Hard soled boots resounded on the granite floors of the castle hallway as two men, both tall and broad shouldered, strode purposely side by side. One wore the noble ermine mantle of his station around his shoulders. The light grey, speckled fur wafted with each powerful stride, seeming only to be held down by the heavy gold chain about his neck and the amulet of his title hanging from it. His clean shaven, square jaw and the short dark hair above his deeply set, stern gaze made him look more like a knight than a duke, but Duke Ripley Hrothmann of Rochester had set aside his flirtation with sword and shield the day he made Sir Isaak Angevin his Knight General.
His knight general was slightly smaller than the duke, and many who met him in person were surprised to find out that Sir Angevin wasn’t eight feet tall, with shoulders that brushed both sides of the hall. Although he was but two fingers’ breadth shorter than the duke, his leaner profile made it look as if he was about a third of the other man’s weight. Even so, the way he walked in confidence next to his lord, and the sharp glint in his sapphire sea eyes, left no doubt that the man considered himself his lord’s equal.
Sir Isaak Angevin was dressed in the chain mail commonly worn by knights when not outfitted for war, his lord’s deep green surcoat edged in silver cinched about his waist with a double wound length of deep grey leather. By his side hung an unadorned, well-used longsword, and on his opposite hip laid a matching wide dagger the length of a man’s forearm. His dark brown hair was slightly longer than Duke Ripley’s, as was Isaak’s beard. Its reddish tint hinted at some western blood hailing from the wild sea warriors who sometimes plagued the country’s shore. A straight, strong nose and powerful brows gave him the look of a falcon in hunt, and many said that his charming looks hid a dark and soulless heart.
He rested a hand on the hilt of his longsword as he walked, and though his jaw was tense and his visage dark, he waited a long moments before replying to the news that he had just been given.
“That’s insane,” he finally said, spitting the words forth like they tasted bitter in his mouth. ”Why would you entertain the idea of allowing the traitor’s whelp into our ranks?”
The duke’s wide jaws tensed at the word ‘traitor’, and he slowed his pace to place a hand on his knight’s shoulder. “Accusations, Isaak. That’s all we have.” His pace slowed to a stop. This was too important to discuss on the move, and he knew that his companion was prone to letting his gut direct his actions, and not the sensibilities of court. He saw the intake of breath and knew that a storm was brewing in the knight's heart.
“We have no proof you mean. Nothing to take to the king. But we know. We know, Ripley!” Sir Isaak stood, facing the other man as their voices rose in the nearly empty hall. Servants diverted their steps to avoid being caught in the sight of either of the men, their hurried feet shuffling away before they could be spotted.
“You know,” Duke Ripley punched a thick finger against the knight’s sternum to accentuate his point. “You know, and that’s good enough for me, but it’s not good enough to bring to the king…”
“So you’re allowing a Lister to join us, as one of my knights?” The hand on his hilt clenched in forced restraint. He wanted to rail against the walls, protest to the heavens, and stop this insanity from occurring. “Why? So this one can do the same thing to our brethren?” He shook his head. "It's insanity."
“You forget yourself, Sir Isaak.” The Duke drew himself up to his full height and peered down his wide nose. “The Angevin Knights belong to King Dunkirk, not to you, and we will do as our liege instructs us.” His lips pressed together firmly as he regarded the knight. When the duke grew irrigated the dimple on is chin and a vein in his forehead made themselves more pronounced, as they did now. “If King Dunkirk instructs me to take in Sir Wilfred’s nephew, then I do so. And if I do so, you will train him just as you have all the others, understand?”
‘His nephew then…’ Sir Isaak mulled this tidbit of information. He knew that his duke did not like the arrangement, but like all men bound by politics and pledges, he had to comply or risk the downfall of all he had achieved. One false rumor, one misspoken word, and a family could be ruined. On the other hand, do something that breaks the rules of your order, and no one cares as long as their pockets remain full. It was the way of the court, not of the battlefield, and he understood his lord had pressures on him that were hidden even from himself. Isaak drew in a deep breath and let it out, resigned to the fact that this would happen regardless of whether it made sense. His hand relaxed on the hilt and he nodded at the duke. “I understand, my lord,” he replied. He did not like it, but he understood it. And he would obey.
Sir Isaak's tongue snaked out to wet his lips as he thought over what this meant for the others who were sent to him for their training. It would be an early introduction to the ways of the court and intrigue, when young knights-to-be needed to focus on warfare and tactics. He didn't enjoy the idea of a coward's kin being allowed to roam about and taint the decent young men who had been entrusted to him, but there was nothing to be done about the matter. The king had decided, and so it would be. “What is the whelp’s name, and when is he arriving?”
Duke Ripley had the good sense not to grin at his knight. “The lad will be arriving in a few days. As for his name?” Now he smirked. “I thought you only addressed them as ‘squire’ until they had earned their name back from you,” he said, turning to resume his path.
