Chapter 17

The market pedlars in Firfallow hadn't seen Ellen Good in weeks. True to her word, she'd made herself scarce while Lord Erik's temper cooled. Now that Wolfram was back on his feet, he couldn't take time away from his duties to ride around Elkinshire looking for her, so he was forced to sit and wait, hoping he'd have the opportunity to continue his search soon. The saving grace was that he didn't have time to brood. Dunstan eagerly put him back to work, the taskmaster sparing little sympathy for his squire's recent hardships. Wolfram preferred it that way. Kindness and gentle treatment from Dunstan would've felt awkward. The first morning Wolfram returned to his duties, there was a brief moment when their eyes met. He saw hesitance in his mentor's expression and answered it with a challenging glare. Dunstan gave him the thinnest of smiles before starting to bark orders. Oddly, it was the first time Wolfram had felt genuinely respected by the older man.

At Father Everwin's insistence, he was restricted to light duties for another month. No sparring, no hunting, no heavy riding, and only gentle morning exercise. It rankled Wolfram less than he'd expected to be treated like an invalid. Despite the teasing from the other squires, he found himself not caring about their jokes. The lightness of his regimen was welcome, for his body was weak after spending close to two months out of practice. He found himself getting out of breath quicker than usual, and his left arm and leg were still painfully stiff. Every time he went through his usual routines with the sword and spear, he could feel his muscles reacting slowly. But as the weeks went by, some of that stiffness started melting away. Slowly but surely, he felt his strength returning. The tension in his damaged arm and leg might never vanish completely, but with practice, he felt sure it would become manageable. Aldrich hadn't broken him, and that thought gave him the determination to keep training.

"The king will need an enemy to loose you on soon," Dunstan told him one morning. They were training with the longsword, most of the older squires sparring in pairs while the younger ones practised basic routines on their own. Wolfram was standing at the end of the line with the youngsters. In his mind's eye, he pictured Aldrich coming at him as he focused on his footwork, advancing and retreating with strikes and parries that would intercept his opponent's blows. The movements had become so familiar to Wolfram that they threatened to bore him, so he always looked for new ways to challenge himself. Today, he'd scattered a handful of rocks about his feet. They forced him to be especially mindful of his footing, and when he tripped he tried to right himself without losing his rhythm. He was thinking about how he'd fallen into the stream during his duel with Aldrich, and how that blunder had almost cost him his life.

He lowered his blunt training sword, catching his breath as he turned toward Dunstan. "Do you think the kingdom will go to war soon?" The idea of leaving Elkinshire and riding off to face the king's enemies no longer appealed to Wolfram the way it once had. He still felt the call to glory, but the idea of leaving the castle and its lands in such a state made him uncomfortable. And he would miss Lavender.

"There's always a war somewhere, lad," Dunstan said. "Restless knights make for a restless kingdom. Just look at the trouble we have to deal with here."

"You mean Aldrich? He isn't a knight."

"He's a cocky pup with money, men, and horses. You think he wouldn't be toadying up to the king trying to win himself a title if he had the chance? A little war might be good for Elkinshire." Dunstan broke off the thought when he saw one of the sparring squires drop his sword and clutch a hand to his chest. He strode over to make sure the lad was okay, leaving Wolfram to his practise. A few minutes later, he realised he was being watched again. Theodward, one of the youngest squires, had stopped to stare at him.

"What is it?" Wolfram asked.

"You're always so fast. How do you do it like that?"

Wolfram didn't feel particularly fast with his stiff limbs. He wondered whether the boy was mocking him, but his curiosity seemed genuine.

"Well," Wolfram considered how best to explain it, "you just train, I suppose. It's something you get used to, like wearing in a pair of boots. After a few years, the movements all fit like they're meant to go together."

"I could never be that fast. I bet you'd kill anyone in a fight."

Wolfram shook his head. "If you do something a thousand times, you'll be good at it, too."

"Can you show me some tricks?"

"I suppose I could try." Wolfram didn't think some light sparring with a novice would be too taxing on his bones. It had almost been a month, anyway. He went over to the pile of training gear and got himself and Theodward a pair of helmets. They were battered, uncomfortable things with visors that made it difficult to see, but such head protection was necessary when sparring with the longsword. While the padded jackets they wore could take the sting out of a strike to the body, a yard of steel was easily capable of cracking teeth or taking out an eye even when it was blunt. Once they'd donned their protective gear, Wolfram and Theodward stood opposite one another and raised their weapons.

"I'll attack first," Theodward said, plainly excited to be facing off against one of the older squires. Wolfram could tell even before he moved that the attack wouldn't get through. He had a good four inches of height over the lad and longer arms to match. Combined with the exceptional reach of the longsword, it felt like he had an eternity to react as Theodward stepped forward and lifted his arms for a sideways cut. Wolfram stepped back, lifted his blade at an angle that guided his opponent's weapon harmlessly aside, and stopped with the flattened point hovering inches from Theodward's chest. The boy froze, realising that he'd been defeated in a single move. In a real fight, he would've blundered straight onto Wolfram's sword.

