“I thought women could not become Riders?”
“It is not common now,” said Rufra, and then his words came out in a jumbled rush, “but Aunt Cearis says it was not always the way. My uncle hates it and his wife says Cearis is not a proper lady. I know you may have heard bad things about my family, but it seems we are both held here under the sword, Girton.” He gave me another smile then added, “Do you think women should be allowed to become Riders?”
I could not think of a reply. Certainly my master had no trouble mastering a warmount but to say openly that I thought women should fight as cavalry would mark me out as unusual, and I wanted to fit in. Nywulf saved me from further uncomfortable conversation, calling us to go through a series of sword-work exercises, which I bungled expertly. Despite Nywulf splitting us up Rufra managed to find his way back to me again and again. I could feel any chance of getting near Tomas ebbing away. He clearly loathed Rufra and now I was tainted by association. Often the boy gave me tips on how I could improve my defensive work or make a certain move in a way that would tax my strength less. He was well meaning but I found his words increasingly irritating. What infuriated me the most was that he was often right.
It was hard not to compare Rufra to Tomas: Rufra, small and dark in ill-fitting armour, and Tomas who, although bruised, looked every inch the warrior from the tales we told as jesters. His sword moves were elegant, where Rufra looked like he was chopping wood, though there was a lethal, workmanlike efficiency in the way he went about it. And if Tomas was occasionally a little high-handed with his followers then that was only to be expected of a boy who should be a king—and he so clearly should have been. He was no cruel, overweight, tyrant-in-the-making like Aydor.
When training ended I was first out, keeping my armour on despite the discomfort. It squeaked where it needed more grease and pinched me painfully in places. My wrapped swords banged against my bruised legs as I limped quickly away.
“Girton!” My name echoed over the keepyard but I did not turn—I recognised Rufra’s voice. “Girton ap Gwynr!” This time his shout was followed by the sound of running steps. I knew I could not outrun him, not with my armour on and my club foot.
“Rufra,” I said, turning to meet him.
“Aye.” He smiled. Without his armour he looked taller, though everyone was taller than me, but he cut an altogether unremarkable figure, not handsome but not ugly. He had long unruly dull-brown hair that he was constantly having to scrape away from his face. Away from the other squires his eyes no longer jumped as if he expected to find a threat in every corner. “I missed you leaving, Girton. You did not stay to take off your armour.”
“No,” I said, keeping my voice dead. “No, I did not.” His smile faltered and when he spoke I could barely hear him.
“I am always hungry after training; you must be too. I wondered if you would like to come with me to the kitchens? Cook was making honey buns this morning.”
“I cannot,” I said, and watched him become more and more uncomfortable. “I must see to my mount.”
“Oh, of course.” He looked away, the smile falling from his face. “You must think, as I was with Aydor when you came, that …” He let the words tail off. “He hates me, you know, Aydor. And you must have insulted him somehow as he does not like you either.” He smiled again, as if this should form some bond between us. “Aydor cannot stand to be insulted,” he added quietly.
“I hope you enjoy the honey buns, Rufra,” I said. Something hopeful that had been in his eyes slowly faded. He nodded, pushing his hair behind his ears and bowing his head.
“I understand. I had just thought that you are an outsider and I …” he glanced at my club foot “… and I am also. I thought that maybe we could be …” He shook his head. “It was presumptive of me. I am sorry.” He walked away and I should have let him go. Alienating Rufra would put me in better standing with both Tomas and Aydor. My master would have watched him walk away but I am not as cold as she is, besides, I was curious about something.
“Rufra,” I said. He turned. “If Aydor hates you, why are you not in Tomas’s group?”
He laughed, though there was no humour in it. “Simple really. Aydor hates me, but Tomas hates me more. That is the only reason Aydor wanted me with him. He is kingly though, is he not—Tomas?” He kicked a stone along the ground. “It is all right, Girton. I understand that Tomas would make a better friend than I. I’ll not hold it against you or stand in your way.” He turned once more, but before I could walk away or call him back my name was barked out. Nywulf was stumping towards me from the squireyard, a huge filthy bucket in one hand.
“I have a job for you, boy. You can feed and clean out the dogs.” He handed me the foul-smelling bucket full of meat scraps and slops.
“The dogs?” I knew it was one of the squires’ tasks but had not expected it to come to me so soon. My insides shivered at the thought of sharp red teeth and hard muscled flesh.
“Are you questioning me, boy?” His bald head reddened in anger.
“No, Squiremaster.” I bowed my head and walked away with my filthy bucket, feeling his gaze all the way. I passed Aydor, surrounded by his guards, and he shouted after me, “Found your level, have you, country boy?” I ignored him. Tomas passed me soon after but said nothing, only stared at me as I struggled with the bucket. I tried to think of anything but dogs as I walked. I was distracted for a moment when I passed the stables and saw Drusl, but she was with Leiss and could not stop to talk. Seeing her with Leiss made me angry and I stamped along, spilling some of the slop on my skirts, which made me even more cross.