Chapter 18      Prowess

 

 

 

Alexander awoke, disoriented.  The air was unusually dank, the surroundings strange.  Then it came to him where he was.  He turned his head to see the central aisle and far wall.  Several shutters were flung wide.  During the night, someone had grown impatient with eye-stinging smoke and handled the problem forthrightly.  Gray light drifted in from a dawn still some distance away.  A movement caught his eye.  One of the squires edged about, wrapped in a blanket, fishing coals out of the ashes with a poker and rekindling fires.

He listened a moment, still waking.  The rain, which had drizzled for a day, had stopped.  The hall slumbered, heavy with men.  So, here he was, a squire.  It had not been a dream.

The clammy atmosphere and warm blanket beckoned him to remain abed, but the words of Cadmon resounded in his memory.  He would never show himself a shirker to his knight.  Quietly, he slipped from beneath his covers.  He looked to the opposite wall.  The shape of Cadmon's trestle bed formed from the darkness.  The bed lay empty already!  His heart sped faster.  Hurriedly, he gathered his heaviest shirt around him, pulled on his braies and shoes, crept out the door of the hall and trotted over to the sheep shed with quickening pace.

A light glowed through the crevices in the dry-laid stone walls and under the rough planked door.  As unobtrusively as possible, he eased the door wide enough to enter, but looking about, was surprised to see no sign of Cadmon.  The knight had been there, however.  A lamp burned on a ledge.

He went inside and shut the door.  At least he would appear ready when the knight returned.  Looking about, he saw the bundles were unpacked.  He cursed himself silently.  Cadmon had done that, too.  More than a dozen implements of combat stood against the rails of a chute.  They drew him.  There were swords, shields, spears and lances, maces, axes, two of everything, assembled like the animals in Noah's ark.

As he surveyed the equipment, he became aware of a change in the light.  Looking up, he saw Cadmon standing beneath the lintel of the open door, quietly watching him.  Without word or sign, the knight entered.  Alexander stood from the wall and watched him expectantly.  What kind of mood would he be in?

"You have found the menagerie, I see," said Cadmon, "I borrowed most of it from the practice room."  He looked out the door again and smiled at someone.  "Well, come in if you are of a mind.  Come in...."  And through the door strolled the Irish wolfhound, Lovel.  When the big dog saw Alexander, he bounded over and shoved his head into the crook of the young man's left arm.  So tall was the dog, Alexander had no need to stoop.

Cadmon shut the door.  "As is my habit, I have greeted the morn with Squire Horse," he said.  It was a statement, not a jest.

Alexander nodded, scrubbing the dog's ears.  He smiled at Cadmon.  His knight enjoyed animals as he did, not as possessions whose abilities could bring prestige, like to the falconer, pride, or whose strength would be exploited without gratitude, as in the plow ox, but as companions, who, through no fault of their own, were not born men.  Yes, his knight was a good man.

Cadmon strolled over.  "Tell me about yourself," he said amiably.

Alexander frowned.  "There is not much to tell.  My mother and father are dead.  My sister and two brothers are dead, also.  Of influenza.  What used to be our land is farmed by strangers and my possessions are on my back."

"Severely put," said Cadmon with a wave of his hand.  "But, that is not what I meant.  I want to know about you, not your history.  History, what little I have sought, I have gleaned from others these past weeks."

Alexander frowned deeper.  "I do not understand, then."

Cadmon smiled and half sat on the edge of the chute.  "Be at ease, Alexander.  I want to know why you wish to be a knight.  That you wish to be a knight, I know.  That you are worthy, I have surveyed to my own satisfaction, but as to why, only you can put words to it."

Alexander at once felt foolish.  Why should he, a presumptuous stable boy, wish to be a knight?  What explanation could he offer that would not sound simple-minded?

He knew Cadmon would honor nothing but the truth, so despite his embarrassment, he explained as best he could.  "I cannot say well enough," he began, "but it is the noblest office."  He could feel his voice grow stronger.  "As knights, men can act and justice can be done.  The old men tell stories of good sergeants who fought sturdy and true, and who were rewarded with spurs."

"Its accessibility appeals to you?"

"Accessibility?"  The word was strange.

"A knighting seems more likely than a baronage."  Cadmon smiled again.

"Well, yes, sir.  But that is not all."

"Go on, then."

"Loyalty, prowess, generosity," repeated Alexander with uncertain gravity.

     Cadmon nodded.  "What do you think of those words?"

"They are wonderful words!  They are as noble as ... as the Ten Commandments!"

Cadmon smiled.  His teeth were white and whole, though a trifle uneven.

