Chapter 2

"Which of you can fight?" Dunstan barked at the ten young men lined up in the courtyard. They were between the ages of thirteen and sixteen–all the squires who slept in the parlour. Dunstan spoke as if he was addressing the whole group, but his question was clearly directed at the three newcomers. No one said anything. Two days had passed since Wolfram's arrival, and the other boys still regarded him with suspicion. He said nothing, unwilling to single himself out as a target for Dunstan's ire. His shoulder and neck still ached from two separate bruises he'd received yesterday for asking persistent questions. Someone else could take the blows this morning.

Wolfram shifted from foot to foot, growing uncomfortable as the silence stretched on. The mild weather had drawn at least a dozen people outside to watch the squires train, Lady Ingrid and her maid Petra among them. Dunstan folded his arms and waited. He was a man who rarely repeated himself. A female voice giggled somewhere behind Wolfram. He squeezed his hands tight behind his back and swallowed, staring at a butterfly that had landed on a weed near Dunstan's boot. Wasn't anyone going to speak up? They were making the whole group look bad. How were any of them going to impress Lord Erik if they stood here like dumb sheep?

Wolfram felt his ears burning. Good Lord, he thought to himself. If no one else could find the courage, he'd just have to be the one who stood up to Dunstan. Again.

He took a step forward. "I know how to fight."

"Do you now?" The man-at-arms pivoted smoothly on his heel, carrying on as if he hadn't paused at all. "Go on, then. Show me."

The boys had carried several boxes of practice gear out from the castle armoury before they began. Along with weights and leather balls, there was a bucket of wooden swords and a pile of poles with their ends wrapped in padded cloth. Wolfram stepped past Dunstan and reached for one of the swords.

"Not that," Dunstan said, then pointed at the poles. "One of those."

Wolfram hesitated. "I've practised with a sword."

"Good for you, but you're not going to be fighting with a sword when you face the king's enemies." Dunstan turned to the rest of the group, once against directing his lecture at the newcomers. "A sword is a man's sidearm." He patted the blade hanging from his belt. "It's your badge. It tells folk you're a man of status. You wear this thing to send a message," he looked back at Wolfram, "not to win wars."

The idea sounded ludicrous to Wolfram. The romance of a knight and his sword had inspired tales and songs across the kingdom for centuries. He'd adored playing at sword fighting as a child before learning the proper techniques from his father.

"Why do we train with them, then?"

"The same reason you learn to crawl before you can walk," Dunstan replied, his voice deeply entrenched in its sardonic tone. "If you lose your legs, at least you've got your arms to fall back on. The sword's a jack of all trades." He drew his blade and held it up for everyone to see. "It can cut, it can pierce, and it'll see off the average alehouse thug well enough. But if you send an army of swordsmen against spears, they'll lose every time." He returned his sword to its sheathe and thrust one of the wooden poles into Wolfram's hands. "The spear's the weapon of war. It'll kill your enemies before they get close enough to land a blow, and if you've got horsemen riding you down, it's the only thing that'll stand a chance of stopping them. Come on now, boy. Pretend you're standing in a battle line. Show me how you'd kill me if that stick were a spear."

Wolfram gripped the pole tight, unsure of how to handle the awkwardly long weapon. He'd never practised with a spear before, and judging by the look on Dunstan's face, he knew it. Wolfram felt foolish. He'd let himself get goaded into this, and now Dunstan was going to humiliate him in front of half the castle. Frustration at the lanky man and his irreverent tone spurred Wolfram into action. He swung the practice spear suddenly, trying to knock Dunstan in the side. Dunstan moved like lightning, stepping back and grabbing the end of the pole beneath its padded tip.

"It's not a club, boy. You stab–"

He didn't get the chance to finish before Wolfram twisted the pole in his hands. The sudden friction made Dunstan let go with a gasp. Wolfram hoped he'd skinned the old bastard's palm. He pulled back and thrust, trying to hit his opponent in the chest with the tip. Again Dunstan reacted quickly, stepping forward and to the side so that the pole went past him. He hooked his arm around the middle, gripped it with both hands, and yanked hard. Wolfram refused to yield the weapon, but Dunstan was far stronger than him. He stumbled forward and fell to his knees at his instructor's feet. He grit his teeth, steeling himself for a blow, but Dunstan spared him any further embarrassment, turning away to address the others instead.

