Chapter 17      Fortune Smiles

 

 

 

Cold mist replaced sunshine the morning after the duel in the courtyard between James and Cadmon Druce.  The mist was nearly a rain, and after a few hours, the dust of the day before slithered into a sheet of mud.  Winter was close, and until the freeze, there was naught to look forward to save wet and muck.  A dismal gloom pervaded the Cotswolds

After morning chores, the stable clan retired to their loft for a cup of hot cider which Lizzie, the manor house maid, thoughtfully provided in a covered copper bucket.  In the half light, Alexander sat on a bench between Reid, the elder Scot, who idly polished the blade of his throwing knife on a leather strop, and Dutton, who spoke foolishness to his weasel.  Two cats slept atop stacks of serge cloth sacking, near a little shrine to Epona, the Celtic goddess of horsemen.  Paul pestered Lizzie as she ladled the cider into tin cups.  Half hearted conversation limped across the width of the loft.

"There will be milt on the tack in this kind of weather," said Reid without looking up from his work.  "Best give everything a good soak with oil this afternoon."

This was answered by a groan.  Alexander, who had been sitting with his elbows resting on his knees staring through a floor crack at the movement of a horse in the stall below, glanced sideways at Reid.  Alexander's face held no expression, but Paul caught the movement.

"Doubtless Squire Alex would prefer more gentlemanly chores," said Paul with a sneer.  He obviously referred to the brief moment of glory Alexander experienced during yesterday's duel.

"Oh, leave 'im alone, Paul," said Lizzie.  "Drink your cider."

Paul only spoke louder.  "I think, maybe, Squire Alex is too good to drink cider with the rest of us sweepings up here.  I think ol' Alex would prefer to have his drink with the fellows across the way!"  Paul nodded in the direction of the knight's barracks.

Alexander leveled a warning glare at Paul.  With little more provocation, Paul would get the full content of his spleen, all of its raw anger, frustration and disappointment.  The whole black stew.  Go on, Alexander thought, push a little harder.  Push a little more.

Reid stopped his polishing and sized up the situation.  His muscles tightened and he slipped his knife into its sheath.

Paul continued grinning, but he said nothing.  The look on Alexander's face contained rather more than he had hoped to conjure, yet he could not stop now.  He was thinking what to say next.

Suddenly, everyone's attention diverted to an explosion of sound from the floor between them.  A heavy sword, its point embedded deep in the floorboards, slowly arced back and forth.  Following the direction of flight, they saw the darkened figure of a man.

Reid had his knife out, but relaxed when he saw who it was.  He returned the knife to its sheath again.  He leaned back until his head touched the bare wood wall, and smiled slightly, suspecting what was to come.

Cadmon Druce stepped into the half light.  He moved easily, unconcernedly.  He cast a slow gaze around the room.  He had the undivided attention of all, Alexander especially.

Reid stood.

"Welcome, Sir Cadmon," he said thickly, his Scot accent prominent.  "Of what service can we be to you?"

"You are Reid?"

"Yes, sir."

"A Scot."  This was an observation.

"Proud," replied Reid.

Cadmon said a short phrase in Gaelic.

Reid nodded.

Cadmon said, in plain speech, "I must prevail upon your hospitality a moment."

"That be of no bother here," responded Reid.  "Will you have a cup of cider with us?"

"Thank you.  No."

Reid was silent.

"Good Lord William has seen fit to grant me the choosing of a squire," announced Cadmon to all present, though, presently, his eyes traversed toward Alexander, who looked as though his heart had stopped beating within his chest.  "In my travels, I have come to know men as they are, not as they are stationed, and I have found merit is not a matter of birth, but a matter of self.  No man shines because of where he is but rather, because of who he is.  Which brings me here."

Cadmon turned fully to Alexander.  "Master Alexander, you are summoned to my service as squire."

Silence enveloped the room.  Dutton's weasel stared unblinkingly at Cadmon, while Paul's brow furrowed as his brain slowly assimilated the change in social status that was taking place before him.  Reid simply nodded, though even he was impressed.  Nothing like this had ever happened in his fifty one years at Norbury.

