by Alex Myers
And the bells. They rang for every chapel service, save Vigils, and barring illness, the household was expected to attend (the cook was excused; she told Silence that Sir Onfroi’s supper had burned once too often for him to insist on her presence). Sir Onfroi liked his rules, liked his schedule, liked things to be orderly.
He showed Alfred and Silence around the yards and gardens, the outbuildings and storerooms. They walked through the fields around the manor and met the pigman and his family, the old widow who kept the henhouse. They rode through the paths in the forest, accompanied by the hunt-master, who expressed delight and surprise at how much Silence knew about hounds and tracking.
In the evenings after dinner Sir Onfroi would gather Silence and Alfred, as well as his own children, and, while the grooms and guards diced, he would tell them stories of famous battles, entertaining the children with descriptions of swordplay, and instructing Silence and Alfred on how to think not just of oneself but of the whole battlefield, or how a retreat might be strategic rather than cowardly. The children would eventually drowse off, curling against each other like puppies, and Silence would take up his lute and play. Lady Catherine enjoyed singing with him; she had a fine voice and knew many songs, some of which Silence had never heard before.
But mostly, between the chapel services, they learned to use a lance. Silence had seen jousting before but hadn’t appreciated just how long lances were – the length of his body and then half again, at least. Nor had he appreciated just how heavy they would be. The body of the lance, Onfroi explained, was made of a hard wood (he preferred ash) and the tip of metal (pointed for warfare, blunt for jousting). The shaft of the lance was carved down thinner where it would be gripped.
That first day, he showed them how to hold the lance in one hand, cupped from the side, so that the thumb was on top, and clamped against the ribs, just above the hip, held tight with their elbow. ‘Put your shoulders back,’ Onfroi instructed. Even standing there felt impossible and unbalanced. Silence’s lance wavered up and down, side to side, as he tried only to hold it still. (Alfred’s lance also wobbled, but not so much.)
‘Try walking. That’s it,’ Onfroi said.
Silence’s lance tip bobbed down and he squeezed his elbow tightly – whoop! The tip flew up, too high. He walked to the end of the yard, turned and walked halfway back before the lance simply dropped from his hand; his fingers had cramped up. Embarrassed, he stooped down to hoist it once more and, relying on pride to strengthen his grip, managed to walk back to Sir Onfroi. ‘It’s nothing like holding a sword,’ he said, shaking out his fingers.
‘The balance is very different,’ the knight agreed. ‘Still, it will come to feel natural. Try again.’
Silence tried again, with no better result. Sir Onfroi stared at him, raking him over from head to toe and back again; Silence wondered what he saw, what he was looking for. ‘Your lance perches oddly by your hip,’ said Onfroi at last. ‘Drop your shoulder lower.’ Silence did as he was told; his grip felt even more precarious. ‘Ah! That looks better.’
It might look better, but it didn’t feel better. The lance pulled at Silence’s shoulder and felt constantly like the tip would plunge to the ground if he didn’t grasp with all his might. But he gritted his teeth and did as he was told.
They walked back and forth. They strapped on their shields and Sir Onfroi taught them how to angle, how the shield helped counterbalance the lance. They stood and listened and Silence’s fingers ached and his shoulder throbbed and the point of the lance jerked up and down though he tried to hold it steady.
‘It takes practice,’ Sir Onfroi said, but Silence thought he looked sceptical.
Within a week, the Count of Nevers had sent a pair of chargers to the manor house, delivered by a guardsman, who proclaimed, ‘A gift from the count to the squires, to welcome them in service to the House of Nevers.’
They were beautiful horses: both geldings, one a deep charcoal grey, the other white and grey. Alfred and Silence walked around the chargers. ‘Which one do you want?’ Alfred asked. The charcoal horse was thicker in the neck; the grey and white had longer legs. Silence ran his hands down their fetlocks, inspected their hooves, as the seneschal had taught him to do so long ago. At last, he simply looked at them straight on; the charcoal horse tossed his head and would only gaze at him side-ways. But the grey and white horse let Silence rest his chin on his nose and stare right into his glossy eyes. ‘This one,’ Silence said. ‘I’m naming him Wind.’
