Chapter 3

Months of training under Dunstan had toughened Wolfram's body, but he still couldn't understand how the kitchen servants endured the heat of the ovens all day. It was the height of summer, and every spare hand in the castle was hard at work preparing Lord Erik's harvest feast. Steam billowed from pots, wood spat and crackled beneath the ovens, and the kitchen cats hissed around Wolfram's ankles, daring him to put a foot wrong as he negotiated his way down the length of the room. Half a dozen cooks and half a dozen more helpers worked tirelessly to ensure the food would be ready when it was called for while Wolfram and the other squires ferried jugs and platters to the great hall.

"Why're you under my feet, Wolf?" Meg, the cantankerous, wimple-wearing woman who ran the kitchen, asked him.

"I need one more cask of mead for the high table."

"Right, right." Meg waved him past impatiently. "Into the pantry with you."

He made his way to the end of the room and pushed the pantry door open. It was cool inside, though anywhere would have seemed cool next to the heat of the kitchen. He and Robin sometimes snuck into the pantry cellar with Cat, the mute kitchen maid they'd met on their first day, where they would sip cold cider until someone turned them out. There was no spare cider that day. The pantry was shockingly bare. Everything must have been used up for the banquet.

Wolfram paused with his hand on the door and called back to Meg: "What are we going to have for supper tomorrow? Gil isn't coming till the end of the week."

"Oats and water, God bless us. I've no money for anything else."

The bare pantry was yet another indictment of the manor's poor finances. Wolfram hadn't noticed at first, but the cracks in the walls and the flaking plaster weren't the only signs of wear the Lavender Castle bore. Nothing ever got fixed around here. Supplies were never restocked until the last moment. If something broke, they had to repair it themselves. If no one knew how, it got left the way it was. The servants and squires were always patching up clothes, mending saddles, hammering in nails, and sanding down splinters. Perhaps one day, when Lord Erik had money again, they'd be able to hire proper craftsmen to set the castle back to rights.

Wolfram went to the back of the pantry and hefted the one remaining cask of mead into the crook of his elbow. He would've struggled to carry it a few months ago, but the weight now sat easily in his arms. He headed back through the kitchen, down the long stone passageway that led to the keep, up the half dozen steps to the parlour, and out into the great hall. The banquet hadn't started yet, but the room was already full of guests. Several of Lord Erik's relatives had come to visit, and most had entourages accompanying them. The men and their wives had gone out hunting that day while the older and younger guests remained at the keep.

Wolfram put the mead cask down in an empty spot on the high table and turned to Robin, who was setting out a stack of Lord Erik's finest horn cups.

"Did they get anything from the hunt? There's nothing left in the pantry."

"I don't know. I've been stuck in here since they got back."

A weary sigh interrupted them from across the table. Lady Ingrid sat perched on the edge of her father's seat, her chin propped up in her palms. Wolfram's throat tightened at the sight of her. She had a ribbon in her hair and wore an elegant woman's surcoat quartered in red and black.

"Father never brings game back to the castle."

"Why not?" Wolfram asked, before adding a hasty: "Milady."

"He gives it to the people in the village. Imagine that? A baron hunting for his subjects."

"He's a very noble man."

Ingrid laughed. "A noble man. A nobleman. Ha." The laugh faded as quickly as it had begun, giving way to a strange look that might have been sadness. "Are you going to be a nobleman someday, Wolfram?"

"If your father will let me. I'd be honoured to have an estate in Elkinshire."

"Good luck. The people here are a thankless lot." It seemed like she was about to say more, but at that point Lord Erik's loud baritone voice filled the hall as he strode in with the hunters. Ingrid took her chin out of her palms and quickly returned to her seat. She took the cup Robin had set out for her and banged it on the table in front of Wolfram. "Pour me some wine."

He did as he was told, keeping his eyes fixed on the cup so he didn't splash the table. Ingrid's pale fingers gripped the horn vessel tightly. Not for the first time, Wolfram was struck by just how smooth they looked. He'd never seen hands like that before, unmarked by labour and toil, untouched by the harsh summer sun. They were hands that had worn gloves all their lives. He wanted to reach out and touch them so badly that the neck of the wine jug shook for a moment. But Ingrid had stopped paying attention to him, so he set the jug back in its place and returned to the kitchen with Robin. Behind him he heard some of the noblemen talking in a strange foreign tongue that Lord Erik and his family sometimes used. Robin said it came from a country across the sea where Erik's ancestors hailed from. Wolfram hoped he wouldn't have to learn another language if he wanted to feast alongside them someday.

