by Helen Gosney
Surprised, Trav looked up at him. At first glance the lad appeared as calm as always, but Trav realised that his eyes were burning with fury, and his hands were shaking.
“Aye, Rowan, of course. Are you all right, lad?”
Rowan shook his head.
“No, Sir, I’m not.”
Trav turned to the recruits who were fussing about with their own horses.
“Come on, you lot. Finish up with your horses and go. Now!” he barked.
“Aye Sir!” came the chorus as the recruits finished in record time, saluted quickly, and all but scuttled out of the stables.
“Now, Rowan, what’s wrong?” Trav said quietly.
Rowan took a deep breath and looked him in the eye.
“Sir, I… I’m ashamed to say that I’ve done something that I shouldn’t have… something very wrong, Sir. I think you need to put me on a charge …”
Trav stared at him in amazement.
“What?”
“Sir, I…” Rowan shook his head, stunned at the enormity of what he’d done, but still very angry. Too angry to really make sense of it all.
“Calm down, laddie. Sit down on this hay bale, take your time and settle down, and then tell me what’s happened,” Trav said, wondering what the hell could upset this normally even-tempered, unflappable young fellow like this. For all of his rumoured feistiness, the officers of the garrison hadn’t seen or heard of him losing his composure, and certainly not like this.
Rowan took another deep breath and a firmer grip on his temper.
“Sir, I’ve just thrown Bon Cherrelson in the river,” he said flatly, “Twice, Sir. I… I know I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry I’ve let you down, Sir.”
Trav stared at him again. Bon Cherrelson was seventeen, a big sullen lad who’d found it difficult to accept authority in general, and the authority of a Cadet younger than himself in particular. Coll and Trav had a private wager about how long he’d last in the Guard.
“You threw him in the river…?”
Rowan suddenly looked very young.
“Aye, Sir. Twice, Sir,” he said sadly.
Trav quickly bit back a smile.
“Start at the start, Rowan, and tell me all of it,” he said.
“Aye, Sir,” Rowan said. He thought for a moment. “I took the lads for their class and I thought we’d go down by the river for a bit…”
Trav nodded. They often did this; the horses liked it and so did the recruits.
“And we got down there, and Chinook was fishing by the bridge, so I went downstream a bit further so we wouldn’t scare the fish …” Chinook was the local Bridge troll. Rowan often went fishing with him when he had some free time and he usually came back to the garrison hoarse-voiced from his efforts to learn Trollish. “… And… we unsaddled the horses and rode them in the river a bit, just slowly and not too deep, and then we did some bareback exercises, and…”
Nothing too drastic so far, Trav thought. Rowan was a mature lad and a good leader in spite of his youth and he rarely had a problem with the other lads. If he did, he sorted it out himself. Even loud-mouthed Bon Cherrelson had quickly learnt to show respect.
“And then what?” he prompted.
“We… we resaddled the horses, remounted, and started to come back here, Sir. Young Tim Ollenson was riding Sheba and…” Rowan shook his head again slowly, “You know what a quiet old thing she is, Sir. But she went mad, totally crazy. She… she screamed and reared and bucked and she fought like a wild thing… truly, I didn’t think she had it in her, Sir. Poor Timmy didn’t stand a chance. He flew off and he’s broken his arm, Sir. I… I left the other lads there and I took him to the healer…”
“Is he all right?” Trav was appalled.
Rowan nodded unhappily as he thought about it.
The injured lad had sat up, gaped at the jagged end of bone that protruded from just above his left elbow and promptly fainted. Several other recruits had looked like doing the same and a couple were vomiting noisily in a nearby bush. Rowan told them all to sit down before they fell down and to clean themselves up when they felt better while he got on with it. He’d commandeered several belts and immobilised Tim’s injured arm as best he could, then put the unconscious lad up in front of him on his own horse and galloped to the healers.
Tim had come around just as they’d got there, said several words that Rowan was surprised he knew, and fainted again. Rowan thought it had probably been for the best in his case, but to his mind the rest of the recruits had just proved themselves to be utterly useless in a crisis.