Alfred stepped up to the coal-grey horse and scratched his ears. ‘And this will be Storm.’ The groom came out from the stables to admire the horses with them, the saddles too, well-oiled leather that had been worked with the Count of Nevers’ rampant lion, its tongue curling from its mouth.
It soon became clear that Alfred was much better with the lance. He could keep the tip level and hold the lance firmly, pressed against his side. Sir Onfroi set up quintains and had Alfred run at these, bashing the lance into the target. He kept Silence to a walk. ‘No sense trying to hit a target if you cannot keep the lance steady,’ he said. ‘You will get the sense of it, God help you.’
But Silence didn’t. And he could feel that he wouldn’t. It reminded him of the pell, and how Jackin had told him that he needed to work the sword differently because he was thin and long-limbed. Maybe the same was true for the lance. Sir Onfroi either took pity on him or simply grew exasperated with his lack of progress and let him go out for a ride one afternoon while he worked the quintains with Alfred. Silence saddled Wind and took him out on the track through the vineyard. The grey and white horse trotted readily and rose to a beautiful canter at Silence’s barest command, thundering along the hard-packed dirt. Silence broke into what felt like his first smile since they’d started working with lances. He held the reins lightly, dropped his heels down, and put pressure on Wind’s right side with his knee. The horse turned in that direction, a gentle curve. Just a little pressure on the reins, a tiny tug on the left, and the horse wheeled about. Marvellous. He squeezed with both his knees and Wind settled back to a walk. Silence leaned forward and rubbed the horse between its ears. ‘You’re magnificent,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’ll be a knight of the sword. Who needs a lance?’
Knights needed lances. Not just for jousting but to charge in battle. If he couldn’t hold a lance, he couldn’t be a knight. He leaned forward against Wind’s neck; he could feel the pulsing of the horse’s heart, thick and steady. ‘Can I tell you something?’ he whispered.
Wind whuffed and flicked his ears.
Silence dismounted and walked alongside Wind, holding the reins in one hand and stroking the horse’s neck with his other.
‘I think Sir Onfroi is wrong. I won’t improve with practice. I think it is my Nature.’ He stood in front of the horse. ‘Look at me.’ He lifted his arms, holding them out wide. ‘My arms are long. But my shoulders aren’t broad. If my chest looks thick,’ here he dropped his voice very low, and stepped back so that he was beside the horse’s head, ‘it’s only because I bind my bosom. You can’t tell anyone, Wind.’ They started walking again through the rows of grapevines. Netting hung over the ripening crop to keep the birds from stealing the harvest. Crows cackled their frustration from the trees that edged the vineyard. ‘I can hide my Nature, but I cannot undo it.’
He wondered if Alfred would think him mad for talking to his horse like this. He wondered what Alfred would do if Silence told him these things instead of Wind. Better to talk to the horse. ‘It’s just that the lance is too heavy. There’s too much weight in front of me,’ he complained. ‘But I used to think that about the pell, that I would never swing a sword properly. Maybe it’s the same with the lance. Maybe there’s a different way.’
He mounted up and steered Wind back to the road, where he urged the horse to a canter again, counting to fifty and bringing him down to a trot, then a walk. Back at the manor, he brushed the horse and put him in his stall, then went down to where Onfroi had set up the quinta
ins. No sign of the knight or Alfred. Silence took one of the lances and hefted it. Onfroi had been insistent about the grip, but it just didn’t feel right to Silence. So he tried something different. Not a side grip, but underhand, letting the lance rest in his palm. Better. And that angled the butt differently, so he could hold it tucked up in his armpit, rather than having to squeeze with his elbow. That was better, too. He had larger hips than Alfred or Onfroi and he knew that he got much of his power from them; he had taught himself how to swing a sword using not just his arms and chest (which was what Master Waldron taught) but his hips and back as well. He just had to do the same with the lance.
He walked, trying out this new grip. The lance wasn’t perfectly still, but it was much steadier. He tried a jog.
‘What did I tell you!’ Onfroi cried out. ‘Practice will improve matters! Thanks be to God.’ The knight came around the corner of the storehouse into the yard, trailed by two of his sons. ‘Come back and try again.’
