by Alex Myers
The boy returned and Silence had him set the ointment, wine, water and rags down. He made a show of examining the ointment; it smelled of mint and pine resin. ‘This won’t do. Fetch me grease. Bear grease, preferably.’ And the boy ran off again.
When the door had shut solidly, Silence lifted off his shirt and stared at his pale torso. Below the linen strip he used to bind his bosom, the wound oozed dark blood. It was not so large. It was not so deep. He had seen much worse, even from mistakes on the training grounds. Or so he tried to tell himself. In the ewer on the table he mixed wine and water, dipped a rag in and gently wiped at the wound. A clean cut, not as long as his finger; the knight’s sword had been sharp. Blood still ran freely and so Silence held the rag against it, feeling the sting, the pulse of the wound. Then, though it still bled, he dabbed the resinous ointment on, thick, and pulled his shirt over his head.
That small effort had taxed his strength. He wobbled over to the bed and lay down. He had almost dozed off by the time the young man returned. He let him clean the blood from his face, where his helm had cut him. Then he mumbled, ‘Order no one to disturb me. No one! Upon your life.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll stand by the door.’
He floated between dream and real, his muscles twitching and clenching, jolting him awake, his head sore and throbbing. Servants brought watered wine and bowls of broth, and he made a show of being better than he was, waving off the physician’s attempts to examine the wounds he’d taken, and instead applied the salves himself. The wound had ceased bleeding, but persisted in its throbbing, growing red and hot to the touch. But no pus or foul odour (beyond the rancid bear grease) developed.
Two days had passed; he was certain of this. Perhaps three. Silence lay in the chamber alone, contemplating the stones in the wall. No one had delivered news since the battle; it was usual to keep invalids in solitude, so as not to excite them. But, as the throbbing in his head decreased, it was replaced by worry. Had Alfred emerged unscathed? Had the Count of Nevers? What had happened to his father – he had seen him fall, had he not? And Wind … poor horse. What had become of him?
He slept. He woke for the first time curled on his side, and the pain of his wound hadn’t woken him. He took that as a sign that he was healed enough and sat upright. Cold stones of the floor made his toes ache. He stretched his arms up, out, around. Felt the skin of his wound pull but it didn’t bleed any. Opening the door, he found a servant in the hall, the same young man who’d first attended him, and called for his clothes. ‘Yes, m’lord. King Evan has had some prepared for you. Right away.’
A clean shirt and leggings refreshed him, and the young man took away the garments that now reeked of salves and grease and ointments and blood. Silence began a slow but steady walk down the corridor, reaching a stairway, before he realized he had no idea where he was or where he might be headed, so he paused, and soon enough the servant returned. ‘Take me to Sir Alfred.’
They descended two flights of stairs, then walked along a hallway with cabinets. He caught a glimpse of the great hall as they passed, empty now except for a crew of pages and servants sweeping the floor. His squire led him out of the main door of the castle, down a slight ramp, and into a courtyard. Winchester was a maze, and Silence quickly found himself turned around as they crossed the courtyard and went through a gate, and another courtyard, eventually finding themselves in a pleasant garden, with greenery climbing the walls, and flowering bushes spaced along pathways. In the middle of the garden, a table and benches had been set, and here Alfred sat in the company of other knights, most of whom Silence didn’t recognize. The others rose when he approached and one knight lifted his cup.
‘Sad though we are at your noble father’s death, we are proud to welcome you to Winchester, Sir Silence. Soon to be Earl Silence,’ the man intoned.
So his father was dead. He bowed his head for a moment to absorb the news. The knights at the table shuffled and murmured.
‘Had you not heard?’ Alfred asked, coming to stand beside Silence. ‘A dozen times I came to your chamber door, but was turned away. I thought you were mourning.’
‘Healing,’ Silence said. ‘I took a sword to my side. But it heals well. My father’s death is another wound.’
He took his seat, surprised at the hunger he felt, and drew a trencher full of stew towards him. Thick gravy, with bits of meat and turnip and peas swimming in it. He dipped a piece of bread in, sopped it around, and then lifted it to his mouth.
