Crying out in pain, Falon staggered back holding her nose and staring at the farmer’s son.
The look of concentration on his face as he came forward was almost unnerving, so this time when he came forward with an overhand swing, she ducked under it and to the side.
Realizing from his actions and her throbbing nose that she had do something quickly, she dodged another of his slow swings, stepping lithely away and to the side as if she were on the dance floor.
“Stand and fight, fancy feet; ye can’t win by runnin’ away,” the boy said so grimly she figured he must be right.
Screwing up her courage she stepped forward, swung with all her might, and hit him on the shoulder. He didn’t even seem affected by the blow, and this time when he swung in response, she was in too close and his counter punch clipped her behind the ear.
Dazed and seeing stars, Falon tried to raise her hands to ward him off, but he hit her on the side of her shoulder hard enough her entire arm felt numb and kicked her in the thigh with his boot.
Limping and backing away, Falon was past disbelief and into survival mode. Throwing a few ineffectual punches to try to keep him off, she tried to maneuver around him and keep her distance.
Jumping forward, the boy faked a kick and landed another fist right to her nose. Feeling blood start pouring down her lips and into her mouth, Falon’s face hardened into a tight, pain-filled mask. Facing the boar had been both terrifying and much more painful than being beat up by this young man, but at least when facing the boar she had not experienced a paralyzing feeling of helplessness.
She might pretend to be a brother to her sisters, but this boy was showing her all the many ways in which she was so much weaker than the male half of humanity—and relatively helpless to stop him, to boot.
How much worse will it be when she was up against trained warriors, she wondered, realizing for the first time she couldn’t keep playing the game by their rules. Somehow, she had to even the odds in her favor.
Half dancing, half staggering away she ducked and scrambled to stay out of reach and away from the older boy’s sluggish, yet powerful strikes and punches. Seeing him grinning in triumph, clearly certain of his victory, Falon felt a surge of anger and fear roar through her.
The next time he went to kick her, she saw an opening. Taking the blow on her still painful thigh, she used her other leg to hammer him right in the jewels with her leather clad foot. Bending almost in half at the middle, the boy gave a cry any of her sisters would be willing to call their own, and crumpled onto the ground.
Seeing her chance, Falon kicked him in the face and began stomping him in the arms and shoulders while he was curled up in a protective ball. He took it for long enough that she was starting to feel like she had gotten some of her own back on the big brute, when he straightened and it was a red-faced farmer’s boy that grabbed her foot and threw her backwards.
Twisting around to catch herself with her hand before she hit the ground, Falon gave a squawk when she saw the tree approaching her face at rapid speed. Moving her face enough that all she claimed was a scrape against its bark and a few scratches, she slammed shoulder first into the big old ash tree.
Holding the tree for support, she pulled herself upright. She turned around with the tree to her back in time to see the farmer’s boy scramble to his feet.
“Do you know how long I hunted that boar, and with nothing but a short bow and three arrows?” raged the boy, murder on his face as he came for her.
“Go jump in a lake and drown,” she hollered at him. Her body tensed as he came closer.
“I was up all night!” he shouted, charging forward.
Falon waited until the last second and then half fell, half rolled to the side. She listened with great satisfaction as the farm boy, unable to change direction or slow down in time, careened off the mighty tree. Continuing her own roll, she came back up in a half crouch only to see the boy several feet away holding his shoulder.
The way he was holding his shoulder gave her an idea and caused her to remember a joint lock her brothers had been practicing on each other the summer before they left. Bouncing to her feet as fast as her aching thighs would let her, Falon took a running step and jumped on her opponent’s back.
“Git off me,” shouted the older boy, trying to buck her off but Falon wasn’t going to be deterred. Grabbing the first elbow she could find and twisting for all she was worth, she used her other hand to grab a hold of his wrist. In a quick movement, she pulled it behind his back before he realized what she was up to.
“A low blow, a dirty move and fancy tricks,” the boy growled, jerking from side to side and trying throw her off by getting back to his feet, “you’d never even have a chance in a fair fight!”
Falon grimly held on for all she was worth, doing everything she could to jerk his hand up behind his back even further and keep him pinned to the ground. She knew if he escaped her now that she would never get another chance.
He was on his knees and just about to muscle his way back up to his feet, despite everything she could do, when it felt like she had finally immobilized the joint. Not knowing if she had done it right or not, there wasn’t a moment left to lose—if she didn’t try now, her leverage would be lost.
Holding his hand behind his back and with his elbow already pointed straight back, she adjusted her grip and lifted upward with the hand holding his elbow.
The boy gave a scream and when he toppled forward, Falon smiled with savage satisfaction; the joint lock must have been sunk in good enough after all.
Riding him down to the ground, she kept up the pressure and forced his face into the ground in a vain, instinctive attempt to escape the pressure.
“You think war is fair?” she hissed in his ear, furious at the boy for attacking her out of the blue like that. “You think the boar you’re so mad I found and stopped while you were still busy stumbling around in the woods followed your rules?”
She gave another jerk on his elbow, eliciting a pain-filled shout and a brief struggle. “Surrender,” she demanded.