Silence trotted back towards the knight; the lance wavered a bit, but mostly held level. He smiled at Sir Onfroi. ‘I think I am improving.’
‘Ah! But your hand.’ Onfroi came over and took Silence’s palm. ‘Like this.’ He moved it back to the side grip.
‘My lord, I think this grip suits me better.’ He cupped the lance from beneath.
‘No, no. That’s not the proper grip.’
‘I know, my lord. But my body is not the same as your body. My arms are skinnier.’ Silence gulped a bit of air. ‘And my shoulders aren’t as powerful as yours.’
‘Yes, but you will grow. And your form should be correct.’
‘Sir, I think I am done growing. I think this is the body I have, and I must wield the lance in a different way.’
Onfroi shook his head. ‘It is most improper. But try it. I expect soon you will see that your grip is weaker and come to find sense in what I have told you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Silence said and he couched the lance under his armpit and held it in his palm, and jogged down the pitch towards the quintain. He picked up speed; the lance bobbed down a bit and he squeezed his shoulder tighter. The quintain was right ahead of him; the tip of his lance was level and with a crash and thud, the tip hit the wooden target and Silence staggered a few more steps before turning back towards Onfroi.
‘Most unusual,’ the knight said. ‘But you struck well.’
Silence put the lances away. He was used to being unusual.
By the time the grapes were ripe in the vineyard, Sir Onfroi had them practising on horseback. The knight had not relented about the grip, and every day chided Silence to try to do it properly. But Silence found his grip worked even better while mounted and so he listened and nodded and continued to do what felt right to him. So long as he hit the targets (and he did) Sir Onfroi could not complain too much.
Alfred joked with him later that day as they brushed down Wind and Storm. ‘You never do things like the others, do you?’
‘I do,’ Silence insisted.
‘No.’ Alfred shook his head. ‘You have a peculiar way of sparring. I’m long since used to it, but it’s strange. You stand all …’ He stepped away from Storm and tried to imitate Silence’s stance. It was odd to see himself mirrored this way, how Alfred set his back foot wider and turned in … it was what Jackin had told him to do long ago.
‘It’s because my legs are long,’ he said.
Alfred shrugged. ‘Maybe. It serves you well, so it’s no matter. But it’s odd. Sir Onfroi commented on it to me when we first arrived. Asked where you’d been taught that. But I couldn’t tell him.’ Alfred grinned at him. ‘Maurice, the mysterious squire. Will you ever tell me where you come from?’ They finished brushing Storm and led the horse to its stall.
Silence grinned back at him. ‘We all have our secrets, do we not? Secrets such as who was the girl under the cloak the other night?’
Alfred gave him a shove. ‘Have you been spying on me, then?’
‘I went out to use the jakes. You should do a better job hiding if you don’t want to be discovered. Was it Margaret? From the kitchen?’
‘A true knight would never tell,’ Alfred said, drawing himself up straight as they left the stable and emerged into the late afternoon light of the yard.
‘We’re not knights yet,’ Silence countered.
Alfred gave him another playful shove. ‘You’re the one who usually schools me on virtues! I shouldn’t filch a roll from the kitchens … I shouldn’t sleep during mass …’
‘You shouldn’t sneak away with Marg—’
This time Alfred didn’t shove him, but flung his arm across his chest and easily tossed Silence over his hip. Caught unaware, Silence gave a yelp, but managed to tuck himself up as he landed, rolling neatly to his feet. ‘Attack me, will you?’ He crouched, hands extended, and approached Alfred. ‘I’ll show you!’ He grabbed Alfred’s shoulders and the two began to grapple.
‘You may. Be better. At sparring,’ Alfred grunted as they each strove for the better grip. ‘But I. Am best. At this!’ And again, he got Silence on his hip and threw him to the ground. This time, though, he didn’t release his hold, but let himself fall with Silence, landing hard on top of him, driving Silence’s breath out of his lungs. While he spluttered, Alfred crowed; he sat astride Silence’s hips, batting at Silence’s head. ‘Tell me again what you saw? Nothing, right! You saw nothing!’