‘I knew Cador,’ said one knight, an older fellow, red-headed, though not as bright as Sir Onfroi’s hair had been. ‘We fought together against Norway, in the days before Eufeme was queen. We were both young then.’ He smiled, revealing gaps in his brown-toothed mouth. ‘Your father was a man of courage. Norway had a giant of a man in their army, and he would daily come to the front of their camp and taunt us, doing the most horrible things to the mangled bodies of our fallen comrades that they had gleaned from the battle field. It was unspeakable, and dishonourable, and disgraceful. And your father, one morning, called for his armour and sword and marched alone onto the field between the armies and called for the giant to meet him in single combat.’ The knight paused and took a swallow of wine. ‘We called for him not to be a fool. Two squires dressed the giant; one had to stand on the other’s shoulders to fit the helm on his head. He used not a sword but a mace, studded all over. And Cador stood there, waited for him to take the field. Both armies watched. The giant laughed and taunted Cador as they faced each other, but Cador merely raised his sword. Waited.’ The knight drew out a pause.
Alfred leaned in. ‘Well? You can’t leave it there!’
‘Well. A mace like that is heavy to lift and hard to swing. And once swung, you can hardly redirect your blow. The giant had been devastating to our ranks when we were all bunched together. But he could scarcely aim and strike against a single, nimble knight. So Cador waited for him to commit and bring the mace down. Then he dodged and slashed his sword across the back of the giant’s knees. Brought him down nearer to his height, eh? And from there, well, the giant roared and rolled and bellowed like an ox. And Cador made a hash of him. Tried for a clean kill, but the giant wouldn’t yield and wouldn’t lie still and couldn’t get to his feet. So Cador took off a hand. An ear. And finally landed a killing blow to the neck.’
‘Gruesome,’ said Alfred.
‘Marvellous,’ said another knight.
‘That was your father,’ the red-haired knight said. ‘A good man.’
He had never heard this story. And as he took another bite of gravy-soaked bread, he realized that there were so many stories he would never hear, so much he would never fathom, about his father.
‘And you seem to follow in his footsteps,’ said another knight. ‘Word has it that you, Sir Silence, are responsible for the death of the Barons Colville and Bohun.’
‘I saw him slay both,’ Alfred said. ‘One to begin the battle, and the other to end it.’
‘Let us drink to your father’s memory, and to your new office. May you rule Cornwall well.’
They raised their mugs and drank. The wine felt sticky in his mouth … he would rule Cornwall? Tintagel would be his? Of course. Of course. That had been his father’s intention, the whole reason that his Nature had been disguised. He swallowed, his head throbbing again, and let the conversation swirl around him. Until at last, having eaten his fill, he rose and excused himself. Alfred pushed back his bench and made to go with him, but Silence waved him away and set out to find the stables. There he asked after Wind, and found the gelding in a stall, working his way through a generous helping of oats. Silence took him out and walked him gently around. The horse favoured one leg, and a groom came over and said he could feel nothing broken or out of place, and that perhaps with time the wound would heal, but …
But he wouldn’t be riding Wind any time soon and likely never again into battle. ‘An early retirement for you, friend,’ he told the horse as he led it back to the stall. ‘Pe
rhaps I’ll send you to Ringmar so Griselle can dote on you.’ That would be the first thing he would do as Earl of Cornwall: summon Griselle, or ride down to visit her. Had she heard of his return?
He intended to sit in the sun and settle his thoughts, but no sooner had he found a likely spot than a squire discovered him. ‘Sir Silence, the king summons you.’
Silence stood. ‘I’m scarcely dressed for an audience.’
‘His Majesty said to bring you as you are, sir.’
And so he followed the squire to a cabinet off the great hall, where the king sat and, a step below him, the Count of Nevers sat as well. Silence knelt before the king, waited for him to say, ‘Rise,’ and offered a bow to the count. A moment later, Alfred also came to the chamber and went through the same motions, which gave Silence a chance to study the king. He’d heard so many tales, but never seen him in person. He had dark hair, shot with grey, and skin of olive tone. His nose, crooked like an eagle’s beak, was ruddier than the rest of his face. He sat there, solid and imposing. Once he might have been called vigorous, hale, but now he seemed heavy; his jowls hung a bit below his jawline, and beneath his purple and black cloak, his torso swelled with ample flesh.
