Raedwald swallows a little. He didn't want to aggravate Sir Elad's grief.
"The same thing I imagine is on most of our minds, milord. St. Albans and the friends and kin we all lost there. Part of me feels guilty over what happened. After all, I'm an Angelcynn by blood. Am I not complicit in what the Saxons have done?"
Sir Elad takes a drink and slowly replies, "Squire, are you complicit in what the Saxons have done?"
At the Stones, Bran pierces his horse's flank to draw some blood. He gathers it in a small bronze bowl before saying prayers to Ogma, Epona and Cerunnos while slowly pouring the blood out into a small ceremonial fire.
Bran looks at Raedwald as if he'd sprouted antlers. Has he been drinking stout-wine? Why on Earth would he insinuate that he's with the Saxons? He's content to eat in silence, thinking about Sir Jaradan's wife with no small measure of jealousy. Maybe after I'm knighted some nubile maidens will offer themselves to me. I could care less about marrying for money and power, but pussy, that's a different beast entirely. Maybe the blood drinking Jesus eaters are content to f*** one woman for their whole prudish lives, but I'll never be happy that way. I'm more akin to Blaidd than them.
Martin always enjoyed introductions. There was so much he could learn from an introduction. Mundane things like names and houses, of course. But, more importantly, what a person thought of themselves and what they wanted you to think of them. What they thought of you, and what they wanted you to think they thought of you.
The introductions today were brief and perfunctory. That told Martin a great deal. Sir Elad was not a man tied to his accolades, and the squires were not of a social standing to deserve more. Sir Jaradan was overwhelmed by his new station, and was somewhat delirious with it. Issa was a commoner of considerable rank, and seemed to be much respected by his men.
Martin bows low over Jaradan's wife's hand. She is a woman of fantastic beauty. He moves past quickly. His natural lasciviousness and talkative charm had inspired quite a bit of jealousy in the past, and he could not afford such a thing at this moment.
"I'd often counseled my father that a closely trained militia would be a valuable commodity," Martin chats with Issa. "Give me an overview of your training regimen. I think I could incorporate it into the Manor at Berwick. A capable sergeant is the absolutely necessary first step, I imagine." Martin gives a half-bow and an off-hand salute to Issa.
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Sir Elad takes a drink and slowly replies, "Squire, are you complicit in what the Saxons have done?"
"Only if my blood determines my guilt. I hate the Saxons for taking my family from me as much as you. Thrice over. They kill each other as much as they kill Britons. What happened at St. Albans was a cowardly and evil act. I'd kill every Saxon I saw for it. But then I'd want nothing more than to fall on my own sword for sharing the same damn blood as those monsters. I feel like had I been more alert, more...I don't know. I feel like I should have been the one to drink the poison there, not my brother. He was the real knight, the one who shouldered responsibility with joy and zeal. God's bread, how can I live up to men like you and he?"
Raedwald's tone is somewhat rambly and despondent. He notices Bran's strange look and bows his head.
"Forgive me, milord. I fell from my horse yesterday, and I suppose I may still be addled from my skull bouncing off Sarum's cobblestones."
He's courteous and polite to Sir Jaradan's wife. She is beautiful, reminding him of his own mother, Sunngifa. He fingers the hilt of his dagger a little, the last thing of hers he had. But she also reminded him of another thing: he had a duty to have heirs now. After all, the only reason he was being knighted and given Broughton was because Rience hadn't married or had children yet. He didn't want the same thing to happen on his watch. He owed it to Rience and his father, and Broughton's people, who'd given him a home he didn't deserve.
Issa shifts in his chair at Martin's comments, "Militias are nothing compared to soldiers. Militias can never be trained to stand in a shield wall. They are farmers or craftsmen." He takes another swig and continues, "We train recruits how to fight in the wall. They need strength, endurance, and coordination with the others. Fortunately, I only have only one recruit, so my men take care of him."
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Sir Elad listens to Raedwald with a facial expression showing that he does not know what to say. He is visibly pleased by given a plausible excuse, "Yes, a head injury can be severe and affect you for weeks."
Bran and Martin notice that Sir Jaradan's and Issa's attention focus on Raedwald after his 'God's bread' curse.
