The second group consisted of eight squires, all wearing armour that was dented, its enamelling scratched and dull. This was a division of attitude not riches as for all its dings and welts it was still expensive armour. This group laughed and joked with one another, they seemed to possess an easy camaraderie and I wondered what it would be like to share such a bond.
Whatever the differences between the two groups, neither of them looked particularly kindly on me, and I continued to feel a strange withering within. I had tried a few tentative smiles as I had run around the squireyard but had only been met with stony glares or averted eyes. The boy who had been bullied, he seemed as uncomfortable in his skin as he was in his poorly fitted armour, had given me a crooked smile, and I could not decide if he was mocking me or not. Now, while I stood panting, sweating and pretending to favour my bad leg, they fixed me with dead eyes, and I knew any ideas I had of sliding easily into their ranks to uncover plots of murder were the fantasies of a child. I felt very lonely and small. Digging my fingers into the palms of my hands I started to whisper to myself, “I am not Girton ap Gwynr.”
“Right, boys,” said the squiremaster, “while young Girton gets his breath back you can introduce yourselves.”
They started to rattle off their names in a way that made it difficult for me to hear. Some mumbled and some said their names so quickly I could not catch them.
“I am Tomas.” I caught this one’s name, and he meant me to. He was one of the boys in the beaten armour and looked older than the others—eighteen, nineteen maybe. Old for a squire. Beneath a mop of black hair his face was heavily bruised, though this didn’t seem to dent his confidence any. Rather than letting the squires closest to him speak, he introduced them to me. “This is Boros—” he pointed at another tall boy, who wore his blond hair long, as if he had made a vow “—and this is Barin.” His angular face and long blond hair were a mirror of Boros’—twins. From the way Tomas acted as spokesman, and the way Aydor sneered at him as he spoke—the heir clearly detested him—I guessed he was the leader of this group.
Aydor stepped forward.
“I am Aydor ap Mennix, and I am your—”
“Aydor!” shouted the squiremaster. “Rules of the ground!” Aydor stared at the squiremaster as if trying to make the man back down, but it was the heir who ended up lowering his eyes.
“These are my men, Kyril, Hallin and Borniya.” They were the three who had bullied the other boy. “You’ll get to know them. The tall stupid one is Celot.” He did not bother pointing out who was who in the rest of his group. Kyril sneered at me. He was a boy nearly as big as Aydor with a pinched, mean face. Borniya, by him, was just as big and stared at me, naked aggression radiating from the piggy eyes in his round, fleshy face. He must have fallen from a mount or been kicked by one as one of his cheekbones had been caved in, giving his face a lopsided look. Hallin was smaller, darker and sharper-featured, he lounged behind his friends, smiling as he peeled an apple with a small knife. A scar ran over his brow, across a milky white blind eye and down his cheek. Not one of them showed any sign of friendship towards me. Aydor glanced over at the other group and then added, “Oh, and we have Rufra as well.” He pointed at the smaller boy, the one who had been attacked and whose badly fitted armour made him look uncomfortable and strangely wide. Hallin spat on the ground near Rufra, who, rather than smiling at me, was grimacing. I wondered if he also held some grudge against me.
“Right,” said the squiremaster. He walked over to me, wooden blades under his arm. “Longsword,” he said, holding up the larger blade. “Goes in your right hand.” He grabbed my hand and forced the sword into it. “This is used primarily to keep your opponent at a distance and for lunging. It is sharp on the point and at the edge.” He took a few paces away from me and then turned, throwing me the smaller blade. I missed the catch, deliberately, and he shook his head. “That is your stabsword. Does what it says. Used for close work and defence. You’ll learn how to use it with a shield later, but for today we’ll see how you do in dual-blade work.”
“Dual blade?” I asked. It can never hurt to appear stupid. Then your enemies will underestimate you.
“Aye, both blades at once. Longsword in the right, stabsword in the left is usual. But do what feels right for you at the moment.”
I almost betrayed myself. I preferred close work and was about to reverse the stabsword so it pointed backwards and use the longsword only to feint and twist, but that was a highly skilled form of swordsmanship. Instead I followed the squiremaster’s instructions, taking a few clumsy practice swings at the air with the longsword.
“Celot,” said the squiremaster, “test Girton’s skills in the circle. Don’t kill him.”
The Heartblade took up a pair of wooden swords from a rack and went to stand in a chalk circle, where I joined him. Then he advanced with the longsword extended and the stabsword trailing. I stood, looking confused. Celot’s eyes barely focused on me as he went into position two and I realised I had seen his like before, but as fools rather than swordsmen. Men and women whose minds were mage-bent which locked them in their own world, though they were often capable of prodigious feats of concentration. A coldness settled on me. In battle he would be completely unreadable, which made him incredibly dangerous. Celot paused then looked from his own feet to mine. He did it again and again until I, clumsily, tried to copy his stance. Then he tested my guard, gently batting my sword aside to create an opening and making a slow thrust with his longsword. I tried to block it with my stabsword and failed; he let his sword prod me. It was hard enough to hurt but not to bruise.
“Celot is holding back, Squiremaster,” shouted Aydor.
Celot and I danced a little longer. All the time he gave me subtle hints on how to use my blades, and when I failed he punished me with blows hard enough that I did not want him to do it again, but he was not cruel with it. While Celot and I fenced Aydor and his group taunted us, claiming we were both cowards. I am not sure Celot was aware of the abuse; if he was it didn’t touch him, though I felt it as the sapping heat of an overly humid day. Eventually, the squiremaster tired of Aydor’s carping.
“Would you like to demonstrate bladework, Aydor?” roared the squiremaster.