The Bound Folio

by Rob J. Hayes

  Tristan glanced at his friend; it always struck Tristan that Kernard was the very definition of plain. He was of average height with short brown hair, brown eyes, and a dull face considered neither handsome nor ugly. He had recently taken to sporting a mess of wispy hairs on his chin that he refused to shave, claiming it was a beard.

  “Sorry, Kernard,” Tristan said with a grin. “I didn't notice you standing there.”

  “Yeah, right.” Kernard swung a hefty punch at Tristan's arm. The fist connected with a thud and Tristan felt the familiar ache of a dead arm.

  “Call that a punch?” Tristan tried to ignore the pain. “I've received worse beatings from my sister, and she's only fourteen.”

  Kernard snorted. “Your sister can beat me any day.”

  Tristan laughed at his friend’s jest. Kernard was different from the other squires. He was a northerner and, although he was noble born, his family were far from the aristocratic pomp that most squires grew up with. Kernard's relatives were poor and out of favor and, being the third son of the family, Kernard was very much unwanted. His master, Sir Kevon Nown, had only taken Kernard on as a kindness to his sister, Kernard's mother.

  As soon as Kernard had arrived, he had become known as the loudmouthed, impolite squire who preferred to solve issues with his fists. Tristan had befriended the new squire at once. It was good to know someone with even less breeding than himself, and it gave them something to moan about.

  “Come on,” Tristan said, leading the way. “Let’s get the others. Reckon we've got a good few hours of drinking, easy.”

  “Do we have to?” Kernard unleashed a sigh.

  “Drink? Why? You going soft in your old age?” Tristan knew his friend referred to gathering the other squires, of course. There were very few of them Kernard got on with; most he just tolerated...sometimes. “The more of us, the less likely we'll be picked out if we're reported.”

  “Fine,” Kernard said, “but let’s leave Pigson, eh? Wouldn't want to have to knock him on his fat arse again.”

  #

  They found Archie outside his master's tent. He was sitting cross-legged on the cold ground, a knife in one hand and a small block of wood with three hoofed legs taking form in the other.

  “Another horse, Archie?” Tristan asked.

  Archie nodded once in reply.

  “Don't you know how to carve anything else?” Kernard had asked the same question before many times, but he liked to try and wind Archie up. “Like a dog. Or a woman. You could carve yourself a little woman, give her great big breasts.”

  Archie shrugged. “I like horses.”

  “Yeah, I bet you do,” Kernard prodded.

  Archie ignored the comment and placed both knife and carving just inside the tent flap before standing and giving a dramatic stretch coupled with an exaggerated yawn.

  Archie was short and would always be short. He stood just over a full head smaller than both Kernard and Tristan. He was also slim and very handsome, at least according to the amount of female attention he attracted. He also possessed an otherworldly calm that unsettled many, including Kernard.

  “Barry said he isn't coming,” Archie stated.

  “Why?” Tristan asked.

  “He didn't say. I didn't ask.”

  “We could just go wake him up.” Kernard suggested.

  “He's not in his tent,” Archie countered. “Saw him wandering off towards the village 'bout an hour back.”

  “Well, let’s get the other two,” Tristan said.

  “Two?” Archie asked, then glanced at Kernard. “We leaving Higson again?”

  “Screw Pigson,” Kernard said with venom. “Fat bastard can rot in his tent.”

  Archie shrugged and said nothing, falling into step behind Tristan as they walked towards their next accomplice.

  #

  Simon Fallow was the youngest of the Tristan's group, yet he often acted as if he were the oldest, or at least the most mature. His master, Sir Reg Dridon, was a sot. The old knight was never in his tent; in fact, he was almost never where he was supposed to be. Tristan wagered they'd find Sir Reg passed out in a gutter somewhere, either that or he was sleeping off a hangover in one of the inns, probably with one of the camp followers by his side. Simon, on the other hand, was in his tent. He was laid out on his pallet with his blanket pulled up around him, snoring like an old man.