Sir Isaak quickly followed him. “You’re right. If he earns his name back.” They continued and turned the corner. ‘If he lasts that long,’ the knight thought to himself, thinking of the late Sir Wilfred, and deciding that if his nephew was anything like he was, he wouldn’t survive a month before fleeing home to his mother and father, begging to be sent to a monastery.
He would run in fear, just as his uncle had done. They were spineless cowards, the lot of them. The sooner he was able to send the whelp running, the better.
Alger always seemed to forget who he was whenever the traveling band of thespians visited in the summer. That was the reason why Father forbid him from seeing the Handyling's shows; they were a free folk and a motley crew of different races that Lord Grant Lister wished would disappear from the realm: gnomes, elves with docked ears, gypsy men and women covered in piercings and tattoos, whose hands were good with repairs but equally adept in prying coins from unsuspecting pockets.
Tonight, Alger reeked of tart pyment. Asherle was sure the liquor smell would have woken their father, even if he hadn't knocked over the cooling pot of crimson madden root.
She was still mad at him as she tended to the pink sashes on his back. The marks were left by their father's belt in yet another poor attempt to drive out the evil spirit from Alger's body-- one he was convinced possessed his son and bewitched him to seek out the colorful and often bawdy performances. They sat on the cobblestone floor of the Boiling Room beside a new bubbling pot of madder root she'd set on the fire. The noxious concoction spat plumes of purple smoke and lent a peppery taste to the air and because this triggered their father's coughing fits and kept him away, it was the ideal place to treat Alger's wounds. Asher suspected it was a cup too many of pyment talking when he said it.
"I wish we could switch places."
Ash laughed, "I don't." She scooped more of her mint leaf unguent onto the rag before pressing it against another angry red stripe of skin. "Why won't you avoid them?"
Their father Lord Grant Lister was a sensible man, yet he was convinced the pretty girl Opeline who played among the band was part Fae. With white hair that gleamed opalescent hues under moonlight and a delicate oval face as pale as milk, she certainly looked beautiful enough to be a wicked enchantress. Rather than be enthralled with the rest of the crowd over her ability to switch between a haughty princess one moment to an old crone the next, their father suspected black magic. He also believed that an interest in the strange folk was an effect of their spells, but, luckily, he also knew the cure; the yearning to see them could be bled from the body like any other illness, which is why whenever the twins spoke of the Handylings, it was always at a volume a touch above silence. Ash was in no mood to have her arms raw from leeches.
"Did she look pretty tonight?" Ash asked. She missed a stripe above his right elbow and place her cloth there next. None of the wounds were open so they could only hurt so much, but Ash knew the real pain still resonated inside.
Alger had begun to cry before the leather had touched his skin and now he continued even long after the belt was stowed away. He faced away, wiping his eyes against his arm at regular intervals before his voice steadied enough to ask: "Did who look pretty?"
She sighed. Really? We're playing this game? "Opeline. You don't think I know why you sneak into those shows?"
He surprised her by shaking his head, "She's not why I go." A loud popping sound came at their backs, startling them both into silence, but it was only a glowing log in the hearth breaking into two. Father was loud and they could hear him fuming through the plaster walls two rooms away and too far to hear, but her brother still whispered. "I want to join them, Ash."
Father wasn't here to say it so she had to: "You can't. You're off to Castle Rochester tomorrow. Do you really think you can face that Angevin knight while entertaining thoughts of running away? Do you think he won't notice? That he won't punish you worse than Father would?"
The thought was ridiculous; Alger would give everything up to run away with a band of nomads who ran barefoot with barely three pairs of shoes to share among the ten of them? Who owned no titles, no responsibilities, and no lands to call home?
After their uncle’s Sir Wilfred's death, their father refused to speak of Sir Isaak Angevin (only referring to him as the "Damned Angevin Knight" or cursing his uncooperative silence as the "The Prickly Knave Knight") and the only way the two could learn about him was through rumors. Even those had been enough. Ash knew that Sir Isaak was no fool— he would be able to smell a weak will hiding among his squires. Alger's indifference would be a pungent chamber pot tainting the air among amphoras of fine castle wine.
Ash could usually talk him back to his senses but tonight, her dissent seemed to strengthen his resolve.
"I'm leaving tomorrow night. Opeline says she has an empty bunk for me in her caravan and that they'll be happy to have me. She says that with enough training, my voice could earn me my own act!" Alger faced her with blue eyes gleaming beneath a sweep of dark iron-gall hair, bright with hope and adventure as if he didn't see the futility of his plan. "Switch with me, Ash. Haven't you always wanted to walk the path to knighthood?"
She closed her eyes, shaking her head, and her hand rose to clutch at her collar as if to protect her heart from considering the unacceptable.
“Please. I beg of you.” She felt him lift her free hand and press it to his cheek so that she’d feel his tears because she refused to see them. “I will not survive Sir Isaak." He was seventeen yet his hiccuping cry made him sound seven years old again: "If Mother were still here, she would have stopped this. Please say you'll help me.”
