“Too many hens to feed,” Gallus muttered as he continued to tear into the eel.
“Aye,” Flyn agreed. “Too many.”
Gallus' head jerked up from his meal, the feathers at his neck bristling. He fixed Flyn with a dangerous stare.
“You think to take a few?”
“Knights take no mates,” Flyn said pointedly. “You know this.”
Bits of eel flew from Gallus' beak as he guffawed. “Castrates in metal shirts! Look you,” he kicked some mud in Wynchell’s direction to get his attention. “Another cockless coward! Oaths and honor is all that is 'twixt his legs. Would not know what to do with a pullet even if he could get her to lie with him. Ran from me so I couldn't cut him, then went and did it himself so he could join a gaggle of other capons.”
“The Valiant Spur has trained the greatest coburn warriors in history,” Flyn said with his own laugh. He could play this game. And win.
Gallus spat. “Weaklings and loons, the lot of you! Unable to take a clutch. Greatest coburn? Bah! We who hold mates are the strongest there is. Yours is an order of lesser sons.”
“And yet,” Flyn returned without rancor. “Only the mightiest may lead us. One who must receive all challenges and defeat all rivals to retain mastery.”
“Then I am your master,” Gallus declared. “For I have done no less.”
“You are surrounded by females,” Flyn replied airily. “Waiting for you to grow weak with age or take ill, so they can bash your head with a rock. The Grand Master of the Valiant Spur is ever in the company of armed males who by rights may contest his leadership at any moment. I ask you, which is the greater warrior?”
Gallus let the remains of the eel fall to the ground. He took a single step toward Flyn, his wattle darkening angrily.
“Me,” he hissed. “I have fought one of you knights. And he pissed hisself when he died, same as all I have killed.”
Flyn shrugged dismissively. “He was not Grand Master Lackcomb.”
“And what of you?” Gallus' voice was wet with fury. “Why have you not challenged this great warrior? Do you fear him?”
Flyn met his father's gaze without blinking. “As you say, I am a lesser son. I am no Gallus.”
His father seethed, chewing on these words.
Flyn resisted a smile. The witless brute had made it too easy. Gallus' knowledge of the world was limited and Flyn doubted he would even attempt the journey to Albain. Certainly he had traveled far to depose other rivals, but never as far as the Roost. For all his displays of vitality, Gallus was no longer young and would be risking all over a matter of pride. He was driven by base desires, not a need for glory. Even if by some madness he found his way north, Lackcomb would stand victorious and if not, Gallus would not long hold command. The knights would never suffer such a barbarian to lead them. It was all a jape, but a worthy deed nonetheless. A seed had been planted in Gallus' dim mind. Flyn had made him doubt his own prowess and mocked him in a single stroke. All in all, a grand bit of knavery.
They returned to the clutch by dusk, Wynchell depositing the prizes of the hunt in the hall before retreating to his exiled hut. Flyn was again invited to sup with his father. He ate standing as before, but this time was offered a jar of beer, thick with dregs. He asked for another jar before taking his leave, which his father granted. As he neared the door, Gallus' voice made him pause.
“Tomorrow. You leave.”
“Tomorrow,” Flyn agreed with a dip of the head. “I leave.”
He stood outside the hall for a long while, leaning on his sword and watching the door as the moon rose higher in the night sky. Neither Gallus nor any of his mates appeared during his vigil and, once he thought it safe, Flyn made his way into the woods.
A light burned behind the curtain of Wynchell's sunken hut and shadows moved about inside. Flyn purposefully made plenty of noise as he approached and the signs of motion within the hut ceased.
“Wynchell,” Flyn called softy. “It is Bantam Flyn.”
After a moment, the curtain drew back and the cautious face of the capon leaned out. Flyn held up the jar of beer and sloshed the contents gently.
“I would purchase a place of repose,” he said with a smile. “The pigs tire of my company.”
After a brief consideration, Wynchell pulled the curtain further aside and gestured for Flyn to enter.
Within, a single pallet of straw and odd hides lay beside a smoking fire pit. Nothing cooked over the flames, the only evidence of a meal were a few broken acorn shells lying scattered on the ring stones. Wynchell remained standing by the door, eyes lowered. Flyn handed the beer out to him.
