The water clock was tolling seven as I made my way into the depths of the castle. At seven the signing sermons began in the buried chapels, the processions of devout in the morning and evening were ripe times for gossip—no decent castle jester would miss them. On the floor above the buried chapels were the common kitchens, Gusteffa would probably wait there for people to leave the signing sermon so that was where I headed.
In the kitchens the vaulted ceilings were lit by the cooking fires and the place was uncomfortably hot and moist. A cook worked at a spit, sweating as he turned a whole pig, and behind him pot girls were washing pans. The long wooden preparation table in the centre of the room was empty apart from a one-armed man sharpening a carving knife.
“Ain’t no place here for you,” he said. “Ain’t no place for a blessed boy among the living. You come here to spy on us?” The knife in his hand glinted and the way he held it made me wonder if he had been a soldier once.
“I’m looking for Gusteffa,” I stammered.
“To tease ’er?” said a potgirl.
“Her?” I said. I had thought Gusteffa a man.
“Is it hedging’s hunger that makes you squires so cruel? You should go sign a book and think on what you are about.”
“No,” I said. “I wanted to—”
“She said you should go.” The one-armed man stood, threat in his eyes. I took a step backwards. “Go.” He pointed his knife at me then at the door.
“Peace, Dirif.” Gusteffa appeared from behind a teetering stack of pots. “Girton means me no harm.” Even this early she wore her make-up, a white face with red dots on the cheeks. She motioned at the one-armed man to sit, her tiny hand looking like a paw.
“I wanted to ask a favour, Gusteffa. I can pay, I have—” I dug in my pocket “—half a bit.”
The dwarf shook her head.
“Keep your money, boy. If I can I will grant your favour.” She passed her hand before her face, turning her smile into a serious mask. “But if I do you will owe me a favour, you understand?” I nodded. She passed the hand again so she smiled once more. “Ask then, Girton Club-Foot.”
I stood near so we could speak more privately.
“Yesterday,” I whispered, “a guard may have been found outside the kennels, asleep and drunk. I want to know who he is and where I can find him.”
Gusteffa stared at me. I tried to think of a reason to give her when the inevitable “Why” came, but she seemed uninterested, only nodding her head thoughtfully.
“You mean the man found drunk outside the kennels when you were locked in?” I blushed and nodded. “I heard it had happened but not who the guard was. I shall do my best to find out for you.”
“Thank you, Gusteffa,” I said.
I left the kitchens to find the corridors full of people leaving the buried chapels, moving in little cliques and giving each other shifty-eyed looks. I saw more than one surreptitious elbow dig a fellow hard in the ribs, and the odd “accidental” kick to the shins. The castle guards’ attitudes varied markedly depending on who approached them. For some people they moved slowly, in what was clearly a calculated piece of disrespect, and for others they would jump to their task. The more I walked among the blessed the more aware I became that the corridors of the castle were crawling with old rivalries brought to the surface by the turbulence of Doran ap Mennix’s impending death. These were currents so deep and complex I had no idea how to navigate them.
Nywulf, the squiremaster, was not pleased when I entered the squireyard as I was both late and improperly dressed. He took one look at me as I tried to slip in through the door and shouted, “Swordplay!” I ached with the foreknowledge of bruises.
The other squires stood in their groups. Aydor was surrounded by his cronies and Tomas by his. I looked around for Rufra. He was standing with his back to me and seemed smaller than he had the day before. I was glad he was not looking at me; I did not want to see that wounded look in his eyes again.
I glanced over at Tomas. He had a haughtiness that befitted a king, and when I caught his eye he gave me a small nod, the way a king would a subject. Aydor sneered at him. I saw in the heir and his squires a group bound through privilege and riches, which held no appeal for me, but in Tomas and his boys I saw a small group of warriors—a brotherhood—a group of friends bound through force of arms, and I realised I wanted to be part of it. I saw in Tomas and his group the opposite of Aydor—a group committed to right where Aydor was committed only to himself.
But I was not a fool. I knew I had painted Tomas and his friends dented armour with storybook knights from our jester’s tales, and my master had always told me to judge by actions not by imaginings. Apart from disliking the heir what had they done to be worthy of a story?
Rufra stood alone. No longer welcome even on the outskirts of Aydor’s group, and that was probably because he had spoken to me.
It is difficult to describe the powerful draw of a band of brothers to a boy who has never had companions. It washed over me in a tide of longing as I watched Tomas laugh about something with Boros and Barin. Rufra could not offer me that. His nervousness made me uncomfortable and he was an ap Vthyr—reviled throughout Maniyadoc. He probably deserved to be set up as the assassin’s client; his family had done terrible things and I did not owe him anything. Also, my master wanted me to find a way in with Tomas …
But Rufra had walked away from boys who had, however grudgingly, accepted him, and he had done that because he thought he saw a kindred spirit in me.
“Dead gods paint my face for a fool,” I whispered to myself and went to stand by Rufra at the sword rack. I started sorting through the practice swords. “I have forgotten my armour, Rufra,” I said, “so please do not take too much advantage of me when we fence.”
He turned, making a puzzled face that turned a startlingly plain visage into an ugly one. “I do not want your pity, Girton,” he said and turned away. I grabbed his arm, turning him back.
“Outsiders, you said, Rufra. I thought on that all night so do not think it pity that I recognise a kindred spirit.” He smiled at me then, a curious reaction to my anger. “You are amused, Rufra?” Words that would cut him waited in the back of my throat but he spoke before I could launch them.
“Sorry, Girton. I let my hurt pride speak. I am thankful that you have chosen me as a friend. Truly I am.” He laughed. “But Nywulf said I am not trying hard enough and should tax myself more in sword work. I am glad of the offer of your friendship but I am worried he will think I am being lazy, choosing you as a partner.”
For a second I was insulted, and then the truth of what he said struck me. I started to laugh. He knew me only as Girton ap Gwynr, who was more of a danger to himself than anyone else with a blade. Rufra joined me in laughter, and his laugh was an infectious thing that made me laugh more. Soon we were helpless, no longer warriors in training but only two boys doubled up in hysterics while tears of laughter streamed from our eyes. We laughed so much we could not look at one another and were too young to recognise we laughed from a sudden break in the tension between us.
“Something funny, boys?” said Nywulf, his ire drawn by our amusement.