Ash sighed. Mother had been the only thing that stood between her father's belt and Alger and now that she was gone, he had no one. It was only guilt that weighed her head down to nod and the words were out before Ash could stop them: "Fine. I'll do it."
‘Alger Lister, son of Grant Lister, nephew of Sir Wilfred Lister.’ Sir Isaak mulled over the name on the parchment. The dark leather tightly wrapped around his hands stretched as he began to fold the list in half, closing off the inked names of all six new squires from view. It was bad enough that one of the new recruits was kin to the king, and as such may be expecting to pass through the three years with little to no effort. But this coward’s kin… this ‘Alger’, was one who promised to remind the knight of Rochester daily of the deeds that caused him to abhor his familial member so fervently.
The knight raised his eyes as three squires stumbled back into the training yard. They had been up long before the dawn; polishing armor, folding sheets, filling barrels of water one bucketful at a time, and then, before their breakfast had even seen the skillet, had been taken on a run alongside Sir Thomas Garret and his steed.
“Captain,” Sir Thomas raised one gloved hand in acknowledgement of Sir Isaak. He brought his horse to flank the lead knight as the three squires slowed to a stop and nearly collapsed into a sweaty heap on the hard-packed dirt. He regarded the wards, then turned his bearded countenance towards the other man. “I expected to find Sir Jonathan waiting here, not you,” he added quietly. His deeply set eyes peered down at Sir Isaak, and the lines of worry on his much older face testified to the years he had spent in service to the king. “The new squires are due to arrive in two hours.”
Isaak shot a look of annoyance at Thomas. “I know that.”
“I understand you know,” Thomas said without missing a beat. “And I can tell by the way that vein is pulsing in your forehead that you are more upset than usual at the start of a new year of recruits.” He leaned an elbow on the pommel of his saddle so he could move closer to his captain. He studied the clear azure eyes of his younger superior.
Sir Isaak’s eyes narrowed. They regarded each other for long moments, until the only sound was the soft snort of Sir Thomas’s horse and the ragged panting from the three squires still sprawled about the dirt.
Of the three, two were entering their second year of training and one remained from the year prior. They were all the best and most resistant of their classes; the only ones to survive the training and be asked to continue on their path as an Angevin Knight. Of course, the squire candidates who had attended the schooling and not made it to this point had all survived, but they had not remained at Rochester. Some chose to seek admission through other knight corps, and yet others returned home, realizing that a life with sword and shield and little else did not measure up to their romantic notions of knighthood.
The first squire was an arrogant bastard. Lean and blond, Andrew Silverman was one whose loyalties Sir Isaak seriously doubted, but the lad had scored well and seemed to be a favorite of Duke Ripley and Sir Leon Martin. Isaak suspected that Andrew had something to do with another squire’s sudden departure from their ranks but he did not have any proof to back up his gut.
Isaak moved his gaze away from the haughty youth to look at the other second year squire, Blain Kern. This lad, though heftier and more solemn than Andrew, seemed to be more of a follower than a leader. Maybe this year would change all that. Blain’s square jaw and reddish-brown hair made him a favorite among the castle servant woman, but he seemed impervious to their charms. Unlike Andrew, who Sir Isaak suspected had bedded every unmarried woman in the shire, and a good number of the married ones. It seemed the candidate was trying to get in enough experience in his years as a squire to offset the lifetime of celibacy an Angevin Knight swore to uphold.
The final lad, a third-year student from the north, was one of the most promising Sir Isaak had seen in years. At twenty-two, Reginald Martin was already showing promise in strategy and all of the physical skills associated with knighthood. After finishing this year, he would travel more extensively with his knight, Sir Robert Henry, and eventually young Reginald would do something that earned him the distinguished title of knight. There was no doubt in Isaak’s mind that his knighting would come quickly.
The three existing squires were quiet now, having finally caught their breath and gotten more rest than they might for the rest of the day. They were being instructed on what they needed to do prior to this year’s recruits’ arrival by the Master of the Swords, a quiet Knight named Jonathan who had opted for the more cerebral life of a monk, but who still was highly respected for his skills with the sword. The knight monk had joined them so quietly that both Sir Thomas and Sir Isaak were surprised to see him already there.
Sir Isaak remembered the first time they had fought on a battlefield together. Jonathan, his brown hair long even then, had been merciless on the field. He had been only an adequate swordsman in training; more a man of the saddle and diplomacy than a warrior. But on the battlefield, when the shouts of his countrymen around him, something had clicked in the young knight’s mind and he had seemed to be able to anticipate their enemies’ movements. Afterwards, Jonathan had decided to leave the fighting to the others because, as he put it, ‘the killing part came too easily for me’.
Duke Ripley had later shared with Sir Isaak that, as he looked into Sir Jonathan’s eyes, he saw the reflection of a soul that had found not only skill at the taking of life, but the enjoyment of it. The duke heeded the warning signs of a soul that could quickly grow dark if allowed and permitted Jonathan’s request.
