by Ron Root
Yudelle could hardly contain herself. “Why Cadet Quinn, I for one will not make a gentleman await his answer. I accept.”
“Thank you, milady, you’ve fulfilled my fondest hope,” he said, rising. “To the parish, cadets, and stable my stallion afterward.”
“We live to serve, Quinn. Come Kendal, there’s lowborn work to be done.”
As the driver grabbed the reins, Rayna raised her hand. “Please wait. I’ve turned my ankle coming down the hill. It’s painful to walk on it. Could I enlist a ride with you as far as the Lady’s Academy? Besides, I’m sure Cadet Quinn and Yudelle have much to discuss.”
The driver tipped his head. “We’d be honored, Lady.”
She held her hem as Cadet Kendal helped her onto the buckboard seat and hopped into the wagon behind her. She waved to Yudelle. “Enjoy the caravan.”
She endured an awkward silence as the wagon made its way up the hill. She so envied Yudelle’s ease with words, but alas, shyness was an integral part of her solitary life.
When they reached the academy, Smithy-Gresham jumped out and offered his hand. Taking it, Rayna braced her free hand on his muscled shoulder and hopped down. He towered over her. She smiled up at him. “I can’t find words to thank you for what you’ve just done.” Would he grasp her innuendo?
He nodded. “I’m sure I speak for Cadet Kendal as well as myself in assuring you it was our pleasure, Lady.”
She beamed. “I shall send you my answer as soon as I break my morning fast.”
He bowed. “Alas, it seems I shall have to wait until then.”
“Just one more thing.”
“Yes?”
She leaned close, whispering. “Do I address it to Cadet Gresham or Cadet Smithy?”
He laughed. She loved its timber. “Cadet Gresham will do nicely. For reasons that escape me, it pleases Quinn to call me by my surname.”
She offered up her best smile. “Cadet Gresham it is then.”
With a nod, she headed for the building. Halfway there, she realized she’d forgotten to limp. She shuffled the rest of the way to the door. Once inside, she fell against the door, giggling.
Gresham said nothing as they drove away, but the astonished look on Kendal’s face made maintaining this pretense difficult. Finally, unable to restrain himself any longer, a flurry of questions burst from Kendal’s mouth. “Where did she come from? What possessed you to ask a highborn if you could pin her rose? How did you ever work up the nerve? Why didn’t you tell me about her? And those eyes. She’s the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
“Most gorgeous?” Gresham rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. I found Quinn’s lady rather striking too. I’d consider them equally attractive.”
“Heavenly light man, how do you even know this enchantress? Why didn’t you tell me about her?”
“What, and spoil this moment? You should see yourself.”
Gresham spent the remainder of their ride fending off questions, none of which he could truthfully answer. It was great sport nonetheless. As he half listened to his friend carry on, he couldn’t help wondering what the woman had been up to. Kendal had the right of it about her being comely. She’d taken his breath away when he first saw those cat-shaped green eyes of hers. They could capture a man’s soul. Their contrast with her ebony hair seemed to make them glow. And she was so tiny. How could he not have noticed her before? Where did she keep herself? She’d clearly concocted her yarn to put off Quinn, but why? Since it wasn’t likely he’d ever hear from her again, he doubted he’d learn those answers, but it had been great fun upsetting that ass Quinn. He laughed aloud, puzzling poor Kendal even more. Quinn would likely get his revenge at their tourney, but this day was one Gresham would savor for a long time to come.
Since the parish was within walking distance of the Lady’s Academy, their trip was short. Work was at hand. Most of their wagonload was books. Prior Rigby had purchased an entire lot from a caravan wagon. The old bookworm would be in One God’s heaven with all this to read.
Gresham offloaded a few books, stacking them beside the wagon. Could he carry one more? He grabbed another and dropped it with a yelp. It tumbled to the dirt.
Kendal gave him a quizzical look. “A problem?”
“I think something bit me when I picked up that book. It made my hand tingle.”
“Right! More likely thoughts of that girl bit your brain.”
