food. ‘What can you offer me?’ the cook demanded.

  ‘I’ll do any chores you wish,’ Silence said.

  ‘I’ve got servants aplenty.’

  Silence paused. He could shoot a bow well, ride a horse ably, batter a pell, train a scenthound … but none of these would get him food. ‘I’ll offer you a song,’ he said. And right there in the doorway of the kitchen, he sang ‘My True Love’s Gone’.

  ‘Oh. My.’ The cook looked startled and lifted her apron to dab at her eyes. ‘You’ve a voice, boy. Like an angel. What are you doing begging at kitchen doors?’ She went into the kitchen, returning a moment later with two loaves of bread, a small round of cheese, and three over-wintered apples.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and bowed to her.

  ‘Get going, then. Run away from whatever trouble you’ve caused.’

  He started to protest, but thought better of it and tucked the food inside the cloak. Down the hill from the manor, he again tied the basilard to his belt; it would have been odd for a boy with a short sword to be begging.

  Silence walked on the southerly road as the sun arced overhead, walked until his legs grew tired, until the morning mist had dissipated into ragged scraps, until the sun was full in the sky and he worried that now would be the time when horses – should Griselle have sent men after him – might be catching up to him. So he set off across a ploughed field, up a gorsy slope, and into a thicket of trees. Peasants’ crofts dotted the landscape, as did their flocks and crops, but they ignored him (or seemed to) and he ignored them.

  He spent another night in the woods and carefully rationed out a share of his bread and cheese and apples. Another day of walking through fields and small stands of wood, hunger gnawing at him. He paused at a stream to drink and then, crossing a pasture, found himself in the midst of a flock of sheep. He waved to the shepherd and when he drew near, asked the man, ‘How far is the coast?’

  ‘You’ll make it by evening.’ He eyed Silence’s basilard, the bundled cloak, and pointed vaguely. ‘Town of Looe.’

  ‘Looe!’ Silence said. The minstrels had named that town. Hob and Giles … they had said they would be going to Looe and from there to Brittany. ‘Thank you,’ he said to the shepherd, and set off. As he walked, he tumbled these thoughts in his head. He could sing for food; he could go to Brittany, where no one would know him. But would singing be enough? The minstrels made a living and given the finery that Giles had worn, they seemed to do pretty well at it.

  Just as the sun was starting to dip, he gained a height of land and saw the ocean before him and the town of Looe spread out along the coast, thatch roofs and slate roofs and a tangle of piers jutting into the water. He felt a jolt of glee at the sight of all the boats there, and he thought he would make his way to the wharves this very evening. Find an inn, have a meal … but better to wait until the morning. Save his (meagre) coin, have time to walk the town with the full light of day.

  He finished his bread and cheese and rolled himself in his cloak, and let the hush of the ocean put him soundly to sleep. In the morning, he raked more ash through his blond hair (not that it was much of a disguise; but perhaps there were people looking for him) and set out down the slope; the crofts and cottages grew more thickly together. The smell of salt and fish did, too. A church bell chimed and, early as it was, the town fluttered with life. Merchants opening the shutters of their shops, women flapping bedding out of windows – throwing night-soil, which Silence nimbly dodged. Down to the piers, where he counted the boats. Over a dozen. And all the people. Fishermen, mostly. A few men-at-arms. Sailors who leaned together and spoke of the weather. Gulls arcing over everything. Where to begin?

  He walked slowly along the wharves, taking in the signs that hung above shopfronts, the carts that rattled across the loose boards of the quays. He wondered whether the minstrels were here or had already sailed.

  It was quite a life they led; they could go where they pleased … Hob and Giles, with their skills at lute and harp and singing, could take to the road and settle at courts and charm the ladies and amuse the knights in equal measure …

  Could Silence do this too? But would he abandon the hope of b
ecoming a knight? He reminded himself of what the crow had told him about not going on the straightest road. It worked like that sometimes in archery, too. If there was a wind, for instance, you had to aim away from the target to get the arrow to land where you wanted. Well. Perhaps he would take aim at Brittany, walk the path of being a minstrel and see where it led him. The straightforward path – page to squire to knight – had got him nowhere. But being a minstrel seemed almost possible. After all, he could sing. He just didn’t know how to play the lute.