“I give,” the boy beneath her panted, his face twisted up in pain.
“I fight dirty?” she yelled, still outraged. “You hit me first, you big clod head,” she ground out, releasing the pressure on his elbow only slightly.
“Only after you touched me,” the boy defended self-righteously, and Falon started to put pressure back on his elbow.
“I give—I give,” the boy shouted, “I said I give already!”
Someone else came running up from the barn, and Falon looked up in surprise, seeing another boy. Presumably the farmer’s other son, and this one looked about the same age as her. She unconsciously let off the pressure on elbow, her hands going slack.
Sensing his chance, the older boy twisted out from underneath her and rolled away cradling his shoulder.
Eyes widening, Falon jumped to her feet. There was no way she could take the big one all by herself again, let alone two boys at the same time.
Chapter 15: Knock it off you two
Backing away warily, Falon split her attention between the two boys. The one she had just been fighting looked upset with his loss and spoiling for another fight, and she quickly sliced her gaze over to assess the newcomer.
Raising her fists, she prepared for another attack—except this time she knew for certain she was going to lose.
“Alright you two, knock it off,” the younger boy said with quiet authority.
Falon, who had been glancing back and forth between the two farmer’s sons, suddenly locked onto the new boy. Deciding the best course of action might be to keep quiet for the moment since she didn’t want to get popped in the face again, she bit her tongue. Speaking of getting punched in the face, she held a hand up to her nose and it came back covered in blood.
For a brief moment she stared at her own blood, while the older boy she had just been fighting just stood there breathing heavily.
“Stay out o’ this Ernest,”
the older boy said.
“No,” Ernest said flatly, “you knock it off. Fighting with a Squire’s son,” he shook his head, “are you out of your mind? What would father say?”
The older boy looked at the ground angrily, but Falon could see the urge to keep fighting leave him. Her shoulders slumped, and as soon as she realized they had done so she did her best to square them again.
The new boy, Ernest, cocked a quick smile in her direction before his face turned serious again.
“I sorry, young Sir,” Ernest said squaring his shoulders as if about to carry a heavy load and stuck out his hand, “me brother can be a bit of a dunder-head at times. I hope you can let ’er pass.”
“Ernest, ye block head, you’ll pay for that crack,” the older boy growled softly, some of his thick villager accent melting away.
“Me brother can be a right tool betimes, but his heart tends in the right direction,” Ernest continued, still holding out his hand as a corner of his mouth lifted, “for the most part.”
Falon, still absentmindedly wiping the blood from her nose, stared down at the offered hand of the younger boy.
“I never caught your brother’s name,” she said stiffly, still not taking the hand and the forgiveness it implied. She wasn’t in a very forgiving mood, and if she thought she had half a chance, she would have tried to cold cock the older brother.
“Duncan, young Sir…” Ernest pursed his lips, “Falon, is it?”
“You have a problem with my name?” she asked coldly, “First you’re brother has a problem with my face, and now you have some question—.”
“I’d really appreciate it if you’d take my hand, and we could put this whole sorry mess behind us,” Ernest cut her off quickly, and she could see the stress on his face.
Falon was about to spit in his face and dare the two of them to do their worst when she thought of her sisters. Just because they were siblings didn’t mean they were all alike. Maybe this boy was just trying to do the right thing, as doubtful as she was of that right at the moment with blood still pouring out her nose.
Then she wondered how she would like to be judged and blamed for the actions of her sister, and she heaved a sigh.
“Fine,” she said stiffly, and took his hand in hers. She was slightly surprised when he started to squeeze more tightly than she expected, and she glanced up at him.
For his part, Ernest looked surprised and quickly released the tension in his grip when she looked up. Then, giving her hand a sharp shake, he started to back away.
“You call a Squire’s son Mister, not young Sir,” she said sharply, “that’s for Knights and such like.”
“Mister, huh?” he said pursing his lips and failing to look irked even though she had given him the sharp end of her tongue, “that’s the same as a blacksmith, a cooper or master of a trade.”
“A Squire’s on the bottom rung of the gentry class, and so is his family,” Falon grunted, flicking her hand toward the grass to get rid of some of the blood, “we’re definitely not peasants, and yet not really a proper part of the nobility. We don’t rate a ‘Sir’ or ‘Milord’ like a Knight.”
Duncan snorted off to the side, yet for all of his derision when Falon looked over she could see his interest—albeit one quickly masked under look of indifference.
“Yet ye’ve the fancy house and a land grant from the Lord himself,” Ernest retorted with a quick smile to cover his obvious confusion, “and don’t pay the farmer’s tax.”
Despite herself, Falon found herself responding to that smile by relaxing ever so fractionally and shaking her head.
“And there you have it,” she said evenly.
“Have what?” Ernest said with such a…well, earnest look, that Falon found herself explaining almost despite herself.
“A fancy house,” she explained rolling her eyes.
“It looks as sturdy as a fort, with all those logs,” big brother Duncan interjected, “fancier than anything else I’ve seen in the area.” His younger brother shot him a quelling look and Falon suppressed a smile.
“Go on,” Ernest said, indicating with a gesture that they should head on over to the barn.