Silence coughed and caught his breath. ‘Honesty!’ he shouted back and he bridged his hips, thrusting them up as hard as he could. Alfred tried to push him down, but overbalanced and pitched forward a bit. That let Silence get one knee up, then the other, and he thrust his hips again, this time with more power, sending Alfred tumbling off him. He scrambled to his feet and stood, panting for a moment, then reached down and helped Alfred up.
‘You see? Knightly virtue has helped me win,’ Silence said.
‘Pah. I didn’t want to beat you bloody, that’s all. Though I suppose that’s the knightly virtue of mercy. What you need,’ Alfred slung his arm over Silence’s shoulder, pulling him close, ‘is a girl of your own. There are a few around the manor, I’m sure you’ve noticed …’
‘Chastity is also a knightly virtue,’ Silence said. He looped his arm around Alfred’s shoulders.
‘It is not! The virtues are seven: hope, faith, courage, nobility, honour, and … I’ve forgotten one. And it’s not chastity.’
‘Those aren’t the virtues I learned,’ Silence protested. The chapel bell began to ring and they hurried to answer its call, still bickering.
‘Well, who taught you? Those minstrels?’ Alfred said.
Silence shook his head as they strode along. It had been the seneschal; he’d known them since he was a child at Ringmar. But virtues were easy to speak of, and much harder to live by.
The air around the manor house grew sweet with the scent of the ripening grapes, and the peasants ranged throughout the vines with their baskets, gathering up the first of the harvest. Sir Onfroi told them they could go down and watch the grapes being trampled; it was quite a sight. But before they could set out, two horsemen came cantering up the track, both wearing the colours of Nevers.
‘Sir Onfroi!’ one called, swinging down from the saddle. He swept his cap from his head and bowed to the knight.
‘Squire Jean, or is it Sir Jean now?’
‘It is Sir Jean and this is my squire. But no time for tales. The Count of Nevers summons you and your two squires to come with me. I will explain as we go. There has been an uprising against Lord Burress.’
The groom readied their horses; the cook packed baskets of food; Sir Onfroi’s children lined up to embrace their father, and the priest sprinkled them all with holy water. Lady Catherine gave Sir Onfroi a length of ribbon, which had been wound around her hair, that he might carry a piece of her with him. And with that, they rode away.
Minstrels on foot travel slowly – the more so if they idle at inns along the route. And an army travels slowly, too, laden wit
h carts and supplies. But five men, each with a charger and a spare mount, well … they can travel quickly. Speeded by order from the count, and a letter bearing his seal, they were given provisions and pallets to sleep on when they passed a keep or manor. They even rested their horses (and themselves) by travelling down a river on a barge for most of two days. Fast as they travelled, Silence still marvelled at the towns they passed through: the magnificent churches with their lofty spires; the stone bridges that arched over the river.
‘Will we meet the king?’ Alfred wanted to know.
‘Unlikely,’ Sir Jean told them as they stood on the barge, the river rushing them along. ‘The count is mustering a small force, to aid his kinsman. That is all I know.’
‘Oh,’ said Alfred. ‘Will we get armour? And ride into battle?’
‘It is most unlikely to be a battle, may the lord protect us,’ Sir Onfroi said. ‘But, yes, you will need armour. Or at least mail.’
The barge carried them to a small and muddy town; from there, they had scarcely half a day’s ride until they met with the main force of the Count of Nevers. To Silence, it seemed an army: dozens of knights on horses, attended by their squires. And dozens upon dozens of foot soldiers, a forest of bristling pikes. At the head, Nevers’ banner flapped in the breeze, the rampant lion furling and unfurling as the wind picked at it. Another banner, this one of blue and green diamonds, flapped beside it. ‘That’s Burress,’ Sir Onfroi said. ‘Now, let us find the count.’ They pushed through the ranks of men towards the banners.
‘Sir Onfroi!’ The count greeted them merrily. You would not have known he was riding to battle, so warm was his smile behind his moustache. ‘We have need of you. And your two squires.’ Silence and Alfred bowed low. ‘Your arrival is most timely. Today we have joined forces with Lord Burress, who has summoned us for help. He is my cousin, on the distaff side, once removed, and I long ago pledged to ride to his aid if needed.’
