Edward took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ he said. And hoped that didn’t sound too cocky.
But Master Pyle nodded. ‘I agree.’ He looked around the yard. ‘Clear all this up, will you?’
That night in the loft, the apprentices whispered. The older boys knew when the master was making progress. They could tell just be the way he held his head. And because rewards suddenly emerged from the master’s purse, and boys got new work, and apprentices were suddenly tested to be journeymen. Lise, the eldest female cutler, had gone to the masters the week before. She’d passed.
And so Edward Chevins, senior apprentice and sometime shop boy, found himself up for journeyman. It was so sudden it made his head spin, and before the next morning was old enough to drink his beer, the Guild Hall had checked his papers, the Guild Masters examined him, his nerves were wracked, his hands shook – and he was left to sweat, alone, in a richly decorated room fit to entertain a king. It was plenty to overawe a seventeen-year-old blade smith.
Edward was a tall, gangly young man with sandy red hair and too many freckles. Standing under the stained glass of Saint Nicholas, he could think of twenty better answers he might have given to the question: ‘How do you achieve a bright, constant blue on a blade with a heavy forte and a needle point?’
He groaned. The other four boys who’d been tested with him looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and hope. It was too easy to believe that someone else’s failure raised one’s own hopes of success.
An hour later, the masters came into the hall. They all looked a little red in the face, as if they’d been drinking.
Master Pyle came and put a ring on his finger – a ring of fine steel. ‘You’re made, boy,’ he said. ‘Well done.’
Lorica – Ser Gawin
Gawin was awakened from his nap by the sound of men shouting in the courtyard. Angry voices have a timbre to them – especially when men mean violence.
Adam was at his bed. He had a heavy knife in his hand. ‘I don’t know who they are, m’lord. Men from overseas. Knights. But-’ Squires didn’t speak ill of knights. It was never a good idea. So Adam shrugged.
Gawin rolled off his bed, wearing only his braes. He pulled a shirt over his head, and with Thoma’s help got his legs into his hose and his torso laced into his pourpoint and his hose tied on.
Down in the courtyard one voice sounded clear above the others. Accented, but powerful controlled, elegant. The words ended with a long, clear laugh that sounded like bells.
Gawin went to his window and threw it open.
There were a dozen armoured men in the courtyard. At least three were true knights, and wore armour as good as Gawin’s own. Their men-at-arms were nearly as well armoured. It was possible they were
They all wore the same badge – a rose, gules, on a field d’or.
Not anyone he knew.
The leader with the magnificent laugh had silver-gilt hair and fine features – in armour, he looked like a statue of Saint George. He was
Gawin felt ill-dressed and somewhat doltish in comparison.
Master Blodget stood in front of this saint with his hands on his hips.
‘But,’ the knight had a smile on his face, ‘But that is the room I want, Master Innkeeper!’
Blodget shook his head. ‘There’s a gentleman in that room – a belted king’s knight, in that room. First come, first served, m’lord. Fair is fair.’
The knight shook his head. ‘Throw him out, then.’
Toma had his master’s doublet and helped him into it. While Adam did the laces, Toma fetched his riding sword.
‘Follow me,’ Gawin snapped at the scared boy, and sprang down the stairs. He went through the common room – empty, because every man in the inn was in the courtyard watching the fun.
He stepped through the door and the knight turned to look at him. He smiled.
‘Perhaps I don’t wish to leave my room,’ Gawin called. He hated that his voice wavered. There was nothing to fear, here – just a misunderstanding, but the kind wherein a knight had to make a good show.
‘You?’ he asked. His tone of disbelief wasn’t mocking – it was genuine. ‘You are a king’s knight? Ah – Gaston, they need us here!’
Closer up, the men in the courtyard were huge. The smallest of them was a head taller than Gawin, and he was not a small man.
‘I have that honour,’ Gawin said. He tried to find something wittier to say, but he was more interested in defusing the tension than in scoring points.
The one called Gaston laughed. The rest laughed too.
The beautiful knight leaned down from his saddle. ‘Have your man clear your things from that corner room,’ he said. And then, in a particularly annoying tone, he added, ‘I would esteem it a favour.’
Gawin found that he was angry.
‘No,’ he said.
‘That was ill-said, and not courteous,’ the knight answered him with a frown. ‘I shall have it. Why make this difficult? If you are a man of honour then you may cede it to me with a good grace, knowing I am a better man than you.’ He shrugged. ‘Or fight me. That would be honour too.’ He nodded to himself. ‘But to stand here and tell me I can’t have it; that makes me angry.’
Gawin spat. ‘Then let us fight, ser knight. Give me your name and style, and I will name the weapons and the place. The king has announced a tournament in a two months, perhaps-’ Even as he spoke, the man was dismounting.
He gave his reins to Gaston and turned, drawing his sword – a four-foot long war sword. ‘Then fight.’
Gawin squeaked. He wasn’t proud of the squeak, but he was unarmoured and had only his riding sword – a good blade, but a single handed weapon whose only real purpose was to mark your status in life and keep riff-raff at arm’s length.
‘Garde!’ the man called.
Gawin reached out and drew his sword from the scabbard Toma held, and brought it up in a counter cut that just stopped his opponent’s first heavy overhand blow. Gawin had time to bless his superb Master at Arms – and then the giant cut at him again and he slipped to the side, allowing the heavier sword to slide off his own like rain off a roof.
The bigger man stepped in as quick as a cat and struck him in the face with one gauntleted hand, knocking him to the ground. Only a turn of his head saved him from spitting teeth. But he was a knight of the king – he rolled with the impact, spat blood, and came to his feet with a hard cut at his opponent’s groin.
A single-handed sword has advantages in a fight with a heavier sword. It is quicker, even if the wielder is smaller.
Gawin funnelled his anger into his sword and cut – three times, on three different lines, trying to awe the giant with a flurry of blows. The sword rang off the mirrored finish of his opponent’s armoured wrist on the third cut. It was a fight ending blow.
If his opponent wasn’t covered in steel.
The giant attacked, drove him back two steps, and then Toma screamed. The boy had been unprepared for a fight and stood frozen, but now tried to turn and run he’d became entangled with his master’s defensive flurry. Gawin almost fell, and the bigger man’s long sword licked out, caught his, and drove his thrust deep into Toma.
He kicked Gawin in the groin when he turned to look at Toma, whose head was cut nearly in half by the blade. Gawin fell, retching with the pain, and the big knight showed no mercy; knelt on his back, and pushed his nose into the mud in the courtyard. He stripped the sword from Gawin’s hand.
‘Yield,’ he said.
Northerners were reputedly stubborn and vengeful. Gawin, in that moment, swore to kill this man, whomever he might be, if it cost him his life and his honour to do it.
‘Fuck yourself,’ he said through the mud and blood in his mouth.