  Not for the first time, Tristan noted, Simon was not cut out to be a squire. He performed all of his duties well enough, but if it weren't for Tristan and the others he'd miss out on all the fun. There was more to being a squire than work, though the Gods knew there was always more than enough of it.

  Tristan and Kernard crept into Simon's tent like ghosts, whilst Archie waited outside acting as lookout in case anyone should happen by. It wasn't against the rules for the boys to be out so late, far from it, but it was against the rules if their masters didn't know about it.

  Tristan took a quick look around and nodded towards the small wash basin filled with water. Kernard broke into a grin and picked up the basin, moving over to where Simon was sleeping. Just as Kernard was about to douse Simon, his snoring stopped and his eyes flicked open.

  “Such a light sleeper, this one,” Tristan said with a smile.

  Simon didn't move, his eyes were locked onto Kernard. “Put it down, Kernard.”

  Kernard sighed once and tipped the water over Simon's head.

  Simon went red with anger. He wiped water from his eyes, then was up in a flash swinging a heavy fist at Kernard. The northerner jumped back laughing and raised the wash basin. Simon's fist connected with the clay fired basin with a thud, followed by whispered cursing.

  “That looked like it hurt, Si,” Kernard taunted, still grinning. “You should learn to take a joke.”

  “Drenching me was a joke, was it?” Simon cradled his hand. “Proving yet again you Wulfdens have no concept of simple humor.”

  Kernard's smile disappeared. “Screw you, Si. Leave my family out of this.”

  “Oh I'd love to, but...” Simon started.

  “Hey!” Archie whispered, poking his head through the tent flap. “Quiet. All of you.”

  “What is it, Archie?” Tristan asked. “Is someone coming?”

  “No,” Archie said, then without another word, withdrew his head from inside the tent.

  All three boys looked at each other and broke into laughter.

  “Come on,” Tristan said, grinning from ear to ear. “Plenty of time to dry off on the way, Si.”

  #

  The last member of their group for the night was David Vert. At eighteen years, David was the oldest of the group by a good year. For most boys that age it would mean he would socialize with the older squires, but none of the others would have him. David was a royal bastard, a son of the king, and he took every opportunity to remind people that royal blood flowed through his veins.

  David had been sitting outside his tent waiting for his friends, but as soon as he saw them he sprang to his feet and ran towards them.

  “It's about time,” David said, stopping in front of Tristan. “Thought I was going to have to go in on my own tonight.”

  “Right.” Simon issued an exaggerated snort. “More like you thought you'd have to sit outside your tent and sulk all night.”

  “Hah! Good one,” David said, giving Simon a friendly punch on the arm. Unfortunately for Simon, a friendly punch from David usually resulted in a bruise.

  Tristan still remembered the first time David had given Kernard a punch. The two had almost brawled. Kernard took physicality almost as personal as insults to his family, and David wasn't used to people who punched back.

  “Where's the little Piggy?” David asked, falling into step beside Simon.

  “Not coming,” Kernard said. “Too busy with his head in a trough, I expect.”

  David laughed at the cruel jest, but no one else joined in. Tristan held his tongue. He quite liked Higso
n, but Kernard hated the fat squire and the feeling was mutual, though Tristan had no idea where the animosity came from.

  #

  Underbridge had once been a small rural village before the war started. It had soon changed as it became one of the staging areas for Falcon Keep along the Wall of the Dead. Falcon Keep's barracks weren't large enough to hold all the troops so a number of knights had decided to set up a temporary barracks area at the closest village. They were close enough to ride to the support of the keep within the hour. As such, in the two years since the knights had started camping on the outskirts, Underbridge had doubled in size.

  There were two taverns in Underbridge, three if you counted the new whorehouse, which had only been erected in the last month. Tristan didn't but he knew both Kernard and David had visited the place. The tavern they were headed to was frequented most by squires, the knights tending to use the old tavern to avoid having to reprimand their charges in due course. It was an arrangement that benefited all; the squires got the opportunity to have a few drinks, relax, and let off some steam, whilst the knights got to ignore them, if but for a while.