Cadmon moved farther into the loft and placed his hand on the hilt of the sword, stopping its motion.

"Alexander," said Cadmon, "do you accept this mantle of squire?"

The look on the young man's face said all that was needed to be said, but he answered, "With all my heart!"

Cadmon smiled.  "I could ask no more than that.  Please assemble your tackle and bring it with you to the barracks.  And if you can pry my blade loose, bring it along, too."

Cadmon leaned close so only Alexander could hear.  "Some things in life need a little drama," he said.  His eyes squinted with humor.  When he stood public again, though, he wore the stern expression of a knight.

Alexander smiled inwardly, feeling altogether drunk.

Addressing the whole group again, Cadmon said, "I beg your pardons for this intrusion.  Please return to your cider."

With that, Cadmon turned and exited the loft.  No one spoke until they heard the stable door close, a noise Cadmon did nothing to conceal this time.  Everyone looked at Alexander.

"Christmas has come early this year," said Reid, breaking the silence.

Numbed, Alexander went to the sword, enclosing its cool pommel in his hand.  He gripped it hard.  It was there.  This had happened.  He pushed the blade from side to side until it worked its way out of the wood, then he held it carefully as if he had been handed an infant.  It was heavy.  He looked up at Reid again and smiled broadly.

"Aye, lad," said Reid, touching the blade.  "It is real enough."

Everyone came closer to examine and touch the sword.  They examined Alexander just as carefully, trying to find traces of some attribute they had heretofore missed, some mark that would have foretold this event, had they but the presence of mind to see it.

Waking from the moment, Alexander left the sword in the curious hands of his comrades and quickly gathered his bag and few scattered belongings.  Retrieving the sword from reluctant hands, he placed his things on the floor by the loft ladder, the sword on top, and turned to the stable clan, no longer one of them.  They felt it, too.  Reid stepped forward and gave him a hug.  Alex felt a tear begin to wet his eye.  He had no idea Reid had felt so warmly toward him.  He fought the tear and won.

"Take care of yourself, Alex boy.  You will always be welcome here."

Alexander swallowed and nodded.

The others, except Paul, came close and squeezed his arm or hand, or clapped him on the shoulder, or in one way or another, congratulated him.  In the midst of the leave taking, Lizzie darted in and gave him a kiss on the cheek.  Alexander was sure she would pay dearly for that kiss, and he valued it all the more.  He smiled warmly at her.  Next came Dutton and his weasel.  The weasel sought sanctuary in his protector's coat, but Dutton shook Alexander's hand uncertainly, which was usual, because Dutton never seemed quite certain about anything except his pet.

Finally, it was all done.  With a few last nods, Alexander clasped his bag and the sword in one hand and began his way down the ladder.  As his head passed the edge of the floor, he gave Paul a condescending nod, but Paul did not react.

After the outer door had opened and closed, Paul said, "Drock," which, despite his limited vocabulary, expressed his feelings perfectly.

Once outside in the blowing mist, Alexander made his way to the barracks of the knights.  A slime of mud had formed on the courtyard and he crossed the growing morass with an eye to the firmer patches of ground.  He reached the barracks door.  Tentatively, he mounted the single step and stood ready to enter.  Shutters battened the windows, but through the cracks in the boards, he could see light, and he could hear the sounds of talking and small work.  The door did not open, so after enough time to feel foolish on the porch, he knocked.

A young man, younger than himself, opened the door and peered at him curiously.  The boy opened the door further, then stepped back a pace, uncertainly allowing him to enter.

Alexander stepped inside.  A luxurious bed of dry rushes carpeted the floor.

"Well, come all the way," said the young man.  "You are letting all the heat out."

"Sorry."  Alexander took another step inside, suddenly feeling like a thief carrying his booty.  Cadmon's sword stood out too prominently, and where he had felt pride in carrying it before his peers in the stable, he felt embarrassed here.  Two dozen pairs of eyes fixed on him, from both sides of the hall, which stretched, unbroken, for sixty feet.  Three fire pits in the middle of the floor lit the room and provided an uneven warmth.  Smoke drifted out through the thatching and barely cracked louvers in the combing.  Nevertheless, a thick haze of smoke hung about two feet over their heads.