  There was a chance (he counted out the days since he had left Tintagel) that, if Hob and Giles had left at the end of the festivities and perhaps stopped a day along their way to play at an inn or at some lord’s keep, they might be in Looe. It would cost him nothing to look for them.

  He began with the nicest inn – or at least what a shopkeeper told him was the nicest – and proceeded from there. Looe was not so large as to have dozens of inns, but after visiting three and receiving only gruff replies, Silence’s hopes drooped. At the fifth, though, the serving girl set aside her broom and considered his inquiry. ‘A short one and a tall one with a bright blue jacket … yes, they’re upstairs, sleeping the night off. Though I best wake them soon so’s they can catch the tide.’

  Silence wasn’t sure exactly how one caught the tide – with a net or what – but he asked, ‘May I sit here and await them?’

  And the serving girl replied, ‘Ain’t you a polite one.’

  Which he took to mean yes, so he plonked down on a bench, surprised at how welcome the seat felt. At length, she emerged from the kitchens with a ewer of water and hiked up the stairs. Silence could hear every creak of her steps, then three bangs at the door, then creak, creak, creak, back to the kitchen, only to emerge with a flagon of wine, some pottage, a bowl of currants, and a round loaf of bread that smelled yeasty and fresh. She set all this on the counter and scowled at the stairs. ‘Miss the tide, they will,’ she muttered. ‘I can feel your look, you rascal,’ she said without turning to face Silence. And in a moment, she had tossed a hunk of bread his way.

  He’d eaten all of it by the time Hob and Giles came downstairs, muttering to each other and tugging at their wrinkled tunics. ‘Our baggage is ready. Be careful with the harp, mind you,’ Hob told the serving girl.

  ‘I’ll get it, sirs,’ Silence said, and hopped off his bench, offering them a short bow before scampering up the stairs.

  ‘What the devil?’ he heard Giles say.

  ‘Did you hire a new chore boy?’

  ‘Says he knows you,’ the serving girl replied. As Silence climbed, the voices below became indistinct murmurs. His heart pounded from more than the dash up the stairs as he gathered the meagre belongings of the musicians and returned to the dining room. They were wolfing down bowls of pottage when he returned.

  ‘Followed us, did you?’ asked Hob. He rubbed a hand across his bald head.

  ‘No, sirs. Well, not really. I came to Looe, wanting to get away from Tintagel.’ Silence shifted his weight foot to foot. ‘I realized you were right, sirs, that Tintagel is the end of the earth. And I want to see more … I want to be a minstrel, like you.’

  They laughed, pottage dribbling from Giles’s mouth. ‘Do you now?’

  ‘I know I have much to learn,’ Silence said. ‘But I could be your servant and you could teach me.’

  ‘Aren’t you a page?’ asked Hob, narrowing his gaze. ‘Have you run off after causing trouble? Going to bring some lord’s anger down on our heads?’

  ‘He does sing well,’ Giles said, stretching his long legs under the table.

  ‘It would be nice to have someone to carry our harps. Hmmmm.’

  They each took a swallow of wine. ‘Girl!’ Giles shouted.

  ‘What’s it now?’

  ‘How long until the tide?’

  ‘Do I look like a sailor?’ She cocked her head to the open door. ‘You hear the church bells for Matins, you better be on the docks.’ She turned to go back to the kitchens, grabbing the empty pottage bowls.

  ‘Stay, missy,’ said Hob. ‘Give us your ears.’

  The minstrels wrestled their harps from the wrappings and the serving girl crossed her arms, as if irritated at the delay, but Silence could tell her interest was piqued.

  ‘Tell us what you think of this boy’s voice, if it is worth taking with us to Brittany.’ Hob plucked a few opening notes, Giles tuned and they began. Silence recognized ‘The Lei of St George’ and nodded his head to the beat. The time for the verse came around and he sang, his eyes closed, the sound of the harps and his voice bouncing off the walls of the empty inn. A verse and a chorus and then the harps went quiet.

  ‘Well?’ Giles insisted.

  ‘Lovely,’ said the serving girl. ‘A pure sound, different. Rich and noble-like …’ She blushed. ‘But nothing coarse to it.’