"You weren't minding your guard," Wolfram said. "Not getting hit yourself is more important than hitting your opponent."

Theodward grinned behind his visor and tried again, though he found no more success on his subsequent attempts. Wolfram liked the young squire's enthusiasm. He reminded him of himself, too focused on improving to be frustrated by his failures. It was like the early days training with Robin again.

Wolfram's return to sparring created something of a stir among the squires. It had been a long time since any of them got to practice against him. The competitive spirit ran deep in their group, and never more deeply than when it came to sparring. Before his injuries, Wolfram had been considered one of the best with the longsword. Now that he was back, everyone wondered whether he'd be able to hold on to his crown.

Despite his pride having been blunted the night of Robin's death, Wolfram still felt the urge to prove himself. Every time they practised with the longsword, he worked his way up the line of squires, helping train the less experienced boys before challenging the older ones. The atmosphere of anticipation steadily grew. How would Wolfram fare when he put his skills to the test against Ben or Gavin? It was almost like a tournament, a melee in which the weak combatants were whittled down until only the strong remained. Even though the weather was growing colder and wetter, the training sessions still drew small crowds of onlookers. Lady Ingrid was a regular attendee, but she always stood in the shelter of the keep doorway where Wolfram could look away from her. He preferred to face the kitchen instead. If Lavender was outside scrubbing pots or plucking fowl, they could exchange secret signs that only they understood. It was a mischievous treat to communicate in such a way, and it never failed to lift Wolfram's spirits. Lavender's silent encouragement was enough to dispel the chilly feeling of Ingrid's gaze.

A few weeks later, Wolfram finally faced Ben, the only squire he had yet to beat since his return to sparring. Ben had always been quiet and withdrawn, but he'd become a very capable swordsman over the years. He was cautious and defensive like Wolfram, patiently waiting for his opening before going in for a strike. It would've been a lie for Wolfram to say he wasn't nervous. The two of them squared off on a frosty morning in the courtyard. The cold sunk its fangs into the left side of Wolfram's body, tightening up the stiffness that still lingered in his muscles. Several of the other squires had stopped training to watch. Even Dunstan was engrossed, indulging his charges their curiosity so that he could join in as a spectator as well.

The tip of Wolfram's blade hovered near Ben's, tapping it lightly as he probed for a response. Their swords made short, quick circles and counter-circles, each searching for a feint that could lead into a strike. Realising that Ben was the only opponent he could never bait into attacking first, Wolfram went for the opening cut. He tried to flick the tip of his blade up beneath Ben's guard and sting his hands, but the other squire withdrew and angled his sword for a counterthrust, forcing Wolfram to transition into a weaker defensive strike that skated down Ben's blade as he parried and withdrew.

A soft "ooh" rose from the onlookers as their eyes followed the lightning-quick exchange.

"Very good, both of you," Dunstan said.

Wolfram didn't let himself get distracted. He felt like he had something to prove, not to the others, but to himself. He wanted to know he was still as good as he'd ever been; that he was good enough to beat Aldrich. When he lunged in for his next attack, he circled to the side, forcing Ben to move in the opposite direction. A swell of excitement spurred Wolfram's step as Ben parried clumsily, smacking his blade aside with an inelegant strike that left him wide open. Wolfram hadn't readied himself to follow up on it, so he backed away again rather than risking a reckless lunge.

"Good, good," Dunstan said.

Wolfram was glad he'd been practising his footwork. He didn't think he could break Ben's guard without opening himself up and forcing a draw, but he could take him off balance. Ben wasn't as confident on his feet, and Wolfram's left-handed strikes further confused the muscle memory of his responses. Wolfram circled again, this time feinting before going in for a thrust. It was almost disappointing how easily it worked. Ben, expecting a repeat of the previous attack, lifted his blade too early. His hasty attempt to correct the movement made him stumble so that when the real attack came, he swung wildly, a swordsman's last-ditch effort to defend himself. Wolfram caught Ben's blade on the guard of his sword, angling it harmlessly aside as he pushed in. The blunted tip struck Ben near the kidney, crumbling his gambeson and forcing him to one knee with a gasp. It was a clean, clear hit.

Theodward let out a whooping cheer as a patter of applause sounded from the onlookers. Lavender clapped hardest of all. Wolfram felt himself grin behind his visor as he lowered his sword and offered a hand to Ben.

"I'm alright," the other squire gasped. "Just knocked the wind out of me."

"Well, you're the cock of the coop now, Wolf," Dunstan said. "Nowhere else to go but down."

"Trust you to find a cloud in every silver lining," Wolfram teased.

The corner of Dunstan's mouth perked up as he grumbled something under his breath.

Wolfram was about to go back to practising with Ben when Lady Ingrid's voice called across the courtyard, tripping up his good mood.

"Why don't you fight him, Dunstan? Let's see if our Wolf can get the better of his old teacher."

To Wolfram's dismay, several of the onlookers laughed, and their jovial mood spread to the others.

"Go on, Wolf!" Theodward said excitedly. "Let's see if you can do it."

"Dunstan made a fool of him the day he arrived," Gavin added less amicably.