“Aye, Sir,” he said carefully, “Well, the healer says he will be, with a bit of luck. ‘Tis a nasty break though, Sir.”
“And it was Sheba threw him?” That was as unfathomable as everything else.
“Aye, Sir.”
“But what has that got to do with Bon Cherrelson?”
“Sir, I… I went back to the river when I came out of the infirmary… And I looked at Sheba…” Rowan’s eyes suddenly blazed again as he tried hard not to lose his temper for the second time in a day. He’d hurried back to his little troop, wondering if he’d judged them too harshly: most were his own age or older, though they seemed younger to him. His opinion worsened when he saw that they hadn’t even caught the mare to see why the usually placid creature had reacted as she had.
“Sir, there were bloody firethorns under her saddle… I got out as many as I could, but… but I couldn’t get them all, you know how they break off. And Bon was laughing so damned hard I thought he’d burst…”
**********
Bon had suddenly found himself hauled out of his saddle by a very angry Rowan.
“Did you do this, Bon? Did you put these cursed firethorns under Sheba’s saddle, you bloody idiot?” Rowan demanded.
“Aye, I did. What of it? Tim’s always bragging about what a good rider he is. Seems he’s not so good after all,” Bon replied with a sneer, knowing that he shouldn’t speak to a Cadet like that, but unable to help himself. “He couldn’t even stay on sleepy old Sheba!”
“And you think that’s funny?”
“Aye. Don’t you?” Bon blustered.
Rowan was suddenly very still. He stared at Bon, then at the bloody gouges the firethorns had left in the mare’s back, and he thought about the lad with the nasty break just above his elbow. He turned back to Bon and said very quietly, “No, Bon. I truly don’t,” and then moving very quickly he picked the other lad up bodily and threw him into the river.
The other recruits gaped as Bon landed with a huge splash, to emerge sputtering and gasping for air.
“You can’t do that to me…!” Bon shouted as he stumbled to the bank.
Rowan was outwardly calm, but he was furious. Usually his temper was kept under tight control, but not now.
“No?” he said, sounding surprised that Bon might think that. Just bloody watch me, he thought. He ducked under the first punch that Bon threw at him, avoided the next two as well, then picked the other lad up again with no apparent trouble at all and threw him back into the river. A bit deeper this time.
As Bon floundered, Rowan took off his shirt, soaked it in the cold river water and put it on the mare’s back to ease the pain a little for her. She was standing quietly now, but the poor creature was trembling. He knew there’d be bits of thorn that he hadn’t been able to get out, and they’d be hurting like hell as their name suggested. He heard footsteps behind him and spun very quickly to face whoever it was. They’d be lucky not to end up in the river too.
“Gently, Rowan lad, gently. Don’t toss me in too. That other lad’s already frightening the fish enough,” a soft deep voice said as heavy, friendly, six-fingered hands clasped his shoulders.
Rowan stared up into the concerned face of a troll.
“Chinook… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten away your supper…”
“Doesn’t matter, laddie. But you need to calm down now.”
“Aye, I know. I know you’re
right, Chinook. But poor Tim’s broken his arm because of that bastard, and… just have a look at the mare’s back.”
The troll winced as he looked at the horse’s wounds.
“Poor beastie, she’ll need a poultice, I think. Keep that wet shirt on it for now and take her back to the stables, Rowan, and all these lads with you,” he said softly.
Rowan nodded, pulling himself together as best he could.
“Aye, I’d better do that. Thank you, Chinook.” He looked at the recruits, still gaping at him, and at Bon standing dripping in the shallows of the river. “You can walk back to barracks, Bon, and stay there. And you can carry Sheba’s saddle too. Be careful of the firethorns. Come on, the rest of you. Stop bloody gawking like you’ve never seen a dangerous fool dealt with before and let’s go.”
**********
Trav frowned as Rowan finished the story. He lifted the wet shirt from the mare’s back, saw Rowan had found numbweed somewhere, bruised the leaves and put that on too. What a sensible lad he is, he thought. He couldn’t blame him for losing his temper over something like this.
“Let me see Sheba’s back… Beldar’s baggy bloody britches! Damned firethorns of all things… that bastard Bon! Where is he now?”