Now, as the three youths climbed to their feet and morning’s warmth was just beginning to hone the edge crispness from the air, Sir Isaak turned his gaze back to the mounted man beside him. “The Knight Cadre will be joining us soon. I’ll address the new recruits before lunch,” he said, wanting to give himself a chance to observe them for a few hours before they saw his face. “I’ll leave this morning in your capable hands, Sir Thomas.”
Thomas nodded solemnly. The Knight Cadre were the five specialists who would be training the squires. Sir Jonathan was one of them, and like he, the others had their specific skills that Sir Isaak wanted each of the young men to learn. “It shall be done,” he said, crossing his left fist over his heart and nodding once in a modified show of respect. The gesture was returned, sans the nod, and Sir Isaak left the field.
With a sigh, Sir Thomas turned his eyes back to the squires and Sir Jonathan as they began to set up the small shaded pavilion that would serve as the main point of assembly for the six new recruits this week. The first thirty days were always the hardest. He had a feeling that this year would be harder than most.
On the morning that she —or Alger, really— was due to depart for Castle Rochester, Ash woke with the distinct feeling that she was a Christmas pig being prepped for slaughter. Her hands and feet weren't bound, nor was there an apple stuffed in her mouth, but her level of dread steadily rose with the sun and she was convinced she had until sunset before the ruse was found out. Then she'd be flayed, roasted, and torn into and consumed by those castle knights they foolishly thought they could hoodwink.
She'd been listless last night as she watched Alger pack her things, and although she'd volunteered to help, she felt too numb to do anything but watch him. He'd been starry-eyed the entire time, oblivious to her feelings, babbling animatedly without need for breath as if both of them were running away to go on some grand adventure in the Handylings' rainbow caravan, and not just him.
The Handyling's plan of how to switch them was so offensively simple that Ash was convinced it couldn't possibly work: The Handylings planned to block Herringbone Road with an old caravan they deliberately hobbled by shattering a carriage wheel. The single dirt passage was the only one that ran south of Harth Harbor and Alger would have to pass here on the way to Rochester Castle. Alger's escort would be forced to help move the caravan off the road and that's when they'd switch. Ash —dressed in an identical pair of Alger's clothes— would then resume the rest of the journey as the nomads sequestered Alger off to where she assumed was a magical place of wonders.
Hiding in wait behind the Handyling's crippled caravan, Ash had been so lost in worry that she hadn't noticed when Opeline appeared at her side until the scent of lilies overwhelmed her and the Fae girl pressed her lips against hers. Ash froze, pale blue eyes wide to reveal frost halos on white, as every muscle in her body stiffened at her touch. She'd never kissed a boy before, and yet this girl who was stealing Alger away from her felt entitled to take away her first kiss too?
For a moment, Ash was sure it was a case of mistaken identity because she had trimmed her long locks to resemble her brother. She'd caught her own reflection in a puddle earlier and looked so much like him that she nearly forgot who she was.
Just as quickly, Opeline stepped back with a smile to whisper a thank you and a promise that she'd take care of Alger, her melodic words as beautiful as any song. She left Ash feeling more disoriented and lost than how she'd felt when she first arrived, but gifted her a sealed letter with a neatly scribbled name— Hern Doctor Burke.
Perhaps Father was right about Opeline being an enchantress. Her honeyed words must have been a spell, because they were the only thing that gave Ash a little comfort: "Doctor Burke is a good patron of ours. He has agreed to help you in times of need and you will meet him soon."
DOCTOR BURKE'S CLINIC
Now, Ash stood before this Hern Doctor Burke as he read Opeline's note. He was a large man with wide set shoulders, made wider beneath an overcoat of emerald silk and a cloak edged in sable fur. After Mother passed, Ash took over most of her work to refine dyes and so she was used to seeing fine clothing but, for some reason, it made her feel small and intimidated to see them worn by this man versus draped over a chair.
Doctor Burke pulled out a pair of spectacles and donned them on his nose, but his eyes continued to squint as if he hadn't put any on at all.
He'd intercepted them on the road before they reached Castle Rochester as Opeline had mentioned he would earlier. From there, he'd directed them back to his small clinic that sat just outside the castle walls where both nobles and the poor could seek his help. Once inside, Ash felt her anxiety ease a little; the mahogany walls and cheery fire lent a cozy, warm feeling to the small space and reminded her of home.
At the doctor's request that he be left alone with "Alger" for a private examination, Ash's escort wrinkled his nose but didn't argue. After muttering a disparaging order to the medic to keep his hands out of the boy's orifices, he left to find a mug of mead to quench his thirst from the long ride.
The Doctor finally set the letter down with a sigh, "Opie must be fond of you to ask such a favor of me."
Ash nodded, though she didn't understand how she could be fond of her when they'd only just met that morning.
"I will submit a report to Sir Isaak of your good health. However, I'd also add my observation that you seem to suffer a peculiar ailment of the torso and pelvis that causes blistering upon exposure to the air for even a short period of time and out of fear of contagion, I would instruct them to avoid removing or handling any articles of your clothing. That should also allow me to visit upon you regularly to see how you're doing." He heaved a heavy sigh that made Ash realize he didn't see this deception lasting for too long either.