“No need to share,” he said. “Every drop is for you.”
Wynchell hesitated for just a moment, then took the jar from him, tipping it to his beak for a healthy swallow. The pullets' brew was foul to the taste, but filling as a loaf of bread. The lad was not likely to begrudge the intoxicating effects either, a rare escape for such a beleaguered brain. Flyn leaned Coalspur up against the wall of the hut, then began removing his hauberk. He let out a deep sigh of relief after shedding the weight of the mail. He deposited it on the ground then sat down heavily, stretching his legs out before him.
“My thanks,” Flyn said with genuine relief. “I could not have stood another day encased in metal.”
Wynchell sat down across from him, the beer already dispelling some of his timidity. The lad finished the jar quickly, but they sat silently for a long time, the flames of the fire pit waving between them.
“Are you going to kill him?” Wynchell asked at last, staring into the empty jar.
“No,” Flyn told him, unable to mask the regret in his answer. “It is forbidden for a member of my order to slay a mated coburn, unless it is to defend ourselves.”
“Then why have you come?” the capon demanded.
Flyn laughed deeply then and saw the confusion in the lad's face turn to anger.
“Take no offense,” Flyn said, still chuckling. “It is myself that I mock. It is a worthy question, Wynchell, for a truth it is. And I fear I have no answer that will satisfy you.” Flyn looked wearily at the ceiling of the hut, allowing his mirth to subside. “Once, not long ago I would have killed him...sought vengeance. We Knights Errant are tasked with walking the world, lending aid and strength of arms against evil. Gallus was the greatest evil I knew to exist and I dreamed of returning so that I could take his life, all oaths be damned. Now, though far removed from the ideals of the Valiant Spur, I must keep them close to heart.
“Still, I needed to see it again. This cursed place. I did not know what I would find here after so many years, but even having escaped, I needed to see it in order to be free. To be free of him.” The capon regarded him grimly and Flyn gave a remorseful shrug. “As I said, the answer would not satisfy you.”
Wynchell shook his head slowly. “I would never have returned. Not here.”
“Perhaps,” Flyn allowed. “Perhaps you are not as foolish as I. But imagine what you would do with strength, with training at arms. If you knew you could defeat him. Would the contempt of this place be enough to keep the lust for his blood at bay? Or would your hard earned prowess lure you back with promises of retribution?”
“I will never have the chance to know,” Wynchell replied bitterly.
Flyn leaned away from the wall towards him. “You are wrong. Join the Valiant Spur and one day, such a test will be before you.”
That took the lad by surprise. His beak hung open and a glimmer of hope appeared in his plump face, but it faded quicker than the sparks rising from the fire.
“I am a cripple,” Wynchell said. “And I know Gallus lies. You are not capons. I would trade the scorn of one for the contempt of many? No.”
“We are not all capons,” Flyn conceded. “But one of the most famed and feared of the Knights Errant is and none within the Order dare mock him. You are a cripple and that will draw jests from your fellow squires, but if you can endure Gallus' hatred, it will seem as
nothing. The Knights Sergeant will make a fighter of you, Wynchell. And the squires will become as brothers. It is a far better life than the one you now know.”
“How did you know of them?” the capon asked. “Trapped here, I have heard stories as you must have, but how did you know it were true?”
Flyn smiled sadly, the lad's question dredging the muck of his memory.
“The same as you have come to know,” he said. “A knight came to the clutch. By the Hallowed, he was impressive! His armor made him appear monstrous, invincible and he bore weapons unlike anything I had ever seen. A sword at his hip, broad shield upon his arm and a pole hammer, the type I later learned to be called a crow's beak. And his spurs! They were the most wondrous. My clutch-brother, Gulver, and I were young, younger than you. We could not take our eyes off of him. Even the females stared openly at him.
“Gallus was away on a raid and the knight came every day into the clutch. He ignored the mates and beldams, but gave Gulver and I food to share with them. At night, he would take his leave and camp well removed, but for near a week he would spend the days telling me and Gulver about the Valiant Spur. The knights were ever in need of new struts, he told us, and that there was a place for us in this magnificent hall called the Roost. I could not fathom a castle then.” Flyn smiled and looked up at Wynchell. “But the food would be plentiful, the knight told us. That was enough for me. Gulver was less certain, he had his eyes on the clutch even then, but I told the knight I would go with him. I dreamed of what it would be like, seeing myself clad in armor before a great feast, wearing spurs and eating my fill. That was my vision of knighthood.