"Some might argue that opinion," he said, "but I understand your meaning.  They are, indeed, worthy ideals, but more goals than attainments."  Cadmon placed his hand on a timber, but did not put any weight against it.  "Strive, but do not expect to achieve.  Ideals are not daily rations.  Only a fortunate few ever touch them from time to time.  But you are right.  They will guide you to a good life."

Cadmon picked up a quarterstaff and like a gust from the lee, changed the subject.  "Later today, we will ride into village and visit the swordsmith there.  You must learn how your tools are made as well how to use them.  Such knowledge will stand you well."  He paused, thinking about something far away.  Then he said, "We agreed you would call me Cadmon.  Remember?"

Alexander nodded.  He had forgotten.  Well, not really.  Cadmon's person seemed so imposing, he had great difficulty forcing himself to speak his given name.  He felt disrespectful speaking to him so familiarly.

Even as he reflected upon his feelings, Cadmon perceived the exact nature of his thoughts and answered with understanding, saying, "I am a knight.  You are a squire.  Yet, we are both men.  Respect and affection are plain in those who are sincere, whatever words they use.  Outside of public occasion, our ranks are apparent enough without titles.  You will call me Cadmon.  I will call you Alexander."

"Yes, ... Cadmon."

"Good.  Now, look at these implements."

Alexander surveyed the line of paradoxically strange, and at the same time, familiar objects.  He had seen them time and again from his rookery on the wall, had watched squires and knights wield them in practice.  And here they were, within reach, the same weapons.  They seemed very heavy.  How would he ever learn to use them well enough not to be laughed at?  And there before him lay the supreme weapon, the sword.  How could he ever learn to use such a piece?  He was too old.  What could Cadmon be thinking of?

"Which is your favorite?" asked Cadmon.

In answer, he walked over to the sword and stood in front of it.  The blade gleamed in the lamp light, unsheathed, beautiful, deadly, and worst of all, intimidating.  He reached out to touch the pommel.  His hand enclosed the cool steel, felt the nut shape in his hand.  Then he let his hand slide down the grip, over the smooth turnings of twisted wire that made sure purchase in battle.  But the weight grew steadily, and he let it fall gently back to the planking of the chute.

"Pick it up," commanded Cadmon.

Alexander turned.  Cadmon nodded his assurance.

"Pick it up," he repeated, a bit softer.

 Alexander did as he was told.  It was heavy.  He felt foolish.

Cadmon came closer.  "How can you, a poor farmer's son, a stable boy, ever hope to learn the art of war?"

Alexander looked up sharply.  His very thoughts!  Was Cadmon mocking him?

"No, I am not playing light with you," Cadmon said.  "Your concerns ride heavy in your eyes.  Alexander, do you not realize you have been in training all your life?"

Alexander cocked his head quizzically.

"There is very little you do with a sword you have not already done thousands of times over the years.  You do not believe me?"

"No, that is, I do not know what you mean."

"Have you ever swung an axe to chop wood?"

He nodded.

"Have you ever swung a scythe?"

"Yes."

"A flail?  Ever seen one used?"

Alexander laughed nervously, and nodded.  He was beginning to get the idea.

"A pitch fork?  Ever taken one by the handle?"

"In my sleep."

"Alexander, you have been in training all your life.  Do you not know why farmers are recruited for war?  Weapons are used like farm tools.  Switch one for the other and a farmer becomes a sergeant.  He has the muscles, the coordination, and the doggedness."

"I see what you are saying, but is it true?"

"Nothing truer.  There are some differences, but you will be amazed at how much your body already knows.  Give me that sword."  He took the blade.  "Even the positions of the sword are named after the farm tools they mimic."

Cadmon held the sword with two hands, high over his head.  "The axe."  He placed the sword at waist level, twisted backwards, ready to swing.  "Scythe."  He next brought the grip up under his shoulder.  "Fork."  And placing the blade directly in front of him, pointing to the ground, he said, "Plow."

The knight tossed the blade in the air and caught it by one quillion of the guard.  He offered the grip to Alexander, and smiled.  "The only difference is, the wheat never took a swing back at you."

Alexander looked at the sword again.  It appeared a bit more accessible.  He smiled shyly.

Cadmon continued, "In battle, the more experienced knight generally wins because he knows how to make his opponent exhaust himself.  If equally matched in experience, as a rule, the stronger man wins.  For most of our knightly kindred, strategy and technique take a lengthy pace behind strength and endurance."  The knight gave him a candid look.  "You are incomplete without them all.  You will not leave my service until you are equally skilled.  In balance."

Alexander looked up.  The knight gave him confidence.

Cadmon set the sword against the wall.  "We will begin with sword training, since that seems to attract you, but reed swords for now.  There, in the corner," Cadmon gestured.

