They came after me. Their angry shouts rang in my ears and I heard the pound of hooves behind me, but the sorrel was a fine horse and it loved to run. A glance back showed me I now led them by at least five lengths and was gaining. They rode wildly, heedlessly, thoughtless of their mounts. I eased my speed a little for I knew not how far I must go and I chose the better ground. Hence despite easing the speed I held my lead, and darkness was close upon us. Once the dark came, I should have a chance.
Glancing back again, I saw that one of them had fallen out of the race, for what reason I knew not. Lack of will, perhaps, for it had been easily seen that he who led them drove them as well. Two only pursued me now, and one of those was falling back.
On into the gathering dark I raced, straight toward the place where the sun had set, and now only one horse was pursuing. Suddenly, I know not what devil possessed me, I slowed my pace and swung my horse around to face him. He came thundering on, realizing too late that I had stopped, and as he pulled up hastily, I slapped heels to my sorrel and charged him. My mount hit his at the shoulder as he was reining in and his horse staggered and went down.
He was quick, oh, so very quick! He leaped from the saddle as his horse fell, and sprang at me. I reined my horse away and thrust at him with the sword-cane, the blade still sheathed. It grazed the side of his head and staggered him and I pivoted the horse and came at him again. He lunged at me but I swung the horse away and drove my heel into the big lad’s shoulder.
It was a wrong move, for his hand grasped my leg and the next I knew I was sprawling on the earth and he was standing over me.
“Hah!” he said. “Now we shall see!” Having wrestled much, I did not try to escape but threw my weight against his legs. It might as well have been against the side of a barn, for he gave not an inch but stooped to grab me. Catching his sleeve, I jerked hard and he fell forward. I was the more agile and was out from under him and on my feet.
He came up swiftly but I struck him hard in the face as he rose. It slowed him not at all, yet I hit him again before he was up, then leaped for my sword-cane.
He saw me pick it up and drew his sword.
We faced each other on the moors in the half-light. Already the stars were out, yet we had been in the darkness and each could see plainly enough.
From the sheath I drew my blade. It was a small blade, as such sword-cane blades are apt to be, shorter by inches than the usual sword. He had the reach of me, anyway, by several inches.
He whipped his blade this way and that as if to show me he knew what he was about. I simply waited, trusting to my new skill to equal the reach he had. That I was good with a blade I well knew. It had been obvious that in our last few weeks I had been forcing Kory to his limit, so I stepped forward willingly enough.
High on the western moors of England, then, we fought by starlight, and within a matter of minutes I knew I had met my master.
It was not to be believed. Kory was good. All had said he was the best, and I was now as good, yet no sooner had we begun than I realized that this tall youth had skill beyond belief. Nor could I claim it was the length of his blade or his superior reach, for he was simply better.
“Hah!” he exclaimed. “So you have fenced? What are you then? Who are you?”
“It does not matter,” I said.
“No,” he agreed, “for when I have had my exercise I shall kill you. I shall spit you like a goose.”
He handled himself with consummate skill. He was casual with me, not careless, for he could see I was better than most. He handled my best with indifference, and I knew that unless I could think of some trick, some means of subtlety, I would be dead within minutes.
He was toying with me. Once he merely pricked my chest when he might have killed me with a thrust. He simply smiled tauntingly and said, “Next time!”
Back, back … I fought carefully, sweat pouring down my cheeks, a cold sweat, for death was very near. How could he be so great when I had learned so much? It was unreal. Yet even though death was near and I hated the man, I marveled at his skill. Despite his great strength he had the delicate touch of the master, and a strength in his wrist and fingers I could scarcely believe.
Suddenly I sensed a change in his blade, that most sensitive antenna reaching out to touch me. I sensed a change andknew. Now he would kill me. Now I would die.
Was my life all for nothing, then? My hopes gone? My dreams blasted? All my struggles for nothing? All the hopes of my father that I might found a family and let our blood march on down the centuries to come? Was this to be the end, here on this dark moor by starlight?
