Ambert stared with baffled shock. "You dare?"
"You're not lord of the castle yet," said Edward. "So, yes. You deserved what you got, leave it at that."
"You—"
"Look at him, brother, and use your wits. He's no bastard, and he's not little anymore. He took us both down without even trying."
Richard felt his jaw drop.
"So think twice before you go after him. Next time someone might not pull him off you."
Ambert's eyes blazed, but he made no move against either of them. After a moment he lifted his chin and smiled. Not a pleasant sight through the blood and filth. "Next time will come. Be sure of it."
He sauntered toward the trough. None too steadily, though he seemed to be trying to hide it.
"Back to practice," said the fight-master to his remaining students. "No food till you've sweated again."
Richard went through his drills and sparred with some of the taller pages. He had bruises and a cut inside his lip, but nothing that couldn't be ignored. What did unsettle his concentration was wondering about Edward. Sometimes he'd get between Ambert and Richard, attempting to head off Ambert's worst excesses, usually with a joke or insult, always at Richard's expense. He always made Richard their common enemy, but not to the point of encouraging an attack.
Until now Richard thought it had been only for their mutual advantage for Edward's main argument against the bullying was that they should avoid attracting their father's notice. If Richard got hurt too badly, even old Montague would step in to mete out punishment to all. It tended to be brutal, more harsh than anything Ambert could inflict or was willing to endure.
Until today that had been the extent of Edward's protection, such as it was. Had something changed? Richard found it hard to believe this acceptance was based solely on his one victory.
He got an answer at evening prayers. The brothers kept themselves widely separated in the chapel, an intuitive stratagem they'd adopted long ago to prevent clashes. The chapel became neutral ground for them, allowing them the freedom not to fight. It had less to do with the damnation of their immortal souls and more to do with the priest, for apart from the fight-master and their father, he was the only other man with any kind of authority over them and didn't put up with their quarrels. He had a heavy whip close to hand to enforce the dignity of his church, but rarely used it. Once was usually enough to put the fear of God into the most rambunctious worshipers, and witnesses to such demonstrations were subject to immediate conversion to respectful behavior.
They got through the ritual, and Ambert left for evening meal. Richard hung back, though, hungry for knowledge, not bread. Edward had taken to standing in front for prayers and to hear the mass. He'd done so again, then lingered to talk with the priest after everyone else had gone. They each noticed Richard standing by the door. Edward nodded, but only to acknowledge his presence, not invite him over, being more interested in what the priest was saying. It looked like they'd be there for a while.
Perhaps Edward's conscience had grown somewhat more sensitive of late from these talks. That would explain his help. Richard had heard of such things happening. He was himself destined to serve in the church when the time came, which would be soon, in the next year or so, and often brooded over the pending change with mixed feelings. It would liberate him from the discord and violence of his home, but also remove him from the wide world in general, which he was eager to explore. There wouldn't be much of that once he was within a monastery, not unless they went on a pilgrimage to some distant land. But instead of being a strong warrior on a fine horse leading the way, he'd be one of the robed and anonymous brothers walking barefoot in the general procession behind the guardsmen.
The priest had assured him that God called many, and they willingly followed, for the spiritual rewards were greater than anything this world offered. Richard did his best to listen, but so far had yet to hear the Voice that would instantly convince him to forsake the life he knew for protective walls and a calm routine of devotions and tilling crops.
Well, no one on earth or from heaven was calling him just now. He shrugged at Edward's curious display of piety and hurried away to the main hall before the food was all eaten.
* * *
They were up at dawn, blinking in the new light, rousing for another day's lesson learning their warcraft. Ambert's face was swollen, mottled red and blue, especially his nose. Because of the gaudy damage he tried to escape practice, but the fight-master wouldn't let him.
"Think your enemy will feel sorry for you if you're wounded? Get at it or I'll give you something to really regret."