Alexander looked in the direction indicated.  There were several reed swords piled in the shadows.  They were thin, sword length bundles of reeds, fitted with crude leather wrappings and a wooden guard.  Though softer than steel, they could deliver quite a sting.  He remembered seeing squires limping around with broad, red blotches on their skin where a reed sword in full swing had made contact.

"Fledglings do not migrate on their first flight," said Cadmon, taking one.  "These are more forgiving than steel."  He then proffered a pair of leather gauntlets.  "Wear these," he said, pulling another pair from his belt and putting them on.

"As to our lessons, do not worry if you fail to understand me the first time.  I will repeat everything often."  Cadmon flexed his fingers until the gauntlet fitted to his satisfaction.  "It will take some time to become acquainted with each other's ways and speech.  My early training was in the usual manner, but in my travels east, I have learned much of tactics and philosophy that are not of England or of France.  I have tried to choose the best from all ideas shown me, but be that as it may, within a year, you will be able to repeat my lessons in your sleep.  But do not be surprised if some of my teachings seem odd to those of your friends you confide in."

Alexander nodded.  Cadmon spoke as would a gentle friend.  He almost seemed fatherly.  Alexander began to feel at ease.  The knight conversed while positioning him and molding his grip around the reed sword.

"All our lives, we seek maturity of thought and action.  I know, at this moment, you are determined to show me your utmost maturity, as I would be in your place.  I would never suggest you abandon the struggle for maturity, but the full truth of the word, its innermost meaning, ultimately leads to what your companions would call foolish independence.  It can be mistaken for everything from heresy to treason.  The reason I say this is to warn you.  Keep some things to your own council, more so as you mature.  It will be a lifelong advance."

Alexander was swimming.  He was unused to hearing such thoughts, and though he entertained ideas of complexity from time to time, he felt at a loss.  He also knew that this emphasis came from the secret side of his master, words of experience hard earned, and he wondered of their origins but dared not ask.  Instead, he said, "You know my thoughts."

"I have been you, long ago."

"Can I not act mature?"

"I suppose so.  Repetition, as in swordplay, brings a practiced look.  My injunction is that your maturity, as in your prowess, must come from your innermost core outward.  Become it, do not wear it."

Nodding, Alexander felt swept along by the words, as by a rush of water, yet as compelling as they were, he did not wholly understand them.

Cadmon paused, his eyes abstracting.  "Maturity moves the source of personal approval from without to within.  When young, the good will of others is very important, and you prove yourself against their measure.  If you mature, you find the approval of others less a motivation.  Their needs rarely coincide with your own.  To truly mature requires constant striving, and only occasionally, for brief, happy moments, will you wholly succeed.  Like the ideals of knighthood, maturity is a goal.  At times, you may find yourself bracing against the tide of opinion.  Before you do, be certain your cause is worthy of the consequence.  Pick your battles well.  That, too, is maturity.  God and law have no sovereignty over the decisions of a mature man, but," the knight said with a wry smile, "your body may suffer the consequences of them."      Cadmon smiled reassuringly.  "Enough of that."

Not enough!  Alexander thought.  He understood very little of what Cadmon said, but the depth of experience from which he spoke impressed him greatly.  This was a wise and tormented man who had chiseled his own commandments, a complex code that a young man of limited experience could not understand.  Nevertheless, the bastion that was Cadmon Druce only gained strength by the impenetrability of the code.  In many ways, Cadmon was a man apart.  Now, in a vague sense, he understood some of the reasons for it.

Cadmon leveled his gaze at him.  "Now, I will pass to another point," said the knight, "which is philosophical as well as practical.  As difficult as it may be to understand right now, you must learn to treat personal combat as something akin to a dance.  You embrace knighthood.  That is good.  To battle is to celebrate life by dancing with the chance of your own destruction.  To do that, to do it well, you must leave emotion behind.  Leave thought behind.  Turn falsely but once and you are dust.

"When in battle, the fight must consume you.  It must be everything, the world.  On the field, it is not you there.  It is not your enemy.  It is the dance.

"You must flow as water, cling as dew, fly as a windblown seed, and sting like fire.  The part of you that thinks these things cannot do this.  The part of you that breaths and blinks, that sighs at beauty and thrills to the chase, these are the elements you must cultivate."

Alexander frowned and nodded and frowned some more.  But Cadmon was not done.

"Become proficient with all weapons.  Have no favorites in tool or technique.  A fighter with these limits becomes predictable, and predictable men fight blind and bare."