Dunstan didn't seem to share the others' enthusiasm, but when Lady Ingrid repeated herself he held out a hand to Ben and took the training sword from him.

"If it's what the lady wants," he conceded. Donning a practise helm, he stood in front of Wolfram and raised his blade.

Anxiety tightened Wolfram's body. He'd sparred with Dunstan before, all of them had, but never seriously. The instructor only ever crossed swords with his charges to demonstrate specific techniques. If anyone tried to land an unexpected hit on him, they were swiftly rebuked and put in their place. Wolfram had experienced that on his first day of training when he'd tried to catch Dunstan off guard with the spear. He rolled the stiffness out of his left shoulder, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. He was glad his helm hid his face from the onlookers. If he could beat Dunstan, even just land a single hit on him, then he would feel like he finally had the skills worthy of a knight. But Dunstan was no squire. He'd learned how to fight in a real war, and his experience spanned decades. As Wolfram's eyes followed the tip of Dunstan's blade down to the guard, he was reminded of another powerful advantage the man-at-arms held over him: his lanky build. A few weeks ago, Wolfram had felt invincible against Theodward and his short arms. Now his position was reversed. Dunstan had the advantage both in height and reach, and Wolfram didn't think fancy footwork would trip up such an experienced swordsman.

"Ready?" Dunstan asked.

Wolfram nodded. "Ready."

The word had barely left his lips before Dunstan's attack came. It was plain in an instant that the man-at-arms was holding nothing back. He was fighting to win, and Wolfram would succeed or fail on his own merits. He stepped back, guarded, and avoided the stab, but he had no time to make an offensive move before Dunstan attacked again, flicking a swift cut up at his shoulder. Wolfram managed to guard once more and tried to cut back at Dunstan, but Dunstan feinted and Wolfram's sword swiped harmlessly through the air.

This wasn't like any fight he'd been in before. Dunstan was relentless, matching offence and defence with the effortless skill of a master. Wolfram felt like he was barely keeping up. Any moment now, he would make a mistake and lose. The aggressive attacks had thrown him off balance after Ben's slower, more guarded fighting style. He needed time to adjust, but Dunstan wasn't giving it to him.

The crowd of squires spread apart like a herd of sheep as Wolfram backed up into them. Dunstan advanced, but not so quickly that Wolfram wasn't ready for him this time. He dodged Dunstan's thrust and circled, continuing to back away.

"Oh, don't be a coward, Wolf!" Ingrid called. A few more voices jeered their disapproval, but Wolfram was deaf to them. He and Dunstan both knew that retreating was his best move. The older man had one disadvantage, and that was his agility. He wasn't as spry as Wolfram. Each retreat, dodge, and chase gave Wolfram time to anticipate the next attack. Now that Dunstan wasn't overwhelming him with a flurry of blows, he felt like he at least stood a chance. The next time Dunstan raised his sword, Wolfram went in for a high stab. Dunstan knocked it aside with his strike. Wolfram pivoted away, holding his longsword up at an angle over his shoulder so that it caught the next cut Dunstan threw at his exposed arm. The snappy sound of steel banging and rasping punctuated the air like the strikes of a hammer; two, three times in a row, then silence as the combatants broke apart.

Wolfram's breath panted heavily against the inside of his visor. He could see Dunstan's shoulders heaving. Once fatigue set in, even the most experienced swordsman started to make mistakes. It was just a question of who would tire first. Wolfram's gloved hands wrung the handle of his sword in search of a better grip. There was a warm ache in his wrists.

Dunstan attacked again. In a spurt of recklessness, Wolfram threw an equally aggressive strike straight back at him. Dunstan's sword almost grazed Wolfram's bicep, a cut that would've shorn through gambeson and muscle alike in a real fight, but it missed by a hair's breadth. Wolfram's sword came dangerously close to hitting Dunstan's chest, forcing him to jerk back rather than following up on his attack. Finally sensing that he had an opening, Wolfram lunged. Dunstan parried, but he was in a poor position to counter. Wolfram took a sudden step forward, then another. He moved so quickly that Dunstan stumbled. In less than a heartbeat, Wolfram knew it was now or never. He made a diagonal cut upwards, lunging in past the reach of Dunstan's sword–but an instant too late. His blade struck against his instructor's forearm just as the hard tip of Dunstan's sword thudded into Wolfram's chest beneath the collarbone.

It was a simultaneous hit. A draw.

"You're dead," Dunstan panted.

Wolfram hung his head in exhaustion and lowered his weapon. "And you lost your sword arm to kill me."

"On the battlefield, we'd both be done for." Dunstan rested his longsword up against his shoulder and held out his hand. Wolfram took it. Dunstan squeezed hard, then clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll do in a fight. Glad to see I taught you well."

The squires, having spread out to give them space, came over to congratulate Wolfram on his performance. The onlookers clapped once more. Wolfram saw Lavender grinning as she applauded. He took off his helmet and smiled back.

He'd landed a hit on the best swordsman he knew. That was enough for him. Now he knew that the next time he fought Aldrich, he could win.