"You won't be that kind of knight," Robin told him as they walked down the passageway. "You'll be the fighting kind. The king will send you off to war so you can protect our borders and take foreign land for us."

"I like the sound of that," Wolfram said.

"I don't. I'd rather fight in tournaments and have a big estate."

"Don't you want to win a great battle for the kingdom?"

"Not really."

Wolfram couldn't understand the other boy's attitude. He desperately wanted to express himself, but his thoughts faltered as he struggled to piece together exactly what he was trying to say. He fell silent, and Robin gave him a satisfied smile, the smile that always said: I'm right on this one, Wolf.

He wished he could be articulate like Robin and Lady Ingrid. It took until he was carrying a platter of roasted venison back to the hall before he had his thoughts in order, and by then it was too late to resume the conversation.

It wasn't that Wolfram was bloodthirsty. He didn't relish the idea of killing people, taking plunder, or making his enemies scared of him. His mother had warned him about knights like that. The grim tales she told about the war had taught Wolfram to hate such men. No, he wanted to protect the kingdom. He wanted to be part of something great. When he was old, he wanted to hear people talking about one of history's greatest battles and be able to say: I was there. It was a simple thing to be proud of, and such things spoke to Wolfram's soul. Perhaps he didn't need to be able to express that to Robin. One day, surely, his actions would speak for themselves.

The squires were kept busy for most of the evening. When there were no platters to ferry back and forth, there were drinks to be poured, spills to clean up, roasts to carve, and pots to scrub. It was almost as exhausting as a morning out in the courtyard. Some of the noble guests spoke to the squires, asking them where they were from and who their parents were. Robin always invited polite conversation and laughter when he talked, but Wolfram was largely ignored. No one was interested in the son of a merchant and a horse breeder. Perhaps bringing up the names of his noble aunt and grandfather would have impressed them, but his parents had always warned him that people who didn't respect you for your own merits weren't people worth knowing. He preferred the company of the kitchen servants, anyway. They poured the dregs from the wine jugs into a bowl and shared it between them after the banquet. Wolfram laughed when Cat pointed out that Meg Kitchener had dozed off standing upright against one of the ovens, her wine cup dribbling on the floor as it listed dangerously in one hand. She shooed the boys out when she woke, giving Wolfram the wine bowl to take back to the parlour for the others.

There was a surprising amount of drink left over. When Wolfram set the bowl down on the parlour table, Gavin started collecting half-empty cups from the great hall to continue topping it up. The mixture of beer, wine, and mead tasted so foul that Wolfram abstained from more than a single sip. His head was already dizzy from his cup of wine in the kitchen. Drink was drink, however, and the older boys had at it like they were supping from a pot of ambrosia.

Wolfram went back into the great hall where it was quieter. Most of the guests had gone upstairs to sleep in the family's chambers while their servants settled in on spare mattresses and piles of straw near the hearth. Wolfram gazed at the doorway that led upstairs. He wondered what it was like up there. What sort of room did Lady Ingrid have? Was it plain and warm like the parlour, or colourful and lavish with rugs and tapestries?

A dozen or so people sat around the high table sharing a final jug of wine with Lord Erik. They were mostly his own men, Dunstan among them. The lanky marshal sat on the edge of the table next to his lord, who was frowning into the bottom of a horn cup. It was rude to stare, but most of the lights had been snuffed and Wolfram didn't think anyone could see him in the shadows around the parlour door. He edged closer to the high table, wondering what sorts of things Dunstan and the baron talked about when they shared drinks. The current topic of conversation seemed to be the new squires.

"They did well tonight," Erik murmured sleepily.

"Well enough at serving tables, but that's not what they need to be good at."

Erik let out a chesty cough that turned into a laugh. "An aspiring nobleman has to learn how to mind his manners, Dunstan."

"I wouldn't know anything about that."

Erik laughed again. "That one who played the flute, he was good. What's his name again?"

"Robin of Dun Meadow."

"That's it. Sir Morgan's son. Charming lad. Does he do as he's told?"

Dunstan nodded. "Aye. No need to worry about him. He's been taught how to behave in a household like ours."

"What about the other new boys? Wolfram and... Benedict?"