‘These are my finest knights,’ the Count of Nevers said.
‘I knew that without a word from you,’ King Evan replied. A hunting dog, with fine pointed ears, and a white-tipped tail, sat at Evan’s feet and the king reached down and scratched its ears. ‘I saw them on the field of battle. We watched your approach from the walls, waiting for the prime moment to join our force to yours. And when I saw these two charge Baron Colville, I turned to my counsellor and said, who are those knights, and he knew not, but we took note of your crests and colours, and soon enough word came that it was Sir Alfred of Nevers, and the recently rediscovered Sir Silence.’ The king smiled at Silence. ‘Well do I remember how overjoyed your father was at the time of your birth. And how sorry I am to hear that your father did not survive the battle.’
‘He fought nobly,’ the Count of Nevers added. ‘Most nobly.’
‘Ah. None of us is as young as we were,’ the king opined. ‘There were many battles where Cador and I led the troops. But we are old men …’
‘Nonsense, Your Majesty,’ the Count of Nevers interrupted. ‘You are scarcely old.’
‘Old enough to know that my place is at the rear of the charge,’ he said. ‘But enough of old age. It will come, will it not? I asked you here, Silence, first and foremost, to formally invest you, to confer upon you by this royal hand, all the offices, lands, titles, and responsibility that comes with being the Earl of Cornwall, Lord of Tintagel.’ The king’s voice had taken on a solemn (if pompous) tone and Silence bowed his head. ‘Before my kinsman, the noble Count of Nevers, who granted you your knighthood, I hereby state that you are now Earl Silence of Cornwall, so long as your good service to me lasts.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ Silence replied. He found his throat was thick, and he tried not to let his voice tremble as he said, ‘I will serve and honour you in all ways, as my father did.’
‘What you two accomplished on the battlefield …’ King Evan smiled indulgently at them. The dog at his feet gave a little whine and Evan leaned down, rubbed its belly. ‘Even Cador, at the height of his strength, could not do what you did. You on foot, Silence! And Sir Alfred … one of my lords put it best: he cut like lightning through their ranks. I would have you two join my court.’ He levelled his gaze at Silence. It wasn’t the purple cloak. It wasn’t the golden rings on his fingers. Silence couldn’t place it, but he could feel it: the royal presence. The certainty, the mastery.
‘Thank you, Your Highness,’ they said in unison.
‘I have asked the Count of Nevers to release you both and he has agreed. Earl Silence, no doubt you want to attend to affairs in Cornwall, but the Count of Nevers has promised to stop by Tintagel and put matters in order while you stay here. At least for a time. You have been gone from the kingdom for many years, and before that lived reclusively … I would know you better.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ Silence said. Though he longed to see Griselle, he saw the wisdom in King Evan’s words. He had been away, he had been recently knighted. Before he could rule Cornwall well, there was much he needed to learn, and Winchester would be the perfect place to learn it. After all, unlike many sons of earls, he hadn’t grown up at court.
‘Understand,’ King Evan agreed, ‘I ask you both to stay for a year – through this autumn, to guard the land while the peasants bring in the crops, then see that the following spring comes out peaceful. Sir Alfred, if you wish to stay longer, you are welcome. Or join Earl Silence at Tintagel.’
Silence glanced sideways to Alfred, who tilted his head, a sly grin on his face. He was still enjoying that lightning comment, Silence could tell. ‘We thank you, Your Highness, and we would be most pleased with this arrangement.’
King Evan clapped his hands. ‘Wonderful. After the proper period of mourning, we will invest you.’ He pressed his hands against the arms of his chair and, with some effort, pushed himself to his feet. ‘Now, then, I have some baronies to distribute.’
They mourned Cador for seven days; Silence wore his black and went to the chapel and ate his bread and broth. Mourning drew a cloak around him, a little space that even Alfred didn’t dare to penetrate. The only exception came one morning when he went to Winchester’s chapel for Terce. As he rose from his prayers (which were equally distributed to concerns for his father’s soul as for Wind’s healing), he saw a woman, also dressed in black, approach. She wore a coif that held her hair tightly, and little lines radiated from the corners of her blue eyes; otherwise, her face was one of youth. ‘Do you recognize me, my lord?’
The voice sounded familiar. He could almost place it.
