Chapter 16      A Demonstration

 

 

 

There was a ruckus in the courtyard.  Stewart nudged a shutter open and peered out.  Across the yard, he saw others looking out from numerous nooks and windows.  The stable clan was assembled in the loft doorway, legs dangling over the edge, great piles of hay and straw behind them.  Alexander stood, characteristically, in the lower doorway, apart from the others.  Dutton chased his weasel across the gap between the stable and the granary, trying to catch the creature before it slipped into the underpinnings of the grain bins.

The air was cool.  Smoke drifted straight up from the smoke louvers.  A sky of lapis lazuli hung over the manor, uncluttered by clouds, looking more like a painting in an illuminated manuscript than something produced by the winds.  Amber sunlight cast sharp shadows but contained negligible warmth.  It was the kind of day you remember as being the best of autumn, the kind of day that fires the blood and sends horses galloping across meadows for the sheer joy of movement.

The day had also stoked knightly energy.

Clang!  Steel struck steel with solid force.  Two knights circled one another.  The metal links of their clean hauberks shimmered oily, offering a spectacle of frosty reflection and dark shadow in their tightly woven mesh.  Swords and helmets glistened.  Boots were dusty.  Shields moved like the wings of kites, a flash and flurry, a pause, an impact, another clang of steel.  Clouds of dust stirred.  In another five minutes, the two knights would both be exhausted.

Stewart watched Alexander, standing tense and self-contained in his doorway.  His face combined, in their most extreme forms, both envy and sadness.  Alexander watched the mock fight as if he were one of the damned peering at the glory of heaven through a crack in the wall of Hades, a soul rich in regret.  He was a pitiful sight, and his attitude had worsened in the weeks following the arrival of Cadmon Druce.

Cadmon, himself, watched the knights from a sunny bench in front of the barracks, his face betraying little save contented good humor.  He, too, for the first time since he arrived, had appareled himself in full armor.  His helmet rested beside him on the bench.  His mail looked sturdy and of premium make, but it lacked the luster of the mail worn by the two combative knights.  A knight with no squire soon began to show signs of the lack.

Five or six knights either watched from easy positions or kept track of the combat from within the barracks.  None but the three were hauberked.

Behind and beside the barracks, so as to keep an eye on the goings on while they worked, several squires loaded hauberks into barrels along with a few shovelfuls of sand and a few gallons of apple cider vinegar.  After sealing the ends and pulling the barrels onto their sides, the squires rolled the barrels along the ground, mostly by balancing themselves atop the staves and walking them about.  This process removed rust and scale from the chain mail and provided opportunity for sport.  By carefully shifting their weight from center to end, they steered the barrels in mock jousts, seeing who could knock the other off their "destriers."  For the knights, as much betting and attention was focused on the squires as on the practicing knights.

Dust, rare for that time of year, was being kicked up on all sides.

After several minutes of fighting, James Beaumont, the shorter knight, ducked a fatiguing sweep from his opponent and smacked the edge of his shield against the back of the other's knees.  The taller knight's legs folded involuntarily under him and he collapsed.  Beaumont's sword whipped up and around with a fierce whistling of air.  It hit a hastily raised shield with a resounding crack.  The taller knight fell backwards with the shock, scattering a cloud of dust.  Instantly, Beaumont's sword fitted itself beneath the helmet, between hauberk and neck, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

Stewart cringed despite himself.  Good play was rough.  How else should a knight keep ready for battle?  Still though, it made one a little sick at times, and Beaumont always drew blood.  He had a mean streak.

"Ransom or death?" grinned Beaumont.  "Choose your fate.  Seal it with your word."

The downed knight heaved for breath, but managed to utter, "Ransom!" and was allowed to regain his feet.  "You horse's ass!" spit the defeated knight, pulling red-stained fingertips from his neck.  "You did not have to shave me."

"Better an enemy, Grad?"

"Better no one!  Look.  I am still leaking."

"Serves you right," answered Beaumont smugly.  "You are all soft and lazy."

"And you are not?"

"I am not the one with dust on my back!"

"You will be the one with a dagger in his back...."

"Ah, then our friendship has not suffered for it," said Beaumont.  He grinned insufferably until the other knight lost the darkness in his eyes.  "What is your ransom?" asked Beaumont.

