by Damien Black
‘Look, he thinks he’s a knight!’ brayed Rutgar, his companions exchanging unpleasant grins. ‘What invisible monsters are you slaying this time, churl? You’re supposed to polish your master’s weapons, not play with them.’
Several of the artisans working nearby began laughing. Ereth frowned and shook his head. ‘Take no notice of him, Vaskrian,’ he breathed. ‘He’s just trying to bait you.’
‘Laugh all you want, but at least I know how to use a blade, Rutgar,’ snarled Vaskrian, ignoring the smith.
Rutgar stopped laughing. ‘I think this common squire is getting ideas above his station, boys,’ he said to the other two. ‘Perhaps it’s time we taught him a lesson in manners.’
‘I’d like to see you try it, Rutgar,’ sneered Vaskrian. ‘I haven’t forgotten our last practice bout, even if you have. Tell me, how’s that broken clavicle of yours? It looked painful enough at the time, when you were howling in the dirt!’
‘Now that’s done it,’ muttered Ereth. ‘You shouldn’ta said that, Vaskrian – he’s a knight now.’
‘I don’t care,’ said the squire, loudly enough so everyone could hear. ‘Spurs or no, he can’t fight worth a damn – he wouldn’t even be a knight if his father hadn’t died of food poisoning last autumn. But then I suppose it’s a knight has to inherit lands, hey Rutgar? Even if it’s a useless one who wields his sword like a plough!’
Rutgar glared furiously at Vaskrian. Then he snarled: ‘By Reus, you’ll regret saying that before you breathe your last.’
Vaskrian could have sworn he heard Rutgar’s voice quaver.
But then that was no surprise. Rutgar was a blue-blooded braggart who took his spurs for granted. Vaskrian trained hard every day – he wasn’t as heavily built as some of the fighters in the castle, but with his wiry frame he was quick and able. And he had a fierce track record as a swordsman – the lance came less naturally to him, but he was better with a blade than most his age.
Rutgar had learned that the hard way when they’d been paired off for combat practice last summer. It had been a moment to savour – Vaskrian’s naked ambition hadn’t made him popular with Hroghar’s haughtier inhabitants, and Rutgar and his ilk poured scorn on him for it.
He’d stopped doing that for a while after Vaskrian sent him crying to the infirmary for a month. But then he’d been knighted and resumed his daily mockery with impunity. This time there could be no redress – lowly squires were forbidden from challenging knights to combat. Rutgar knew it, they both did.
Rutgar gave a curt nod and the three knights beckoned for swords from their squires.
‘I’m fetching Sir Branas,’ said Ereth, rushing off towards the yard.
‘No don’t!’ barked Vaskrian, but it was too late. Turning to face Rutgar again he saw the three knights dismounting, swords in hand.
‘Drop the blade, churl,’ snarled Rutgar. ‘It’s death by hanging if you strike a knight – you can’t win this fight. Just come quietly and we’ll make this as painless as possible.’
Sir Marten and Sir Bors grinned mercilessly. Vaskrian felt his blood boil. He was damned if he’d submit meekly. Sir Rutgar was right – he would hang for this – but at least he’d take the blue-blooded bastard with him.
Rutgar and his cronies advanced, blades in hand. Vaskrian dug his heels into the mud. Adjusting his fighting stance, he tilted the keen edge of Branas’s sword towards Sir Rutgar as he advanced hesitantly. At eighteen summers, he was a year older than Vaskrian, but less strong and quick. Vaskrian could positively smell the fear coming off him. Three against one and he was still afraid.
Sir Marten and Sir Bors fanned out to his left and right as Rutgar came at him head on. Vaskrian knew there was no way he could win; the other two were a couple of years older than Rutgar and better swordsmen. If he could take down Rutgar before they finished him at least he’d die happy.
Darting forwards he lunged at Rutgar’s face. Taken aback by the alacrity of the squire’s attack, he barely managed to parry, blanching as he retreated a couple of paces.
Sir Marten stepped in and slashed at his exposed midriff. Reacting quickly, Vaskrian stepped back out of range – straight into Sir Bors’ line of attack. His head exploded with pain as the knight caught him a painful blow with the flat of his blade.
