by Clare Smith
“Jonderill.”
He jumped, startled from his thoughts by Plantagenet standing in the doorway and calling his name. Quickly he slid from the stool where he had been scribing by candlelight and bowed in deference, tensing his muscles to hide his shivering. He kept his eyes on the floor, missing the smile on Plantagenet’s face.
“Come with me, Jonderill, you have a visitor.”
Jonderill followed behind the tall magician, his heart racing. For Plantagenet to allow his solitary punishment to be interrupted it would have to be a highly ranked visitor but he knew nobody of high rank who could possibly want to see him. The only other alternative was the matter had to be of great importance, like his wand being found. That thought made him shudder in dread wondering what would happen next and his palms began to sweat whilst the rest of him froze.
If he wanted extra punishment for his failures this would surely earn it. He moved into the warm comfortable room where he usually sat with his masters in the evenings and immediately recognised the regal bearing of the king’s Swordmaster, the finest swordsman in the kingdom and revered by his loyal men. Jonderill bowed low and with a sinking feeling caught sight of his pack, boots and jerkin which lay in a heap at the man’s feet.
“I believe these belong to you?” Swordmaster Dilor began with a beaming smile on his face.
“Yes, sir.” He glanced sideways and tried to see if his wand had been given into the keeping of either of the magicians.
“Then it is you who I have to thank for saving the life of my nephew.” The Swordmaster crossed the room in three strides and grasped Jonderill’s hand, pumping it up and down with enthusiasm.
“Why didn’t you tell us what had happened?” asked Animus kindly.
“I thought I was too late,” stammered Jonderill. “They were all standing around him without saying anything so I was certain he was dead.”
“Lias is very much alive thanks to you,” said Dilor, “He’s sore and shaken and has been sick as a hound from the filth he swallowed but he will be back at practice within a day or two.” Jonderill smiled happily, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from him. “A large man in a striped apron gave me these and told me who you were and what you had done so as soon as I knew Lias was going to be all right I came to find you. As you left the scene so quickly I assumed you didn’t want your name made public so I have told the man to keep his mouth shut but if you have no objections I would like to tell everyone of your bravery and daring.”
Jonderill blushed, he felt embarrassed enough with just these few people beaming at him as if he were a hero, he didn’t think he could stand any more admiration.
“I would rather others didn’t know what happened, I am just happy that your nephew is alive and well.”
The Swordmaster looked questioningly at the two magicians who shook their heads and then shrugged. “I suppose considering what you are it would be sensible not to be too much in the limelight. However I insist you accept some sort of reward from me, you can ask for anything you like which is within my power to give.
“I don’t need any reward, sir, Lias being alive is enough.”
“But I insist, such courage should not go unrecognised.” Jonderill still shook his head. “I wish I had more like you amongst my men then we would have the finest guard in the six kingdoms.” He paused for a moment thinking. “Young Barrin has told me that you are interested in learning to use a sword so how would you like to learn to use a sword like a gentleman? You would have to start with the cadets of course but when you come of age I will teach you myself.”
Jonderill looked up, his eyes gleaming and his longing almost tangible. Dilor turned to the magicians, still beaming broadly. “What do you say, my friends, can you find the boy time to attend practice now and then?”
“I won’t have a weapon in this tower!” claimed Animus heatedly, purposely avoiding Jonderill’s pleading look. “A magician uses his magic and doesn’t need to fight with a sword.”
“What rubbish!” exclaimed Plantagenet. “Spells are powerful but every magician should know how to wield a sword, why even I know how to do that much and the fresh air and exercise will do the boy good, he spends too much time moping around here.” Animus looked at him in shocked surprise. “Besides, he can borrow a weapon if it offends you that much to have a weapon in the tower. Do you want to learn swordcraft, boy?” Jonderill nodded vigorously, unable to believe his good fortune. “Then it’s settled, you can start tomorrow.”