“No, really.” He bent down and picked it up and felt the same prickly sensation. “It did it again. Do you think it’s poisoned or something? Here!” He tossed the book to Kendal.
Kendal leaped away. “Gods! If it’s poison, why throw it at me?” Kendal stared down at the book. After a moment, he scooped it up. “Tingle my ass. If you ain’t the trickster today. Liked to have wet my breeches with all that poison talk.” He scanned its cover. “It says Battle Strategies and Actions. Here,” he tossed it back to Gresham, “poison yourself.”
The instant Gresham caught it that same tingle shot up his arm. The sensation lasted briefly and faded. “You’re sure you didn’t feel anything?”
“Enough foolery; let’s finish our job.”
Gresham placed the book at the top of his stack and lugged it into the parish. As soon as the door closed, he plopped down his load and picked up the book. The prickly feeling returned. Was this sorcery? If so, why didn’t it tingle for Kendal? Was his uncle’s conjecture correct—was he gifted?
He flipped through its pages. All were full of strange characters, the likes of which he’d never seen. They looked more like pictures than lettering. Making sure no one was looking; he hid the book behind a vase. He’d retrieve it later and hope his uncle could explain what had happened.
Tourney
Gresham sat resting on his cot, whittling the final touches to his carving, when Kendal hollered through the doorway. “You’d best get to the stadium Gresham, lest you forfeit your match with Quinn. We wouldn’t want you to lose to that bounder.”
Right, just beat the institute’s finest swordsman. Gresham had won the archery and survival competitions, getting him to the competition’s finals. To no one’s surprise, his opponent was Quinn.
But as important as this match ought to be, he’d given it little thought. It was Rayna dominating his thoughts, not Quinn. He’d received two notes from her since their first meeting. The first had to do with his alleged request to present her graduation rose. ‘Dear Cadet Gresham, I regret to inform you that I cannot accept your kind offer to present my rose.’
Although he’d expected as much, it still disappointed him—until he read her next sentence: ‘After all, since you never actually asked me, what have I to accept? If you choose to rectify that, contact me at the Lady’s Academy by day’s end. Yours, —Rayna Kent.’
He’d laughed aloud when he read it, but she wasn’t the only one capable of gamesmanship. He’d have loved to have been a weevil on her wall when she read his return letter: ‘My dear Lady Rayna, as appealing as I find the idea of being your presenter, I fear it would be ill advised to pay court to someone about whom I know nothing. How would I address the inevitable questions regarding our presumed friendship? However, were we to spend some time together beforehand, say to finish that trip to the caravan we cadets interrupted, I would know you sufficiently well to pin your rose. I anxiously await your reply. Earnestly, —Cadet Gresham Smithy.’
Her second note was an acceptance of his proposal. They were to meet on the morrow, after midday meal.
Setting down his knife, he blew away the last of the shavings and admired his handiwork—a rose for Rayna. Courting a highborn had him out of his depths. Kendal told him that courtly speeches and lead-up gifts were an important part of the rose presentation. To that end, he’d carved her this flower. He planned to present it to her right before his bout with Quinn.
Tucking the carving into his waistband, he headed for the stadium. He entered the theater, the site for the final conte
st. Rows of tiered seats surrounded the performing arena, their nearness offering the audience a close-up view. He scoured the stands for Rayna, spotting her in the third row with her blonde friend. Trying unsuccessfully to quell his butterflies, he walked over and presented himself. “Although this one can’t be pinned, please accept this early rose, milady,” he said, bowing from the waist as he offered her his handiwork.
“That is most gracious of you Cadet. I shall treasure it,” she said, her green eyes sparkling.
He was feeling rather proud of his courtly manner—until Quinn arrived. Handing Yudelle a jeweled rose, he dropped to one knee. “Lady, the more I drink of thine sweetness, the greater becomes my thirst. What need have I of sunshine when I can bask in your radiance?”
Yudelle absolutely glowed. “Although unworthy of such praise, I shall nonetheless savor it. Rise, good sir.” Removing her scarf, she handed it to him. “Wear this. May it bring you victory,” she said, with a disparaging glance at Gresham.