  “Hey, guys. Wait up!”

  From the corner of his eye Tristan saw Kernard's expression darken.

  Higson jogged up to the group. The fat squire then doubled over, huffing and puffing. His face was bright red from the jog and sweat drenched his forehead.

  Archie gave Higson a nudge and a wink and the squire almost lost his balance and toppled over.

  “Glad to see you made it, Higgy,” Archie said.

  “Only just,” Higson said between breaths. “You almost left me behind.”

  “That was the plan,” Kernard growled.

  Higson turned indignant eyes on Kernard. “What was that, Wulfden? Didn't quite hear you.”

  Kernard grinned. “Allow me to say it louder then: that was the plan.” He took a step towards the fat squire. Higson took a step backwards, fear plain on his chubby face.

  Tristan wedged between the two. Higson was short, overweight, and terrible in a fight. Kernard would squash him and, even though Higson knew it too, the fat squire would not back down, he had too much pride. It was best just to keep the two apart as much as possible.

  “How about we all just calm down and have a few friendly drinks,” Tristan suggested in a tone that brooked no argument.

  “Sounds good,” Higson said.

  Kernard grinned, he considered the exchange a victory. “Sure.”

  #

  The Open Door was a large wooden building of hasty yet sturdy design on the outskirts of Underbridge. It had no windows on the ground floor and a door that, like its name suggested, never closed.

  Tristan had been into the village proper twice. He had noticed most of the buildings were wood, only a few of the larger ones affording a stone construction. The roads were unpaved and the populace scant when he’d visited prior, giving credence to Underbridge being a small, quaint community before the war.

  With fifty-some-odd squires camped close by, the Open Door was always busy at night. Inside, it was a cramped atmosphere, lit by candles both night and day due to a lack of windows. Tables were close together, fitting as many patrons inside as possible. Knights took turns on tavern guard duty; every night, four of them would sit in the corner of the room at a table reserved just for them, nursing a single ale and keeping a wary eye on the happenings. They had broken up more than a few scuffles between squires, and it was a successful deterrent most of the time, as any squire apprehended for fighting, or any other dicey activity, would be given the worst job possible — latrine duty was a particular favorite — until another culprit came along.

  Most of the tables were already occupied. As the group entered, some of the closer occupants looked up and chuckled. It didn't take a moment for Tristan to see why. The only remaining empty tables were closest to the knights, the least enviable seating in the tavern.

  “I knew we were late,” David said with a grumpy look. He had already seen his own master, Sir Kevan Verit, among the knights. Sir Kevan would fix David with regular disapproving glances. David would be in a sulk all night.

  “Yeah, Tris,” Kernard said. “Late.”

  “I know,” Tristan said with a sigh. “But I have to wait until old Colf is asleep. You know what he says about taverns.”

  “They're for sots and layabouts,” Kernard said in his best Sir Breen Colf voice. It was, Tristan to admit, right on the nose.

  “Judging by the size of his gut I’d say the man's a hypocrite,” Simon added.

  “What's a hypocrite?” Kernard asked.

  Higson snorted. “The famous Wulfden education proving itself yet again.”

  Kernard clenched his jaw, but did nothing. Tristan had no doubt he would have flattened Higson there and then if it hadn't been for the knights watching them.

  Archie gave Higson a little push in the back towards one of the free tables. “Leave it out, Higgy. Let’s sit down.”

  No sooner were they sat the serving maid appeared with full tankards. There was no question of what they would be drinking; the Open Door only served one drink, a weak brown ale that tasted close enough like muddy water. David gave Kernard a nudge whilst eyeing the maid. Kernard glanced at her and laughed.

  “As if you'd have a chance,” Kernard said. “Girls like that got better sense than to bed a lowly squire like you.”

  Tristan looked at the maid. She was pretty to be sure; young, but with a full, curvy body. No doubt she'd be well used to rebuffing randy squires making advances towards her.