She laughed. ‘I imagine I was unimportant to you then, and still am now. No matter. I am Elizabeth …’
‘Jackin’s wife!’ he said.
She smiled, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepened. And Silence saw sorrow there. ‘Is Jackin well?’
She plucked at the sleeve of her black dress. ‘Gone. He took an injury while jousting and it never healed. Then fever set in.’
‘My lady, I am sorry to hear it.’ He offered her his arm and led her out of the chapel into the little yard, where some priest of old had laid the stones down to make a pleasant path through yew bushes and lime trees. ‘And how do you fare?’
‘As well as a widow might … with a widow’s mite.’ And she laughed at her joke and Silence laughed too, and recalled how kind she had been to him at Tintagel, paying heed to a young and lonely page when many women would not have bothered. ‘I have a child, a boy, and he is a delight. But enough. How do you fare? I am sorry, indeed, for the loss of your noble father.’
And so they walked through Winchester’s gardens, down to the training yard, where pages in padded jackets battered pells, and found themselves lost in memory; until Lady Elizabeth said, ‘Soon enough, my boy will want to be a page.’
‘Perhaps I could take him to Tintagel? King Evan says I must take my father’s place.’
And Lady Elizabeth smiled her sad smile and pressed Silence’s hand between both of her own. ‘It is lovely to think of that.’
The skin around his wound puckered and itched and the ache in his head gradually dulled. After the period of mourning had ended, King Evan declared there would be a celebration in three days’ time. Three days to ready the grand hall, for all lords and ladies, minstrels and bards, to arrive, for the kitchens to bake and roast and stew a great feast for the whole company.
Silence had kept to himself for the days of mourning; Alfred had joined him in the chapel on a few occasions, but had not urged him to go for a ride or share a cup of wine. Now, though, he sought Silence out. ‘The Count of Nevers has invited us to hunt with him. We mean to bring in fresh venison for the feast. Come, ride with us.’
‘I haven’t a horse …’
‘T
he king will lend you one. None of your nonsense.’
‘Very well … but if my wound opens up …’
‘I’ll stitch it together myself! Come on, now.’
And so Silence found himself astride a fine chestnut mare, following after a pack of hounds, the sleekness of which he’d never seen before. Held at bay as they rode, Silence studied their taut flesh, the gather of their muscle, saw how they ached to be released, to go after their quarry.
And the woods! The royal hunting grounds of Winchester were not as wild as those around Ringmar, but Silence found them delightful. The thick interlacing of oak leaves, the high soaring canopy of beeches. Some leaves were brown with autumn, but most were green, thick with life, and the horses’ hooves stirred up the rich warm scent of the soil.
The stag was scented; a horn sounded; the hounds were released in a yipping, snarling pursuit. The knights around Silence surged forward; his chestnut followed suit, but Silence had no appetite to hunt and he held the horse back. He felt not the merry riot of the pursuit, but the gentle pulse of the woods. The play of dappled light on the ground, the yellow lichen that crawled across fallen tree trunks. All of it whispered to him. Silence. Silence. He tried to listen closer, to hear what else it had to say, but too soon, the hunt pounded back. ‘We got it! A fine one!’ Alfred called. ‘They’re dressing it now.’
And Silence smiled at his friend’s joy, and together they rode back to Winchester. From this approach the castle looked even more grand. The round towers at each corner of the wall bulged out towards them. Above the main gate a multitude of flags fluttered: one for each noble staying in the keep. King Evan’s lion passant surmounted them all, with the Count of Nevers’ lion rampant a bit beneath. And below that, Cador’s crow. No. Silence’s crow.
In the yard, he left the chestnut with a groom and was soon intercepted by a servant who apologized profusely to say that because of the influx of nobles, the Count of Nevers had moved Sir Alfred to share the chamber with Silence. ‘Of course, of course,’ Silence said and walked along past the kennels and through into the gardens. Lime trees, pruned to stand little taller than a pell, stood in two long columns, making a sort of bower, and past these, a profusion of roses climbed up and over the walls. Silence missed the sea – the sound and the smell (though the roses smelled quite sweet) – but otherwise had to admit that Winchester abounded in the sense of beauty and protection that a castle ought to convey.