"Everyone pick up a pole and spread out–far enough that you won't smack each other by accident. I don't want you taking any bruises you haven't earned." He pushed the pole back into Wolfram's hands. "You new pups, stand at the end there. Look at how the others hold their poles. Copy that stance. Then I'll show you how to stab with these things properly."

Wolfram was left with a bitter feeling in his stomach. He wanted to train with the sword, something he was confident with. Using a spear made him feel clumsy. With this weapon, he was as much of a beginner as the other new boys. Dunstan watched them closely, correcting their posture and moving their hands until he was satisfied with their stance. Then they began their exercise routine. They would thrust, pivot, march, thrust high, thrust low, raise weapons, march, pivot, lower weapons, thrust, hold brace...

Within half an hour, Wolfram's arms were aching and his brow was damp with sweat. They rested for a while, then carried on with the exercises. The physical activity soon drove the sting of humiliation from Wolfram's mind. As clumsy as he felt holding the spear, he eventually grew accustomed to its weight. The postures Dunstan taught them made it easier to carry the awkward weapon, and each thrust felt better than the last. It was no sword, but there was something satisfying about learning how to use a new weapon. He began to get excited again as they went through their second round of exercises. He would learn how to use many weapons while he was here. The spear, the lance, the war axe, maybe even the bow. And he was good at it. By the time they broke for the midday meal, he could tell he was doing better than Robin and the other newcomer. They looked exhausted, and their form had become worse the tireder they got, while Wolfram had managed to keep up with the older boys.

Dunstan made no effort to acknowledge Wolfram's progress. He collected up the practice spears and took them back to the armoury, then they went inside for cups of cold, watery beer and trenchers of meaty pottage.

Wolfram sat at one of the long tables in the great hall, too weary to chat with the others. He almost choked on his beer when a feminine voice spoke behind him.

"You almost knocked Dunstan on his back out there. Petra and I had a lovely giggle."

He turned and saw Lady Ingrid and her maid. It was the first time he'd been this close to the baron's daughter. She wore a dark blue dress that looked like a velvet shadow in the hall's dim light, and her lips held a keen smile.

Wolfram grinned at her stupidly. Older girls always seemed like they knew things he didn't, which made him feel far younger than he was.

"Thank you, milady." He needed to say something impressive, but he wasn't sure what. After a pause, he settled on: "I'll get him next time."

To his dismay, Ingrid turned away as if she hadn't heard him. The only acknowledgement he received was a faint "hm," before the lady and her maid carried on toward the high table.

There were no more exercises that day. Wolfram and the others were put to work cleaning the great hall, helping the servants collect up the mats, stack benches, and move tables before scouring down the wood surfaces with sand and water. It was grinding work, and soon the hall was filled with the scent of lye as the servants soaped and scrubbed the floor. Wolfram went to bed exhausted that evening, curling himself up in a warm blanket in the corner of the parlour.

They exercised five days a week. In the mornings, they would trot out to the courtyard with Dunstan, where he would have them lift weights, jog around the bailey, practice with weapons, or compete in ball games. In the afternoons, they worked with the servants. Sometimes they'd be mucking out the stables, other times tidying and cleaning, washing and mending clothes, or serving at table when the baron hosted guests. Only at the end of the week were they given a brief respite. Market day was followed by church day, and while the boys still had to help at the castle in the afternoons, they were permitted two mornings off to visit the market and attend church. Squires received no wage to spend, but Wolfram earned himself the odd penny running errands for the kitchen staff, and he enjoyed walking down the winding path to the village to see if there was anything he could afford at market. The colourful wares, the smells of cooking food, and the antics of minstrels performing, charlatans hawking, friars preaching, and whores painting their faces had a way of bringing the world to life.

Church was far less interesting to Wolfram. The castle village, which was named Firfallow, had only one church, and it was a cramped, draughty building maintained by half a dozen sleepy monks. Wolfram's father had rarely attended church, so he didn't feel the need to either. Dunstan didn't care one way or another. Wolfram contented himself with saying a prayer for his family in the castle's chapel once a week, for he knew his mother would have been upset if she knew he was shunning God entirely. Wolfram believed in God, he supposed, for monks and nuns believed in Him, and they were educated people. But as far as he was concerned, he and God could happily live their lives without bothering one another. Wolfram would try his best not to do anything blasphemous, and hopefully God would leave him to his own devices.