  “Who are you calling lowly? Reckon she'd be happy to have some royal blood between her thighs.”

  Simon almost choked on his ale, whilst Higson leveled a patronizing look at David. “What are you intending to do, David? Bleed on her? There's better things to be doing between a woman's legs.”

  “How would you know, Pigson?” Kernard asked, his voice flat and mocking.

  “I've...been there...before,” Higson said.

  Kernard snorted. “When? Your mother doesn't count, we've all been there.”

  There was a round of laughing at the table, and Higson went red either from embarrassment or possibly rage. It was hard to tell, red seemed to be his normal color some days.

  “Well, better a few squires than a whole kingdom, Kernard. You know rumor has it you don't look much like your father.”

  An uneasy hush came over the table. It seemed even the nearby tables went silent. He couldn't help but notice the knights close by, watching the exchange. In the end, Higson was saved a beating by another squire intruding upon the group — one of Archie's friends, though Tristan couldn't remember the boy's name. He had never been any good at remembering names.

  “Hey, Archie,” the new squire said, sitting himself in an empty seat. “Lads. I saw your Barry earlier.”

  “Where was he?” Tristan asked. He knew the boy wanted to gossip, and he would have ignored him, but right now Tristan welcomed the distraction.

  “Well,” the boy stopped to take a long swig of ale before continuing, “I was on my way back from the Hog's Head, that's the tavern at the other end of town. My master lets me have a drink with him there at the end of the day. It's a much better joint than this. They serve real ale, not this piss water.”

  Tristan glanced around the table, the rest of his group were just as unimpressed by the boy's claim.

  “So,” the boy went on, “I see this lad waiting in an alley behind the bakers. You know Smitts' bakery?”

  “I know the place,” Tristan said, intrigued.

  “Yeah, nice place. Good bread, I get the odd loaf. So, I recognize the lad as one of your lot. Barry. Crept a bit a closer and hid myself to watch.”

  “Do you often spy on your fellow squires?” Kernard asked.

  “What would Barry be doing over that side of Underbridge?” Simon said before the boy could answer Kernard.

  “Maybe he wanted a loaf of brea
d?” Higson said with a grin.

  “Some of us can go more than five minutes without eating,” Kernard responded.

  “So you watched him?” Tristan prompted before another argument could start.

  “Yep,” the boy said, happy to be the center of attention again. “He was waiting around for about five minutes, then the window above him opens and a girl climbs out. I reckon she was about fifteen maybe, very pretty in a homely way. So she drops into his arms, they kiss, then run off, straight past me, didn't even notice me.”

  There was silence around the table. The noises of the tavern, a collection of voices making a dull din, seemed to grow louder.

  “Barry's getting himself with a baker's daughter?” Simon asked. “Isn't he from a prestigious family?”

  “He's a Lowell,” Archie said, his voice as level as ever. “His father is Duke of Land's End.”

  “Not as prestigious as my family,” David added.

  “Who was your mother again?” Higson asked.

  David shrugged. “Some whore. I never met her.”

  “I think you missed the point,” Higson replied.

  “They'll never let him be with some common baker's daughter,” Simon said. “His family, I mean.”

  “They might,” Archie said. “He's the fourth son after all. Besides, if he gets himself knighted he can marry who he wants.”

  “You don't think he's just in it for a tumble then?” Kernard asked.

  “Barry?” Tristan replied. “Nah, the boy writes poetry.”

  Again the table fell into silence as the boys all nodded at Tristan's comment. After a while the squire who had delivered the information excused himself and ran off to spread more gossip.

  #

  The evening wore on, the maid refilling their mugs from time to time, earning a single copper from each. It was the lowest denomination of money within the Five Kingdoms, but ale as poor as the Open Door’s fare deserved no better, no matter how pretty the maid.

  Higson continued pushing Kernard, often using his superior education to make the northerner look a fool. Kernard sometimes managed a retort, but more often than not resorted to staring at the fat squire with smoldering anger in his eyes.