The senior cadet, Rodney saw, was now at a disadvantage. He hadn’t actually seen what Horace had done. He covered his uncertainty with bluster. ‘Oh, you did, did you? Well, perhaps you might just repeat the last sequence for me. What sequence did Sir Karel call?’
Without hesitation, Horace replied. ‘Sequence five, sir: Thrust. Side cut. Backhand side. Overhand. Overhead backhand.’
The senior cadet hesitated. He’d assumed that Horace had simply been in a dream, hacking away at the post any way he chose. But, as far as he could remember, Horace had just repeated the previous sequence perfectly. At least, he thought he had. The senior cadet wasn’t altogether sure of the sequence himself by now, but the trainee had replied with no hesitation at all. He was conscious that all the other trainees were watching with considerable interest. It was a natural reaction. Trainees always enjoyed seeing somebody else being berated for a mistake. It tended to draw attention away from their own deficiencies.
‘What’s going on here, Paul?’ Sir Morton, the assistant drill master, sounded none too pleased with all this discussion. He’d originally ordered the senior cadet to reprimand the trainee for lack of attention. That reprimand should have been delivered by now and the matter ended. Instead, the class was being disrupted. Senior Cadet Paul came to attention.
‘Sir, the trainee says he performed the sequence,’ he replied. Horace went to reply to the implication obvious in the emphasis the senior cadet placed on the word ‘says’. Then he thought better of it and shut his mouth firmly.
‘Just a moment.’ Paul and Sir Morton looked around, a little surprised. They hadn’t seen Sir Rodney approaching. Around them, the other trainees also came to stiff attention. Sir Rodney was held in awe by all members of Battleschool, particularly the newer ones. Morton didn’t quite come to attention but he straightened a little, squaring his shoulders.
Horace bit his lip in an agony of concern. He could see the prospect of dismissal from Battleschool looming before him. First, he seemed to have alienated the three second year cadets who were making his life a misery. Then he had drawn the unwelcome attention of Senior Cadet Paul and Sir Morton. Now this – the Battlemaster himself. And to make matters worse, he had no idea what he had done wrong. He searched his memory and he could distinctly remember performing the sequence as it had been called.
‘Do you remember the sequence, Cadet Horace?’ said the Battlemaster.
The cadet nodded emphatically then, realising that this wasn’t regarded as an acceptable response to a question from a senior officer, he said:
‘Yes, sir. Sequence five, sir.’
That was the second time he had identified the sequence, Rodney noted. He would have been willing to bet that not one of the other cadets could have said which sequence from the drill manual they had just completed. He doubted that the senior cadets would have been any better informed. Sir Morton went to say something, but Rodney held up a hand to stop him.
‘Perhaps you could repeat it for us now,’ he said, his stern voice giving no hint of the growing interest he was feeling in this recruit. He gestured to the practice post.
‘Take your position. Calling the cadence … begin!’
Horace performed the sequence flawlessly, calling the strokes as he went.
‘Thrust! Side cut! Backhand side! Overhand! Overhead backhand!’
The drill sword thudded into the leather padding in strict timing. The rhythm was perfect. The execution of the strokes was faultless. But this time, Rodney noticed, there was no additional stroke. The lightning fast reverse side cut didn’t appear. He thought he knew why. Horace was concentrating on getting the sequence correct this time. Previously, he had been acting instinctively.
Sir Karel, attracted by Sir Rodney’s intervention into a standard drill session, strolled through the ranks of trainees standing by their practice posts. His eyebrows arched a question at Sir Rodney. As a senior knight, he was entitled to such informality. The Battlemaster held up his hand again. He didn’t want anything to break Horace’s attention right now. But he was glad Karel was here to witness what he was sure was about to happen.
‘Again,’ he said, in the same stern voice and, once again, Horace went through the sequence. As he finished, Rodney’s voice cracked like a whip:
‘Again!’
And again Horace performed the fifth sequence. This time, as he finished, Rodney snapped: ‘Sequence three!’
‘Thrust! Thrust! Backstep! Cross parry! Shield block! Side cut!’ Horace called as he performed the moves.