The force of it knocked him to his knees. Laughing cruelly Sir Marten kicked him in the jaw, sending him sprawling in the mud. He hadn’t let go of his master’s sword though.
‘What are you doing?’ he heard Rutgar scream. ‘Stop playing around! He just tried to strike a dubbed knight – kill him!’
‘What, and spoil our fun?’ Marten shot back. ‘Where’s the sport in killing him straight away? Come on, Vaskrian, get up and show us what you’re made of!’
With a roar Vaskrian complied. His jaw ached and his head was ringing painfully, but pure blind rage was a good salve.
He rushed at Sir Marten angrily, but the attack was wild and ill-timed, and the knight blocked it easily before riposting. Vaskrian ducked the blow, but then Sir Bors stepped in again, cracking his knee sharply with the flat side of his sword. Wincing, he tottered back on one leg. Sir Marten aimed a brutal kick at his stomach. Gasping as he felt the air pushed out of him, the squire doubled up and collapsed into the mud again, letting go of Branas’s sword.
Only then did Rutgar step in. Placing his foot on Vaskrian’s neck he sneered as he raised his blade, holding it point downwards above the squire’s face.
‘Glad… to see… you’ve finally… found your courage,’ he managed to gasp.
‘He still hasn’t learned his lesson,’ sneered Rutgar, slowly bringing his sword down towards Vaskrian’s face. ‘I think I’ll put his eyes out before I cut his throat.’
‘That’s ENOUGH!’
Sir Branas’s voice tore across the ward. The nearby craftsmen who had stopped working to watch the fight suddenly became interested in their tools again. Ereth was standing timorously behind the grizzled old knight. He shot a sympathetic look at Vaskrian.
‘Sir Rutgar, put up your sword and get your damn foot off my squire’s neck,’ snarled the veteran, approaching the young knight with a measured tread. Rutgar blanched again and backed off immediately. Grimacing, Vaskrian pulled himself into a half-sitting position. He was covered in mud and ached from the beating.
‘And as for you two,’ roared the old knight, rounding on Sir Marten and Sir Bors. ‘I fought with both your fathers in the last war – what d’you think they’d say if they could see you now, hazing a young squire three to one?! You should both be ashamed of yourselves – sheathe your blades, you’re not fit to carry them!’
Sir Marten flushed at that. He looked poised to retort but Sir Bors shot him a warning glance and shook his head. Reluctantly both knights beckoned for their squires to divest them of their weapons.
‘Your squire forgot his place,’ spluttered Rutgar. ‘When we reminded him of it, he attacked us. By the laws of Hroghar that means he should hang!’
‘That isn’t true!’ yelled Vaskrian, getting his breath back.
‘Silence!’ roared Branas. ‘I’m dealing with this!’
Squaring up to the young knight the veteran fixed him with beady eyes. Rutgar flinched. ‘Oh, I don’t know the man, but I know the type,’ he said in a low dangerous voice. ‘Always talks a good fight. I knew your father too, and I didn’t like him over much either. Tell me, did you even land a blow on my squire until he was lying prone in the dirt?’
The old knight was breathing heavily now. Rutgar lowered his eyes, unable to hold his stare.
‘That’s what I thought,’ sneered Branas. ‘So how about this? You say yon squire should hang – I say he’s innocent of the charges laid against him, and that you picked a fight with a common man contrary to the rules of knighthood. Deny this, and you are calling me a liar – for which I will have satisfaction. Vaskrian, sword!’
Staggering to his feet, Vaskrian picked up the blade and handed it to his master. Though Branas
was saving his skin, he felt sick and humiliated. Being rescued by his master was the last thing he wanted.
‘Well?’ growled the old knight, grasping the weapon without taking his eyes off Rutgar. ‘Which is it to be?’
Flushing with shame Rutgar backed off, mumbling a half-hearted apology before barking at his squire to take his sword.
‘Good, that’s settled,’ said the old knight. ‘You three get about your business, before I change my mind and report you all to the Jarl. Vaskrian, put my sword back in its scabbard where it belongs – I didn’t have Ereth reforge it anew so you could run amok with it! It’s time we left – you’ll have to clean yourself up later.’