  ‘That’ll change,’ Giles said with a small smile. ‘What do you say, Hob? Shall we take this one with us? A boy’s voice is pleasing to many folk. It would make us stand out.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘The terms?’ the serving girl said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Giles said, packing his harp away.

  ‘What are the terms of his travel with you?’

  ‘Terms? Why, he travels with us and we teach him how to play the harp.’

  ‘Mmm. And he does chores for you and he sings with you and you make coins off his singing … so what will you give him?’

  ‘He will be our apprentice,’ Hob said, tying the harp’s covering tightly and handing it to Silence. ‘His labour for our lessons.’

  ‘Apprenticeships have terms. How many years? An apprentice to a carpenter gets tools when he is through …’

  ‘I am not one to argue with a serving girl,’ Hob protested and shouldered his bag.

  ‘Then cease arguing and settle on something fair.’

  Giles and Hob blinked at her. ‘Very well,’ said Giles. ‘He will serve us for a year, in which time we will teach him the harp and the lute. At the end of the year we will give him a lute of his own. And if he wishes to stay with us after that time, we will negotiate the terms.’

  Silence smiled at the serving girl. ‘Thank you, m’lady.’

  ‘M’lady nothing. My mother sold me to this inn quite young – took the money herself and here I am, working for a bed of straw and a bowl of stew. Sing like that and you’ll be called for wherever you travel. Tide’s turning soon,’ she said.

  The minstrels carried their harps and Silence carried everything else down the streets to the harbour. Hob and Giles called out to folks as they walked – they seemed to know half of Looe. At the foot of the quays, they stopped at the shed of the harbourmaster, a fish-stinking hovel that a good wave could knock flat. ‘Second to last,’ the man told them. ‘Name of Devon. She’s a-heading to Brittany now.’

  The voyage on the boat, short as it was, felt much too long for Silence; he spent the trip clinging to the rail, his face to the breeze, trying to stay clear of the crew. At least he was better off than Giles, who bent his long body over the rail for the duration of the trip. (Hob snored belowdecks.) The shore came nearer and nearer and Silence watched as wharves came into view and church spires and people. He would be stepping off onto a new land and into a new self. He would be Maurice. He would be the son of no one.

  The port town they landed in – he never learned its name – felt much the same as Looe. The glitter of fish scales on wharves, the stink of seaweed, the creaking of ropes and rigging. Hob and Giles went from inn to inn, drinking a mug of wine at each, asking around for news and gossip and rumour. Silence shouldered their instruments and made himself unobtrusive, though he tried to overhear as much as he could.

  At the third inn they found another minstrel, an older fellow with a thick white beard. Hob and Giles regaled him with stories of Earl Cador’s wedding (Silence listened closely to these tales, but the minstrels said more about the number of pigs roasted than anything about his father). In exchange,
the old minstrel told them about his peregrinations through Brittany, which lords had died over the winter, where there was fighting, who might be soon to wed. They bought the man another mug of wine and then went out from the inn. Carts rattled through the streets, jostling towards the wharves with barrels and bulging bags. Giles nimbly darted through these and Hob cursed and plodded after. Silence, weighed down by the harps, soon found himself panting as he tried to keep up.

  They reached the central square of the town, the church anchoring one end. Though it wasn’t a market day, a few booths were set up, selling vegetables and fruit, eggs and bread. Hob’s pace quickened and he briskly crossed the square to a sausage vendor, purchasing three. They plopped down on benches that had been set on either side of a barrel.

  Hob gulped his sausage down and was eyeing Silence’s when Giles wiped the grease from his hands on his leggings and traced his finger on the barrel top. ‘Should we go south? We could try a couple of manors, then head down to Lorient for the harvest time. They have a festival …’

  ‘I’m not sleeping in fields,’ Hob said.

  ‘Of course, Your Highness. Only the finest stable will do,’ Giles replied, his voice light and teasing.

  ‘If you hadn’t tossed away so much coin with your dice …’

  Giles’s voice lost its lightness. ‘I do believe we split our take from Tintagel. I’ll do as I please with my coin.’

  ‘Right. And you’ll have a share in the food I buy,’ Hob gestured to the half-eaten sausage in Giles’s hand, ‘and the room I take at an inn. That’s not fair.’