Alexander gestured that he followed the argument, but in truth, he barely understood what was being said.  He sincerely hoped Cadmon would hold to his word to repeat his lessons often.  Without doubt, he would need many recitations.

Cadmon indicated for him to raise the point of his reed sword to a level with his shoulders.

"Seek combat only with worthy opponents," continued the knight.  "You cannot dance with a dullard, and to kill a dullard is not noble."

Holding his sword as shown, Alexander shook his head in agreement.

"Timing is most important, an understanding of your opponent's timing more than your own.  The battlefield is filled with the dull footed, but many are strong, skilled, and deadly.  You must know more than they, be more than they, or one day, a distraction, a fly, a mote of dust -- a memory -- will shatter your attention and give your opponent the opening needed to kill you.  This must not happen."

Alexander shook his head again, emphatically.

"Of tactics and technique, there are myriads of detail, and we will attend to them in turn.  For now, you must enter into training with a true understanding of what is being taught, lest you learn the surface of the lesson and not the content.  Never let appearance obscure meaning.  Single combat between equals is the ultimate fulfillment of the dance, and it is for the dance that we go to battle."  He looked sadly amused, then said, "When you face another man on the field, the great issues which divide you disappear.  All you have is the dance."

Cadmon paused, assessing the impact of his words.  "Enough of that for now.  You are confused?"

Alexander tightened his brows and let out a long-held breath.  "Yes," he admitted.

"You are honest.  Good.  Now, have at me with your reed sword."

"Hit you?"

"Strike me smartly, like you saw James attempt.  And watch closely.  We will learn a few basic strokes and defenses."  Cadmon moved his eyes encouragingly.  "This is the part most squires relish.  Do not be bashful."

Alexander smiled devilishly and swung.  His blow was deflected.  He swung again.  Cadmon dodged it.

The big dog slunk into a far corner and lay down, his head woefully on his paws.  He groaned quietly and watched the men with concern.

"Move swiftly," urged Cadmon.  "Put your body into it.  Forget who I am.  I am simply your opponent."

Alexander plunged again, with more energy but with similar lack of result.  Yet, unchagrined, he kept on.  His master wished it.

The lesson progressed much more clumsily than had the fight between Cadmon and James Beaumont.  He envisioned his movements those of a harvester with a flail, an uncouth lout who had no business with a sword.  Yet he tried to strike his teacher, hard and often.  Each time, the stroke was dodged or diverted.  Each time, Cadmon quietly uttered a word or phrase as a label for the maneuver.

The knight appeared very serious, concentrated, almost removed.  His movements had much technique behind them, and these Alexander studied as best he could, but how much could intense study of a book produce ought of its contents if one could not read?  No.  His knight would teach him to read, then teach him the contents of the book.  He had more faith in his knight than ever he had felt on a cold bench in chapel.

The lesson continued.  They were two adversaries squared off in the confines of the sheep shed.  Many times, Alexander slipped, lost his balance, nearly fell.  Many times he was sweatily grateful that the combat was mock, for each time he slipped, he felt his back, neck, and sides exposed to his enemy.  Yet, as with Beaumont, Cadmon fought a defensive battle, and never let him feel the sting of his sword.

Beneath the activity, on a calmer level, he studied Cadmon's movements and evasions.  Cadmon's body moved with economy, nothing wasted.  He did exactly what was needed, no more, no less, with no hesitation.  Every movement flowed as if it had been rehearsed in advance, as if each stroke of sword delivered was exactly the stroke expected.  Alexander found he could not surprise or unbalance the knight, despite his best subterfuge and casting of eyes to areas not intended for impact.  In short, the reed sword lesson served to teach him technique, on the first level, but deeper, to thoroughly convince him that he would never attain such perfection.  Lamenting inside, he struggled to accept the fact that he would never attain more than an approximation of what was being demonstrated.

The lesson ended.  Cadmon set his reed sword against a pen door and took a seat on an upturned basket.  Alexander did likewise.  Cadmon shot him an amused glance.  "Well, squire," he said, "you have done well.  I have seen many a lad in tears at this point.  Now is the time for questions."

Alexander thanked the knight with a nod, still breathing heavily.  Cadmon had scarcely worked up a sweat.

"I move like a goose in the barnyard," he said.  "You move like a deer.  Every movement is smooth.  Everything you do seems like you have done it a thousand times.  Will I ever learn to move that way?"

Cadmon straightened, placing his hands on his thighs.  "Every man moves according to the gifts of nature.  The thick man does not move like the thin, the short not like the tall.  Yet, much can be learned.  Our builds are not dissimilar.  I am a bit taller, but otherwise, our bodies are constructed to the same plan.  To answer your question, yes.  With some individual distinction, yes."

