Bors dropped a rag into his hands and chuckled, but Alymere was too mortified to realise what he was meant to do with it until Bors said, 'There's leather strips in the bucket over there. I suggest you make it shine, lad. But clean the grease off your hands first or you'll be at it all night.'
By the time he was done with the buffing rag the breastplate was gleaming. He had been so consumed by the task that he'd not noticed Bors searching the sword racks, picking out a single-handed broadsword and working the whetstone along the edge to hone its bite. When he was satisfied with it, he set the sword aside and turned his attention to all manner of shields — kites, bucklers and heaters — stacked up in the racks, again taking his time to gauge the size and weight before making his choice. He discarded the bigger, sturdier shields in favour of a relatively thin wooden heater overlaid with leather. It would withstand a number of solid blows without encumbering Alymere, allowing him freedom of movement on the battlefield. It would most certainly do for the practice field tomorrow. He laid a simple pair of leather gauntlets on the table beside the sword and shield, and finally he chose a helmet, a simple cervelliere skull cap, rather than a bascinet or more elaborate closed or great helm. There was nothing either embellished or decorative about any of the equipment the knight had selected; it was all chosen for its functionality.
Alymere set aside the leather buffing cloth and saw the equipment that had been set aside for him.
'Try this for size,' Bors said, tossing the helmet over the table to him. It nestled snugly on Alymere's head, flattening his wayward hair as he secured it in place. Bors helped him pull on the leather gauntlets. He stood back. 'Let's have a look at you then, shall we?'
Bors looked him up and down without a word. He didn't need to say anything. Alymere was all too conscious of what he must have looked like in his mismatched armour and too-big mail shirt.
'I'm sure we could find you a shirt that you'd fill out, lad. Something that doesn't make you look quite so much like an orphan playing dress-up.'
'No,' Alymere said before he could stop himself.
If his refusal surprised the knight, he didn't let it show. Bors merely inclined his head slightly, as though considering a problem, then cast about the room and found a leather belt to cinch the long mail shirt at his waist.
'Better. Now there's just one thing missing. We'll make a knight of you yet, lad.'
And with that, Bors gifted him the second surprise. There was a soft knock on the armoury door, and a moment later Katherine, the feisty serving girl they'd met on the stairs, entered the room. She carried a tabard draped over her arm, and on it was a familiar crest: a leaping white stag on a black engrailed slash across a white cloth.
'It's not much, but it seemed appropriate,' Bors said, taking the tabard from the woman and offering it to Alymere. Suddenly Alymere knew what the knight had been doing while he ate in Maeve's kitchen. He didn't know what to say. What words could he offer, save
Alymere pulled the tabard on over his head. Bors nodded approvingly, then helped strap the heater onto his left arm and handed him the sword.
'Come here, Katherine, and tell me, what do you think? Have we made a knight of him or does the poor lad still look like some waif we dragged from the fields?'
The maid came to stand beside the knight and took his measure, looking Alymere from head to toe and back to head again. Her smile was genuine when she said, 'He looks most noble, sir.'
'He looks nothing short of his father's ghost, come to haunt these hallowed halls once more,' Bors said. 'If I didn't know better I'd think it so. The likeness is uncanny.' He made the sign of the cross over his chest, then grinned that infectious grin of his.
To the maid he said, 'Thank you, Kate. You can leave us now.'
She curtseyed and slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Then the big man turned back to Alymere. 'Come on then lad, away to bed. You've got a big day ahead of you tomorrow.'
And that was more true than either man could have known, for tomorrow was where the third surprise would reveal itself.
Three
'Move your feet!' Bors' voice boomed from the side-lines.
Two dozen spectators manned the ropes around the combatants, knights and their squires come to see how Alymere acquitted himself. A smattering of applause rippled through the onlookers. It wasn't for him.
'Get your guard up!' another voice added helpfully.
The others sucked in their breaths as one, as the crack of wood on wood reverberated across the practice field. The rhythm of the fight changed, growing faster and faster, the blows merging into a single sound as the echoes hit the high walls of Camelot and folded back on the practice field.
'Better, lad!' Bors encouraged. 'Keep your eye on him! Watch the way he moves! Read his body! That's it, lad. That's it!'
But for all the encouragement, the blows kept coming without any hint of letting up, and there was no way he could hope to ward them all off. Alymere was outmatched in every way: his opponent was a head taller, and faster of foot and eye both, blessed with a longer reach, and quite simply more accomplished. Had this been a real fight, out there on the field, there would only ever have been one winner, and the fight would have been over a long time ago.
Alymere had known he was going to lose before they had traded more than a dozen blows. What he had not understood was that this in itself was the true test. Sometimes it was not how one won, but how one lost that revealed most about a man's character.
Alymere gritted his teeth against the pain as another blow rapped off his knuckles and his practice sword went spinning from his hand. It hit the dusty ground and rolled to a stop more than ten feet away. He clenched his fist, shaking his hand as his eyes darted toward the fallen weapon. The momentary distraction earned him a sharp jab with his opponent's sword in the stomach. The blow was hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Unbalanced, Alymere's feet scuffed the dirt as he stumbled back a step, trying desperately to get away from the next huge swing.
Instead of finishing the bout as he had every right to, his opponent inclined his head toward the fallen sword, allowing Alymere to retrieve it.
That stung more than the initial rap across the knuckles.
Alymere swallowed his pride and stooped to pick up the sword. His opponent's next blow nearly took the wooden blade straight back out of his hand again, but he managed to roll his wrist with the impact and cling onto it. His hand was numb from the cracks it had taken in the last few minutes and his knuckles were bloody.
They came together again, wooden swords clashing.
His opponent darted in, delivering three quick blows, the third of which nearly took his head from his shoulders. Alymere felt the displaced air rush over his face as the blade missed by nothing more than a whisker. His mind raced. Baptiste had drilled the need for a cool mind in combat into him over and over; fear, doubt, all served to undermine the fighter, and all were a more fearsome threat than the opponent's sword. A fighter had to keep his mind clear, to become one with the sword in his hand, transforming it into a natural extension of his arm.
He was too aware of the onlookers, too worried about the outcome of this fight. His mind, like his body, was on the back foot, reacting instead of acting. When he needed it most, all of the poise, all of his training abandoned him, the mocking voice of doubt filled his head with thoughts of failure and exile, of losing everything he had let himself hope for.
Raw instinct took over.
And for a few minutes more he matched his opponent blow for blow, but always fractionally too slow to work any sort of advantage. He was tiring quickly. Every new swing, block, thrust and parry drew on his dwindling reserves of strength. He was breathing hard, sweat running down his face and into his eyes. He blinked it away, but
