The Story of Silence

by Alex Myers

  ‘Ha! Still weak,’ came his muffled taunt. He stepped right, pressed the attack. Strike, and step to the side, and press with the shield and strike. Wendell struck hard; each blow that Silence caught with his shield sent a jolt through his arm. Then Wendell feinted low. Silence stepped to the side just as Wendell’s blade wheeled around for a backhand strike, catching Silence hard on his forearm. The blow made his fingers cramp, go numb, and he almost dropped his sword. Quickly, he scuttled back.

  ‘No father to protect you now,’ Wendell huffed.

  Silence bit back a retort. His father had never been there to protect Silence. Cador had been interested in protecting himself.

  Wendell kept the pressure on and Silence knew that if he let him get too close, all was lost. Silence’s only advantage was his reach. So he danced away, reset his position. Wendell’s armour glared in the sun. The air in Silence’s helm grew stuffy, damp. He could smell his own fear.

  Fear?

  What did he have to fear?

  He was home.

  He swung his blade wide, at chest level, a blow that would cleave a man in two, but a blow that even a tree could dodge. And dodge Wendell did, to the right, as he had done at every other parry, angling his shield, bracing himself to take the blow. But Silence hadn’t ever meant to land that strike. Midway through the cut, just as Wendell dodged right, Silence swung the blade around, bringing it across his body and slashing down. It landed, hard, on Wendell’s left shoulder, right at the edge of the plate.

  Wendell staggered back; his shield dropped. If this were training, Silence would call yield. But this was single combat. He pressed his advantage, cutting this time to the back of Wendell’s knees, landing the blade at the joint, where only leather protected the flesh. Wendell screamed and crumpled to the ground. Silence pounced, pinning Wendell’s sword arm with his foot and holding the point of his blade above his throat. ‘Yield!’ he yelled.

  ‘I yield, I yield,’ Wendell grunted.

  A raucous call went up from the ridgeline, cheers and hoots. Silence took his sword away from Wendell’s throat, turned his back on the fallen knight, and began to walk back towards the Count of Nevers. He could see Wind, reins held by a groom, frisking at the base of the ridge. More cries; Silence wished he had a free hand to lift the visor of his helm; sweat dripped down, catching in his eyes. His arm ached terribly where Wendell had landed his blow and he could feel the muscles cramping and seizing. The knights were coming towards him now, the count at the front, Alfred next to him.

  And then, Alfred was charging, sword bared in his hand. For a horrible moment, he thought his friend had been possessed by some demon and meant to kill him, for Alfred’s face (he had not donned his helm) was contorted in rage. But Storm galloped past Silence and he heard the clench of blade on metal, pivoted and saw that Alfred had lodged his sword in Wendell’s neck.

  ‘Coward!’ Alfred raged.

  ‘Dishonour!’ the Count of Nevers echoed. ‘To try to strike you after yielding! While your opponent’s back is turned!’

  But further comments were lost in the grinding squeal of Tintagel’s gate, the thunder of hooves along the causeway, as Cador’s men rode forth.

  The rebels’ camp swarmed, boiling over like a disturbed ants’ nest. ‘Round them up!’ called the Count of Nevers, and his knights and guardsmen hurried over. Silence followed their progress for a moment, could see rebels galloping away, trying to make it out of the open field and into the cover of the trees. Milbroke, at least, had the honour to ride towards Nevers, his hands empty, his squire carrying his sheathed blade.

  But it was Earl Cador who Silence stared at longest. He didn’t know the two knights who flanked him, didn’t know the name of the white horse he rode. But he recognized the banner, the escutcheon with the crow perched atop. And he recognized his father. Cador’s blond hair had gone white, and he looked pale, his cheeks more gaunt than Silence remembered. There was strength in him, his back straight as he rode, his shoulders firm, not hunched. But there was also a weariness to him. His eyes seemed to focus on something far away, even as he drew close to the Count of Nevers. ‘Cousin,’ he greeted him and the smile that stretched across his lips was not matched in his hazel eyes.