Issa shifts in his chair at Martin's comments, "Militias are nothing compared to soldiers. Militias can never be trained to stand in a shield wall. They are farmers or craftsmen." He takes another swig and continues, "We train recruits how to fight in the wall. They need strength, endurance, and coordination with the others. Fortunately, I only have only one recruit, so my men take care of him."
At least militias grow their own food... Martin mentally sneers. However, he keeps his ingratiating smile bright as he responds. "I'll defer to your experience in this matter. The shield wall is certainly a powerful formation on the battlefield."
But, what of the hamlet facing bandits? Or a coastal town under threat of Saxon invaders?
As though the conversation behind him was mirroring his thoughts, he overhears Raedwald.
"Squire, are you complicit in what the Saxons have done?"
"Only if my blood determines my guilt... God's bread, how can I live up to men like you?"
Raedwald's tone is somewhat rambly and despondent. He notices Bran's strange look and bows his head.
"Forgive me, milord. I fell from my horse yesterday, and I suppose I may still be addled from my skull bouncing off Sarum's cobblestones."
"Yes, yes," Martin interrupts. "Sorry, my lord. He's been babbling odd things all day long." Martin turned a harsh whisper towards Raedwald, "Durch die Steine! Als ich sagte, nicht zu verstecken, wer Sie sind, habe ich nie dazu gedacht, das sie zu jeder erfüllt bekennen!
"May I pour you a bit more of this excellent wine, Sir Elad? Perhaps a toast?" Martin stands and raises his glass, "His Excellency, the Young Robert, and the Countess Ellen of Salisbury!"
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"To the Countess, and Salisbury!" Bran says, raising his cup, and standing as well to bump it against the others.
"Hear, hear!" Raedwald joins in the toast.
The rest of the evening winds down. Sir Elad is the first to leave. Then, Sir Jaradan and his wife leave. Finally, Issa will excuse himself.
"You don't understand. You'll never understand. You don't grieve for the ones you lost," Raedwald says to Martin privately as he leaves dinner.
Raedwald follows after Sir Elad.
"Sir Elad, please forgive me for my obnoxious behavior. I said some stupid things."
"You don't understand. You'll never understand. You don't grieve for the ones you lost," Raedwald says to Martin privately as he leaves dinner.
Martin's affront appears quite genuine. "You flatter yourself to believe that your love of family is greater than mine. I mourn those lost at St. Albans, and none moreso than my father and brothers. Shall I spend a fortnight wailing? Or a year? Perhaps a lifetime. Neither Berwick nor Broughton will wait for us."
"I measure myself the best of my brothers. But, do not doubt that I loved them!"
Sir Elad stops and turns letting Raedwald approach. He then replies, "Was there something to forgive? You fell from your horse on your head."
After a pause, he expression turns grave. He continues, "squire, I'm not your father nor your lord so have no place to give you advice. But fate is inexorable. Get used to losing the people you love." He lets that sink in for a second and turns to leave again.
Raedwald frowns as Sir Elad leaves. He was right. Too right. And as Martin walks by with his own criticism, he hangs his head, ashamed. He retires to the chambers offered to him and kneels by the bed.
"Tu es Sanctus super omnes, et omnia in manibus vestris opus virtutis. Ego non quaero, domine, te hoc iudicium est. Sed quaeritur, ut fiat voluntas tua tantum in vita mea. Quicquid id est, quod volo. Difficile est, fateor, domine. Perge modo non sentiant. Ne nimis Dolor mihi, ut sciam quod non habet, ut per aliquod meae vires. Scio me ad te, Jesu, vos, exaudi orationem meam. Scio quod non solum hoc mihi ut relinquam te animo ferre solus mihi in deserto. Obsecro, Domine, da mihi hodie in quod opus ad vires. Non ad solliciti. Si autem a te hodie mihi opus est viribus omnia. Custodi me a peccato, in hoc iudicium. Sed mihi ad te oculos meos. Sanctus es, Domine, spes mea et omnes requiescat in te. Lorem audisti me. In nomine Iesu. Amen."
The prayer does little to lift his heavy heart, and he lies awake in the bed, staring at the ceiling for a while, trying desperately not to weep. He'd already made a clown of himself at supper. It would be best to avoid embarassing his companions even more tonight.