"Ben's a sheep. As soon as he toughens up, he'll be just what we need." Dunstan cleared his throat loudly and spat into an empty cup before taking a drink from a full one. "If we can keep Wolf in line, he'll be perfect, too."

"And can you keep him in line?"

Dunstan snorted. "He's not scared of me like the others. You hear about how he almost took me off guard the first day we trained?"

"Yes, Ingrid told me about that. He's a hothead then, is he?"

"It's not that. He's his own little man. Not too bright, but his heart knows what it wants. I've never seen a lad more eager for knighthood."

Erik sighed. "It's a shame. I hope one day he gets his chance."

"Just keep telling him it'll happen. If he's any trouble, I'll let you have a word with him. Promise him the biggest estate in Elkinshire. Say he'll get a kiss from Lady Ingrid. That'll keep the pup obedient."

Erik laughed once more. "You're drunk, Dunstan."

"But I'm not wrong."

Wolfram swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat. What did Lord Erik mean? Not all squires got the chance to become knights, but if they performed their duties well and impressed their lords, there was no reason they shouldn't. From the way the two men were talking, they made it sound like it wasn't likely to happen. Wolfram had the sudden urge to approach the high table and confront them about it. He hated the thought that he was somehow being tricked.

He made it two steps forward before the lingering effects of the wine made him stop. A wave of giddiness tugged him sideways, and he almost stumbled over. When his head cleared, he realised how stupid he was being. He couldn't just walk up to the baron and ask him something like that, especially not in front of his men. Dunstan would cuff him about the head and tell him to mind his tongue, then work him to exhaustion in the courtyard tomorrow.

Wolfram reached out until his hand found the wall and crept back to the parlour. The warm cheer of the evening had left him. He felt frustrated and uncomfortable now, his head buzzing with intrusive thoughts. Why were there so many squires at the castle and no knights? What was the point of it? And why had it sounded so dire when Lord Erik said: "It's a shame."?

The others were starting to get rowdy back in the parlour. Gavin held up one of the nice horn cups over the drinking bowl, beckoning the other boys forward as he pretended to bless them like a priest.

"Wine for you, Brother Sebastian?" His words slurred as he poured half the cup into the other boy's face. "Wine for you, Brother Robin? Who's that? Wolf! Come and be blessed!"

Wolfram ignored him and went to sit at the table. He wished he'd stayed in the hall. He'd always been jealous of the older boys when they drank and joked, seeming so much more fun and full of life than their elders, but now that he was being invited to join in, he wanted no part in it. The feeling itched like fingers on his back. A man wasn't supposed to brood like this. And he was a man. He'd left home, joined a great house, and he was learning how to fight. He should have been laughing and getting drunk with the others.

"Wolf!" Gavin yelled again. "Get Ben over here. He hasn't had a drink yet!"

Wolfram looked up and saw that Benedict was the only other person not joining in with the game. He'd huddled himself up in his blanket, making a futile effort to go to sleep. For the first time since they'd arrived together, Wolfram thought he understood how the other boy felt. Ben had been miserable from the start, never taking to the training, never engaging with the others. It seemed like he just wanted to be left alone. That night, Wolfram wanted to be left alone, too. Gavin made a scoffing sound and threw his empty cup at Ben. It bounced off his head, provoking a flinch and a roar of laughter from the older boys.

Ben threw the blanket off and stood up, the anger on his face plainly holding back tears.

"You'll be in trouble if you get caught with Lord Erik's cup!"

Gavin just laughed harder. "Oh no, not his cup! He'll put me in the pillory and flay off my cock!"

Wolfram realised it was only going to get worse. Gavin and his friends were blind drunk, and this wasn't the first time they'd picked on Ben. He wanted to sit quietly and let someone else deal with it, but that would've been cowardly. Nobody else was going to take Ben's side over Gavin's.

"Wouldn't be much to flay off," Wolfram said loudly.

Gavin looked at him, still laughing. "Shut up, Wolf. Get over here and have a drink."

"You threw your cup away."

"Then go fetch it for me."

"Ben's not wrong. If Dunstan gets sick of our noise, he'll come in here and give us hell."

Gavin snorted, lifting up the drink bowl so he could pour it directly into his mouth. He stumbled, almost spilling the whole thing before Sebastian and the others rushed forward to save it.

Gavin let out a loud belch. "What's he going to do? I'm not scared of him."