The ground slanted downward behind me. I found myself on a slight slope, which gave him the greater height, the greatef advantage. What was happening? Where was I? There was no chance to look to right or left now, it was parry and thrust, and then suddenly I felt rather than saw a vast gulf opening behind me. His blade was up, poised for a thrust, and I threw myself back and down, falling backward, hoping to strike the turf and roll, to get away, to escape by any means.
I fell, an impossible distance. My shoulders hit the ground with a thump, and I lost my grip on the sword-cane and it fell from me. I rolled over and tumbled, head over heels into a black, misty yoid. I tried to catch myself but there was nothing on which to lay hold and the slope was impossibly steep. I was falling, into what awful depth I knew not, but over and over I tumbled until suddenly I was brought up with a sickening thud upon some rocks.
How far had I fallen? Perhaps not more than ten or a dozen feet in that first sheer fall, but I must have tumbled down the rest of the slope, sliding, falling, tumbling again for several hundred feet.
A moment I lay still, surrounded by darkness and fog. Then, slowly, I rolled over and tried to push myself up, only to gasp with shock at my torn hands.
I rolled to my knees and stood up. No bones were broken that I could feel. Yet I hurt in every part of my body and my hands were bloody, my face as well.
I must escape … I must somehow get away. There was bound to be a way down and they would come for me. Dumbly, hurt and shamed that I had been so thoroughly beaten, I stumbled away into the mist. I could see nothing but the fog. There was heather around; I knew that because I brushed against it. I was on a moorland or something like. On and on I plodded, stupid with pain and weariness, knowing only that help—if any there was to be—lay far from here. I must get away before the morning light came again.
I tripped and sprawled my length. For a moment I lay, as I was wishing only to stay there, even to die there, but something within me urged me up and on.
Time and again I fell, time and again I got up. Often I lay still for minutes, but always something drove me on. Finally, as day was breaking I came upon a copse choked with brush. Crawling into it, I lay still, more dead than alive. Yet the last thought with me as I lay there was:how could I have lost? How could he have been so much superior?
A long tune I slept, muttering in my half-sleep, crying out as some sore place touched the earth, until at last the cold dawn came and with it awakening.
Cold and wet. There had been the mist, and then the dew, perhaps. I shivered and tried to sit up. My muscles were stiff and heavy, my head was hard to hold up, my eyesight blurred as I stared about. Only the copse, the brush, the fallen leaves, a few broken branches. Groaning, I crawled out and stood cautiously up.
Nothing was about … I was alone. Alone on a vast, wide, unknown land. Yet there was a smell in it of the sea, a smell from the westward.
From among the broken branches I found one that would do for a staff, and I started on. All the morning through I walked. Clouds gathered. The sky was a sullen gray. Rain began to fall. On I went, staggering a little at times, but pushing on.
To where? To a destiny somewhere, a destiny I must fulfill. At last I came to a stream and on its banks I sat down. After resting, I bathed my face, and bathed my bloody, gravel-torn hands. They were a fearful sight, and my face, too, from what I could see of it. Yet ging
erly, I washed that, too. Then I drank, and I drank again. Refreshed, I looked around. A few trees bordered the stream, nothing else. At last, fearfully hungry, I got to my feet. Stooping to pick up my staff, I almost fell again.
I started downstream. For some inexplicable reason I was heading for the sea. What awaited me there I did not know, except that to me it symbolized escape. At the sea began all things and ended all things, perhaps. In which direction was I pointed? To another beginning, or to an end? I had no way of knowing. Nevertheless, I continued, because it was in me to go on, to persevere; so it was, and so my whole life long it would be.
The stream wound onward, sometimes through low hills, sometimes higher ones, occasionally on the flat, but steadily it ran down slope, and somewhere ahead was the sea.