  ‘My dear Cador!’ The Count of Nevers nudged his horse closer and the two men clasped hands. ‘I am sorry to hear of the loss of your wife. And sorry you have had to suffer a siege in your mourning. Shall we accept this baron’s surrender? And then we have pressing matters to attend to.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The two lords waited, side by side, for Baron Milbroke to draw near. Alfred brought Wind over and Silence mounted, sweeping his gaze across the field where Wendell’s body lay. What was it that rose in him, this swelling feeling, as though he might burst? Was it anger? Did he still feel a rage against his father’s unfairness?

  Silence rolled his shoulders back. No. Whatever injustice had been done, Silence had righted it. He had become a knight. Perhaps he had become a better knight because of his father’s limitations on him. Did he feel fear? He looked at his father, the heavy gold chain of office around his neck, the banner that fluttered beside him. Earl of Cornwall. Yes. Silence felt fear. This was the one man who knew him. Who had made him and could unmake him. Before him, Silence felt utterly naked. His heart pounded, his palms burned.

  The baron handed over his sword. Cador ordered him to be chained in Tintagel’s dungeon, to await the justice of King Evan. As guardsmen led him away, Cador turned to Nevers. ‘And now, sir, shall we plan our ride to Winchester?’ His eyes had some of the glimmer that Silence recalled, his spirit stirred up by the thought of battle.

  ‘But a moment, Cador,’ the Count of Nevers replied, his eyes sparkling even more. ‘I present to you your son, Silence.’ The count beckoned and Silence nudged Wind closer. Cador turned in his saddle and stared at Silence, his brows furrowed over his hazel eyes, the wrinkles deep at the corners of his downturned mouth.

  A hush came over the field.

  ‘Impossible,’ the old lord said softly. ‘It cannot be.’

  Nevers frowned a little at this unexpected direction. ‘It is! I knew it not before this day. He came to me as Maurice. He travelled with minstrels … I will leave him to tell his story. I will simply say that he has fought nobly. I myself have knighted him and it was he who fought on this plain in single combat and bested the baron’s champion.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Cador breathed again.

  ‘I see, sir, that you are overcome,’ the Count of Nevers said. ‘It is, perhaps, too much joy for you?’

  But Silence knew the truth. It wasn’t joy that Cador felt. It was disbelief – his father had never thought that Silence could live in the world as a man, let alone be knighted. And it was fear – who was this person before him and what would it mean for his grip on Cornwall? That had always been his father’s first concern.

  ‘Father,’ Silence said, inclining his head.

  ‘I’ll have proof,’ Cador croaked and turned his horse towards Tintagel.

  The Count of Nevers frowned again but waved his forces forward. He called to Lords Burress and Howell. ‘We will meet in conference about the journey to Winchester; rest the mounts and the men, for we must make haste to help the king.’

  Silence rode behind Cador, Wind’s hooves clicking against the stones of the causeway. They passed beneath the arched gateway of the guardhouse and began to follow the curving path around the hillside. Now the vista opened up and Silence could see the waves in all their glory, as they hurled themselves at the cliffs. Alfred rode up next to him. ‘They’ll be making a song about you, about that combat today. The son, returned home …’

  Silence longed to confide in Alfred, wanted to confess to him, to take off the mail and the leather and the shirt and the binding and say, this is who I really am. But he knew how it would end. A moment of disbelief, curdling quickly to distrust, to disgust. So he merely said, ‘I fear I am in no mood for a song.’

  And Alfred fell ba
ck to ride with the other knights. Just as well. For Silence rode in the company of memory. The inner walls of Tintagel rose up, and he could remember riding here for the first time, fresh from Ringmar, Mooch hissing in his basket. How mighty the walls had seemed. How vast the yards. And there were the pells, his nemesis. Quiet now. Servants and guards cheered as Cador and the others rode in, and grooms rushed to help Silence with Wind. He wished he could stay with his horse, brush him out, confide a few truths in his soft ear. But he trailed after his father, up the steps to the keep.

  The steward, beard now streaked with white, but otherwise seeming the same, gave a low bow to Cador. ‘Ready chambers for the count and his lords,’ Cador instructed.