Now Rodney could see that the boy was moving lightly on his toes, the sword a flickering tongue that danced out and in and across. And without realising it, Horace was calling the cadence for the moves nearly half as quickly again as the drill master had been.
Karel caught Rodney’s eye. He nodded appreciatively. But Rodney wasn’t finished yet. Before Horace had time to think, he called the fifth sequence again and the boy responded.
‘Thrust! Side cut! Backhand side! Overhand! Overhead backhand!’
‘Backhand side!’ snapped Sir Rodney instantly and, in response, almost of its own will, Horace’s sword flickered in that extra, deadly move. Sir Rodney heard the small sounds of surprise from Morton and Karel. They realised the significance of what they had seen. Senior Cadet Paul, perhaps understandably, wasn’t quite so fast to grasp it. As far as he was concerned, the trainee had responded to an extra order from the Battlemaster. He’d done it well, admittedly, and he certainly seemed to know which end of a sword was which. But that was all the cadet had seen.
‘Rest!’ Sir Rodney ordered and Horace allowed the sword point to drop to the dust, hand on the pommel, standing feet apart with the sword hilt centred against his belt buckle, in the parade rest position.
‘Now, Horace,’ said the Battlemaster quietly, ‘do you remember adding that backhand side cut to the sequence the first time?’
Horace frowned, then understanding dawned in his eyes. He wasn’t sure, but now that the Battlemaster had prompted his memory, he thought that maybe he had.
‘Uh … yes, sir. I think so. I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to. It just sort of … happened.’
Rodney glanced quickly at his drill masters. He could see they understood the significance of what had happened here. He nodded at them, passing a silent message that he wanted nothing made of this – yet.
‘Well, no harm done. But pay attention for the rest of the period and just perform the strokes Sir Karel calls for, all right?’
Horace came to attention. ‘Yes, sir.’ He snapped his eyes towards the drill master. ‘Sorry, sir!’ he added, and Karel dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand.
‘Pay closer attention in future.’ Karel nodded to Sir Rodney, sensing that the Battlemaster wanted to be on his way. ‘Thank you, sir. Permission to continue?’
Sir Rodney nodded assent. ‘Carry on, drill master.’ He began to turn away then, as if he’d remembered something else, he turned back, and added casually, ‘Oh, by the way, could I see you in my quarters after classes are dismissed this evening?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Karel, equally casually, knowing that Sir Rodney wanted to discuss this phenomenon, but didn’t want Horace to be aware of his interest.
Sir Rodney strolled slowly back to the Battleschool headquarters. Behind him, he heard Karel’s preparatory orders, then the repetitive ‘thud, thud, thud-thud-thud’ of wood on leather padding began once more.
Halt examined the target Will had been shooting at, and nodded.
‘Not bad at all,’ he said. ‘Your shooting is definitely improving.’
Will couldn’t help grinning. That was high praise indeed from Halt. Halt saw the expression and immediately added, ‘With more practice – a lot more practice – you might even achieve mediocrity.’
Will wasn’t absolutely sure what mediocrity was but he sensed it wasn’t good. The grin faded and Halt dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand.
‘That’s enoug
h shooting for now. Let’s go,’ he said and set off, striding down a narrow path through the forest.
‘Where are we going?’ Will asked, half running to keep up with the Ranger’s longer strides.
Halt looked up at the trees above him. ‘Why does this boy ask so many questions?’ he asked the trees.
Naturally, they didn’t answer.
They walked for an hour before they came to a small collection of buildings buried deep in the forest.
Will was aching to ask more questions. But he’d learned by now that Halt wasn’t going to answer them, so he held his tongue and bided his time. Sooner or later, he knew, he’d learn why they’d come here.
Halt led the way up to the largest of the ramshackle huts, then stopped, signalling for Will to do likewise.
‘Hullo, Old Bob!’ he called.
Will heard someone moving inside the hut, then a wrinkled, bent figure appeared in the doorway. His beard was long and matted and a dirty white colour. He was almost completely bald. As he moved towards them, grinning and nodding a greeting to Halt, Will caught his breath. Old Bob smelt like a stable. And a none too clean one at that.
‘Morning to you, Ranger!’ said Old Bob. ‘Who’s this you’ve brung to see me?’
