“Can we leave our cart there? I want to give him the full tour.”
“We can ask.”
Mistress Vixen declared they had plenty of room, and were welcome to spend the night if House Applesmile was delayed.
“Good,” said Goldenrod. “Time for tour. No, wait, I should see Mistress Seamchecker about the inkles first.”
Strongarm volunteered to take Newman under his wing while Goldenrod handled her “art stuff.” Newman quickly found himself watching armored knights practicing swordsmanship. The swords were wood, but the armor was all steel and leather.
“Going to make Goldenrod Queen?” asked Strongarm.
“She told me about the crown tournaments, but I don’t know if she even wants to be queen,” answered Newman. Making the winner of a sword fight and his consort absolute rulers for six months struck him as silly, but it seemed to work for these people.
Strongarm laughed. “Every woman in the Kingdom wants to be queen. Come on, give it a try.”
He asked Count Dirk’s permission to bring in a trainee. The Count looked Newman over for a moment. He was a wiry older man, at least forty, with a bit of grey in his short black hair. Then he offered his back-up armor as a loan. Fifteen minutes later Newman walked onto the field—no, the “eric”—in full medieval fighting panoply.
Strongarm waited in his armor, holding a shield painted with an arm flexing its bicep.
Count Dirk looked them over. “Lay on!” He stayed outside the ropes marking the square.
Strongarm hopped toward Newman, sword pointed back over his shoulder, shield under his chin.
Newman stood still, sword in front of him, held straight up.
Strongarm circled to his shield-side. Newman moved to keep the center of the eric between them.
“Good footwork,” said Count Dirk.
Newman lifted his shield to block an overhand blow at his head. His return swing tapped Strongarm’s shield.
Count Dirk caught Strongarm’s eye. He tapped the back of his head.
Strongarm nodded, then closed up tight to Newman. He fended off a sword blow with his shield, then used it to press Newman’s shield against his body, rendering it useless.
A step with his right foot let him reach past Newman’s head. He flipped his wrist to bring the sword around. Leaning back added the weight of his body as the yard of rattan wood smacked into the rear of Newman’s helmet.
Newman’s foot hooked the back of Strongarm’s knee, pulling him off-balance. As he tilted, Newman’s armored elbow struck the other’s helm with a clang that stopped the fighting on the other three erics. Strongarm landed on his side and lay still.
Newman took two steps back, pivoting left and right to look for other enemies. “Shit, that was a foul, wasn’t it? Sorry.”
“Hold!” shouted Count Dirk. “Hold, hold!” He ducked under the rope and advanced on Newman. “Ground your sword and shield.”
“I’m fine,” said Strongarm. “I’m fine. Just surprised me, is all.” He didn’t try to get up.
Dirk ignored him, solely focused on Newman, who’d obediently dropped his weapon. “Helm off.”
Newman tried, but needed the count’s help with the straps. When it came off, his face looked pale and sweatier than the exercise justified. He breathed rapidly and glanced side to side.
“We need to talk, son.” Count Dirk led Newman to some oaks beyond the edge of the camp. A pair of squires enjoying the shade scampered away at his wave.
“Now. We get some martial artists in occasionally. Putting thirty pounds of steel on them usually makes them start from scratch.”
“I’m used to this much weight, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Military training?”
“Yes, sir. And . . . some experience.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“You don’t have to.” Pause. “Unless you ever want try fighting again, heavy or rapier. Then you’ll explain your background and issues to me or whoever’s in charge first. Clear?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I’m a Count. You call me Your Excellency.”
“Yes, your excellency.”
“Right. Go apologize to Strongarm then we’ll get you out of the gear.”
Strongarm refused the apology, claiming it was all his fault for not asking any questions beforehand. He promised Newman a beer as compensation.
They found Goldenrod before turning up any brew. “Having fun?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Newman.
Goldenrod continued the tour. Scribes working on illuminated scrolls received polite praise from Newman. The blacksmith shop caught his attention. The smith hadn’t warmed the forge. He was using an anvil to support a steel helmet as he hammered a dent out of it.
“Evenin’” grunted the smith.
Goldenrod introduced them. “Master Forge, this is Newman Greenhorn.”
“Welcome. Are you interested in smithing?”
“I’ve done some metal repair. Is this a portable workshop?”
The smith grinned. “Aye, it’s a single trailer. The forge and both anvils are on a frame. When I get it to a flat spot I crank up the axle until the wheels are off the ground. Abracadabra—a solid workshop.”
“How do the tires handle the heat?”
“Oh, the wheels are unbolted before I fire up the forge. But that’s apprentice work.” He gave Newman a speculative glance. “One of my apprentices couldn’t make it this weekend. Want to learn the art?”
“I’ll think on it, my lord. I have to find out the schedule for the archery tournament first.”
“Not a worry. Come by any time, we can find some work for you.”
Newman turned back to Goldenrod. She was chatting with a tall redhead her own age.
“Newman, this is my friend Redinkle. We’re staying with her family.”
He flushed as Redinkle scanned him from head to toe.
“So that’s the guy, huh? Not too shabby. Good to meet you, Newman.”
“Good to meet you, my lady.”
“Oh, I’m no lady. Goldenrod’s the one impressing all the artists and nobles. C’mon, Dad should have the trailer at our spot by now.”
Redinkle’s ‘should’ hadn’t counted on the narrow gap