Shaking her head Falon went over to retrieve Bucket, who had been watching all this hullaballoo without deigning to get involved. After she retrieved the donkey and they were all headed over to the barn, she waved her arm and continued, “A landed Knight would have a Manor,” she explained, but at the pair’s uncomprehending looks elaborated, “a big stone house with very small windows, and maybe another square wall thrown up around it for protection and a place for a stables, ferrier and maybe even a blacksmith to work.”
“Like a Castle,” Ernest said excitedly.
“Nope,” Falon said shaking her head, grateful for the first time that she had read and actually been paying attention to the Chatelain’s Defense so she would know the differences, “even Lord Lamont doesn’t rate more than a Keep. Although,” she mused, screwing up her face in consideration, “I supposed he would build one if ever he could afford it.”
Duncan snorted, no doubt trying to sound world wise when he said, “Me uncle described Lord Lamont’s hold; he’s actually been there,” Duncan said condescendingly. “Five hundred men-at-arms and over a dozen Knights he saw with his own eyes. It was a big stone building—so big it could swallow them all up! And now you’re tryin’ to tell me there’s something even bigger than Lamont’s Castle?” he shook his head defiantly.
“It’s a keep! Not a castle,” Falon stopped and glared at him before shaking her head dismissively and looking over at Ernest.
“Well, it do seem a bit much,” Ernest shrugged helplessly.
“You think nothing’s bigger than Lamont’s residence?” she asked, dumbfounded at the idea.
“Unless ye’re saying otherwise,” Ernest said diplomatically.
“What about the King then, smart guys?” she scoffed. “You think he’s going to let Lamont sit in a Castle as big—or bigger—than his and not make a squawk crosswise?!”
Duncan glared, while Ernest gave a good big guffaw.
“She’s got you there, Duncan,” he grinned good naturedly, “it’d be like Headman Tuttle, not belly aching if one of the other farmers put up a bigger barn. Everyone’d hear about it for months and years, even after he built himself a bigger one—even if just out of spite.”
“Well of course the King would have a bigger house,” Duncan grumbled, his eyes promising retribution if Falon kept showing him up. But since he had already done his worst, Falon just lifted her nose in the air. She was about to lambast him when she remembered her sister’s lessons on the fragility of male pride, way back when she had first started to turn into a young woman.
“Look boys—” she started, only to be cut off by an angry Duncan when he stuck out his chin and stepped up to her. Ernest quickly stepped between, using his hands and body to keep them separate.
“He didn’t mean nothing by it, Dun,” Ernest said quickly, “he’s just as much still a boy as you and me.”
Duncan glared around his brother before unclenching his fists and stepping back, “You maybe,” he grudged to his brother, “but I’m almost a man grown, and after the King’s battle I’m going to be a man in fact.”
“Right,” Falon said looking away, not liking to have to lie outright about not being a girl, so she just looked away for a moment, “anyway, there’s lots of Dukes and Barons and everything all down beneath the King, and each of them has his own Castle,” she said as patiently as possible, hoping this olive branch would dispel some of the tension.
“Lord Lamont’s a bigger lord than any of them fuddy-duddies,” Duncan said, stoutly defending Lamont’s status.
“Below the King is a Duke, and below the Duke is a Baron’s, and under all those are Lords like Lamont,” Falon said as carefully as she could. The two boys looked shocked and surprised by this information, and it was all she could do not the frown, so instead she wiped at her nose again and decided to t
hrow them a sop to their obviously fragile male egos. “Although from everything I hear, the Lamont Fief is larger and richer than most his peers.”
The boy’s exchanged looks and they all walked the rest of the way to the barn in silence.
“Well,” Ernest started and then ground to a halt, twisting his foot in the ground nervously.
“Yes?” Falon asked curiously.
The boys exchanged glances and the older boy nudged his younger brother. Ernest shot an angry glance at Duncan, and Falon watched with amusement as the two of them acted just like her own brothers, back before they had left to seek their fortune.
For a moment, Falon was silently furious with Daman and Garve all over again. She didn’t care that as the sons of a Squire—one with a poor, run-down estate hardly large enough to support their family at the best of times—there was little prospect for them to advance themselves. They had left behind five sisters and a brother who badly needed at least one of them, or else Lamont would be well within his rights to marry the girls off the whomever he wanted after father died…be it to a Knight, or a pig farmer. And then he could reclaim the estate for himself, when the family wasn’t able to fulfill their feudal duties with no male head of household old enough to take over for Papa still around.
The brothers must have come to some kind of consensus while she was wool gathering, because the next thing she knew Ernest flicked her in the shoulder.
“What?” she demanded, her thoughts having turned dark just remembering the series of events that had led to the miniature estate falling into disrepair.
“Well, it’s just that I heard Lamont has a whole passel of Knights underneath him, each with their own big stone house, and armed soldier men too,” he said diffidently, as if he didn’t want to correct her but just didn’t understand the difference.
“Ah,” Falon said realizing the confusion but not sure the best way to explain it yet, “well…not all the Knights under him have land holds. Not every knight has a land grant.”
The Boar Knife (Rise of the Witch Guard) Page 11