Sir Elad, Sir Jaradan, and Captain Issa break their fast with you and see you depart from the courtyard. The path to Imber steadily climbs into the hills leaving farmlands for pasture. You think there are more sheep than people around here. The path goes through some tight ravines that you dread an ambush. You travel cautiously. Once you pass the ridge line, you start to glimpse the Crokewood and the massive Blakemoor Wood which forms the western border of the county. You turn off the main trail to Devizes and follow a foot path in the corridor between the hills and the Wood. An hour before lunch, you see the village and manor of Imber.
The year is 495. On May 22, King Uther Pendragon, strapped to his horse, led his army of Logres to surprise and slaughter the Saxons who were led by Kings Octa and Eosa at the Battle of St. Albans. You were there with the responsibility for your knight’s weapons, armor, and horse. As the victorious Britons were celebrating, a treacherous Saxon, masquerading as a doctor, poisoned the water. The king and most of the reigning nobility died, including your knight’s lord, Earl Roderick of Salisbury.
Led by Sir Amig and Sir Leo, who are the marshal and constable of Salisbury respectively, you accompanied the Salisbury contingent of about seventy knights, 150 spearmen, and baggage train with the dead bodies of your knight and his lord home. It became clear in the week following the battle and the ponderous journey home that anarchy now reigns as noblemen kill each other to seize positions of power vacated by the mass death of the lords.
It has been a month since your return. The dead are buried and continue to be mourned. Earl Roderick’s widow, Lady Ellen of Salisbury, attempts to rule as a regent for her ten year old son Robert, the heir to Salisbury. You are gathered at Devizes Castle under the charge of Sir Leo d’Allington, who is also the Castellan of Devizes Castle and is supervising the final phase of your squiring. Due to the fragile state, the regency council has scheduled your knighting ceremony for August 2nd to bolster their culled ranks.
Devizes is a fine, modern castle with a shell keep, barbican with a drawbridge, and three other towers. Sir Leo holds it for the earl and has an obligation of five knights and five spearmen. Two of the knights are his sons.
Four days before the ceremony, Sir Leo worked you hard practicing with the lance targeting a simple wooden plate and then against the quintain, which is a vertical post with a rotating horizontal arm. One end has a shield, and the other a rope and stone. Practice consisted of charging against the quintain, striking the shield, and ducking the swinging rock as it comes around from the force of the blow. After lunch, you sparred with each another with wooden swords and padded armor. You are all sweating and exhausted late in the afternoon, when Sir Leo finally calls an end to it when he returns from another errand.
Sir Leo d’Allington is a tall lanky man with lean cord-like muscled arms and legs. What gray hair remains encircles his head like a roman laurel. His clean-shaven, strong jaw and aquiline nose show his roman heritage. You have never seen him smile. ”Squires, that’s enough for the day. Tomorrow you ride for Imber which is a half day ride from here. You will meet and hunt with the other squires who will be knighted with you. The day after your hunt you will travel together to Sarum for the ceremony. I will meet you there. Now, have some supper and take all your kit with you.” He turns to leave but you have a second for a quick question, because he appears to be in a hurry.
The next day only a groom and a guard see you depart in the morning after breaking your fast with the day watch. The day is overcast for an easy ride. You use the fords at Potterne and West Lavington. The Crokwood looms on your left and is replaced by the Blakemoor Wood on your right into Lavington. Before getting to the hills, you find the foot path toward Imber. You push on to arrive for lunch.
Edward wipes the sweat from his brow and scratches the dark stubble on his chin that always seems to be there no matter how often he shaves. He pats Sion on the shoulder as they finish their sparring session. "You're tough as nails, but just a bit slow." He smiles to show it's simply a jest. Edward listens to Sir Leo d'Allington quietly. If you smiled now and again maybe you wouldn't age so quickly. He controls the smile that tugs at the edge of his lips.
~~~~~
Edward rides out into the gentle shadows of the overcast sky and drinks in the fresh morning air. He rides for a few minutes in silence as he enjoys the quiet simplicity of the wilderness. It also helps to relax him from the knot of anxiety that has been building in his stomach ever since the the Battle of St.Albans. Finally he breaks the silence. "So what of the other squires, where do they hail from?"
Bran spends much of the trip jogging along side Llewyan and Blaidd. The tall squire's strides are remarkably long and smooth, and he can easily keep pace with the animals. He seems happy to just be outside of a town or city. As he runs he sings old Cymric marching songs in his baritone voice. While not a great singer, he's not bad either. Other than singing, he keeps quiet unless one of the other squires addresses him.