  The great hall showed signs of the siege’s effects: whetstones and leather wrappings and bits of feather from fletching covered every surface. Even the boar spears had been pulled from the wall, in case the fighting had become that desperate. The steward jogged after them and intercepted Cador. ‘Pardon, my lord. But where shall I assign …’

  Silence turned away from their conversation and looked about. The hall seemed smaller, darker. A dog sniffed at his boot and he reached down to scratch at the base of its tail. When he straightened again, an old man in the plain brown garb of a kitchen servant stood before him, offering him a mug of something.

  Odd. He hadn’t heard the man approach. He was a lean fellow, with a white beard, and a few yellowed teeth snaggling over his lip. Silence rubbed at his eyes; something itched. The man held the cup closer. Silence took it, but didn’t lift it to his lips. He glanced at his father; he and the steward were still enmeshed in conversation and neither held a mug in his hand.

  ‘Cautious, cautious,’ the old man said, his voice husky and low. ‘Cautious for one so young and so brave. Much more cautious than the father …’

  ‘I’m not brave,’ Silence said. ‘No more so than any other man.’

  ‘Ah. But that’s just it. You’re not any other man. What strange power Nature has. But she shall have her way.’ He narrowed his eyes and squinted at Silence. ‘Or will she? Such a force swirls within, but mixes with, without. Both, both. We shall see.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Silence said.

  ‘Drink,’ the servant replied.

  And Silence drank. It was nothing more than wine, watered and spiced. He handed the mug back to the old man, who scuttled away. Silence felt a shiver pass through him, the hairs on his arms standing up.

  ‘We’ll be in my cabinet,’ Cador said to the steward. ‘And we are not to be disturbed.’

  Silence trailed after him across the great hall, to the very chamber where Cador had long ago greeted him and Griselle. Griselle … he hoped she was safe at Ringmar, far from the fighting. He didn’t dare ask his father about her; that would not be the place to begin.

  ‘I am sorry for the loss of your wife, my lord,’ Silence said, once his father had closed the door to the cabinet.

  ‘You are an imposter. Attempting a foul theft,’ Cador said. ‘How many men have come through here and told me they are my son? How many in these years? A dozen? More? All imposters.’

  Silence blinked at his father, surprised by the venom in his voice. ‘And how many men have you sent searching for your son?’

  ‘I supposed him long since dead. And if you were my son, you would understand why.’

  Silence pulled back the sleeve of his shirt and held his forearm out to his father. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘is where the wolf sank its claws into me. When I last stood in this room, the wounds were fresh.’ Now they were faint red-brown lines.

  ‘Many men have such scars. And many have heard the story of the wolf,’ Cador said dismissively, and paced to the window.

  Silence thought of all the things that made him who he was. He could tell his father any of the details of Ringmar’s tapestries; he could tell Cador the name, Clopper, of the first horse he’d given him. But his father knew none of these things; for his father there was only one true thing about Silence. ‘Shall I speak to you then of my Nature?’

  Cador wheeled around; his wide eyes bore into Silence’s. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Shall I tell you that Nature formed me as a girl and you had me raised as a boy? Shall I explain to you how you realized that, no matter the Nurture, I could not be un-Natured?’

  Cador spluttered. ‘That’s … I didn’t …’

  ‘You had a hand in my making,’ Silence said. ‘As did Nature. As did Griselle. And the woods at Ringmar. And now, I have had a hand in my own formation as well. Here I am, once again, your child who never was and still is your son. Silence.’

  And he bowed low. In the empty air between them, the fire popped and hissed.

  ‘No one knows?’ Cador croaked. ‘Not the Count of Nevers? No one?’

  Silence stood upright and tugged his shirt straight. Today he had fought in single combat for the sake of Cornwall. Today he had seen his father after more than a year apart. And this was what his father had to ask? ‘No one,’ he said. ‘No one knows who I really am.’ And he turned and left the cabinet.

  Much as there was cause for celebration, there was not time for celebration. What had befallen Tintagel had likewise befallen Winchester, that mighty castle, with King Evan locked inside and the rebellious barons laying waste to the towns and countryside. Earl Cador and the Count of Nevers agreed to set out the very next day, making haste with their knights and armsmen and allowing a well-guarded supply train to lumber after them more slowly.