"All the horse dung you can eat."

"Impressive.  What else?"

"A tankard."

"Small pay, but adequate for the fight.  Done!  Oh, and you better put a cloth on that before you muck up your armor."

The bleeding knight picked up his sword and strode with as much dignity as he could muster toward the bench upon which Cadmon sat.

"Your turn, Sir Cadmon Druce," panted the knight, still pressing fingers to his wound.  "Do not spare him any humiliations on my account.  I may as well have gone to the barber!"

Cadmon nodded, a trace of a smile on his lips.

The bleeding knight moved toward the barracks entrance, where his squire met him with a cool cloth, and they disappeared inside.

"Well, Sir Cadmon," said Beaumont.  "Are you ready for it?"

Cadmon placed his hands on his knees and made to rise, then paused.  "Would not you prefer to rest a bit first?"

"Time for a gourd, then," said Beaumont flippantly, removing his helmet.  "You fight fair.  I will mark that when I have you on your back."

"That is most kind of you, James."

"Do not mention it.  Any friend of Sir Grad deserves at least as much."

"Drink your gourd, James," said Cadmon, his voice implying patience with self gratified youth.  "I will await your convenience."  Cadmon then fitted his helmet, slipped his left forearm into the belts of his shield, and drew his sword.  He strolled into the middle of the yard and turned to face the barracks.

While Sir James drank from a bucket, Stewart worried for the newcomer.  Cadmon seemed a good sort, considerably more reserved than most knights, but decent and reliable.  He would hate to see him lose his dignity at the hands of Sir James Beaumont, a churl who had not the sense to pretend good manners in public, and despite being the second best hand-to-hand fighter among the knights at Norbury, would never consider suffering a stalemate for the sake of hospitality.  Steward shifted his gaze to the shadowed recess where Alexander stood.  Alexander sensed the approaching crossroads also.  He no longer leaned against the door frame.

Stewart sighed softly.  Should James win, Alexander would be crushed.  He put so much store in Cadmon Druce that the man dare not offer up any mortal failings.

Further around the courtyard, the kitchen staff had stopped their work and stood with aprons fluttering, some holding a pot or a rag, as if being in possession of such an implement somehow qualified their attendance at the tournament as merely a part of their job.  "On my way to the root cellar, I paused to watch a single combat," Stewart could hear them explaining to the cook, and smiled.  But the kitchen crew was not alone.  Quietly, as if eavesdropping on lovers by the brook, shutters opened all over the courtyard, including the manor house.  The upper windows of the tower were also cracked.  So, Lord William and his Lady held their breaths along with the rest.  It grew time for Cadmon to prove himself.

Stewart felt a heavy hand thump his shoulder.  He looked up with a smile.  Thomas had awakened from his nap.  Thomas yawned, but his eyes remained fixed on the figures moving into position in the courtyard.  James had finished his drink and took a grinning stance opposite Cadmon.  He had just tied his helmet thongs and now casually pulled his gauntlets on.  His shield rested against his left thigh.

"So, our mysterious guest has finally roused himself," said Thomas, idly scratching the palm of his hand.  "And against our much esteemed Sir James."  Thomas left a lot unsaid, but made an arch over Stewart with both arms and prepared to watch the combat.  Stewart glanced at Thomas's arms, first the right, then the left, and had the uneasy speculation of wondering how Thomas would react if one of those limbs were taken from him.  The scar on his left arm still welted prominently.  Stewart blinked his imaginings away and concentrated on the courtyard.

Cadmon had a hand and a half sword, dulled, much scarred and suitable for practice use only.  His practice shield looked downright ratty and it barely covered his left hand.  From the way he hefted the sword, the blade was evidently light enough for him to use one handed, or two if he should lose his shield.  He held it with his right, diagonally across his chest, point high.

"Raised key," commented Thomas.  "A good enough position to start from."

James took a similar stance, facing Cadmon from about four paces away, but held his sword parallel with the ground.

"Key," said Thomas softly.  He scrutinized the combat with a practiced eye, watching for nuances of technique.  Stewart sighed nervously.

James swaggered for his audience.  "What say we rid ourselves of these shields?" he asked conversationally.  "Hawks have no need of turtle shells."