Suddenly, a voice. “You, there! What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
It took my eyes a moment to focus, for I’d taken a bad rap on the skull and they functioned not at all well. It was a man, a man in a cart.
“It would seem so,” I said. “I had a fall.”
“Come along then,” he said. “Climb in and I shall take you where we can look. My faith, but you’re bloody! Was it only a fall, then?”
“Only a fall,” I said. “And a little hunger.”
11
He gave me a long, careful look. “You are but a lad,” he said gently. “Have you no home, then?”
“I have none. What I once had is gone and will not be again until I make it of myself.”
“Where are you from?”
The question was not one I wished to answer, so I simply said I had been going toward the sea and had a bad fall in the darkness and the fog. When I described what I could of the place, he nodded and suggested, “Near Hardnose Pass, I have no doubt. There is a rough, wild country yon.”
The pony plodded steadily on. “My cottage is but a little way along,” the driver said, “and you can stay the night if you are so minded. We can have a look at those hands, for they are in fearful shape.”
On and on we went, interminably, it seemed to me. I dozed, awoke, and dozed again. I was awakened by his pulling into the yard of a thatched cottage, a well-built place with stables about and some other animals.
A man came from the stable. “Ben? See to the pony. I will speak with you later.”
Staggering with weariness as I was, I hesitated. To stop here might be to be trapped, although I had come a goodly distance. “I have far to go,” I said, “and must be getting on, although I am obliged for the ride you have given me.”
“What is it? Are you pursued, then?”
“It may be that I am,” I said, “although they be scoundrels who would pursue me. Yet I have no friends, and they have many.”
“You have a friend in me,” he said. “Come in, lad.”
It was warm and pleasant within, a fire on the hearth and a table set with trenchers for our eating. A woman stood looking at us. Her hair was fair with a tinge of red to it and her cheeks were flushed from the fire. “I heard your voices, and there’s a-plenty for both.”
Then she saw my face. “Why, the lad is hurt! Come here to the fire, so we can see!”
She looked carefully at my skinned face and the bruises, and then put warm water in a basin and with a bit of cloth began to sponge off my face and take away the encrusted blood and gravel. After a bit she desisted and cleaned my hands a bit more, although I had washed them in the Esk, for such was the name of the stream.
“Here! Sit up and have a bite, then we’ll get on with it. You must be fairly starved.”
“I am that,” I agreed. “Where is it I am?”
“The village yon is Boot,” the man said. “The hall yonder is empty now for the family is from home to London. Most of them,” he said with a wry glance at his wife.
The gruel they served was good, and there was a bit of fish, fresh caught from the sea.
“When I have eaten,” I told them, “I had best be off, for I’d not bring trouble upon you.” Briefly as I might, I explained how we had been set upon and what manner of folk they were.
He filled a glass with ale. “Aye, there’s sons of the gentry who raid and roust about with no care for anything but themselves. Worse than thieves they are, and brutal to all they can abuse. But do not worry, lad, you have come further than you think and they will not come down on this side of the mountain.”
“Be careful of him,” I said, “for bully that he is, he is also a rarely fine hand with a blade.”
“From what you said he was both taller and stronger than you. A man grown, and you but a lad.”
“Aye, brute he may be, but I’ll not take from him his skill. Height and reach are important. I could have handled them, but not his skill. The man from whom I learned was considered among the best, yet I had no chance.”
“Rafe Leckenbie,” the woman said. “There is no other fits the description.”
“Leckenbie? Aye … it could be. He’s a bad enemy, lad, and a worse man. He comes not here, but stays there where his family is important, but he has killed a man or two and it is said he will be off to the wars soon. For they wish to be rid of him, I think.”
There I spent the night and the weariness fled from my muscles. When the morning came I was refreshed, yet weary still, for I had been long in fleeing and long without food.
“Where will you go?” Andrew asked, for that was his name, and hers was Mary, but their other names I never heard, neither then nor after.
“I would go to London, but I am far from there. If I could find some fisherman, some boat that plies to Scotland, I would go there and be free of this place.”