"How can I learn?"

"Watch me.  Watch yourself.  Practice what you see.  Practice until you drop, then practice more.  Prepare you body for learning.  Exhaust it."

Alexander's expression was a question.  The first part he understood, but not the last.  Cadmon picked up the conversation at that point.

"A knight's body must be trained and exercised to its ends as you would train a horse for racing.  You must have strength of limb, endurance, suppleness, speed, and control.  Your body must have balance in all of these things.  Your body is clay.  Work it.  It will form to your will."

"Cadmon, strength of limb, I understand, but I am not sure I understand balance.  I can walk along a rail fence, but that is not what you mean, is it?"

Cadmon laughed easily and shook his head.  The laugh sounded good.  It was the first full laugh Alexander had heard from the knight.  Cadmon answered his question.  "No, but keep walking those fence rails.  It is good for balance of another kind.  What I meant is indeed different.  Your shoulders and arms are hard, from pitching hay, combing horses, working with tack?"

"Yes.  Of my body, my arms are strongest."

Cadmon picked up a quarterstaff, and standing atop the basket, laid it across two timbers overhead.  He stepped down and removed the basket.

"Jump up and hold onto this stick."

Alexander went to the stick.  He looked up at it, a foot beyond his highest grasp.  He could jump that distance easily.  He bent his knees and sprung, grasping the stick with both hands.  He hung there, smiling, then looked for Cadmon's approval.  Lovel walked around the edges of their activity, wagging his tail uncertainly.

Cadmon moved into view, but his face was serious.  "Good," he said.  "Reverse your hands so that your palms face you.  Now, pull yourself up until you can look over the stick."

Alexander strained his muscles and up he went until his fists were even with his shoulders.  He looked down at his knight with satisfaction, over the top of the stick.

"Good," said Cadmon.  "Now ease yourself down to full arms length and pull yourself up again.  Four times."

The exercise went well.  Alexander easily complied with Cadmon's wishes, though he could feel fatigue not far off.

Cadmon took a pace back.  "Now, place your hands on the other side of the stick, the backs of your hands toward you."

This was easily done, one hand at a time.  Still he hung from the stick.

"Do the same exercise in this position.  Five times up, five times down.  Then drop to the floor."

Cadmon crossed his arms, waiting, a peculiar expression of veiled amusement in his eyes.  Alexander began the exercise.  He frowned momentarily as he urged his body up.  This was much more difficult.  Sweat dripped profusely from his forehead.  One.  He dropped down to the length of his arms, then began pulling himself up again.  Slowly.  How could this be so difficult?  Two.  Down again.  Rest.  Up, up, up.  His chest began to heave with exertion.  His breath rippled in his nostrils.  Up.  Three.  Down, down.  His arms ached.  On the fourth strain, his arms gave out halfway up, and he dropped to arms length again.  He tried using his right arm.  Maybe he could climb it like a ladder, one arm then the other, but again his muscles failed, and he dropped to arms length.  Tears mixed with sweat in his eyes and he prayed his knight did not notice.  Morning had filled the shed with cracks of bluish light, but shadows still lingered, dark and deep enough, he hoped, to conceal his weakness.

"Enough," said Cadmon, gently.  "Drop to the floor."

Alexander paused, unwilling to admit defeat, but he knew he could not pull his body up to that stick again.  His arms felt weak, his fingers cold.  He let go the stick and landed on his feet.  Immediately, his arms felt like hot lead.  Blood surged back into them, and they became strong again.  He repeatedly squeezed his hands into fists.  They had failed him.

Ashamed, he looked up at Cadmon, whom he discovered with surprise, was smiling.

"Do not hold this failure in disgust," said Cadmon.  "You were bound to fail from the start.  This was not a test, but a lesson."

Alexander heaved for breath and waited for an explanation.

"Strength must be full and rounded," said Cadmon.  "It must have endurance.  A strong horse can win a short race, but a horse with endurance, such as the desert horses I have faced in battle, can run the day through.  Strength is short, endurance is long.  Do you understand the difference?"

"Yes.  My endurance is not so great, I think."

"Not what it will become, yet the lesson of the quarterstaff is not only of endurance, but of roundedness.  Balance.  By switching your handhold, you showed yourself the difference in strength within your arms."  Cadmon pantomimed holding the stick, his palms toward him.  "This way, your strength is sound, but," he turned his palms away from him, "this way it is not so sound."

Alexander felt humiliated, and though it may simply be received as cheek, in which case he would earn a cuff from his knight, he needed just then something solid to strive toward, a real demonstration that the goal was, indeed, attainable.  And so he said, "Forgive me, Cadmon, but, please, show me."