If James meant to provoke a blanch of fear, he failed utterly.  Cadmon merely nodded, extending his arm for a squire to remove the shield.  He never averted his eyes from James.

James's squire trotted up immediately, but Cadmon, having no squire, stood unattended.  With an offering gesture, he indicated the stable recess where Alexander stood.

Stewart immediately looked at Alexander for a reaction.  This was an honor, and even if it was only for a single combat, he was sure Alexander would treasure the moment forever.  Alexander was taken by surprise.  Comically, he looked beside and behind himself, then realizing instantly it was he who had been summoned, trotted out to Cadmon.  Reaching Cadmon's outstretched arm, Alexander took hold of both sides of the shield.  The knight released his grip and worked his arm free, then nodded, again without removing his eyes from his opponent.

The courtyard grew strangely quiet, as if even the birds had stopped to watch.  Alexander retreated to the barracks porch, looking uncomfortable but proud.  The combatants faced off again, resuming their starting postures.  Stewart glanced upwards at Thomas, but Thomas's attention lay outside the window.

Cadmon stood easily, as if he were waiting for nothing more than a ferry to land.  James, even from this distance, looked out for blood.  This was his chance to rise to the top of the heap in knightly society.  But it worked both ways.  If Cadmon calculated his actions correctly, he could cement his position.

James let the point of his sword fall against the crook of his arm and he took an easy step forward, looking as if he were going to propose another modification before combat actually began.  Then, like the trip latch of a catapult giving way, the casual movement erupted into a driving slash of white steel aimed at splitting Cadmon through the middle, top to bottom.

Stewart's heart stopped and the episode unfolded in dreamlike slowness.  He was sure he would see Cadmon's head split asunder by the murderous blade.

But the move took an unexpected turn.  As if he were waiting for just that strategy, Cadmon raised his blade and eased weight onto his left leg.  James's blade contacted the flat of Cadmon's sword and skimmed along it with a metallic ring until it was within a hand width of the guard.  Then Cadmon twisted his blade, and suddenly James fell through his stroke, his blade embedding itself in the earth.  Recovery was instant, however.  James, using his momentum, ripped his sword free and sidestepped out of Cadmon's reach.  He need not have bothered with the recovery, though, because Cadmon obviously had no intention of attacking.  He merely resumed his raised key position and waited for James to do something else.  Cadmon was undertaking a defensive strategy.

Stewart flicked a glance at Alexander.  The young man stared at the maneuver with glee.  His knight had proved worthy on the first round.  But this was just the overture.  Stewart resumed his shrinking witness of the combat.  James had declared war.  Even if he had turned his blade to full flat before impact, it would have caused injury.

James grinned behind the nasal of his helmet, brought his sword up to key, and despite the trickle of dirt falling from the tip, managed a confident swagger around Cadmon.

"Sir Cadmon had better watch himself, Thomas," said Stewart.  "James just tried to kill him."

Thomas nodded appreciatively, then said, "Just last night, I heard our esteemed Sir James boasting his reflexes could out twitch those of an old man like Cadmon any day.  I think he may be reconsidering about now.  He grins broadest when his nerve is thin."

Stewart heaved another sigh, glanced at Alexander, then centered his attention on the two circling combatants.  One of them would likely walk the courtyard next as a ghost.

"Nothing to say?" taunted James for the benefit of the crowd.  Only loutish Paul from the stable clan laughed.  In a way, Stewart considered, Paul and James were two of a kind, despite their relative social ranking.

Cadmon gave no indication he even heard.  James made a couple of feints, but his adversary never so much as flinched.

"Icy fellow," commented Thomas.

"Well," said James loudly, "it looks like I will have to carry the fight!" and with an energetic movement, plunged into striking distance with a strong scythe cut to Cadmon's knees.

Cadmon pulled his sword point low and leaned it away from his body.  James' sword sliced into the blade and careened downward, again loosening a sizeable chunk of earth.

Undaunted, James immediately followed through with a cutting diagonal from upper right to lower left.  Again, a massive ring of tempered steel echoed from the walls followed by a chilling hiss of metal sliding against metal as James' sword slid down the flat of Cadmon's blade, to dissipate its energy in empty air.  Next, came a horizontal strike at Cadmon's chest, which a well timed back step evaded.  A sharp thrust at Cadmon's neck was flicked aside by a tap of Cadmon's blade against the tip of James's.  His energy not yet expended, James delivered another downward slash, which was deflected by yet another whistling flash of steel.