These were the knights, many not much older than himself, if any, though they seemed infinitely older simply because of the title they bore.  There were other eyes, young, some with childlike curiosity, others with disdain and outright hostility.  These were the squires.  Most of them plainly resented an intrusion into their domain by so lowly a person as a stable boy.  Most of them were high-borns, second, third, or fourth sons of various lords and barons, here to train for a life of war.  Their world was not for upstart stable hands.

Alexander tried to take a deep breath, but his chest could manage only a shallow draft.  Then, a voice called out.

"Alexander!"  It was Cadmon Druce.  The knight stepped into the middle of the hall from a position two thirds of the way down.  "This way," he said.

Alexander made his way past the gauntlet of stares.  All was quiet except for the crackle of fires and the subtle hiss of water trickling down the roof.  He felt his insides shrink under the scrutiny.  If this was what it was going to be like, he almost preferred the stable clan.  At least there, he had some friends.  Here, were there any eyes that betrayed a potential for friendship?  He scanned them briefly as he passed.  Hard to say.  Perhaps he should simply hand the sword to Cadmon and depart.  No!  He was here, and here he would stay!  He stiffened his back and his resolve, and strode toward Cadmon with as much confidence as he could muster.

Cadmon lost no time on introductions.  Grabbing Alexander by both shoulders as soon as he came within reach, Cadmon spun him around, and still with his hands on his shoulders, announced in a commanding voice, "Fellow knights!  Squires.  Pages.  All in this good company, I introduce Alexander of  Norbury to you.  From this day forward, he is my squire, with the duties and privileges accorded a squire.  But, as most of you are more aware than I, he has not had the benefit of earlier training in the gentle arts of pages, nor has he been privy to the talk and teachings of chivalry.  I ask you in advance to excuse his rough edges and help hammer him into shape.  You need not be gentle.  He has a stubborn face and a tough backside, so lay into him hard.  He has far to go and not much time to do it."

The roar of laughter and anticipated pleasure at Alexander's instruction was frightening.  Alexander spun his head around to stare questioningly at his benefactor.  Cadmon stood half a head taller than he and simply smiled to him with assurance.

Cadmon took Alexander's bag and retrieved his sword, tossed them onto a trestle table, and gave Alexander a nudge down the hall.  "Come out and say your greetings!" he said.

Squires, especially, vaulted from their positions to see the new squire.  Knights came forward, took his shoulders in their hands and gave him an embrace of acceptance.  They were all rough beards and laughter.  Most of the talk was directed about him rather than to him, and he noticed several of the squires sizing him up.  He had seen those kinds of looks before.  The introductions continued for several minutes, then the assemblage broke up and the household resumed its individual duties.

Before the afternoon was over, as he expected, two squires picked a fight with him.  He had just finished filling a pitcher with water from a barrel, had only just hung the cup over the side and replaced the heavy oak cover when something struck his back.  A sheave of rushes rolled to the floor.

     "Ho, there, young squire!" said a booming voice.

Alexander turned around.  Two young men in woolen leggings and leather jerkins stood behind him.  One grinned.  One eyed him blankly, like a cat.

"How is it you feel you can take from a barrel you did not help fill?"

Alexander shrugged.  They wanted a fight.  Fine.  Go to it.

"He has not a word in defense," said the grinning one.

"Then he is guilty," said the other.

The stare down lasted only a moment longer.  The two threw themselves at Alexander, who dropped to receive them.  The resulting fracas exploded into the hall.  The floor was hard and there were many implements nearby to bang into.  Brooms, rakes, and staffs fell in cascades.  Bruises quickly piled on top of one another as they tumbled, but the contest strangled for lack of space.  The catlike squire abruptly sprang to the side.  It was one on one now.

A growing noise came from behind as the knights grew aware of the match and placed wagers.  Tables and benches gave way to make an arena.  Two dogs scurried out of the way, and somewhere behind the crowd, a falcon emitted an excited cry.  A gray cat watched from the ledge running around the top of the wall.