“And then Gallus returned. The knight tried to speak with him about recruiting me, but he may as well have entreated a wild boar. Gallus attacked and suddenly the knight did not appear so invincible. Shield. Sword. Mail. None of it saved him. It was not the first time I had seen my father kill. A wandering rival and an elder son had already been slain before my eyes, but this was the worst. He fought with such disdain, such rage.”
It was not something Flyn had thought of in a long time, but once conjured, the memory was difficult to dispel. He could still hear the sounds of the knight's bones breaking beneath his armor, the pleas for mercy. But the word yield meant nothing to his father. Flyn suddenly wished the beer jar was not drained.
“After it was over,” he continued quietly, “Gallus made Gulver and I bury the body. Armor, weapons and all. I tried to sneak the spurs away, but Gallus saw and beat me bloody. For years, I conspired to dig up the knight's arms and fight Gallus. I marked a tree near the grave with a carving of two spurs so I could find it again. I never did find the courage to do it, however, and I am glad of it, knowing now it would have been a grievous disrespect to the knight.”
Flyn shook his head and snorted at himself. “Sir Haward the Lambent. I looked up his name while I was a squire, years later. He remains listed in the Order's records as 'lost to an unknown end'. Gulver and I never revealed we knew his true fate.”
Wynchell accepted his tale with a nod, though it was clear the lad had not understood all he heard. The clutch was a quagmire of ignorance and were it not for his time with the Tsigani, Flyn would have undoubtedly remained illiterate and unlearned. He still struggled with the ways of letters, though Sir Corc had bolstered his practice during their sojourn on the island. Pocket was his fellow pupil and they nurtured a friendly competition over who could compose better verse. The gurg was far more skilled, but Flyn retained the edge in terms of wit and prurience. One of his pieces managed to make even Corc smile. Such companionable memories seemed to intrude in the murky squalor of the sunken hut and Flyn banished them quickly before they became sullied by the bleak touch of his revisited past.
“How did you become a knight then?” Wynchell pressed, the possibility taking hold.
“It was years later,” Flyn said. “My clutch-brother wanted to challenge Gallus. Gulver had always been big and had grown larger than our father. The choice was upon us. Fight. Flee. Or stay to be cut. We thought Gulver had a chance of defeating Gallus, so we struck a bargain. He would present challenge and if things went ill, I was to come to his aid.”
Flyn took a deep breath, expelling it in a rush.
“Things went ill. Gulver fared well at the first, but he was poorly fed, outmatched. It was time for me to join the battle. I saw it, but I could not move. All the blood, all the broken bodies my father had made of breathing enemies...my courage fled. No. It was never there. Claennis intervened at the last, throwing herself over the ruined body of her son as Gallus prepared for the killing stroke. She pleaded with him and I found myself finally moving forward. Gallus had not yet decided on mercy, but I began dragging Gulver away, expecting us both to die at any moment. I did not stop until we reached the river. We were taken in by humans and Gulver eventually recovered from his wounds, but it was many years before he forgave me.”
Wynchell glowered at the jar in his hand. “Gallus will never let me go.”
“You are not of his blood,” Flyn said, knowing his words would be harsh, but necessary. “You chose castration to combat. He does not value you, Wynchell. There are enough females here to do his bidding, enough mouths to feed that hold some measure of worth to him. You, he will part with.”
The capon accepted this with dour resolve. “What if you are wrong?”
“Then I will fight him,” Flyn answered firmly. “Either way, you and I leave for the river tomorrow. My human friends will come soon and give us passage. I must remain on errantry, but you shall journey north to Albain. When you arrive at the Roost, speak with Gulver and tell him from whence you come. You will find an ally in him and soon, a brother. Me you can count as one from this moment.”
Flyn smiled and extended his hand across the fire. Wynchell, after the briefest consideration, took it and they clasped arms firmly.
