"You can go! GET OUT!" The eyebrows shot up and down as if they wanted to beat Farin.
"What? What do you mean? Go where?" he asked.
"What’s so difficult to understand about the three words “you can go”? Get lost! Go home, to your village!" explained the knight, vexed.
"You mean, I…uh…can leave your castle…anytime?"
The broad chin of the man facing him lifted and sank twice. The feelings in Farin spun around chaotically like the leaves in the graveyard. Endless questions had raged in his head a moment ago, now words failed him.
Repeat the question three times, just to be sure.
The thunder now companioned the storm: "YOU CAN GO! Run back to your pigsty, go and delicately dig ground-breaking holes."
"My apologies, I understand, Sir Knight. You collected me most courteously and now naturally I’ve arrived here of my own free will. No doubt about it. Please let me know for what purpose?"
The lord of the castle’s look softened somewhat – what had been steel, was now iron. He leaned back and explained, seething softly: "I’m making you an offer."
Now it’s getting interesting. Relax and prick up your ears!
Farin swallowed hard: "An offer?"
"I know what I said. So you don’t have to parrot me. There are enough toadies around here."
When it came to knights, or at least this knight anyway, it was a good idea to consider one’s words carefully. Farin made a firm decision not to repeat anything anymore.
"I need a new squire!" said the knight.
"A new squire?"
Inside Farin’s head it sighed.
Frustration froze the knight.
Farin hastily asked a question in a bid to thaw him out: "What happened to the old one?"
"Dead!"
"How?"
"Very dead."
"What do you mean?"
"Passed away, departed, kicked the bucket – you should know all about that subject."
"Uh. May I ask how…?
"NO!" roared the knight.
Farin continued to beaver away with utmost concentration. Only skilful rhetoric worked here. He had to find out some more about his future tasks.
Ask questions, good questions, intelligent questions. It chuckled. Ground-breaking questions.
"Am I not too old to be trained as a squire?"
A sigh at the back of the head. Are you not listening?
"Too curious more like. Nobody is too old to serve. Right then – agreed?"
"Sir, I feel honoured and…well, it’s just so unexpected. What made you think of me specifically?"
At last, a moderately decent question!
The brows dropped over the eyes again like clouds before the sun. "Pesky inquisitiveness is one of the twenty deadly sins."
"Pastor Amen always spoke of the seven."
"He with his dual functions treated all seven with contempt and still never knew a fraction of what I’ve seen and experienced. I possess at least a dozen deadly sins."
"Please help me to understand. Why did you pick out the son of a gravedigger from a one-horse village?"
The knight sighed deeply. "There are few things in this world that can still surprise me. And people not at all. But you really succeeded during my visit to the graveyard."
"What do you mean? Surely not because I can shovel like a mole?"
"If you can’t work it out, then you don’t belong here." The knight’s rough tone reminded Farin of his father.
"Because I found all that out about the raven and Gerlunda."
"Right! There you go. It comes from observational skills and combinatorics."
That’s what I meant by "trust in your abilities".
Farin looked irritated. He was used to other people’s words hurting him. These words sounded like praise, they caressed and did no harm, but good.
This moment passed all too quickly for with the next breath the knight continued: "Now, forget what I’ve said. I hate flattery. Do you remember when we stood in front of the tavern after our meeting at the graveyard? Didn’t you want to ask me to take you with me?"
Bull’s eye. That was exactly what Farin had attempted to ask at his departure, but the knight hadn’t permitted him.
"Yes, sir," the man was more sensitive than Farin had thought. He raised his head.
"Now you’re here, squire."
"What does a squire do exactly?"
"In the first place, serve his master and learn. A good squire helps him in many ways, from pulling off boots to advice on strategy. He accompanies the knight during acts of war and carries his shield. He helps him onto the horse and, if necessary, onto the chamber pot."
Farin hardly dared to utter his thought: "Can…can a squire become a knight too, later?"