Raedwald rides Gullfaxi, who seems a lot more cooperative than yesterday. As Bran starts singing, he smiles a bit before joining in himself with a decent tenor. The song takes his mind off last night's conversations. It always surprised him how...well...happy Bran could be despite all the tragedy they'd seen so far.
Edward wipes the sweat from his brow and scratches the dark stubble on his chin that always seems to be there no matter how often he shaves. He pats Sion on the shoulder as they finish their sparring session. "You're tough as nails, but just a bit slow." He smiles to show it's simply a jest. Edward listens to Sir Leo d'Allington quietly. If you smiled now and again maybe you wouldn't age so quickly. He controls the smile that tugs at the edge of his lips.
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Edward rides out into the gentle shadows of the overcast sky and drinks in the fresh morning air. He rides for a few minutes in silence as he enjoys the quiet simplicity of the wilderness. It also helps to relax him from the knot of anxiety that has been building in his stomach ever since the the Battle of St.Albans. Finally he breaks the silence. "So what of the other squires, where do they hail from?"
Sion smiles at the other squires good natured jab. "I'm not slow Edward. I just act that way so you can keep up.
Sion listen's intently to Sir d'Allington's instructions acknowledging them with a quick "Yes Sir." as the older man turns to leave.When they set out the next morning Sion has his Falcon balanced on his left wrist. After they pass through the Castle gates and enter the open countyside he casts the bird off "Go fly my lovely." he watches the bird as it soars above them gracefully riding the air currents.
Well I have never met any of the others that I know of." he responds to Edwards question. "Unless they were at St. Albans. A lot of those who were squires at St. Albans are going to be getting their spurs. At least those are the rumors I have heard."
Martin, always cheerful when he can talk, keeps a constant stream of conversation running, despite the obvious reluctance of his companions. Bran's tendency to dismount and jog beside his horse peaks Martin's interest until the singing starts. Martin spurs his horse to put a small bit of distance between him and the singing.
"You know, you have been provided with a lovely horse, and some marvelous birdsong. You may consider using them, when the opportunity arises."
"St.Albans made for a sad day indeed." Edward gives an eye to the falcon above them. "That is a magnificent creature. How do you train them?"
Bran, Martin, and Raedwald arrive at Imber manor. A groom greets you and starts tending to your horses. After several minutes, Sir Amig’s steward enters the courtyard from the fields. He introduces himself as Tudfwlch. His clothes and dirt on his sun-darkened, calloused hands mark him as a peasant but the twinkle in his eye indicates cleverness. He welcomes you to the manor by name, accepts the saddlebag from Sir Amig from you, and leads you to the hall. ”Lunch will be served shortly. I will join you after a couple of things.” He departs you to relax.
While Bran, Martin, and Raedwald wait, Edward and Sion arrive at Imber manor. A groom greets you. He hitches your horses to wait while he finishes tending to three horses that have recently been ridden. After several minutes, Sir Amig’s steward enters the courtyard from the hall. He introduces himself as Tudfwlch. He is clean and properly attired. He welcomes you to the manor by name and leads you to the hall. There you see three other squires. ”Please introduce yourselves.” He rings a small bell and sits at the head of the trestle table where the lord would sit and motions you to join him. Shortly, slaves deliver lunch. The menu is the same as if you ate lunch at your manor around this time of the year.
Edward glances at the three horses. It appears we're the last to arrive. He smiles at the man's twinkling eyes and follows him to the hall.
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Edward glances at the three other faces present, trying to place them all, but that had never been his strong suit. His father had always chided him for that. "Edward of Cholderton." He says simply. Thinking of his father and the lunch has brought on a wave of nostalgia that twisted his stomach with homesickness and grief.
"That is a magnificent creature. How do you train them?"
Sion laughs "Rhianwen is not so much trained as she has decided it is more convienent to stay with me than live on her own. I feed her and protect her and in exchange she comes back when I call."
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Sion follows Edward and the steward into the hall where the other three squires are waiting. Sion recognizes them all as having been at St. Albans, but the only one he recognizes by name is Raedwald as Broughton is not far from Pitton.
"Raedwald, I was sorry to hear about your father and brother they were good men." He introduces himself to the others. I am Sion of Pitton, and this is Rhianwen." he says indicating the falcon on his wrist.