James was going through the manual of offensive maneuvers, right, left, up, down, thrust, cut, feint.  Throughout the attack, Stewart got the impression that this was merely a well rehearsed demonstration of defensive and offensive maneuvers, so smoothly did Cadmon block or divert each attack.  James was heaving for breath, while Cadmon merely resumed his key position after each sally, apparently no more exercised than he had been at the beginning.  Unlike other knights, who moved and assessed, moved and assessed, making a fight a series of violent episodes, Cadmon seemed to know far in advance what he needed to do next.  He moved with commendable grace and balance, as if he were engaged in a dance rather than a duel.  He also demonstrated remarkable restraint, for as yet, he had not attempted a single offensive blow.

Alexander stood tall and proud, grinning a grin that would dazzle an entire mesnie.

Stewart looked up again.  Thomas appeared sober, but relaxed.  "I think," Thomas said, smiling down at his servant, "we have just been shown how large the world really is."

Stewart failed to find a meaning.

Thomas went on.  "I make fun of him, but James is good.  By our standards, very good.  And look out there.  He has just been made to look like a green squire out for his first wicker stick sword lesson.  Sir Cadmon Druce, whatever else he may be, is a very, very good swordsman."

Stewart frowned.  He was unused to hearing this tone of words from his friend and master.

"Compared to you, Thomas?"

"Well, I had thought of challenging him myself, to a friendly match, but after seeing this, I think I will approach him as a student."

"Is he that good?"

"He did not demonstrate his offensive strokes, but I see little reason to doubt they are every bit as polished as his defense."  Thomas pressed his lips together.  That meant there was nothing else to be said.  He shoved off from the wall and went out the door.  Stewart followed, but as they rounded the corner of the building, they saw James was not yet finished.

"You bastard," whispered James to Cadmon.  "You will not leave the field yet."

"Yes he will, and so will you!"  It was the loud, authoritative voice of Lord William bellowing from the third floor of the tower.  "Sir James, you have forgotten the rules of hospitality and chivalry.  Retire."

James whirled in a rage.  "Honor is not satisfied!"

"It is satisfied to my account," shouted William.  "Enough of this.  Retire!"

James cast a murderous glance at those around him.  There were few sympathetic faces.  Paul, who had supported him in probable victory, gave him a derisive leer in defeat.  Boiling, but contained, James strode to the stable.  Everyone watched to see what would happen.  A minute later James emerged riding his horse with bridle and no saddle.  Were it not for the foresight of the gatekeeper, Stewart was certain James would now be lying senseless at the foot of the gate, but as it was, he rode like a madman down the avenue toward town.

"He will put his fires out with ale and women," said William from the tower door.  He had hastily descended the stairs and emerged from the outer door of the tower.  He lumbered into the courtyard and approached Cadmon.

"Accept my apologies, Sir Cadmon.  You have conducted yourself with restraint and honor."  He spoke so the entire household could hear.  "Sir James is a new knight with but a month of war behind him, and a hot headed young man besides.  But he has promise.  Thank you for not cutting that promise short."

Cadmon removed his helmet and clasped hands with his uncle.  "He is a dangerous young man, uncle, but it would hardly repay your hospitality for me to spill his blood on your doorstep."

"Mortification was enough," said William.  "That is twice he has been degraded before the eyes of his peers in as many months."

Cadmon gave William an inquiring look.

"Our own Sir Thomas had occasion to trounce him at quarterstaff on march.  I fear Sir James will have nothing good for either of you."

"I imagine you are right," said Cadmon, glancing in the direction of the dormitory, in front of which stood Thomas and Stewart.  "Excuse me, uncle, but I must retire also to remove my accoutrements."

"A moment, Cadmon." William took a step closer to his nephew and spoke in a private voice.  "You have no squire.  Now, it reflects poorly on my household to have within my walls a knight who has to clean his own armor."

Cadmon smiled.  "Have I not introduced you to Squire Horse?"