He looked keenly at Will. The eyes were bright and very alert, despite his dirty, unkempt appearance.
‘This is Will, my new apprentice,’ said Halt. ‘Will, this is Old Bob.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Will politely. The old man cackled.
‘Calls me sir! Hear that, Ranger, calls me sir! Make a fine Ranger, this one will!’
Will smiled at him. Dirty as he might be, there was something likeable about Old Bob – perhaps it was the fact that he seemed to be in no way overawed by Halt. Will couldn’t remember seeing anyone speaking to the grim-faced Ranger in quite this familiar tone before. Halt grunted impatiently.
‘Are they ready?’ he asked. The old man cackled again and nodded several times.
‘Ready they are indeed!’ he said. ‘Step this way and see them.’
He led them to the back of the hut, where a small paddock was fenced off. At the far side, there was a lean-to shed. Just a roof and supporting posts. No walls. Old Bob let out a piercing whistle that made Will jump.
‘There they are, see?’ he said, pointing to the lean-to.
Will looked and saw two small horses trotting across the yard to greet the old man. As they came closer, he realised that one was a horse, the other was a pony. But both were small, shaggy animals, nothing like the fierce, sleek battlehorses that the Baron and his knights rode to war.
The larger of the two trotted immediately to Halt’s side. He patted its neck and handed it an apple from a bin close by the fence. The horse crunched it gratefully. Halt leaned forward and said a few words into its ear. The horse tossed its head and neighed, as if it were sharing some private joke with the Ranger.
The pony waited by Old Bob until he had given it an apple to crunch as well. Then it turned one large, intelligent eye on Will.
‘This ’un’s called Tug,’ said the old man. ‘He looks about your size, don’t he?’
He passed the rope bridle to Will, who took it and looked into the horse’s eyes. He was a shaggy little beast. His legs were short, but sturdy. His body was barrel shaped. His mane and tail were ragged and unbrushed. All in all, as horses went, he wasn’t a very impressive sight, thought Will.
He’d always dreamt of the horse he would one day ride into battle: in those dreams, the horse was tall and majestic. It was fierce and jet black, combed and brushed until it shone like black armour.
This horse almost seemed to sense what he was thinking and butted its head gently against his shoulder.
I may not be very big, its eyes seemed to say, but I might just surprise you.
‘Well,’ said Halt. ‘What do you think of him?’ He was fondling the other horse’s soft nose. They were obviously old friends. Will hesitated. He didn’t want to offend anyone.
‘He’s sort of … small,’ he said finally.
‘So are you,’ Halt pointed out. Will couldn’t think of an answer to that. Old Bob wheezed with laughter.
‘He ain’t no battlehorse, are he, boy?’ he asked.
‘Well … no, he isn’t,’ Will said awkwardly. He liked Bob and he felt any criticism of the pony might be taken personally. But Old Bob simply laughed again.
‘But he’ll run any of those fine fancy-looking battlehorses into the ground!’ he said proudly. ‘He’s a strong ’un, this ’un. He’ll keep going all day, long after them fancy horses have laid down and died.’
Will looked at the shaggy little animal doubtfully.
‘I’m sure he will,’ he said politely.
Halt leaned against the paddock fence.
‘Why don’t you see?’ he suggested. ‘You’re fast on your feet. Turn him loose and see if you can capture him again.’
Will sensed the challenge in the Ranger’s voice. He dropped the rope bridle. The horse, as if realising that this was some sort of test, skipped lightly away into the centre of the small enclosure. Will ducked under the fence rails and walked softly towards the pony. He held out his hand invitingly. ‘Come on, boy,’ he said. ‘Stand still there.’
He reached out his hand for the bridle and the little horse suddenly wheeled away. It shied to one side, then the other, then sidestepped neatly around Will and danced backwards out of reach.
He tried again.
Again, the horse evaded him easily. Will was beginning to feel foolish. He advanced on the horse and it backed away, moving closer and closer to one of the corners. Then, just when Will thought he had it, it nimbly danced to one side and was away again.
Will lost his temper now and ran after it. The horse whinnied in amusement and romped easily out of his reach. It was enjoying this game.