“I told him to go back to the barracks and stay there, Sir.”
“Aye, good. I’ll deal with him after I’ve seen young Tim. But first we’ll do what we can for Sheba. I’ll need you to keep her calm, Rowan.”
“Aye, Sir… but, Sir, I… I shouldn’t have…”
Trav calmed his own temper.
“Ah… no, I suppose not,” he said with a sigh, “Rowan, I have to ask you this: did you hit Bon?”
“Hit him? Of course not, Sir! I… I just picked him up and…” his voice trailed away.
Trav nodded, relieved.
“Good. Now, you’re not hearing me say this, Rowan lad, but I’d have been tempted to do the same. Still, I suppose we can’t have it… hmm, twice in the river… four weeks mucking out the stables for you, laddie. And no more throwing lads in the river.” Trav knew that Telli’d be very upset if Rowan had hurt his shoulders lifting that great lump Bon. He had big plans for him.
“Aye, Sir. Er… no, Sir,” Rowan managed. “Thank you, Sir.”
Trav suddenly had another thought.
“Show me your hands, please, Rowan.”
“My hands, Sir?”
“Aye. You picked the firethorns out of the mare’s back with your bare hands, didn’t you?”
“Aye, Sir.”
Rowan held out his hands obediently. Even though they were well callused, the firethorns had pierced the skin in quite a few places and the fingers of both hands were bleeding and already looked inflamed and a bit swollen. They had to be hurting a lot, Trav knew, even after handling numbweed, but Rowan had been too worried about Tim and Sheba, and too angry, to notice.
“Off to the healer with you, laddie, after you’ve kept Sheba nice and quiet for me. And no working in the stables until they’ve healed. Someone else can saddle and take care of your horse for you.”
Rowan’s face fell.
“Aye, Sir,” he said unhappily.
**********
The rest of the men in the Mess were appalled at the incident, at what Bon had done, but they laughed at Trav’s solution.
“And you punished Rowan by putting him to work in the stables?” Coll chuckled.
He’d never heard anything funnier. Rowan was a Horse Master, after all. He was probably more upset that he couldn’t do it until his hands healed up.
“Aye,” Trav said, “It seemed appropriate under the circumstances.”
They laughed again.
“And what about that useless bugger Bon?” somebody else wanted to know. He’d have done more than give him a little swim in the river.
Trav shrugged. “Telli’s thinking about it. Young Tim broke his arm, after all, and it’s a bad break too, poor lad. And the other recruits said that Bon tried to punch Rowan a couple of times too. He missed him of course, luckily for him, but still… I had to pass it on to Telli.”
The others nodded, serious now. Recruits shouldn’t be punching Cadets or anyone else, and Rowan was his superior, even if Bon didn’t like it… Mind you, he’d been damned lucky young Rowan hadn’t flattened him. Nobody would have blamed him if he had.
**********
“… As I was about to say, I’ve got some good news for you.”
But Rowan hadn’t been happy when Telli told him he’d be representing Den Sorl in the Silver Spurs competition…
The Silver Spurs is a coveted honour, awarded to the best Cadet in Wirran and judged over the entire three years of his training. His own garrison assesses him for the first two years and if he proves to be good enough, he finds himself nominated for the Silver Spurs halfway through his final year of training, his Cadet year.
It’s a very demanding assessment involving all aspects of a Guardsman’s training and it’s conducted over several weeks at different sites, but naturally the emphasis is on weapons skills and horsemanship. The assessors are chosen from various garrisons and there is no posting of scores during the assessments; unless the lads are brutally honest with themselves they have no real idea of where they stand until the final phase, when their numbers are abruptly reduced to twelve.
“But… but, Sir… with respect, Sir, I…” Rowan said hesitantly.
“Is there a problem, Rowan?” Telli asked, surprised at the lad’s reluctance. “I thought you’d be proud to represent Den Sorl.”
“Aye, Sir, I am. I’m truly honoured, Sir, but… well, there’s Bon, and…and you know that I’m a Whisperer, Sir. ‘Tisn’t fair to the other lads in the competition,” he said, “You could send Fess, Sir. He’d do well.”