“These are bad times and no highroad is safe. Men’s goods are seized, and often as not by gentry. And there is no appeal. The times are bitter, and he is at his wit’s end who must live upon the roads, for there are none there but peddlers, herbalists, mountebanks, and jugglers mingling with thieves and outlaws. No man is safe upon the road unless with a large company and all armed.”
“But it grows better,” Mary protested. “I have heard you say as much yourself.”
“Aye … better, but not better enough. There is much to be done before the roads are safe for travel.”
Andrew glanced at me. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen years.”
“Fourteen! And you have seen so much! And already a swordsman!”
“But not good enough. I must go where I can learn more.”
“Italy, then. Or Spain. Although they do say the French are excellent swordsmen.” He studied me. “Are you then so anxious to fight?”
“That I am not, but my father warned me I would have enemies, and to survive I must be prepared. I hope never to fight,” I added, in all sincerity, “but experience has taught me that wishing to avoid a fight will not always be enough.”
“It is all very well to wish for peace, but while there are such people as this Rafe Leckenbie there will always be wars. A man can convince himself that others want peace as much as he, but he will only be fooling himself, for it is the last thing many men want … unless they can take all they covet without having to fight.”
We talked long. He was a man keenly aware of conditions in his country, although I could not place his role. He had a goodly farm here, but did not seem a farmer, albeit most of the farmers were of the gentry and some owned vast estates. That he was curious about me I knew, yet the long months upon the highroads had taken much of my accent and I had picked up words or phrases here and there. Kory, especially, had taught me a lot other than what I had learned of the blade.
“You have read much,” Andrew said, finally, putting down his glass. “Your father was your teacher, you said?”
“He was a fine classical scholar,” I said, “but he taught me much else, besides. Along the roads,” I added, “I have learned much of herbs and their uses.”
“Aye, learn what you can. There is naught that will not but be useful.”
He was a friendly man, a gentleman obvio
usly, and if I was not mistaken, of the nobility. There were many such who had a living but little else, younger sons or those who inherited impoverished estates or none at all. Even the King of Scotland had to borrow a coat from a friend to wear before a visiting ambassador. The possession of a great name did not always mean great wealth, and indeed, the visit of a king and his entourage might be sufficient to impoverish even a well-off man.
From the way he referred to “the hall” I suspected he was a younger son or a cousin, perhaps. The house was a good one and old, of squared gray stone and stout oak timbers. The cobbled passage down which we had come opened into the living room where we now were. The kitchen was beyond the passage and I had only a glimpse of the huge fireplace as we entered. There was little furniture and that quite heavy.
We talked of Greene and Philip Sidney, of Chaucer, and of Tacitus and Livy. Yet I listened more than I talked, for much as it reminded me of home, weariness lay heavy upon me, and it was his good wife who called Andrew’s attention to my worn-out state, and soon I was off to bed, in a small chamber of my own. Worried as I was, I fell soon asleep.
My eyes opened suddenly and for a time I lay still, trying to recall all that had transpired. At last I arose. There was water in the room, hot water. Evidently whoever brought it had awakened me, yet had left before my eyes opened or I became aware. I bathed, combed my hair, and made myself as presentable as might be.
As I bathed and prepared myself, I thought over my fight with Leckenbie, if such indeed was his name. My memory for such things had always been good, and now I reviewed that fight in detail. His reach had helped him, and his longer, stronger blade, yet he had skill of a rare kind, and a genius, I thought, for the sword. Yet such genius breeds confidence, and confidence may well become overconfidence, if fed by continual success.
Mentally, I reviewed his moves, trying to discern a pattern that might be circumvented. I began to see that he had been surprised by my skill. Again and again I had warded off his most serious attacks, even though most of the time he was simply enjoying his command of me. He had won, and he would surely have killed me, but still I had come off not badly.
Fair Blows the Wind (1978) Page 9