In the morning, Flyn donned his mail and strapped the elf spurs to his feet. He took up Coalspur and stepped up out of the sunken hut, finding Wynchell and the pale light of dawn awaiting him. The capon had no possessions, wearing only his hide clout and an eager, if nervous expression. Flyn gave him a reassuring thump on the shoulder, then headed for the hall.
The females were already at work in the clutch, but paused in their chores as Flyn and Wynchell passed. Flyn caught the eye of the closest and stopped long enough to give her a wink and a bow. She turned away quickly, returning to her work. With a smile to Wynchell, Flyn pulled the curtain back and entered the smoky hall.
They found Gallus atop his platform, not yet risen from his bed of furs. Hearing them approach, he untangled himself from the drowsy arms of three mates and peered down at them through the dim, not bothering to stand.
“Get gone,” he said, his voice thick and wet. “You will find no food to break fast here.”
“I take my leave,” Flyn told him. “And Wynchell travels with me.”
“He stays,” Gallus said dismissively and settled back down on his palette.
“No.”
Flyn had not raised his voice, uttering the denial calmly and evenly. He may as well have sounded a war horn. Gallus shot up from his mattress, throwing his mates off him as he gained his feet. He snatched up his heavy club and leapt off the platform, landing nimbly in the dust. He gave Flyn a warning look, his wattle swelling. The females scrambled down from the platform and scuttled out the door, hugging the walls as they passed.
“He is to become a knight,” Flyn stated. “He will earn his spurs and serve the Tin Isles. He will be a warrior, Gallus.”
The old bird's baleful glare flicked to Wynchell. “See to the pigs.”
Flyn said nothing. He did not even glance at the capon. If the lad gave in now, there was no hope of him bettering his life.
Wynchell did not move.
“The pigs!” Gallus roared, taking a step forward and thrusting with his club. The blow caught Wynchell in the gut and he fell to his knees, the breath rushing out of him in an agonized gru
nt. The capon coughed painfully, but slowly rose on wobbling legs. He stood and, though he kept his eyes downcast, did not budge. Gallus made a sound of disgust in his throat, then raised the club with both hands and swung.
Flyn stepped in, catching the downward swing in his hands. The gnarled wood bashed into his palms, but he held firm. Gallus' feathers bristled, his neck and shoulders seeming to double in size. His eyes blazed at Flyn, his beak opening with a menacing hiss.
“Let him go, father,” Flyn said, nearly whispering. “Give him his freedom. Or give me what I want. A reason to kill you. I told you I was not the equal of my Grand Master. That is true. I am greater. This is no lesser son that stands before you. I am Sir Bantam Flyn, knight of the Valiant Spur and I have bested far worthier foes than you. I will take this lad from your miserable clutch or, by the Hallowed you louse-ridden savage, I will separate your head from your shoulders!”
Gallus' eyes continued to burn, but the pressure on the club lessened. Flyn released his hold, pushing the weapon away as he did and forcing his father to take a step back. Gallus breathed heavily, his talons scratching slightly at the dirt, but he made no further move. Flyn took one step back and placed his arm around Wynchell, then guided him towards the door. He turned his back on his father without fear of attack.
Outside, the females stood motionless by their tasks, watching the hut, waiting to see who would emerge.
“Are there any farewells you wish to make?” Flyn asked Wynchell.
“My mam died a few summers back,” the capon replied with no small sadness.
Flyn squeezed his shoulder warmly. “Then let us be rid of this place.”
They made their way across the clearing, passing a pair of females kneeling in the toft garden. For once, they did not look away and Flyn looked into their faces. Wide, bright eyes met his. Confusion. Wonder. Desperation.
Flyn stopped.
He stood transfixed, the two females holding him fast without touching him. He should take them as well. Just these two. He did not know if they were mates or beldams, but it was unimportant. They needed him, they desired to be taken away. They desired. No, he could not take just two. All, all must go! What could he do with thirty pullets? He could give them the clutch. Let them rule themselves. But then they would be vulnerable. Another strut could come along and there would be no one to protect them. No one to claim them. He would stay. Stay and serve them. Let them serve him.
The Errantry of Bantam Flyn Page 21