The tourney horn sounded, sparing Gresham further chagrin.
At center ring, the two performed a short ceremonial greeting that ended with their forearms clasped, raised to the crowd. The audience roared as the two men faced off.
It took only a few strokes and parries to discover Quinn’s prowess. Parry left, parry right, lunge, disengage. No matter what Gresham tried, Quinn countered with a faster, defter maneuver. The man wasn’t even sweating. To make matters worse Quinn wore a condescending grin the whole time.
“What’s the matter, Smithy? Your style’s clumsy. Who’s your sword master, anyway?” He followed with a flurry of complex slashes that sorely challenged Gresham’s defenses. “Ah, that’s right, lowborns have none.” His tone shifted, suddenly menacing. “You’re no match for the likes of me and you know it.”
His next attack drove Gresham backwards. He lost his balance. Quinn lunged, and his blunted weapon touched Gresham’s gut. One point, Quinn. A cheer erupted from the crowd.
Chest heaving, Gresham tried to compose himself. Matters were worse than he’d anticipated. As arrogant as the man was, Quinn had the right of it; his fencing skills far outstripped his own. All this with Rayna watching. The first to seven touches would be declared winner. At this juncture Gresham wondered if he’d score a single point. It was time for caution, to defend well and hope for an opening.
That opening finally happened, but by the time he’d scored his first point Quinn had four. Moments later it was five to one.
Quinn kept up a non-stop banter the whole time. “It’s hard to believe that Lady Rayna accepted your court.” He followed with a series of vicious pokes and parries. The crowd roared. “Or maybe I should drop the Lady and simply call her Rayna. Keeping company with the likes of you dishonors not just her, but all proper folk.”
Even though Quinn’s attempts to goad him were obvious, demeaning Rayna sparked Gresham’s anger anyway. “You’re an ass.”
The two unleashed a series of attacks and counterattacks, displaying a viciousness rarely seen in gentlemanly competition. Gresham flipped sodden hair from one eye and grinned, pleased that sweat now dripped from Quinn’s brow, too. He sucked in some much-needed air and circled left, to Quinn’s weaker side.
“You shame her Smithy, but I’m curious, how far has she sunk? Does she now rut with lowborns, has she lain with you yet?”
Quinn’s crude taunt sparked some beast within. Rational thought vanished, replaced by unbridled rage. But it brought with it something queer. Somehow he seemed to be floating outside his body, watching their skirmish from above. In this strange vision, it was just the two of them, the crowd gone. From his elevated vantage point any subtle movement became obvious, making it easy to anticipate Quinn’s moves—to block and counter them. All awareness of his surroundings surrendered to but one thought—he must destroy this man standing before him. He charged, roaring like a madman. Gone was any hint of technique. Instead, he wielded his sword as if it were a club, taking broad, brutal swings.
Quinn’s expression went from concern, to shock, to something approaching fear, as Gresham pressed his bestial charge. Five to two. Five to three, then four, then all even. His advance continued, unrelenting. He was invincible. No longer content to win, he needed to hurt. To maim. To punish. Six to five, his favor.
Quinn backed onto a small mound, seeking the uphill advantage. The gravel under his foot gave way. He slipped, falling, his sword clutched in both hands in a desperate defense.
Hurt! A wild swing jarred Quinn so hard a hand slipped off his weapon. Mangle! Two brutal cuts nearly clipped the man’s face. Quinn raised his sword to protect himself. Gresham batted the weapon from the lone-handed grip. It landed well out of arm’s reach. He raised his sword, visualizing the killing thrust.
“Smithy! I yield! Gods, don’t stab me!”
Quinn’s words flipped some switch inside of him. He was within his body once more. He lowered his weapon, his face burning, blushing at what he’d nearly done. He stepped back. “I won’t. I would nev… forgive me.” Some distant part of him acknowledged the crowd’s cheers, but his imagined moment of glory had transformed into one of ignominy. What just happened? Not only did he want to win, he also wanted to destroy. He turned and stepped away, staring at the ground, ignoring the crowd’s cheers.