Even with her heart heavy, she was grateful and said, "Thank you, Doctor."
As a parting gift, he handed her a large package wrapped in paper and fastened with twine before explaining what was inside: "These cloth wraps will better disguise your womanliness." He gestured at her collar and Ash glanced down, panicked to see there was a tiny corner of gauze sticking up past her linen shirt. "You must not be careless like that again. As you may already know from what happened to your uncle Sir Wilfred, Sir Isaak isn't known for being merciful."
CASTLE ROCHESTER
Ash stood last in the line of five other boys before a pavilion made of birch wood with a roof of graying, striated sun tile and waited for her turn to be scrutinized by the Angevin company and specialists. It wasn't a particularly cold day, but she found herself trembling, and to stop this, she had to bite her tongue so that the pain would help steady her. It didn't occur to her how hard she'd been chewing until she tasted copper-rich blood and had to swallow. Alger's clothes —a long sleeved peasant shirt of white linen and tawny wool vest with matching trousers of the same color— were slightly big on her but they helped to disguise the curves she'd wrapped so tightly this morning.
The only thing that could give her strength now, it seems, was anger so that was the emotion she met Sir Isaak with.
The knight whose brittle azure eyes bore into the boy two places before her was the one who'd left her sweet uncle Sir Wilfred to die. Her uncle had developed an admiration for the Angevin Knight shortly before the Battle of Greyrock and more than two knights had witnessed the pair charging into the fray together at the start of the battle. Yet, what occurred between the time they'd rode into battle and the time they'd retrieved Sir Wilfred's remains, finding the body desecrated with his tongue and all fingers missing, remains unknown. Her father Lord Grant Lister was a harsh man who had tried unsuccessfully to pry the truth from Sir Isaak in the same way he approached all problems in life— by violence, aggression, force.
Ash realized where he had failed. Sir Isaak repelled her father's attempts as easily as he deflected attacks from a sword because he saw them coming. She would be the clever dagger then, concealed and slipped into a boot, only to be revealed at the moment of carving the truth from the Angevin knight when he was at his most vulnerable.
The morning had bloomed brisk and breezy, with winds salted from the sea encroaching into every thinly layered chink in the young men’s wardrobe. Six youths huddled independently of each other in the face of that chill knife as the final of the entourage rejoined the others, having been freshly inspected by the good doctor, Hern Burke, and deemed hale enough for training.
Of all the boys, only one seemed jovially excited to be there. Slim and tall enough to look slightly underfed, his ears jutting out unabashedly from the sides of his handsome face, and a wry grin constantly tugging at his lips, Richard Bock had just discovered that he was the youngest of the group. He rubbed his bare hands together to keep the blood flowing as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, dancing back and forth as if he needed the loo. His earnest brown eyes sparked beneath a mop of thick, light-brown hair that had recently been shorn and now sported a stubborn cowlick that stood up at the back of his head like a quail’s feather. “Do you think we’ll be measured for our armor next?” he asked no one in particular. “I’ve got a lot of growing to do – it’s likely I’d need a new set before the year is up.”
His simple grey tunic and brown trousers seemed a size or two too ambitious for the lad’s thin frame, and his boots probably had a bit of tissue stuffed into the ends to make them fit, but he seemed oblivious to all this as he continued his foot-to-foot hopping as he eagerly awaited the attention of the gathering knights.
“Will you be quiet?” This came from a taller lad, who wore the chain mail and cape colors of his family’s duchy. He had come armed, wearing a sharp looking helm and carrying the eagle-emblazoned shield that testified that he had already seen some training. The boy glared beneath shaggy brows, and his lips twisted up in impatience, making the wormy flesh at his mouth look somewhat sickly. “I’ll throttle you if you get us in trouble the first day.”
“Leave him alone,” another boy interrupted. This one was shorter than all but Alger, though his wide shoulders and the steady way he held himself made him seem unconcerned about his stature. He was one of the two who seemed comfortable in their nobility and wore the velvet brocade and well-tailored clothing common by those who lived at high court daily. Richard Darwin, Earl Jacob Darwin’s second son, clenched his jaw as he stepped between the lad who made the threat and his wide-eyed target.
The armored youth sneered down at the other lad. “Oh yea? And who are you to make me?”
“Richard Darwin,” the defender related, drawing out his last name as if it had significance. The muscles around his mouth tensed, showing a hint of the hard lines he would develop along his jaw as he matured into his face. He raised his chin now, a motion that send the feather hanging from the back of his velveteen hat even further down his back.
“Ricard?” the bully asked. “You’re Richard?” He scoffed and looked at the youngest boy. “And you’re Ricard too, aren’t you? Richard Bock, the doctor said?”
Nodding and looking quite like a cornered mouse, the younger Richard nodded. “But I go by Ricky…”
“I’m surrounded by two Dicks!” the bully guffawed. “Well isn’t this rich?” He slapped his leg as if he had just heard the funniest jest of the year. “I can’t believe my luck – surrounded by two dicks who are defending each other. Wait until they hear about this back home!”