Two weeks after his arrival, Wolfram finally got the chance to train with a sword. His heart leapt when they lined up in the courtyard and Dunstan drew one of the wooden practice blades from the bucket.

"Everyone pick up a sword. Spread out in your usual places. We'll go through some strikes and guards, then you'll pair off to practice."

Wolfram hurried forward and grabbed a sword from the bucket. He'd seen some of the older boys sparring in the courtyard on their mornings off, but they hadn't trained against one another properly yet. He hoped this would be his chance to impress the others.

The practice blade felt better than he'd expected. It wasn't too light or too heavy, and he guessed there was a metal rod inside the wood to make it handle more like a real sword. It was a shorter blade, like the one Dunstan wore at his belt. This kind of weapon was a sidearm, not one of the big longswords a knight might carry into battle.

Gavin, one of the older squires, looked at the way Wolfram was holding his weapon and said: "You should pair with Sebastian. He's left-handed too."

"No," Dunstan said shortly. "He'll pair with anyone but. None of you will learn a thing if the left-handers always fight each other."

"It's the wrong way to fight," Gavin protested. His impudence earned him a smack in the shoulder.

"Wolf," Dunstan barked. "Tell Gavin why I shouldn't make you train with your right hand."

Wolfram paused to think. Dunstan waited, patient as always. If the instructor had one redeeming quality, it was that he never rushed anyone for an answer. Wolfram had always pestered the soldiers who visited his mother's inn for stories when he was a child, and one of them sprang to his mind.

"Spiral stairs are built to be difficult to attack by right-handed men."

Dunstan nodded. There was no approval in the gesture, only acknowledgement. "I was thinking more that you'd fumble all over yourself, but that's true too–at least if the mason knows to build the stairs the right way round. A right-handed man doesn't have room to attack around the curve when he's climbing. Not so for a left-hander." He slapped Gavin on the arm with one of the practice blades. "Wolf needs to learn how to fight right-handed men, and you should all have experience dealing with left-handers. Now go and line up."

Dunstan warmed them up with a few basic strikes and guards, but they were all things Wolfram knew already. By the time they were ready to pair off, he was tingling with anticipation. The group donned protective caps and padded gambeson jackets, then spread out to face each other in two lines of five. His choice of partner had been obvious; Robin of Dun Meadow was just as eager to spar as he was.

"I bet you're not as good as you say you are," Robin taunted him as they squared off a few paces apart. They were at the far end of the practice line, and Dunstan had walked to the opposite end to watch two of the more experienced boys first.

"I am," Wolfram said. "Watch." He put one foot forward and gripped the sword with both hands. It might not have been a longsword, but it was large enough for a thirteen-year-old boy to handle it like one. He held the wooden blade at an angle across his body, ready to guard any strike Robin made at him. The other boy hesitated, so Wolfram struck first. With a quick step, he extended his arms and lifted the guard into a thrust. Robin raised his own guard, turning Wolfram's blade aside with a clack of wood. Wolfram withdrew quickly, knowing he'd left himself open for a counterattack. Again Robin hesitated before edging forward and throwing a slow diagonal cut. Wolfram didn't even need to guard. A small step to the side took him out of danger, leaving him free to angle a cut of his own at Robin's neck. He swung hard this time, putting all his strength and speed into the attack. Robin pulled back into a clumsy guard at the last moment, and the harsh clack of wood stung Wolfram's hands as it reverberated through his gloves. Spurred on by the thrill of victory, he attacked again before Robin could recover. The tip of his sword went under the guard and struck the other boy in the stomach. Robin fell back with a gasp of pain and held up his hand in submission.

Wolfram stepped back, smiling. "See. I knew I could beat you."

"That's not proper sword fighting," Robin huffed. "You just swing like an idiot."

"Well, it worked!"

With a scowl, Robin lifted his blade and they began again. This time he was far more cautious. He held his guard and kept stepping back, wary of Wolfram's speed.

"Come on," Wolfram panted when his fifth strike failed to connect. "You have to fight back."