Lost in thought, he still heard approaching footsteps, and Captain Dyson’s angry voice. “You yielded! Only cowards yield! You shame our good name before everyone!” Gresham turned to see the Captain castigating his son. “You’re weak like your mother. Weak! I am loath to call you son.”
Gresham would never have imagined he could feel sorry for Quinn, but seeing the devastated look on the man’s face, sympathy overcame him. “Captain, he lost his weapon. He had no choice.”
The Captain turned, snarling. “Silence! I’ll not tolerate insolence from some witch’s get.” He wheeled about and stormed off the field.
Witch’s get? What in the gods’ names did that mean? Events were exceeding Gresham’s comprehension. First the mysterious appearance of a sorcerer uncle, followed by the book with a seeming magic that touched only him. Then he defeated a man in a swordfight against whom he stood no reasonable chance and had done so by turning into a madman with mystical vision. And now his commanding officer had just accused him of being a witch’s child. In a day and a half his world had twisted upside down. What was happening to him? He needed his uncle’s counsel. Without as much as a glance at Quinn or the crowd, he followed the captain off the field, past the viewing stand, back to the soldier’s hall.
Rayna left the stadium without Yudelle. The silly woman wanted to console Quinn. After his humiliating loss to a commoner, Rayna doubted the pretentious cadet would be in any sort of mood for Yudelle’s prattle. But that was their affair. She was more concerned over what she’d just witnessed, vacillating between a strange sense of pride in Gresham for having won the tourney, and concern over his curious behavior. She chided herself. The matter was between the men. It had nothing whatsoever to do with her.
The duty girl hailed her as she entered the academy. “Prior Rigby left this for you,” she said, handing Rayna a note. “Apparently you have a visitor waiting at the parish.”
Rayna’s breath caught. Had her father come to her graduation after all? Would she lay eyes on him for the first time since she was a babe? She walked to the nearest looking glass and combed fingers through her hair, doing her best to make herself presentable. Frowning, she shook her head. Fretting over it possibly being her father was stupid, why not just go see who this visitor is.
Blunderer
The sun was setting by the time Hagley made it home from Portsmouth. A shock awaited him. A group of robed horsemen—the ones called Chevaliers—were gathered in front of the university blocking the entrance, leaving him no choice but to stop. He edged the wagon as close as he dared—and listened.
Judging by the everyone’s expressions, this encounter wasn’t cordial. All but two
wore white tunics. One wore blue, the other purple. The man in blue was speaking. “Sir, do you know to whom you deny entry?”
Barring their access stood Master Vardon, the university’s Battle Master. Hagley had always admired the man. Ever did he seem in command. Hagley so wished he could be like him. With legs wide and arms folded across his chest, his stance sent a clear signal that he wasn’t one to be easily intimidated. “I do,” he answered. “He’s your Grand Inquisitor.”
“Precisely! His Grace demands to see your headmaster.”
Vardon gave a patronizing smile. “As I already told you, the headmaster’s away.”
“Are you second in command?”
“We are a school, not a military. We have no chain of command. I am, however, responsible for ensuring the university’s security.”
The churchman made no effort to hide his frustration. “Surely there’s someone in charge?”
Master Vardon spread his hands. “I’m sorry Sir, we have but one headmaster. I realize I repeat myself, but he’s not present.”
The man scowled. “I find it difficult to believe there’s no one in authority here. Who’s your decision maker?”
The spokesman’s threatening attitude made Hagley nervous, but to his credit, Master Vardon stood undaunted. “You could speak with our former headmaster. He no longer speaks for the university, but perhaps he can serve your needs.”
The man in purple finally spoke. “Fine, bring this man.” The Inquisitor’s voice positively brimmed of authority. Here was a man used to being obeyed.
Master Vardon remained unbowed. He whispered something to the young man beside him, who immediately ran off. Hagley sat waiting with the others, intrigued by the scene unfolding before him.
A while later he spotted Master Kagen, bedecked in his former headmaster robes, slowly making his way to the gate, studying the visitors as he approached. “I’m Master Kagen. How may I be of service?”