“To attention!” a tall, muscular man in a sleeveless dark jerkin strode forth from the other knights, his expression stern as he boomed the command to the six recruits. He wore goose-grey pants gathered at his ankles above soft leather boots, and no adornments; not even a sword. His black hair had been shorn short, and hawkish face was smooth, revealing no sign a beard or stubble on his tanned skin.
He paused before the six as the recruits scrambled to align themselves into something resembling order. Although the lads had all be declared fit enough to begin their training the hand-to-hand specialist who strode before them, eying each lad and determining them all wanting in one way or the other, thought that a few of them looked so fragile they might be snapped in two by a stern glare.
Turning to face the lads, the stern knight raised his chin and waited for all sound to cease. Once all the squeaking leather, rattling metal, and sounds of discomfort ended, he addressed them.
“You are all maggots.” His voice was firm and loud, carrying to the other end of the courtyard and echoing against the stone buildings around them. “Your noble births mean nothing. You are nothing, but a possibility. What might be, if you are deemed worthy.” He glared at each young man in turn and let that thought sink in. “You are the spilled seed of your fathers’ that found its way into your mother’s belly and took root. You’re weeds! By the time this is over, if you survive, you will wish that you had never sparked into that wormy little maggot and grown into a child. You will wish you had never taken breath.”
His upper lip curled as if a foul stench was coming from the six he now addressed. “I want you to count off, starting from my left.” Once they had counted their numbers he nodded once. “That, gentlemen, is your new name. You,” he looked to the one furthest to his left, “are Squire One. And you are Squire Two, and so forth. Your names, your titles, mean nothing. They are not to be spoken until you have earned your names back. Is that understood?”
When a heady ‘Yes Sir!’ wasn’t heard he cupped his right hand behind his ear. “What’s that? I can’t hear you slugs!” He made them repeat themselves until their lungs felt like they would fall from their chests before finally saying, “Good.” He turned and looked at the other three knights who had been standing apart with him. They walked forward to join him. Aside from Sir Jonathan, the knight who wore monk’s robes, there was a tall blond knight who tied his long hair back and clanked in the armor he wore, and a man with shaggy brown hair who looked more like a huntsman in his drab colors and the longbow he carried. They were anything but the usual vision of knighthood. “We four are your core cadre. That means you will eat, sleep, think, and shit according to our instructions. I am Sir Hubert Lawrence, and I will be instructing you primarily on hand-to-hand combat and tactics.” The short-haired muscle man stepped to the side.
The blond armored man stepped forward. “My name is Sir Edward Briarvale,” the blond night informed the lads. Like Sir Hubert, Edward was clean shaven. He had the softer face of a diplomat, but as he walked it was evident that he was a man who was well-used to being weighed down by his armor. Although he wore both chain and plate and kept it in good condition, there was a lived-in feel to his attire. “I will be teaching you the use of the spear and lance, as well as the care of your mounts, with the assistance of Duncan,” he lifted a silver arm and indicated an older, slim man standing in the shade of a nearby tree. The man he indicated smiled and lifted a hand in greeting but seemed content to stay out of the limelight.
Once Sir Edward stepped back into the line, Sir Jonathan stepped forward in his brown robes. A simple, sheathed sword hung comfortably from his waist. “Good morning gentlemen,” he said, his tone drastically contrasted with Sir Hubert’s. “I am Sir Jonathan, or Father Jonathan, if you prefer. I will be your blades instructor. Swords, knives, and anything with an edge. I will teach you how to use your weapon to defend the innocent, stop those who would do evil, and if needed, to take a life.” His scruffy jawline and the long shag of hair around his face made him seem almost as if he were playing a role, and not truly someone who would take a life even if his own depended upon it. He smiled at the young men before him, his jaw creasing into a long dimple as he did, and then stepped back to allow the fourth knight to introduce himself.
The man who stepped forward was more grim-faced, with deep set eyes under a strong brow, a full moustache, and hair that draped over the side of his face. His skin was tanned, though fair, and his layered clothing looked like he might have slept in it. His hands and the visible skin on his neck and face looked almost as if he had lived in a dirt hovel, though the fletchings on his arrows were immaculate, and the longbow in his hand was well-oiled and well worn. Of all the knights he was the leanest, but as his fingers flexed over the girth of his bow, it was evident that he was strong and lithe, not a man to be underestimated by any means.
“I am Sir Robert Chase,” he said, his voice sounding bored and detached from the morning’s events. “The longbow and crossbow are the specialties I will teach you on the field. If you make it through the first six months you will learn other things from me, but I doubt many, if any, of this sorry lot will make it.” His dark eyes were made more severe by the whites around his pupils. He raked his vision across the faces of all the recruits. With a look of disdain, he stepped back, already dismissing them in his mind as people who would never see the title of an Angevin Knight.