*
The practice yard was larger than Jonderill had anticipated as he stopped beneath the entrance arch feeling pleased with himself but nervous and self-conscious all at the same time. It was midmorning but the courtyard still remained in cool shadow, protected from the sun’s rays by the high walls which surrounded the enclosed area. Jonderill glanced around the walls noticing the decorative balconies which overlooked the practice area and one in particular, draped with bright flags and decorated with the royal crest of grapes and vine leaves. He had heard that the king himself came to watch the knights practice and occasionally joined in a bout with the Swordmaster whilst his family watched. That honour was of course reserved for the nobility of Vinmore; he doubted that anyone would want to watch cadets, or at least he hoped not.
Across the practice yard, beneath the overhang of the royal balcony, a group of youths lounged against the wall and others stood in a small group laughing and talking in a relaxed and easy manner. Most were the same age or a little older than he was although a group of four, who stood off by themselves, were considerably younger and were obviously being treated with disdain by the older boys. Despite their difference in summers they were dressed the same as their elders; white shirt, leather-fronted tabard with the king’s crest above the right breast, tight scarlet hose and leather boots which shone like silk.
Jonderill looked down at himself and felt like a pauper in his second best shirt, worn leather jerkin, patched leggings and well worn boots which had seen better days. What really made him different though was his lack of a sword. All the other boys held theirs proudly sheathed at their hips whilst his belt was empty and would remain so until the Cadetmaster could lend him one.
Unsure of what he should do next, Jonderill stepped inside the practice yard and looked around for the Cadetmaster who he had been told to report to. Barrin had told him all about the Cadetmaster who all the cadets feared and had renamed ‘The Tyrant’. Unusually though, for he had been told The Tyrant was a stickler for punctuality, he had not arrived. Failing that Jonderill looked for Barrin; he at least would be pleased to see him and make him welcome. On the other side of the yard the lively conversation came to an abrupt halt as all heads turned to look at Jonderill the moment he stepped passed the threshold and into the practice area.
The three boys who had been standing against the wall, obviously the eldest of the cadets, sauntered forward to intercept Jonderill before he could take more than half a dozen steps beyond the archway. Jonderill gave them a quick appraisal. One was tall and thin with bushy black hair whilst the other was small but massively built. The one in the centre had flame red hair and Jonderill recognised him as his main tormentor in the days when he had been a houseboy and before Barrin had become his friend. He looked around for Barrin but he wasn’t there.
“You, boy,” sneered their leader. “What do you think you’re doing here? Servants and menials are not allowed in the practice yard with the gentlemen.”
There was a derisive snigger from the other two boys and Jonderill stopped and waited for them to approach.
“He aint no servant,” mocked the tall boy who towered over Jonderill. “He’s the magicians’ lackey.”
“Is it true what they say, lackey, did the Housecharge really buy you for three silver gellstart?”
Jonderill ignored the question which he had heard too many times before to become bothered about.
“That makes him a slave doesn’t it, Redruth?” asked the fat boy between a mouthfu
l of toffee.
“It certainly does. Now you’d better get back where you belong, slave boy, before we take offence at your presence here.”
“I’m looking for the Cadetmaster,” said Jonderill firmly. “I’ve come to join the practice so beat it.”
“I’m looking for the Cadetmaster,” mimicked the tall boy in a high squeaky voice which made everyone laugh. “Well you aren’t going to join in our practice, this is for gentlemen and the son’s of gentlemen.”
He gave Jonderill a shove which sent him staggering back into the wall. Redruth took two steps forward and stood laughing at him. “You know why you can’t join us, slave boy? It’s because only free men can bear arms.” He drew his sword and waved it threateningly in front of Jonderill’s face. “You know what this is, boy? It’s a sword, carried by the citizens of Vinmore in the service of their king and it isn’t for foreign scum like you. Now clear off out of here before I show you what I can do with it.”