As Alexander and the grinning squire tumbled about, he heard bets being placed, mostly against him.  Even as his head slammed into the floor boards for the third or fourth time, he wondered if he should fight for all he was worth or let the local lads win.  Which would leave the best impression?  But when the catlike squire caught him as he rose from the floor and dumped a double handful of mud over his head and down his back, his mind snapped into crystal clarity.  He spun like a whip and landed a blow to the cat-squire's sternum and the squire fell hard in a sitting position, a long agonizing whoop overlaying the shouts.  Seconds later, the squire vomited into a hastily provided bucket.

Alexander scraped a large dollop of mud from his head with the side of his hand while the other squire guffawed and danced around, making unflattering observations about his personal hygiene.  Alexander let the squire get fairly close, then took a punch at his all too confident face.  The squire dodged the blow and made a loud kissing sound.  Alexander dived at him, and though the squire danced sideways, Alexander got a grip on his jerkin.  They spun about from the momentum, but pushes and shoves from the knights kept them on the boards.

The strata of smoke above everyone's head began to twist and spiral down, following the air currents of the struggle.

The squire grinned and kissed the air, but with all the twisting and pulling, Alexander could not land a decent blow, and under the barest of restraint, the cheering audience of knighthood kept them both in the center of the hall with enthusiastic kicks and shoves.  Both he and his adversary were breathing hard.  Suddenly, unexpectedly, the other squire stood tall and offered Alexander his hand in friendship.

"Aw, they are eunuchs!" shouted one of the squires.

This was either chivalry or a trick.  Against his better judgment, Alexander decided had to assume the best in front of this audience.  Cautiously, Alexander took the offered hand.

"Do not mind us," said the squire between breaths.  "You are starting to take this too seriously.  We better quit before I have to hurt you!"

"Do not concern yourself," answered Alexander evenly.

"All right!" said the squire, and he twisted Alexander's arm around in one deft movement, sending him crashing into the floor again.

Alexander snapped to his feet, eyes burning.

"You think that was unfair?" inquired the dancing squire.  To the crowd, he repeated, "He thinks it was not very chivalrous."

The crowd laughed.

"Well," said the squire to Alexander, "It was as much chivalry as you will find around here!"

More laughter.  Alexander looked for his protector and caught a glimpse of Cadmon sitting on a stool with his back to the wall, eyes closed, fingers interlaced, legs extended, and for all appearance, settling in for a nap!

"Alexander the Great!" shouted the squire.  "Come for me!  Let us see what you have learned shoveling manure!"

Alexander remained silent, fighting tears of outrage.

"Come for you?" shouted someone from the crowd, "He smells like something a dog would not roll in!  I should not ask him or you might soil your braies with something that does not wash off."

"Dog fart!"

The crowd loved the insults and laughed even louder.  More bets were laid.

The other squire sauntered toward Alexander, seemingly going to pass him by, then in an explosion of movement, he dropped to his hands and swung his leg out like a scythe, catching Alexander just behind his knee with the toe of his boot.  Alexander dropped like he had been poleaxed, and it was all over.  In a twinkling, the squire managed to pin Alexander's arm behind him, forcing him face down into the dirty rushes.

"Do you yield?" shouted the squire.

"No!"

The pressure increased.  Tears came to Alexander's eyes.  He breathed in dust from the rushes.

"Do you yield?"

Alexander remained silent.  The pain burnt his shoulder but he would not give the squire the satisfaction of voicing his agony.  And he would not yield.

"Let us crank the pressure then."

"That is enough," said a voice with a tone used to authority.  It was the banneret.  "The match goes to Aubrey.  Release him and get this house in order."

The squire released his hold.  So his name was Aubrey.  Alexander turned himself over to find the squire grinning at him with genuine delight.  He offered Alexander his hand.

Alexander shook his head.

"We are done," said Aubrey cheerfully.  "No tricks now."

"If you do not mind, I will see to myself."  Alexander produced a wry smile despite the pain in his wrenched shoulder.  If defeat was all you had, better to wear it with disdain.

Aubrey reached down and grabbed his forearm anyway.  His face sobered, though he still breathed heavily from the fight.  "Upsy daisy, Alexander.  I will treat you to a pint of rum.  And a bucket of warm water.  You deserve both.  You are a mess!"