The lord of the castle rolled his eyes. His brows accompanied them. "Forget it! Fat chance of you ever becoming a knight. You can’t fight, can’t ride, can’t hunt, can’t even fart like a knight. You know neither the courtly form of address nor the courtly virtues. And to top it all, you’re not nobility, you’re the son of a gravedigger." He pulled his eyebrows together. "You can retrieve my corpse and decorate it, that you can do. Enough talk, squire!"
The knight really knew how to present his offer gracefully.
Farin looked around. "Where am I, Sir Knight?"
"In my castle, Stormwatch, a place of permanence, a rock in these difficult days."
"Who are you?"
"Question after question. You know who I am. A knight of our King Gracchus." His tone became impatient. "Lesson one: when a knight says, “enough talk”, then the discussion is coming to an end. Enlightening, isn’t it?"
"Your name is Emicho and you’re the second knight, am I right?"
The man hesitated, his eyes narrowed – suddenly he looked like a feline predator ready to pounce on its prey. "One of my servants may have revealed my name to you. The trifle regarding me being the second knight, on the other hand, is a well-kept secret. I hate being surprised. Out with it – how do you know?"
"The raven told me."
The knight slowly rose from his chair. Farin had forgotten how big and impressive he was. Big and impressive like a thundercloud directly over your head. Despite his confusion, and the mood swings that made thinking difficult, he noticed that there was something more behind the story of the second knight.
The lord of the castle snarled: "Let me make one thing clear: the raven didn’t tell you, because then you’d be dead and couldn’t tell any fairy tales, lad. How did you find out that I’m the second knight?"
Farin explained in detail how he had hidden under the workbench and overheard the discussion between the raven and his accomplices.
The lord of the castle listened, stony-faced. When Farin finished, he said: "Inviting you here to my castle has already paid off. Following on from your remarks, I’m asking myself how the raven knows the identity of the second knight. I’ve been spied upon for a considerable time now – but he can’t know this particular detail. Accordingly, there must be a traitor within the inner circle of the king."
Farin didn’t understand a word. "Of the…the king?"
Emicho sighed.
For Farin king was a word like God, like ocean, like knight, like Annietta. Something endlessly distant, unattainable.
"You will never again mention the second knight in connection with my name – is that clear?"
"Yes, sir!"
"So, you accept my offer!"
It sounded more like a command than a question. "Your squire? I…uh…feel honoured. Do I get paid something for it?"
The lord of the castle grunted. "Pshaw! Think of where you come from!" He clarified more quietly: "A roof over your head, something to eat, an apprenticeship, honourable duties, and beatings only when you’ve earned them – isn’t that enough?"
Don’t sell yourself cheap. You have to start negotiating sometime in your life. Shake your head!
Farin slowly shook his head.
The lord of the castle folded his arms. "Mole, you’re hardly in a position to haggle. I say a price and it’s written in stone – is that clear?"
Farin nodded.
"After a successful apprenticeship I’ll give you eighteen silverlings."
If he calculated carefully, these eighteen silverlings were just about eighteen silverlings more than he earned at present.
"Agreed", he said contentedly. Then another thought struck him. "How long does the squire training take?"
The knight bared his teeth. Was he making an attempt at a grin?
"If you carry on like this – all your life."
It was a grin. A pretty pathetic one.
"Oh!" said Farin.
training
D umbfounded, Farin departed from the scriptorium. Markan received him outside the door and brought him to a room where two servants were depositing wine barrels. He instructed one of them: "Accompany our Johnny-come-lately into his quarters. South tower, fourth room."
"As you wish, sir."