Jonderill didn’t move although the tip of the sword was only a hand span from his face. He was certain that Redruth wouldn’t dare draw blood.
“You’re not going to soil your sword on that thing are yer?” taunted black hair. “Look at it, it aint even a boy, not with that long wavey hair and its pretty green eyes, it’s got to be a girl.
A chorus of raucous laughter broke out as the rest of the cadets closed in around Jonderill and the three ring leaders.
“Well if it’s a girl she hasn’t any manners, she ought to know she should curtsy to her betters. Teach her to curtsy, Tuckin.”
Tuckin stepped forward and before Jonderill could step away ploughed a meaty fist into Jonderill’s stomach making him double in half, much to the amusement of those watching. He straightened slowly, glad of the supporting wall at his back.
“You’re not very bright are you, slave boy?” continued Redruth. “That’s twice I’ve politely asked you to leave and you’re still here. Now are you going or do we have to throw you out?”
“I’m waiting for the Cadetmaster,” said Jonderill defiantly.
Redruth shrugged and turned to the other boys. “Throw him out.”
Jonderill moved to defend himself but the boys closed in around him, beating him to the ground with sharp punches and slaps and then taking hold of his arms and legs to drag him to the archway. Jonderill struggled against their bruising hands but there were too many of them for him to escape. When they reached the archway they lifted him from the ground ready to eject him as far from the practice yard as they possibly could. They swung him once with a loud cheer and were about to swing him again but were instantly silenced by a bellow of rage behind them.
“What is the meaning of this?”
The boys instantly dropped Jonderill to the ground and hastily stepped back, allowing the Cadetmaster to move amongst them and turn accusing eyes on Redruth and Tuckin. His look could have peeled the skin off a trolsterc and they both took another hasty step back, not daring to look at him.
The Cadetmaster turned his attention back to Jonderill lying on the ground. “What happened, boy?”
“I slipped, sir, and they came to help me up.”
The Cadetmaster raised a questioning eyebrow and waited for a different answer. When Jonderill said nothing more he gave a growl of irritation. “Well I hope you keep your feet better in practice than you do when you’re walking.” He thrust the blade and scabbard he had been carrying into Jonderill’s hands. “You ‘re to wear this and attend at practice and at the end of each session you’re to clean it and return it to me so that its presence doesn’t offend Master Animus.”
The Cadetmaster turned away from Jonderill and looked sternly at the other boys. “Redruth, Barrin has been excused early practice today so you will take Jonderill as your partner and you will all work in line on movements one and two until they are perfect. Now move!”
Irritated, the Cadetmaster stepped back, drawing his sword in readiness for the morning’s practice. The boys scattered in all directions to make up two lines facing their partners, ready to execute a series of thrust, parry, defend and attack which they had practiced hundreds of times and which should have been executed with the precision of a ballroom promenade. Jonderill faced Redruth and held the unfamiliar sword with a death grip which sent his knuckles white.
The Cadetmaster shouted out the timing and everyone in Jonderill’s line moved forward into the first thrust leaving him standing so that the whole procedure had to be repeated. The next attempt was little better, nor were the third, fourth or fifth attempts satisfactory but after the twelfth attempt the Cadetmaster gave a grunt of approval and the line moved into the next step.
The morning passed with every step being repeated a dozen or more times in line and then another twenty times by Jonderill and Redruth alone whilst the others watched and sniggered. More than once the Cadetmaster’s broadside blade cracked across Redruth’s buttocks when he made a caustic comment or failed to give his best. Even more often Redruth’s blade cracked down on Jonderill’s hands and arms when the Cadetmaster’s back was turned. Jonderill bit back a cry at each foul stroke, determined to see the practice through to the end, whatever happened but it was becoming more and more difficult to grip the blade as his opponent punished his many mistakes and finally the sword slipped from his grip and clattered to the yard.