The knights made way for two men who now strode towards the pavilion. The first, a tall man with broad shoulders and a powerfully square jaw, was undoubtedly Duke Ripley Hrothmann, of Rochester. He wore a cloak edged in ermine, and a heavy chain of office around his neck, and though he was dressed like a nobleman, he had the air of power about him that one would expect from a man who was confident in the battleground. Beneath his dark brown hair was a strong brow that shadowed his eyes, making him seem ominous despite the light of the day.
Beside him strode a man a hand’s breadth shorter, who was slimmer of shoulder, but who wore the chain and tabard worn by the castle guard and looked like he might have been the duke’s personal man. His brow was more falcon-like, tapered above cold blue eyes and an aristocratic face. Unlike the duke, this man wore a short beard and mustache, trimmed in a manner common among the northern realms. His cheekbones were high but not overly so, though it gave his face a slightly otherworldly tinge, as if his family had crossed paths with the elven race many generations before. A large, veined hand rested comfortably on the hilt of his sword, and the other seemed content to rest with a thumb tucked into the band of his leather belt. He wore no rings or chains of office to differentiate him from the other common guards of Rochester Castle. As the duke began to speak, his guard studied the faces of the young men before them.
“Welcome to Rochester,” the duke began. “Your families have entrusted us to train you to become knights. And more importantly, to become men worthy of the Angevin Knight title.” He paused, his jaw tensing as he looked at each of them individually. “You should understand that this is a title set apart from the other knights who serve King Dunkirk. This is not a title that will endear you to ballrooms and high society but will demand that your lives be limited to your service and the crown alone.”
Matthew, the bully who had sneered at the ‘two Dicks’ earlier, shuffled his feet uncomfortably. A glare from the man at the duke’s side brought the shuffling to a halt.
The duke continued. “You will have no family aside from the Angevins. No wife, no woman, no child. If those things are important to you then I suggest you find another sponsor for your knighthood. There is no room in this one for any split allegiances.” He leaned over slightly as the other man turned to whisper something in his ear, then nodded before turning back to the squires. “In a month’s time, those of you who remain will be invited to dine with me and ask any questions that may arise in the meantime. For those of you who are no longer with us in thirty days, I wish you god speed in whatever you pursue. Now, I will leave you all in my captain’s capable hands. Good luck.” As he turned to leave one of the nearby castle guards quickly took the place of the man who remained to speak to the squires.
The azure-eyed man did not change his stance, still seeming relaxed as he rested his hand on hilt and belt. “You will address me as ‘Captain’ or ‘Sir’. Not Sir Isaak or Captain Angevin, or any version thereof. Your names are numbers. As Sir Hubert informed you, your names are numbers until you earn them back. You might be addressed as ‘squire’ or ‘cadet’, but that is all. You are part of something bigger than yourself.”
He looked at the quiet, wavy-haired young man who was one of the two who had been silent during the early altercation between Matthew and the two Richards. Sir Isaak waited until that boy’s troubled eyes met his own brittle gaze. “Who you were before today matters not. You will be treated the same as the others.” His eyes slid down the line two places until they met Ash’s, though the knight saw only a slim, sickly looking lad whose name was reported to be Alger. “Who your family members were matters not. Their shame is not your own, nor are their accomplishments yours to shoulder. You are blank slates.”
He continued down the line, until his gaze rested on a lanky young man at the back, Squire One, whose curly, blond hair seemed to have a mind of its own. “Whether you are bastard born or fell out of the queen’s womb on Winter Night’s Eve, you are equal here.”
At that point, Sir Hubert stepped next to the captain to address the six. “The squires who have made it to their second and third years will show you were you are to stow your things and change. Your bunks are numbered in the dormitory. Your clothes are in the trunks – you are to put them on and report back here in fifteen minutes. Now go!”
A shrill whistled blown between two fingers alerted the new squires to Squire Andrew, who waved them towards the barracks with a loud “Let’s go! Let’s go!” Inside the barracks Blain waited to point them to their beds.
The most senior of the squires, Reginald, was standing by with a small hourglass to ensure they all got back to the field in time for their first exercise of the day, a run around the castle perimeter followed by ground exercises.
It was promising to be a hot day now that the morning breeze had finally begun to die down. For the newest squires, it would be their first taste of hell week, and the older squires were happy to help make it as miserable for them as it had been for themselves.
Ash eyed the other boys as they carried on their taunting half-banter among themselves and remained quiet; her throat felt like it had tied itself into a knot since she took her place at the end of the line, and she worried she may not be able to reproduce Alger's voice convincingly if prompted.
Luckily, when it came to her turn, Ash heard Alger's low tone leave her lips to utter her new name:
Squire Six. Or, just Six.
It was better than Alger, Ash admitted. She'd almost become deaf to her brother's name by how loudly their father would shout for him, as if they lived on an expansive manor with echoing hallways and grand staircases rather than a small abode that barely boasted four rooms with walls thinner than onion skin.
She stood upright, mimicking the officious posture of the men who examined her with apparent disapproval while ignoring the breeze that washed through the square and summoned goosebumps on her skin. Lord Lister believed a proper manner was as important an asset as fine robes in court and she made up for it here where Alger sorely lacked, given that he didn't have dreams of kneeling to any king where there was no crowd.