Ambert snarled and muttered, but took a wooden sword and drilled with the rest. When he chanced to groan, he got a switch across the backside from the fight-master for being soft.
Richard tried not to show amusement, but it was hard going. He kept his distance, though, knowing Ambert would blame him for every pain. The switchings put him into a truly foul mood, and he took it out on anyone within reach.
If Edward hurt from yesterday's scrap, he made no complaint and did as he was told, keeping up with the rest.
An hour of this, an hour of that, then it was time to use real swords. They were much heavier than war blades, their edges well blunted, and tended to clank rather than ring when struck, but the metallic sound still awoke an excited enthusiasm in everyone. If they mastered these clumsy tools, then might they be allowed to have something better later on, earning the right to wield a true weapon.
Richard pulled on a much-battered helmet that more or less fit. He had to wrap cloth around his head to get the thing to stay in place. The others were no better, except for Ambert, who had one of Montague's castoffs that served him well enough.
Their body protection was bulky padding, some with thick leather attached, all of it hot. No one complained. This was like real soldiering.
They were paired off and drilled over and over until their sweat ran in rivers and they were red and puffing fit to drop.
Ambert was merciless on his opponents, but drew no rebuke from the fight-master. That's why they were here, after all, to learn how to win. Those who were unlucky enough to match him used their best defensive skills and backed out of range when they could. Eventually, even he ran out of fight, and retired to the side. He peeled out of his leather armor and swilled down water mixed with wine to keep his blood going.
Richard was paired with an older page for shield and sword work; Edward was set against one of the armsmen. The sun was almost overhead. Another few bouts and they could break off for midday meal.
At a signal, they began free drills, which was Richard's favorite part of practice. It was very close to real fighting since you could choose your moves rather than going through the same ones in the same order. His winning yesterday gave him confidence, but his body wasn't cooperating as well as it had then. He felt awkward again, as though everything was back to being the wrong size, particularly himself. Besides, the page was ready with his own surprises. Richard missed some opportunities, but made up for the lack with his height and reach, and tried hard to regain the control he'd possessed. He knew fighting wasn't always about force, but in choosing how and when to use it wisely. The shorter page seemed to have that lesson down and was putting it to test.
Edward favored one of his legs, apparently still aching from his involvement in the brotherly brawl, and the armsman attacked on that side, forcing Edward to put more strain on the limb. The ploy worked, and Edward lost his footing and fell. Twice.
Ambert enjoyed both events, jeering each time. "See the great champion, crippled by a beardless boy."
Richard bit back reminding Ambert that he had also been bested the same way. There was clearly more wine than water in Dear Brother's cup, so he would be immune to good sense for the time being. Aware of this, the fight-master did not rebuke him or force him back to the field to sweat it out. Time enough for that after midday when food would sober him.
Not one to be ignored, Am
bert continued his insults. Usually he held back from attacking Edward, since they were both of a size and age to match each other. There was also the easier target, Richard, who had ever been their common enemy. That was changed, but Ambert seemed quite willing to persist inflicting abuse on his own. He found much to criticize; Edward's every move was subject to unsympathetic judgment, and it had a worsening effect on his actions. Clumsy and panting, with every pass he grew redder of face and struck harder and with less discipline.
The fight-master told Ambert to stop, but got the argument that enemy soldiers were just as likely to fling taunts as spears and arrows.
Then the armsman who opposed Edward gave a brief guttural cry, staggered, and dropped, twisting to one side. He'd been hit in such a way as to draw blood. A normal occurrence during practice even with blunted weapons, Richard was used to seeing and hearing men in pain.
Breathless, Edward pulled off his helm to stare down at the damage he'd caused. He stood confused and suddenly pale for a moment, then in a strained voice called the fight-master over. Others also stopped their free drill and crowded close. Richard did the same.