“What the hellden do you think you’re doing you clumsy bastard, that’s a sword not a fucking garden hoe. Now pick it up before I belt you around the ear with it!” Shouted the Cadetmaster
Jonderill picked it up, his clothes plastered to him with sweat and his hair hanging in wet tails, dripping into his eyes. He would have staggered if it hadn’t been for his pride. Instead he glared at Redruth who was also soaked through and breathing hard.
“Now finish,” growled The Cadetmaster.
The line saluted their opponents and then turned to salute the king’s balcony. For the first time in any cadet’s memory they received a salute back.
“A bit ragged today,” commented King Steppen as he leant on the balcony rail. “Perhaps your senior cadets need to go back and practice again with wooden swords?”
Jonderill had never been this close to the king before but it was not him that he was staring at but his beautiful daughter who stood at the king’s side. Whilst the other cadets completed their salute and lowered their blades his sword remained upright, completely forgotten, as he continued to stare at the princess. Redruth gave him a withering glance and quickly raised his sword to be in step with his partner. The princess gave a belittling laugh and pointed at Jonderill and Redruth whilst whispering to her father. He laughed too.
“Thank you, Cadetmaster, you may dismiss your charges. I think they have given us enough entertainment for one day.” He smiled pleasantly, as if the last few minutes had amused him and disappeared inside the palace with the princess at his side. Jonderill didn’t move but continued to stare at the place Princess Daun had just vacated.
“Dismissed!” shouted the Cadetmaster for a second time, breaking through Jonderill’s contemplation.
Redruth angrily sheathed his sword and barged passed Jonderill almost knocking him over. “I’ll get you for this, slave boy,” he hissed, “Nobody makes me look a fool in front of the king.”
The Cadetmaster watched the exchange with an expression of annoyance on his face as his charges dispersed and then approached Jonderill, who stood with his sword still drawn and his eyes fixed on the ground. He felt a fool and ashamed that his presence had caused the cadets to be ridiculed by their king. He slowly sheathed his sword, unfastened it from his belt and handed it to the Cadetmaster.
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to ruin the practice.”
The Cadetmaster shrugged, “Don’t concern yourself about it, Jonderill, you did well enough for your first lesson. Now go and wash the sweat off and get Master Plantagenet to put some balm on your shoulders and arms. You’re going to be stiff and sore in the morning and a bit bruised. Oh, and Jond
erill, I should keep out of Redruth’s way for a day or two if I were you.”
He gave Jonderill an encouraging pat on the shoulder and watched him walk away. He didn’t know why Swordmaster Dilor wanted the boy trained with the sword but if that was his wish it was good enough for him. Only it was clear the boy didn’t fit in and he hadn’t helped much to make the boy accepted by the other cadets. Perhaps he’d been wrong to use the boy as he had but he had needed to shame Redruth and his little band of followers before their arrogance caused them to make an error of judgment they would always regret. It was a pity Jonderill had to be humiliated as well, he liked the boy’s courage and given time he would make a useful swordsman, but the training of his young gentlemen had to come before the feelings of a mere bound servant.
*
Jonderill sipped his pot of ale and felt miserable. Now his muscles had been given time to stiffen he ached all over. His shoulders burnt like fire every time he moved and his arms felt so heavy he could barely lift his pot from the table. His hands were in an even worse state, bruised and stiff and almost immovable. The walk to the Soldier’s Rest had been pure agony and the thought of having to move again to get himself home was one he was trying to avoid. He would have to go home though, he couldn’t stay here all night, sipping free ale and feeling sorry for himself.
Dispiritedly he leant against the wall and winced as one of his bruises complained at the pressure of hard stone pressing against it. Animus had tut-tutted at the scrapes on his hands with an ‘I told you so’ look on his face. Plantagenet had put his soothing balm on his shoulders which had eased much of the pain of his body but nothing could ease the pain of his thoughts. He’d wanted to be just another boy learning to use a sword but even that piece of normality had been denied him by those he’d hoped would have been his friends.