Robin refused to rise to the bait. He took a few shuffling steps forward, regaining some of the ground he'd lost, but Wolfram remained in control of the fight. He tried the same strike he'd used to go for Robin's neck, thinking that the heavy blow would force his opponent off balance again. But this time Robin was ready for it. He moved slightly to the side and swung his practice blade up at an angle, making Wolfram's attack glance off. Then, turning the momentum of his opponent's swing to his advantage, he continued the deflecting blow and clipped the top of Wolfram's cap. Wolfram stepped back in shock, rubbing his stinging head.

Robin was breathing heavily. " That's proper sword fighting."

"You tricked me. I thought you were guarding."

"It's called a parry."

Wolfram was confused. Robin had done it so fast. He hadn't seen the blow coming before it was too late. He wanted to lift his sword and go again, attacking faster and harder this time, but something stopped him. He held back, leaning on his practice blade as he massaged the tender spot beneath his cap.

"What's the matter?" Robin said.

Wolfram looked at the way the other boy was holding his sword. He was perplexed, but another feeling superseded his annoyance. He wanted to know how Robin had done that.

"Show me that parry one more time."

Robin looked surprised. "You'll just get hit again."

"Then I'll try and dodge."

Robin shrugged. "Alright."

They went back into the stances they'd held before. Wolfram tried the same cut again, and Robin repeated the deflecting guard. This time Wolfram stepped back quickly, and the strike grazed past his face.

"Let's do it again."

Robin nodded. He was enjoying showing off his technique. Wolfram had learned most of what he knew from his father, who was a fair enough swordsman, but far from an expert. Robin had probably learned from a seasoned knight who knew all sorts of clever tricks. They went through the parry several more times. Soon Wolfram realised his initial mistake; he hadn't expected Robin to be able to attack him again so quickly, so he'd given no thought to preparing a defence. He tried attacking again from a slightly different angle, positioning his arms so that he could twist his blade back into a guard that would turn aside Robin's counter. He fumbled the first attempt, but the second time it worked. He swung, Robin parried, he guarded, and the rhythmic clack-clack of their blades hit his ears like the steps of a dance.

"That worked!" Wolfram said breathlessly, unable to hold back a grin. "I want to try that parry now. Swing at me like I swung at you."

Robin did so, enjoying the opportunity to go on the offensive. It took almost two dozen tries, but eventually Wolfram managed to make Robin's strike glance off and continue the momentum of his swing into a cut. They broke apart to catch their breath.

"I need to attack faster," Robin said.

"You do," Dunstan interrupted as he walked to their end of the line. "Your problem is you think too much. You know more about fighting than Wolf, but he's the quicker swordsman. You'll trick him once with that parry of yours, but he'll get you the next time because you hesitated. Wolf–you've got to learn more than those same few strikes and guards. And Robin–you've got to practice till you can move without thinking. Show me your stance again."

They did, and Dunstan showed them which attacks and guards they could transition into most easily from that position. He had them repeat the small, quick motions over and over again, teaching their bodies to remember the movements instinctively.

Wolfram was in his element. He loved every minute of this. The exertion, the speed, and the precision thrilled him, but it was the feeling of progress he enjoyed most of all. Struggling to master a new technique was frustrating at first, but that frustration gave way to determination when he realised he was getting better. He could only imagine what it would feel like in a few years when he'd practised and honed his movements until everything came naturally. He imagined sparring against other knights at tournaments, no longer performing the two-step dance of a parry and a guard, but a whole string of movements that made his sword ring like music to the cheers of the crowd.

That morning of training was Wolfram's favourite so far. He couldn't stop talking about it with Robin afterwards. Their conversation continued throughout the midday meal and on into the afternoon as they cleaned saddles outside the stable block. It was the first time they'd spoken at such length since they arrived. Robin was an educated boy, much more so than Wolfram, and he came from a true noble family that could trace their lineage back centuries. He knew many classic tales and poems based on knights of legend, and Wolfram wouldn't stop pestering him until he recounted them all. Robin liked showing off his intelligence, just as Wolfram enjoyed showing off his speed and strength when they trained.

By the time Wolfram went to bed that night, he'd completely forgotten his worries about what awaited him at the Lavender Castle. Whether he ended up serving a knight or not, he felt like a true squire now, and it was everything he'd hoped for.