The armsman was bleeding from the inside of his upper leg, and trying to staunch it with his hands. The only other time Richard saw such a flow was when the castle butchers were at work. If the animal wasn't yet dead from a knock between the eyes the blood would pulse from its cut throat just like that. The fight-master knelt next to the man and dug deep into the muscle with both thumbs, and yelled to the boys to go fetch a healer. Three of them hared off.
"You'll want the priest for this one," observed Ambert, who had joined the gathering. "Congratulations, Edward, you've made your first kill on the field of battle. Father will be very proud."
Even the grim fight-master, busy as he was, looked aghast. There was a moment of absolute silence as Edward's white face flushed crimson, then he whirled and fell on Ambert like a roaring storm. But Ambert was prepared and, grinning, threw his drink into Edward's eyes. It was one of his favorite ploys to immobilize an attacker.
Only this time it didn't work, not for a man already in a blind fury.
There was a near-inhuman roar of fury and pain, such a sound as Richard had never heard from anyone before, much less Edward. He slammed bodily into Ambert and both went rolling.
Richard was aware of shouts and hoots, of the fight-master's bellow, of pages and armsmen milling about, and all he could see was Edward trying his best to murder Ambert. There was no mistaking this for an ordinary fight. He just knew.
No one else seemed to, though.
He hesitated. Certainly he held no love for Ambert, who deserved every crack and clout he got, but Edward . . . he didn't need the mark of Cain on his soul.
So for Edward's sake Richard waded in and grabbed him, a strange reversal on yesterday's actions. He pulled hard on his brother's legs, dragging him clear. Edward was cursing and weeping at the same time, in full frenzy. Richard called for help and got it. Three of the armsmen had to hold Edward down while Richard went to check on Ambert.
His face was bloodied—his nose again—and he gasped like a dying fish, feeble hands to his throat. After pummeling him senseless, Edward had tried to strangle him. Ambert seemed out of danger for the moment, but he'd likely emerge from his stunned state himself ready to kill. Richard, in a rare moment of authority, ordered men to carry him back to the castle.
That still left the wounded armsman to deal with . . .
Resolved now. The fight-master was on his feet, shaking his head at the very, very still figure on the ground. Several of the men crossed themselves and began prayers.
A healer arrived moments later, but pronounced that nothing could have been done to save the man. One of the boys was sent to find the priest, making truth of Ambert's callous prediction. The fight-master found the cause of the man's death quick enough. The tip of Edward's otherwise blunted sword had broken off, leaving a ragged and wickedly sharp edge. It had cut through padding and flesh like a reaper's scythe and tapped one of the courses through which the lifeblood ran. Once severed there was no way to stitch it up again.
Edward now sat exhausted on the churned ground and gaped stupidly at the corpse, eyes dull, his battered face slack with shock. Richard stood close to him for want of a better place. He'd done what needed to be done, and wasn't sure what would come next.
The fight-master crouched next to Edward. "There will be no trouble for you on this, Lord Edward. Accidents on the field happen all the time. We lost two last year, remember? 'Twas but practice then, as well. If he had family you might have to pay recompense, but that will be up to your father."
Edward seemed not to hear. Eventually the fight-master gave up and left to see to duties concerning the situation.
Richard knelt by his brother, thinking he should say something, but no words came to him. Theirs was not a family to share thoughts or offer solace to one another. He felt an unfamiliar twinge in his heart. I hurt because he's hurting. It was awful, truly, truly awful, and it couldn't have been nearly as bad as what Edward must be feeling. He wanted to help him, but didn't know how.
The priest finally arrived and ordered the man carried to the chapel. Seemingly appearing from the empty air, Holy Sisters from the nearby nunnery clustered around the fallen. They also crossed themselves and prayed. Their chosen lot was to care for the sick and injured and, when needed, to wash and dress the dead for burial. They would shortly be at their task.
A slow procession made its way to the chapel. Edward painfully got to his feet. He tagged along in their wake, looking like a forlorn and beaten dog searching for a scrap. Not for food, but comfort, Richard thought. He knew what that was like.