Turning on his heel Branas marched away, nodding a curt farewell to Ereth. As Vaskrian sloped off after him Rutgar yelled out a last parting shot: ‘You’ll never be a knight, Vaskrian. They don’t let commoners wear spurs – your father never even sat a horse!’
The words cut deeper than any sword could. Rutgar was right – a low-born son of a man-at-arms was an unlikely candidate for knighthood. There were instances when commoners had been dubbed for exemplary service in the field, but they were very rare.
He wasn’t about to let a slight aimed at his father go unchecked though.
‘My father may have been a footsoldier, but that didn’t stop him saving the Jarl’s life – or had you forgotten that?’ he yelled back over his shoulder.
Even saving Lord Fenrig from a Wolding ambush hadn’t been enough to get the old man knighted, but it had got his only son squired to Sir Branas, a rare honour for one of common stock.
‘Vaskrian!’ bellowed Branas. Giving it up as lost the squire turned and followed his master back to the gatehouse, Rutgar calling curses after him.
He mounted his courser and took hold of the sumpter’s reins in sullen silence. Rutgar’s last insults still bothered him far more than the beating he had just taken.
His father Ethelric had died a happy man. His deathbed words four years ago came floating back to Vaskrian: ‘You’ll learn to be a man and fight and serve others, just like I did. But you’ll also have opportunities I never had – you’ll ride a horse, and get out of the castle a lot more than I did! Ah my own son, a squire of the realm! Your mother would’ve been proud.’
Thinking on that had him going all misty-eyed. He also felt guilty. If the old man’s shade could see him from the Heavenly Halls, he’d probably disapprove of his behaviour – Ethelric had been nothing if not humble.
But nothing could change the way he felt. A squire of the realm wasn’t enough. He wanted to be a proper knight. Preferably a landed one like Rutgar.
Pushing his despondent thoughts away with some difficulty, he did his best to lighten his spirits by thinking of the road ahead.
There would be plenty of knights and squires both where he and Branas were going. For all his irritableness the old knight wasn’t such a bad guvnor – he loved tourneying as much as Vaskrian, so they had that much in common at least. Spring was in the air, and after wintering at Hroghar his master was ready to hit the tournament circuit again.
The first major event of the season in those parts was at Harrang, several days’ ride to the south-west. Already its Jarl would be supervising the building of the wooden stockades for the jousting lists, and the bleachers where the high-born lords and ladies and their entourages would sit and watch the contest.
The main attraction was the melee – and Lord Vymar’s ample demesnes provided no shortage of venues on which to stage the mock battle. Vaskrian relished the event because it gave squires a chance to get involved in the fighting alongside the knights. Technically it wasn’t meant to be lethal combat, but deaths and injuries occurred frequently. That only made it more exciting, of course.
Last year there had been more than a hundred fighters on either side at Harrang. He’d unhorsed three squires – he wasn’t allowed to attack knights because it wasn’t a real battle – and received a handful of silver marks for each of them as per the rules of the contest.
One of his defeated opponents wouldn’t walk again. He’d felt bad about that – after all he’d had no grudge against him, it was only a game. But what could you do? You took your chances at a tourney, if you couldn’t fight well or sit a horse properly you were asking to get hurt. And Vaskrian hadn’t escaped unscathed himself. His second opponent had hit him hard enough to gash open his forehead, even with a blunted blade.
Not that he minded – on the contrary, another scar to add to his growing collection.
For knights the stakes were much higher – any dubbed fighter disabled or captured by the enemy had to pay a ransom, and depending on how prestigious the combatant was this could run into hundreds of marks. Such rewards were beyond his grasp for now, but at least the melee gave him a chance to do something he loved to do more than anything else. Fight.
Fighting was everything. It was even better than sex. And for all its dangers, at least you wouldn’t catch the crotch-rot from a good scrap. He’d seen a few folks die from that foul wasting disease, it didn’t look like a pleasant way to go. And how would you ever live that down, getting killed by a wench? Give him a sword death any day.
Riding out through the castle gates they began descending the road, which snaked downwards from the summit of the hill from where Hroghar sternly overlooked the rugged landscape with patrician gravity. To the north Vaskrian could make out the silver trickle of the Warryn; the lands tilled by Lord Fenrig’s peasantry stretched up to meet it, by its banks nestled the woodlands where Rutgar and his cronies were going hunting.