"Yes you are. I heard him say so. And Lord Erik won't make us knights if we don't stay in line."

Gavin staggered forward and slammed his palms on the table. "You don't know anything. I'll be knighted in a year, and you'll be scrubbing my boots."

"What if you aren't?"

Ben spoke up again, echoing the gloomy thought that had been in the back of Wolfram's mind for months: "What if none of us are?"

Wolfram winced internally as Gavin spun around and advanced on Ben. He was angry now, and the quiet boy was the easiest target in the room.

"Come here," Gavin said. Ben took a step back, the anger on his face giving way to fear. Wolfram looked to the other boys, but they were ignoring what was going on, enjoying the drink bowl to themselves now that Gavin wasn't hogging it. He got up and stepped in front of Ben. Gavin sneered down at him. There was at least a foot of height between them, and while Wolfram was strong, the older boy was undoubtedly stronger.

"Hey," Gavin mumbled the word drunkenly, then threw a sudden punch at Wolfram's face. Wolfram stepped back, reacting as instinctively as his training had taught him. He was still dizzy from the wine, but not nearly as drunk as Gavin. The fog clouding his thoughts made it easy to form a fist and throw it right back at the older boy's jaw.

He hadn't expected punching someone to hurt so much. He felt like he'd broken his hand when his knuckles slammed into Gavin's sweaty stubble. For an instant, he thought he'd made an awful mistake, then Gavin stumbled, his eyes rolled back, and he dropped to the floor like a sack of apples.

Wolfram stared in shock, numb to the pain in his hand as the others let out a roar of astonished laughter. Gavin's friends knelt to pick him up, breathless with mirth at how quickly he'd fallen to his younger opponent. Robin clapped Wolfram on the shoulder.

The laughter slowly faded as Sebastian slapped Gavin's cheeks, trying to wake him up. His body had gone floppy and still.

"Did you kill him?" Robin said in a low voice.

Gavin snored loudly, jerking an arm up in a helpless effort to knock Sebastian's hand away. He mumbled something unintelligible and slumped down again. The laughter returned.

"God help you tomorrow, Wolf," Sebastian said with a grin. "He's not going to forget that."

"It'll be a miracle if any of you remember anything," an angry voice snapped from the kitchen passageway. Meg stood there with a candle. She wore the expression of a woman roused rudely from her slumber. "I can hear you all the way in the kitchen. You keep this up and you'll have Dunstan in here."

"I told them," Ben said.

Meg bustled her way through the group, glaring down at Gavin, then up at Wolfram.

"Have you been fighting?"

Wolfram paused, groping for a good answer. His hand still throbbed from the punch, and the pain made him feel guilty. He didn't want it to seem like this was his fault.

Robin came to his rescue.

"Gavin started it. He was blind drunk. All Wolf said was that Lord Erik wasn't going to make us knights, then Gavin started giving him and Ben a hard time."

Meg's eyes narrowed. "Well, you can forget about all that. What was I thinking, giving you boys wine? There'll be no more next time, mark my words." She picked up the near-empty drink bowl and upended its remaining contents over the floor. "You can clean that up first thing in the morning. None of you are getting any breakfast till you do." When a chorus of protests answered her, she raised her voice over them. "It'll be a dozen times worse if I let Dunstan know you were drunk and fighting all night! Drink some water and get yourselves to bed. Don't make me come back in here." She looked down at Gavin, who had been dragged into a sitting position against the wall. "And lie him on his side so he doesn't throw up in his mouth. Give him that empty bowl, or you'll be cleaning up his mess, too."

Meg's intervention had the desired effect of settling everyone down. The squires usually got away with a lot. They were important people in a lord's household, and the servants weren't supposed to boss them around, but Meg had been at the castle for a long time. She was good friends with Lady Julia and Dunstan, which made her a troublesome woman to cross. As the only female authority figure on this side of the castle, she took it upon herself to mother the rowdy boys. Before she went back to the kitchen, she gave Wolfram another probing look. He averted his gaze and headed toward his mattress.

Robin nudged him on the way and whispered: "You gave Gavin what he deserved."

Wolfram tried to feel proud. He'd knocked down a much bigger boy and done what seemed like the right thing. The others were still chuckling about it. But still his thoughts didn't sit easy. He kept thinking about Lord Erik and Dunstan's conversation, and sleep was a long time in coming that night.

If there was one saving grace, it was that Gavin couldn't remember anything the next day.