None came.
Edward stood without the chapel door, staring inside as though waiting to be granted permission to enter.
None came. No one paid him any mind.
Richard drew near. Out of nowhere he suddenly realized he stood eye to eye with his brother. When had that happened? Have I grown or has he gotten smaller?
"It's not your fault," he said. He spoke clearly to be certain he was heard.
Edward blinked at him. His pale blue eyes were immeasurably sad, so much so that Richard felt like crying himself. "It is my fault, Dickon. I let Ambert anger me, else I'd have noticed the break on my sword. Instead I kept fighting as though that man was . . . was . . . oh, God forgive me."
The last came out as a rushed whisper, and Edward turned and fled. He was across the yard and out the great gate before Richard could think to follow. He started tardily after, but the fight-master called him back.
"Leave him be, Lord Richard. He'll have to deal with this by himself. Whether by accident or in real battle, the first kill is always the hardest. You'll learn that . . . when it's your time."
* * *
Richard didn't see either of his brothers for several days afterward. Edward was not to be found, and Ambert was simply to be avoided. Easily done, for he was confined to his bed like a woman in labor. Several of his ribs were broken or cracked, and he couldn't move without screaming curses. The healer kept him well supplied with wine. A drunken stupor was better than listening to the howls.
Their father, Montague, was not unduly concerned by the incident. He grunted and laughed once, then dismissed it. Men fought and men died, that was the way of life. Get the praying and burying done and move on with things.
Training continued as usual. The castle swordsmith took the broken practice blade and blunted it down again. Though slightly shorter than the others, no one thought anything of it. Only Richard avoided using it, as though some remnant of ill fortune and death might be clinging to the metal.
Then at evening prayers Richard spotted Edward in the chapel in his usual spot at the front. He continued kneeling after everyone else departed. Richard went over, reluctant to interrupt, but Edward looked up and gave him a wan smile.
"Where have you been?" Richard asked.
"Walking."
"Wh
ere?"
"To the monastery."
"That's over a day's journey. On horseback."
"Our Lord walked everywhere except into Jerusalem, and I'm not worthy enough or humble enough to ride an ass, so I walked."
"Alone?" All roads were dangerous, even the ones in Duke Montague's rigorously patrolled lands.
"Not alone."
"Who was with you?"
Edward smiled again and pointedly glanced around them to indicate their surroundings. Richard saw only the castle chapel, a cold place within the thick stone walls, but with a very nice fresco of the holy baptism above the altar. His gaze rested on the central figure of the Christ, head bowed as His cousin John poured water over Him. Above them hovered a white dove, and what seemed to be rays like the sun shone from its milk-white breast. Richard knew the story well and thought the painting very pretty. Sometimes he wondered if Jesus had gone properly swimming after His baptism. It didn't seem the right sort of question to put to the priest, though, so he never asked.
"God was with you?" Richard wavered between doubt and the desire to hear something remarkable. There were many wonderful stories told about visitations and miracles, but they were also always in some other land happening to some other people. It would be nice to have such an event here at Orleans.
"He's always with me. Us. All of us."
Now he sounded like the priest. "Did you see Him?"
"Each time I look into another man's face."
Richard felt disappointment. "You learned that at the monastery."
"No. During my walk. I never went in. Just watched outside."
"Then why go there?"
"I wondered that myself."
Edward looked quite gaunt. He was also very dirty. Richard frowned, recalling stories of men who lost their wits and went wild, living as animals in the woods like King Nebuchadnezzar. Is that what happened to his brother? "Have you had aught to eat?"
"Not since I ran away. I've been fasting."
"Are you done, then? Evening meat is—"
"I'm fine, Dickon, and I need you to listen to me. I've things to say and no one else to say them to who might understand. It affects you, and I hope . . . well, I don't think you'll mind very much."
Siege Perilous Page 11
