“Yes,” he said. He stepped forward with a triumphant smile on his face, from the expression on the squiremaster’s face it was clearly rare for Aydor to volunteer to step into the circle. Unlike the squiremaster I understood why the heir was so eager to step forward—Aydor knew I had to lose. He knew he was free to punish me however he wanted and I could not fight back without breaking my cover.
Aydor was a good swordsman if not a brilliant one. He was exceedingly strong and preferred to use brute force rather than skill. If I had not been playing a part I would have cut him down in a moment, but I was, and he was a far better swordsman than poor Girton ap Gwynr so he punished me sorely. He held back no blows and only cleverly feigned clumsiness saved me from broken fingers. He clearly intended to cripple me if he could, though it was short-sighted on his part as his life could depend on my health. I feigned tiredness, stepping back and calling “Mercy!” but Aydor still advanced on me. Even when the squiremaster called out “Halt!” he did not stop. Aydor swept his blade low as I dropped my guard, catching me on my shin, and following up with a shoulder barge, sending me sprawling on the ground. He raised his wooden blade to bring down in a heavy strike to my head, and only the squiremaster pushing between us stopped him bringing the strike home.
“I’ll not have this,” hissed Nywulf. “Understand me, Aydor? I’ll not have this on my ground. Cripple a hostage and I have to answer to the king.”
Aydor took a step back and dropped his wooden blades onto the dirt.
“The hostage is already crippled,” he said, “and before long you’ll have to answer to a new king, Nywulf. You should keep that in mind.” There was no mistaking the threat nor the disrespect. The two stared at each other like grand boars in the swiller’s yard until Aydor walked away holding his arms in the air as if in triumph. You are weak, I thought. Weak, cruel and desperate to appear strong, which makes you dangerous and easily manipulated.
“You’re all dismissed for today,” said the squiremaster quietly. “Be here early in the morning. Girton, you should see a healer for your bruises.”
I stood and watched as the other boys replaced their wooden weapons and then bustled out through the door past racks of bows and shields.
“You did not see me shoot,” I said forlornly.
“You said you could,” replied the squiremaster as he picked up Aydor’s wooden blades and replaced them. “I’ll not call you a liar.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning away.
“Boy,” said the squiremaster. I stopped, turned back. “I will not say it will get easier, as training is as much a test of will as anything else. But today was a hard day for you. It might be best if you stayed away from the other squires.” He nodded his head to the door. “Now get off.”
Chapter 5
Heamus waited for me outside the door.
“Ah, Girton, I am glad I caught you. Your mount has arrived, and I thought you may want to see him stabled.” He noticed how I was limping on my good leg and favouring my left arm. “But it does not matter if you are hurt—our stablehands are good at what they do. They will see to your beast.”
“No,” I said quickly. “I am only bruised.”
“Would you see a healer?”
“For bruises? No. I am not hurt that badly.” Anwith, the god of healing, had been unable to save the gods, and to cross the path of his healer-priests was generally considered bad luck. “I will walk the bruises to stop my limbs stiffening.”
“Good lad,” said Heamus, clapping me on the back with an armour-clad hand and adding another bruise to my collection. “That’s exactly what I learned from my first years of swordplay.”
“I learned it falling from mounts,” I said.
“Well a bruise is a bruise is a bruise however it is earned. Come.” He put out an arm for me to lean on. “Did you enjoy the sword work?”
“I’m not sure enjoy is the right word.”
“They were hard on you, but fair, I assume? They are good boys really, for the most part.”
“I practised with Aydor,” I said. Heamus stared up into the cold blue sky as we walked.
“Ah,” he said after a while. “He can be cruel, can the king-in-waiting, but cruelty is the prerogative of kings. His father was the same, back when … back when …” His voice faded away as if his mind was visiting a time when he had been young and his life less full of aches. “It is not easy to be a king, see, Girton. They are not like us. Just like the blessed must endeavour to see the living classes as tools and not feel pity at the plight of the thankful, so must a king be cruel and learn to see people as a means to an end and not as lives.”
“You are friends with the king?”
“Friends? Oh no. I don’t think anyone is ever truly friends with a king, but when I was a young man Doran ap Mennix and I were, well, as close as one can be with a king.”
“But you went away?” I nodded at the faded green of his armour, and the smile that had been a constant feature on his face since I met him faded away. I cursed myself. So far this old man was the only person who had showed me any kindness and I did not wish to offend him. “I am sorry, Heamus, I did not mean to pry.”
“Not at all. It is a well known story and best you hear it from my mouth than a gossip’s flapping lips.” He smiled again, but it was as weak as the watery yearsage sunlight. “There was a girl. No one important, a serving girl is all, but I liked her and she liked me. Doran did what kings do with pretty servants.”
“You were angry?”
“Dead gods, yes, I was angry.” A flash in the eye, a brief glimpse of the steel beneath the smiling old man he presented to the world. “But you cannot challenge a king to combat. So I left rather than commit treason.”
“And now you are back,” I said to the air.
“Aye, I am back. Age has a way of dimming the pain of the past and the girl is bonded to a smith. They have two children. No doubt a night with the king is something she looks back on fondly now, aye?”