And so it went. Will would approach, the horse would duck and dodge and escape. Even in the close confines of the small paddock, he couldn’t catch it.
He stopped. He was conscious of the fact that Halt was watching him carefully. He thought for a moment or two. There must be a way to do it. He’d never catch a horse as light on its feet and fast-moving as this one. There must be another way …
His gaze fell on the bin of apples outside the fence. Quickly, he ducked under the rail and seized an apple. Then he went back into the paddock and stood stock-still, holding the apple out.
‘Come on, boy,’ he said.
Tug’s ears shot up. He liked apples. He also thought he liked this boy – he played this game well. Tossing his head approvingly, he trotted forward and took the apple delicately. Will seized hold of the bridle and the pony crunched the apple. If a horse could be said to look blissful, this one did.
Will looked up and saw Halt nodding approval.
‘Well thought out,’ said the Ranger. Old Bob elbowed the grey-cloaked man in the ribs.
‘Clever boy, that!’ he cackled. ‘Clever and polite! That ’un’ll make a good team with Tug, won’t he?’
Will patted the shaggy neck and the pricked-up ears. He looked now at the old man.
‘Why do you call him Tug?’ he asked.
Instantly, Will’s arm was nearly torn from its socket as the pony jerked its head back. Will staggered, then regained his balance. Old Bob’s braying laugh rang out around the clearing.
‘See if you can guess!’ he said delightedly.
His laughter was infectious and Will couldn’t help smiling himself. Halt glanced up at the sun, which was fast disappearing behind the trees that fringed Old Bob’s clearing and the meadows beyond.
‘Take him over to the lean-to and Bob can show you how to groom him and look after his tack,’ he said, then added to the old man, ‘We’ll stay with you tonight, Bob, if that’s not inconvenient?’
The old horse handler nodded his head in pleasure. ‘I’ll be glad of the company, Ranger. Sometimes I spend so much time with the horses that I start to think I’m one myself.’
Unconsciously, he dipped a hand into the apple barrel and selected one, absentmindedly crunching into it – much as Tug had done a few minutes earlier. Halt watched him, one eyebrow raised.
‘We might be just in time,’ he observed dryly. ‘Then, tomorrow, we’ll see if Will can ride Tug as well as catch him,’ he said, guessing as he said it that his apprentice would get very little sleep that night.
He was right. Old Bob’s tiny cabin had only two rooms, so after their supper, Halt stretched out on the floor by the fireplace and Will bedded down in the warm, clean straw of the barn, listening to the gentle whiffling sounds of the two horses. The moon rose and fell as he lay wide awake, wondering and worrying over what the next day might bring. Would he be able to ride Tug? He’d never ridden a horse. Would he fall off the minute he tried?
Would he be hurt? Worse still, would he embarrass himself? He liked Old Bob and he didn’t want to look foolish in front of him. Nor in front of Halt, he realised, with a little surprise. He was still wondering when Halt’s good opinion had come to mean so much to him when he finally fell asleep.
‘So, you saw it. What did you think?’ Sir Rodney asked. Karel reached across and poured himself another tankard from the jug of beer that was on the table between them. Rodney’s quarters were simple enough – even spartan when it was remembered that he was head of the Battleschool. Battlemasters in other fiefs took advantage of the position to surround themselves with the trappings of luxury, but that wasn’t Rodney’s style. His room was simply furnished, with a pinewood table for a desk and six straight-backed pine chairs around it.
There was a fireplace in the corner, of course. Rodney might have preferred to live in a simple style but that didn’t mean he enjoyed discomfort, and winters in Castle Redmont were cold. Right now it was late summer and the thick stone walls of the castle buildings served to keep the interiors cool. When the cold weather came, those same thick walls would retain the heat of the fire. On one wall, a large bay window looked out over the Battleschool’s drill field. Facing the window, on the opposite wall, was a doorway, screened by a thick curtain, leading to Rodney’s sleeping quarters – a simple soldier’s bed and more wooden furniture. It had been a little more ornate when his wife Antoinette was still alive, but she had died some years previously and the rooms were now unmistakably masculine in character, without any item in them that wasn’t functional and with an absolute minimum of decoration.