  Alfred, of course, found many reasons to tease Silence as they spent their one night in Tintagel.

  ‘Shall I vacate the chamber so my lord might rest alone?’ he asked, with a mocking bow.

  ‘Call me “my lord” once more and I will order you beheaded,’ Silence said.

  ‘A sentiment most unworthy of one of your title, m’lord.’

  ‘Would that I could continue as Sir Maurice …’ He shouldered open the door to the darkened chamber, heard Alfred stagger in. Both of them had quaffed more than an average share of wine. He steadied himself on the bedframe and reached for the flint to light the candles. The spark leapt, and shadows stretched across the floor.

  ‘And shall I ride on your heel tomorrow?’ Alfred continued, breaking into Silence’s reverie.

  ‘No. You shall ride much further back than that. Or better yet, up front, as scout.’

  ‘Wonderful! I shall have my pick of foes and claim all the glory.’ He fell onto the bed.

  ‘At least take off your shoes and belt, or you’ll regret it come morning,’ Silence chided.

  ‘Oughtn’t you to have a squire or two?’ Alfred muttered.

  ‘We were squires ourselves but a week ago.’

  Alfred sat up and tugged off his shoes, letting them fall to the floor. Then he collapsed onto the bed and began snoring almost immediately. Silence stood and unlaced his jacket. Out of the one slit window in the room, he could hear the sea, but discern nothing in the thick night. The cool air felt good on his face, bringing him sober thought. He put his back to the window slit, letting the breeze play with the hairs on his neck, and studied Alfred’s face. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted. His cheeks had sprouted stubble; thick over his lip, thinner along his jawline. In sleep, his heavy brows had relaxed; when awake they almost always arched with amusement, or pulled together with disdain, concern. What would Alfred say if Silence told him? How would Silence even put it into words? What he was, was unspeakable.

  He blew out the candles, climbed into bed and waited in the darkness for sleep to claim him.

  When they rode out, the Count of Nevers and Earl Cador led, side by side, flanked by squires with banners boasting their coats of arms. Alfred and Silence followed not far behind. Near enough, indeed, that Silence could hear the Count of Nevers say, ‘How pleased you must be by your son’s return! And by his valour on the battlefield.’

  ‘Quite,’ Cador replied. ‘It is a joy to have him returned to me. He is not much changed – taller, perhaps, and his hair dark
er than I remember it. And yet, I did not recognize him at all.’ Here Cador turned about in his saddle and gave Silence a long, hard look. ‘Not at all.’

  Silence stared back, and wondered what his father saw. The topic of conversation soon switched to King Evan and Winchester and plans for attack. Lords and counsellors pressed forward to offer information and advice – how long would this route take? Where did the river cut through? How many archers did they have?

  As for any army on the move, the days were long, the nights uncomfortable. Silence rode among the foot soldiers at times, talking and joking, getting to know the men from Tintagel, a few of whom remembered him as a page. Some knights disdained the foot, but Silence knew these men, with their pikes, not only had guard of his back, but also could turn the tide of the battle depending upon their courage and determination. In the evenings, once the camp was settled, Silence would play his lute. Sometimes the guardsmen would be the ones who listened and called for bawdy tunes. Sometimes a flute player would join him. And at times, he saw his father come into the circle, to listen and to stare at Silence, searching his face, as if it were a map.

  One night, when they were several days’ ride from Winchester, instead of picking up his lute, Silence went to his father’s tent. The lords who were accompanying him took their leave as Silence entered, and Silence pulled a stool next to his father. He scarcely knew where to begin. Indeed, he had waited these previous nights, hoping his father would summon him. But he had not.

  ‘When this campaign is finished, would you have me return with you to Tintagel?’ he asked.

  ‘I have given this much thought. Perhaps you are better with the Count of Nevers.’

  ‘Do I shame you so?’ Silence said, the words torn out of him as he fought to keep his voice low.

  ‘Maybe it is shame at my actions. I should not have made you so unnatural.’

  ‘You can barely look at me,’ Silence said, bitterness heavy in his voice.