The master of the bathtubs seemed considerably higher in the pecking order than the other servants. Dog-tired and overwhelmed by the events of the last few hours, Farin trotted behind the servant. Having just escaped death by the skin of his teeth he was now a living squire. An apprentice squire, to be precise. Unease gripped him – this was all going far too fast. He had learned gravedigging. The skills of his craft would certainly not be in demand here, at least not as long as the knight was living. Two grey towers within the thick walls cast dark shadows across the castle. Wherever he looked, his new surroundings seemed colourless. Thick, cold, grey stone as far as the eye could see. Or did he feel uncomfortable because he knew nobody here? When it came to the villagers in Heap, he knew where he stood, there wasn’t a single face unfamiliar to him. Although he had to be honest with himself – what use was it if the familiar faces turned away as soon as he turned up? Would he miss any of the villagers? Blossak? No. Georig? No. The alderman? No. Maybe Growler? Even the ropemaker’s dog couldn’t stand him anymore ever since an unwelcome chimera had begun plaguing Farin. He listened in on himself, but felt no foreign presence, only his own grey thoughts. He was already fitting in well to his new surroundings.
Who else would he miss? He’d left her out of his thoughts so that he wouldn’t be thinking about her – Annietta. But how could he think about not thinking about her without thinking about her?
The servant pulled up the collar of his uniform. "We’re going through the little yard. If you would follow me, please."
Was the servant really talking to him? Hey, don’t be pulling my leg. I’m no fine gentleman. I’m only Farin, the gravedigger’s son – I’m one of you, was on the tip of his tongue.
The servant opened a chunky door into a cobbled inner yard. Cold wind whipped around the grey walls, Farin shivered. They stopped at the smaller of the two towers. Worn steps wound their way in circles upwards, they passed three doors before the servant stopped outside the fourth: "Your quarters, sir."
Once again, he was having a laugh at him by calling him sir. A doorknob, almost too big for a hand, jutted out. Farin turned it leftwards, the door opened, and he stepped into a small room, where a simple bed and a mid-sized wardrobe were squeezed in.
"Be ready tomorrow early at the sixth hour". The servant disappeared down the stairwell.
Still perplexed, Farin sat down on the bed’s straw mattress. So many unanswered questions – mainly because he hadn’t asked them yet. His life was constantly blindsiding him no matter what he did, and he was just watching from the side-lines. He couldn’t even lay the blame on the chimera’s doorstep – he alone was responsible.
He lay on his back, his arms behind his head. His stomach muscles reintroduced themselves to him – they hadn’t forgotten the uncomfortable ride. Lying still, his eyes wandered. Grey, bare stone walls – what else did he expect. Rough wooden beams supported the low ceiling.
Slowly, the tensions of the previous few days eased off, his chaotic inner life began putting itself in order. And so, the naked fear of not surviving disappeared, for his new employment offered a distinct advantage: he was safe from the raven here for the time being. But another fear grew in his head – that of the new. How would he fare here? what lay in store for him? Could he fulfil the knight’s expectations? Difficult to judge, as he didn’t know them yet. These were his quarters now as a budding squire. He’d heard stories of boys at the royal court who had started off as pages at seven years of age, then they were squires by fifteen and became knights when they were twenty-one. How was he going to fit in here? There was something not quite right about the story of the lord of the castle and his new employment. And yet he would happily polish swords and saddle the mighty charger. Exhaustion finally drew him into a deep sleep.
Urgent hammering at the door. "Sir, you must get up. Your tasks await you."
What was that? Which sir? What tasks? Where am I?
With one hand he threw the woollen blanket off the bed. The coldness in the room surprised him. He quickly put on his new clothes, which Markan had given him yesterday after his bath. They were finished in sturdy linen; neither the leggings nor the tunic had any holes or were threadbare. Finally, he threw the fur cloak which had been hanging by a hook on the wall over his shoulders Strange – he hadn’t noticed it yesterday.
"If you would kindly follow me?"
They all spoke the same way, Farin studied the servant who collected him this morning and was leading the way – a different one to yesterday’s although he wore the same uniform. He had a shambling walk and a sunken head. In the long food hall of the main house there were rows and rows of benches. Roughly thirty men had gathered for breakfast.