With some difficulty he suppressed his angry thoughts. His injuries hurt less now, though Rutgar’s last words carried a lingering sting. He’d prove him wrong – when he became a knight he’d seek out all three of them and avenge himself, in single combat. See who got the beating then.
After meandering between the odd roadside hovel and a lone priory the road took them on to level ground before joining the highway skirting the river. They took this in a westerly direction towards Kaupstad. It was an old crossroads market town about a couple of days’ ride away. From there they would take the south road to Harrang.
The pair ambled on at a leisurely pace. For all his complaints about their tardiness Sir Branas wasn’t really in a hurry. Like anyone of noble blood he disdained rushing unless it was an emergency. The tourney wasn’t due to start for a week but there was an entry quota, and it was best to arrive early to be sure of getting a place. Besides, it was always good to soak up the atmosphere, listen to the latest troubadours and size up the competition.
Vaskrian whistled an old marching tune as he led the sumpter carrying his master’s weapons, supplies and pennant, which flapped gently in the breeze. It was emblazoned with Branas’s heraldic coat of arms, a coiled green wyvern on a blue background. Vaskrian gazed enviously at it, mulling over a handful of ideas he’d had for his own.
In the afternoon they spotted another pennant on the road ahead: an orange leopard couchant on a vivid green background.
Vaskrian tensed. The coat of arms belonged to Sir Anrod of Dalton. He had nothing against the knight, who was on friendly terms with his master. It was his squire Derrick who was the problem – he was a crony of Rutgar’s. He wasn’t much better than him in a fight, but he had a tongue like a flail.
Vaskrian eyed Derrick sullenly as they caught up with them, the two knights bidding each other well met and falling immediately to chatting about the tourney they rode to. Derrick returned his sour stare with a lop-sided grin.
It didn’t take long before he started dishing it out.
‘So you must be excited about Harrang,’ he said with mock levity, nudging his courser a bit closer to Vaskrian’s so the knights wouldn’t hear what he said next. ‘So many horses for you to rut. But then that’s what common folk do when they can’t get any better, isn’t it?’
Vaskrian clutched the reins with white-knuckled fingers. This wasn’t going to end well. Every season he promised himse
lf it would be different, that he’d stay out of trouble. Every season it came calling, and he obliged.
‘The only time I’ll pay attention to horses that don’t belong to Sir Branas is when I’m knocking squires off them,’ he replied, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘One day you might get to know what that feels like, when you learn to sit one properly.’
Derrick turned and spat into the pock-marked road. He was Rutgar’s age, of a height and build with Vaskrian. His hair was an unruly blond mop and did little for his long ugly face.
‘I suppose we can’t all be as adept at riding them as you,’ Derrick sneered. ‘Seeing as you like to mount them night and day. But then one beast cleaves to another I suppose – that’s only natural with churls like you.’
It went on like that, for the rest of the day. At dusk they made camp off the road in a copse of birches. Branas had originally planned to call on the local vassal Sir Alban, but Sir Anrod wouldn’t hear of it. Some gambling dispute or other. Sir Branas evidently enjoyed his old friend’s company enough to forego a night under a roof.
Vaskrian cursed inwardly at that. By now he was thoroughly riled. He did not enjoy verbal sparring with Derrick. The young noble was just too sharp. Every jibe was followed up by another, more cutting than the last. If he’d been half the swordsman he would have been a knight in the making indeed.
They had a blaze going in the little clearing in the middle of the copse. Branas had ordered broth for his supper. A simple roast would have been much easier but the old knight was picky about his food. He was sitting on a log next to Anrod, the pair of them getting stuck into a wineskin and reminiscing about tournaments past.
Vaskrian set to preparing supper. In accordance with his guvnor’s wishes he seasoned the chicken and bacon with a healthy dose of bear’s fat. That made for a thick greasy soup all right, but that’s how Branas liked it. Not that he was complaining – the nights were still cold, the heartier the meal the better. A good sprinkling of salt and marjoram for extra flavour and a loaf of crusty bread to go with it, and they’d have themselves a feast.