Telli looked at him carefully. He shouldn’t be surprised, he thought; Rowan was such an honourable lad… and Trav and Coll had warned him that he’d probably say this. But he was a talented young fellow and he’d worked hard. Very hard. He’d earned the respect of the entire garrison. And he’d earned this chance. He wasn’t going to lose it because some bastard had put firethorn under a mare’s saddle.
“Rowan lad, don’t fret about Bon. He was damned lucky that’s all you did to him, truly. That’s over with. And as for sending Fess to the Spurs… well, he’s a bloody good Guardsman, and he would do well, but he’s not as good as you.” Telli stifled a smile as Rowan blushed and shook his head. “The Whispering business doesn’t help you to wield a sabre, or shoot an arrow, or throw a spear, does it?”
“No, Sir. But…”
“It doesn’t help you be stronger and fitter than all the other lads even though they’re older, and it doesn’t help you run them into the ground at training, does it? Does it help you to know how to manage a troop properly, or put up a tent without it falling on your head, or clean your horse’s harness well, or… or do bloody paperwork and write a good clear report?” Telli was getting into the spirit of the thing now. “Does it help you to give orders, or take orders, or throw a knife or a javelin or that damned great lump Henry over your shoulder when you’re wrestling?”
Rowan shook his head.
“No, Sir. It doesn’t do any of that,” he said quietly, “But it does help me to manage a horse better than the others, Sir.”
Telli sighed. Rowan was a fine lad, but he was bloody stubborn just as his father had said.
“Aye, well, that’s true. But you’d be a damned good rider anyway, Rowan. You’ve got wonderful hands and beautiful balance,” he said, “Anyway, the Spurs isn’t only about riding. It’s an important part of it, I grant you, but all the rest of it’s important too. There’ll be lads there whose families have been in the Guard for five generations, and others who’ve been wielding a sword since they were old enough to hold one. Should they not be there too?”
“Of course they should, Sir, if they’re the best in their garrison…” Rowan’s voice trailed away as he realised what he’d said. Dammit, he thought.
Telli pounced, but carefully. Carefully. This lad didn’t hide his light under a bushel, but he didn’t brag or show off either. He simply did his best and his best was very, very good.
“Aye… and Rowan lad, you’re the best in our garrison. I know you don’t like to blow your own trumpet or make a fuss, but you know it and I know it. The whole bloody garrison knows it, laddie.” He smiled at Rowan. “We don’t often have someone good enough to go to the Spurs, a little garrison out in the Woopsies like us. Haven’t had for years… and between you and me, Rowan, Fess is bloody good and he’d do very well, he’d probably be in the top half a dozen. But I honestly don’t think he’d win it. You will.”
“But… but what would I do with the damned things even if I did win them, Sir? I don’t wear spurs,” Rowan said, still unhappy about it but fast resigning himself to the situation. It wasn’t as if he really had a choice after all. If Captain Telli wanted him to go, not Fess, then he’d be the one going.
Telli laughed.
“You do with your dress uniform, laddie, even if you don’t actually use them.” He became more serious. “Rowan, I wouldn’t enter you in it if I didn’t think you should be there. For any reason.”
Rowan sighed.
“No, Sir. I suppose not. But… Sir, I think we have to tell the assessors and the other lads about the Whispering. ‘Tisn’t right not to.”
Telli looked at Rowan very carefully.
“Are you sure, Rowan? You know they’ll…”
“They’ll look at me like I’ve got two heads. Aye, Sir, I know,” Rowan said unhappily, “But… it just doesn’t seem right, Sir…”
“And what will you do if the assessors say you can’t go in the competition, laddie?”
Rowan shrugged.
“Then I won’t go in it, Sir.”
Telli thought about what Rowan had said. He truly was such an honourable lad. Good for him, he thought. He nodded slowly.
“All right, Rowan, if you’re absolutely certain about it. There’s no taking it back once everyone knows.”
“I know, Sir. But maybe once they’ve got used to the idea, they’ll see I’m really no different to anyone else. Folk at home don’t treat me any differently, Sir, and Fess doesn’t,” Rowan said.