Once they have started eating Sion asks "So, what is it we are hunting?"
"I am Bran of Tisbury. I'll be leading the hunt. I'd like to take a hart or a boar if we can," Bran says smiling to the new squires. "This is Blaidd," he continues, patting the mastiff's head.
Raedwald bows. He remembered Sion, who'd sometimes visit Broughton. He'd never really spoken at length with him, though.
"As Sion said, I am Raedwald of Broughton. It's good to see you again, friend. And to meet you as well, Edward."
The steward walks the newcomers into the hall, and leaves them to their own devices. Martin decides that must mean that the other young men are social equals. "It appears we will have some additional company on our hunt. I hope there is enough game to be of interest to such a fine company."
"Martin of Berwick, at your service, gentlemen. Shall we plan our hunt, then? Shall we spear a boar, or run a hart to ground, course hares, or cut a few fox tails? We may need a few more dogs... and a horn..."
"We'll take whatever we find. Blaidd and I should be enough to find game. Sion, Rhianwen and Edward all look like they know their way around in a forest as well." Bran turns to the steward at the head of the table, "Tudfwlch, do you have any recommendations for our hunt?"
"Sion, Rhianwen and Edward all look like they know their way around in a forest as well."
"Sometimes better than a castle, I'm afraid." Edward says with his laughing eyes.
Bran turns to the steward at the head of the table, "Tudfwlch, do you have any recommendations for our hunt?"
"The lord enjoys hunting in the forest. It's thick with game," Tudfwlch replies, "I can take you to the footpath that he normally takes. You can tether your horses at the trailhead, because they won't make it in there."
"That would be excellent. I think we're all eager for a bit of sport," Bran replies. He rises from the table. "Do you have some bows or spears we could use?"
Tudfwlch replies, "My lord is not much of a bow hunter."
Edward clears his throat. "How about javelins? A throwing spear can fell our quarry at a distance without resorting to a bow."
Tudfwlch raises his eyebrows at Edward's comment and then replies, "I thought you were squiring to be knights... not Roman legionaries."
Edward stifles his laughter, knowing he's not with an audience who would appreciate it. "Apologies sir, I only meant to say the hunt can sometimes end quickly with a thrown spear instead of chasing our quarry down. Although I am used to hunting deer who scare easily and run quickly and can often take hours to run down."
Tudfwlch nods and replies, "I greatly appreciate the respect you show me, squire; however, I am not a sir . My lord describes the chase and the spear as the hunter respecting the hunted, and I must take him at his word. Because only lords hunt for sport."
"When might we have the pleasure of greeting our host?" Martin asks. "I would like to thank him for his hospitality."
Tudfwlch looks puzzled at Martin's question knowing that it was Sir Amig himself who ordered him here and replies. "Martin, your host and lord of this manor is Sir Amig d'Imber. Sir Amig has gone on to bigger things, but Imber has been his ancestral home for four generations. On his behalf am I acting as your host here."
"Well gentlemen the hunt awaits, and we will catch nothing sitting here drinking Sir Amig's ale. I suggest we get too it." Sion Rises and gives Tudfwlch a nod. I will wait you in the courtyard.
Sion goes out and readies his horse and arms for the hunt.
Raedwald remains silent while the others discuss. He wasn't looking forward to the hunt. He'd never really liked the sport, as he preferred to imagine greater prey than deer or foxes. The great heroes he'd heard of in the tales hunted serpents that could kill with a gaze, boars the size of houses, and some...some of the best...they slew dragons! But it seemed there were no dragons to slay in Britain now. Only Saxons. He follows Sion out.
"Careful of Gullfaxi there. He threw me while riding through Sarum yesterday, and cracked my pate."
"He said the trail was too narrow for horses lads. We claim our prize afoot today," Bran reminds the others as they go to get their mounts. He grabs his lance and waits for Tudfwlch to lead them to the trailhead. Once there, he leads the others inside and starts looking for signs of game.
Edward mounts up and follows.
Martin falls into line with the group as they exit the hall. He watches carefully as they seek out the trail, carefully considering the skill of his companions... particularly the new ones. Always good to know what they're capable of! he thought cheerfully.
"It's a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sion of Pitton and Edward of Cholderton. Sometime you must tell me of your homes. For my part, Berwick is a lovely peaceful place, and I confess myself eager to see her again soon."
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