William looked exasperated.  "Have it your own way, but mark this.  I give you permission to choose from the household any page you deem suitable.  They all sleep in the attic of the manor hall.  Come talk to them, or let me make a recommendation."

"Thank you, uncle.  I will think about it."

William nodded and took a step backward for a public voice again.

"Back to your duties!" shouted William to the spectators scattered around the courtyard.  "Enough knightly sweat for one day."

Giving a knowing glance to Cadmon, William took his leave.  As Cadmon returned to the barracks, the groups watching the combat melted away until the courtyard appeared nearly deserted.

Reaching the porch of the barracks, Cadmon went to Alexander, who still stood holding the shield, a look of wistful admiration in his eyes.

"Thank you, Alexander," said Cadmon.  "I will take that.  I am sorry I pressed you from your duties."

"It was a privilege!"

Cadmon nodded thoughtfully.  "I appreciate that.  Can you tell me how many pages there are here?"

Alexander thought a moment.  "Eight," he replied, adding unnecessarily "but we do not mix much.  The stable boys and pages, I mean."

"I understand.  Well, thank you again."  Cadmon placed his hand on the young man's back and escorted him from the barracks porch.  The conversation was over.

Alexander walked heavily across the corner of the courtyard toward the welcome darkness of the stable.  Suddenly, Paul shouted down from the loft, "Well, Squire Alex!  Back to your common roots so soon?"  And vomited a richly sarcastic laugh upon him.

Stewart, watching from the dormitory, winced for Alexander's sake.  Alexander paused but a moment, deciding how to respond, then reaching a decision, moved directly into the stable without returning a comment.  Stewart saw that Cadmon had also witnessed the insult from the doorway of the barracks.  As Alexander entered the gloom of the stable, so Cadmon disappeared into the barracks.  Lovel, the big Irish wolfhound, followed Alexander, his tail at half mast and wagging uncertainly.  Dutton caressed his weasel in the doorway of the loft.  The pantry help drew water from the well.  It was over.

Stewart strolled thoughtfully into the dormitory.  He found his sewing kit and a bundle of cloth.  There was so much sadness everywhere.  He shook his head.  Too bad everyone constantly wanted more than he had, usually more than he could hope to achieve.  That must be part of the appeal of war.  All the game pieces are thrown toward Heaven and when they fall back to earth, perhaps, just perhaps, you can acquire a better position for yourself.  All the usual bonds of society are loosed and the ranks melt and flow like water.  Poor Alexander.  Poor James, even.  Poor everyone!  Surely God could not let the world go on like this.

Stewart took his kit outside, moved a bench into the sunlight, adjusted another bench for his work surface, then sat down and untied his bundle.  The whitewashed walls of the dormitory reflected light back onto his work, making the spot both warm and free of strong shadows.  He was making a new tunic for Thomas.  His master.  How long would that relationship hold?  They had received notice that Burke, the squire Thomas had acquired during the journey to Normandy, would move from his pallet at Baron Stephen's to a new berth there at Norbury.  Once with squire, how long would it be before Thomas had no more need of a valet?

Stewart smiled ironically to himself.  Poor Stewart, too!

He had just finished tacking a fell seam, when he heard a floorboard creak in the distance.  Cadmon stepped off the barracks porch and began walking directly, though unhurriedly, toward the manor house.  Cadmon nodded at Stewart as he passed by.  Stewart waved a thimbled hand.  He was a strange fellow, Cadmon.  Capable, but unattached to the world, a little like a priest.  He spoke little, but addressed what few words he did speak to noble and cottager in equal portions.  No preference and no prejudice.  After all these weeks, still no one knew quite what he was doing there.  Some said he was a knight from the Templars, an emissary for the Pope, but that was just speculation.  The cook maintained he knew him when he was a boy, but the cook would have been a boy also, so his words were taken askance.

Cadmon mounted the steps to the manor house door and knocked.  The door opened, a dark rectangle of shadow.  Almost immediately, he was shown in.  A strange man to have such run on the manor.

Stewart continued working on the tunic.  The sun slanted lower until the shadow of the curtain wall threatened his position.  Stewart yawned and began packing up his materials.  The tunic was hemmed, but he still had to fit the sleeves at the wrists.  He would need Thomas for proper measurements.