The servant bowed. "This is where the soldiers, the officers, the knights and their squires eat. If you would kindly fortify yourself with food and drink."
Farin didn’t have to think long about that one. He thanked the servant and entered the hall. Some looked questioningly at him, then back at their opposite number. "Who’s that now?" he heard, sometimes whispered, sometimes out loud.
A chap with a wide nose and a pointy chin stepped in front of him and stood there, straddle legged. "Hey, you must be Emicho’s new lover-boy!"
Farin tried desperately not to look as embarrassed as he felt. He bided his time.
"There’s a rumour going around you’re a…gravedigger."
Well, that news had spread quickly, and both the attitude of the man and the way he had intoned "gravedigger" betrayed that this fact didn’t exactly impress him.
Farin had no intention of hiding the truth. "I’m the gravedigger’s son from the village of Heap."
Disgust disfigured the man’s face. "I don’t know what you’ve fooled the lord of the castle into believing, but you’re not welcome here, ditch delver."
Spittle sprayed from his mouth. Farin felt the wetness on his cheek.
Stand your ground. I’m the squire of the lord of the castle, he thought.
"I go by the name of Farin. Now that my identity has been clarified, with whom do I have the honour?" he asked in a composed voice.
"Listen to him, listen to him! His identity has been clarified. Our newbie is flattering himself that he’s a flatterer. Remember my name: I am Duke Turgenson, of high-born heritage. The nephew of old King Grachus! And above the old king there is only God."
It took Farin a while to take in the words. The nephew of the king! A duke.
God help me, he thought. What have I stepped into here? What should I do now? Make a bow, bend the knee, or both?
Never stoop down before arseholes.
Oh, great. The all-knowing chimera has another great piece of advice ready just at the right moment. But it wasn’t the chimera who was standing in the middle of all these strangers, being gawped at as if he were a freak – thanks to the utterances of the duke. Farin stared back – never before had he seen such a high-ranking nobleman in the flesh. The fact that the others hadn’t sunk to the groun
d in awe calmed him down a little, and so he simply remained standing. Apart from a nobly embroidered doublet, Turgenson looked neither all-knowing nor almighty. His care-worn features betrayed unfulfilled ambitions and a permanent discontentment. And to think that Farin had always believed that the aristocracy spent the whole day smiling happily.
Now he just had to sit down – allow body and mind to digest things. Anything he was going to say at this moment was going to be wrong. "Please let me pass, sir", the gravedigger’s son said to the king’s nephew. He made a reasonable fist of keeping his voice sounding firm although he was shaking on the inside. The other men and boys had returned to their eating, as though he didn’t exist.
Only yesterday evening he had been mouthing off about it – unknown faces becoming familiar so quickly. As the aristocrat didn’t move an inch, Farin went around him, secretly searching out a free place at the dining table.
"I’m on to you, low life!" whispered Turgenson after him.
Why would a duke be bothered about a nobody like me? Grouching around the place and threatening me.
There was hardly anybody in the castle lower and less important than the gravedigger’s son.
A high voice rang out beside him. "Our Johnny-come-lately is awake. Get yourself something to eat and join us, back over there by the window." The man in the studded armour disappeared in that direction.
Farin nodded in surprise. Was his kidnapper’s invitation meant seriously? Friendliness or fiendishness? He decided to be particularly careful – after all, they could be pulling a fast one on him. Who knows how many of the king’s relatives are gathered here?
Farin quickly picked up a plate from the side table and put a few slices of bread onto it. Several men were sitting together at the end of the hall, the man with the high voice was waving him towards them. Right then, here goes, the leader of his escort party could certainly answer a few of his questions. The two men opposite pushed closer together. Farin looked around quickly, he was the only one looking for a seat – they had actually made room for him.
Be careful, something isn’t right here.
On the table were clay mugs and jugs of water. The big man poured some out for him.
The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1 Page 20