Growing up, their father seemed to take it upon himself to instill upon them the exterior skills of society: proper bows and curtsies, diction and proper articulation, how to hold a conversation that neither offended nor bored its listener. Their mother was the softer of the two, gifting them her wonderful imagination for stories and hope and imparting physical softness too: it was the reason she and Alger shared delicate, seraphic features — soft cherub cheeks dusted a natural rose, a small slender nose, and a full bow lip.
Ash nodded as each of her future instructors introduced himself, screwing up her face as she tried her best to ingrain their names in some solid and retrievable way — a brand pressed to her brain — knowing full well that if the names escaped her, it would only lead to trouble.
The Duke mentioned thirty days and although that amount of time was one she was familiar with in terms of a deadline to dye banners for an army march, it now felt like a promethium level of punishment. How long could this charade go on, trapped wandering among a covered hay field loaded with knights and squires as threatening as loaded bear traps.
"Your clothes are in the trunks – you are to put them on and report back here in fifteen minutes. Now go!"
Her first step faltered after they were dismissed. Ash had to stomp twice before her legs found feeling and allowed her to catch up to the other boys as they sped to the Barracks. She felt like she was moving slowly through a dream as she read the numbers that hung on one post of each bed and when she found her own, she only stared down at the neatly tucked cobalt covers. After the exhausting trip she would have liked to do nothing more than to throw herself on the cover and cry, wondering if she truly understood what she got herself into.
As if sensing her doubt, her uncle's ghost appeared before her:
"You can come out now, Little angel."
Sir Wilfred's eyes were weary as if he hadn't slept a week before he offered her a hand covered in calluses, old scars, coated with new dirt and blood.
"He will never hurt you again."
Ash hadn't come all this way to cry; she came to unmask the hood of injustice befallen a knight who had saved her and saw her safely home. She hadn't even known her uncle had been visiting the day the eighteen-year-old Harth Harbor newspaper boy had lured her, seven years old wearing plaits and a gullible smile, beneath a dock with a promise to show her a mermaid.
She bit into her tongue again and chewed until she'd stoked enough pain at its edges to overcome hesitation. Her hands moved to open her trunk to retrieve the clothes and they were plain cotton wear. In the haze of remembering Uncle Wilfred, she had allowed her movements to become automatic and it's only after her fingers had curled under her shirt in the process of pulling it off, that her fingernails brushing against her chest wrap that she froze. My bandages.
Ash dropped her hands and quickly cast a look at the other boys. None of them noticed her odd behavior. They moved in an excited fury, busy with obeying their first issued orders, but they wouldn't be busy enough to ignore the bandages she'd wrapped to disguise her curves without asking questions or even tearing it off. Her eyes flew from one end of the barracks to the other and found no other door; even if there were a door to an outhouse, her departure would be suspicious. She had no choice but to seek out a diversion and she knew exactly what to do.
Tucking her new change of clothes beneath an arm, Ash made her way to the enthusiastic boy who'd made the comment earlier about getting armor fitted. He had bright hopes and ears that curved out of the sides of his head like outstretched butterfly wings. She didn't take him for the angry type and she was right, when she approached, he greeted her with a questioning smile and as she saw him tuck in his shirt, his knuckles were unburdened by the hard calluses that would suggest a hard history of brawls.
"My set has dust on it," she announced, adding the haughtiness of the other squire Matthew to Alger's voice. "Give me yours."
She tossed her shirt into Richard's face to stun him before advancing and grabbing a fistful of his collar. Rearing her arm back, she threw her first punch to collide into the boy's cheek, hoping that his returning punch would be as weak as his penchant to anger.
Young men scampered to the dormitories like wolves chasing a rabbit; all eager to be the first to return and stand before the knights. A flurry of leaping over beds and rushing to their assigned quarters made any thought of talk impossible. They pulled off vests, boots, tunics and pants, all unashamed to be undressing before one another. The boy in the armor, Matthew, had a tougher time than the others because of his armor, and his fingers, though strong, seemed to fumble against the buckle.
No one cared what the gangly, small blond did. At least, not until he went to Ricard with the ears, Squire Number Two, and threw his clothes into the boy’s face before punching him in the cheek for no foreseeable reason. A collective shout went up and some of the recruits and older squires rushed to intervene, through Matthew, Number Four, did not.
Number Two barely had time to register the shirt in his face before he felt Alger’s strong small hand grab him by his collar and a sharp impact hit his cheek. He cried out in surprise and pain, his feet nearly leaving the ground from the sudden loss of balance.
“Stop that!” It was the taller Richard who shouted as he reached in to separate the other lads. His full lips set themselves firmly against each other as he frowned at the two. Not having seen what started the altercation, he didn’t know who to blame. What he did know was that one of his peers had hit the other, and the twice-bullied boy was now holding a hand to his bruised cheek, a look of tearful shock rimming his eyes.
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