Alexander turned his head.  Mud flaked from his hair.  Aubrey now seemed like he genuinely wanted to be friends.

"You did well," said Aubrey in a confidential tone.  "No vengeful feelings, eh?"

Alexander shrugged.

The banneret approached and placed one hand on each of their shoulders.  "Next time, make your battle outside," he said sternly.  Then he smiled as best his severe visage could manage.  "Young squire," he said to Alexander, "Squire Aubrey has benefit of training.  A year from now, you would face him on more equal terms."  He started to walk away, then added, "You have made a noticeable entrance."

Alexander watched him go, then gazed at the faces around him.  For the most part, the cold looks he had received upon entering the barracks had either diminished or disappeared.  Cadmon had chosen his introduction well, he had to admit.  The fight had won him a few friends.

Somewhat later, doused and dried and noticeably cleaner, he returned to his new master's quarters.

Cadmon rose from the bench to greet him.  "Your bed lies against the far wall.  That is the squire's wall.  The wicker on your bed needs patching, but you will have time to mend it."  Cadmon pointed to the bed board.  "The bed beside yours is that of the squire whom you made vomit.  I would expect some retaliation.  A night bucket dumped in your straw is common.  The bed next over on my wall belongs to James Beaumont, who will be in ill temper when he returns, so stay out of his way.  You will attract enough thumpings as it is."

Thumpings?  Alexander sighed.  Cadmon spoke so blithely of the trials he had yet to face.  He studied his master, searching for a hint as to his real disposition toward him.  But he did not know his knight well enough yet.  He could find nothing in his face of a softer hue than his words.  Well, nothing came without a price.  He would bear it out, whatever was to come.

"Tomorrow," said Cadmon, "We will begin your training.  You will find I am on the move much of the time, so we will make these weeks we spend at Norbury profitable.  There is an old sheep shed built into the west wall of the manor.  It is small, but tight.  Cover the floor with thick straw and pack it well.  Remove my tack," he indicated several bundles beneath his bed, "to that building also.  We will begin tomorrow morning, when the sun rises."

"Yes, sir," said Alexander.  He felt very small and out of place.

"Except on formal occasions," said Cadmon pleasantly, "address me as Cadmon.  We are quartered close enough to be brothers and I think we shall remember our relationship well enough without resort to titles."

"Yes, sir...Cadmon," he said.  It felt strange to be so familiar.  His knight was a strange man.

Cadmon placed a hand on the young man's shoulder and smiled gently.  "Alexander, you will do well.  You have the makings of a knight.  Wear your struggle well and it will warm you all your life."

Alexander nodded, never taking his eyes from those of the man who spoke.  He rarely felt uncomfortable looking into another's eyes, but with Cadmon, he felt like a dog must feel, possessed of a compulsion to shift its gaze.  Deeper inside himself, he felt as he did when he once visited the tombs beneath the church in Cirencester, looking down those long, dark corridors flecked with remote islands of light, oil lamps burning a tentative passage through rooms filled with inchoate darkness and age.  And, he was reminded of that evening when they first met, when the weather change rippled through the comfort of the stable as Cadmon noiselessly saw to his horse.  Alexander shivered slightly.  Cadmon's eyes were like no other's.  He dropped his gaze.

Cadmon then asked cryptically, "Have you ever noticed a tree with but one leaf responding to a passing breeze, while the others remain still?"

What a strange question!  Alexander nodded.

"You are a leaf which catches the air well."

Alexander looked puzzled, but he had the oddest feeling Cadmon referred to that night in the stable.

The knight repeated, "You are a leaf which catches the air well."  He put unusual emphasis on the words.

Cadmon took his arm away and the cloister ended.  "Now, you had best see to your bed.  I have some work to do."

Alexander nodded and turned thoughtfully to the bed.  Odd, odd, odd.  He could make little of the exchange, though his selection as squire seemed to have depended largely on his being a leaf which shuddered in the wind.  What did it mean?  Moreover, what did it mean to Cadmon?  He caught himself thinking too deeply for the place and shook the feeling away.  To task!  He bent low and immediately saw the hole which needed patching.  It lay exactly where his hips would rest.