The Sword Fight
The fight had begun and Roland was putting in the biggest effort of his life. He was bashing and crashing and stabbing and slicing and dicing and pounding—and maybe even smiting as well. Again and again, Roland swung his wooden sword as hard as he could, hitting Shelby clean across the face.
Normally Roland wouldn’t hit his brother, or anyone else, in the face.
But this was different—Mr. Wright had supplied helmets for them both. They even had metal breastplates strapped on with leather to protect their bodies.
The sound of the wooden sword hitting the steel helmet made a horrible noise for those outside. It was even worse inside Shelby’s helmet. As Shelby stood there vibrating like a dinner gong, Roland thrust hard with his sword into his breastplate. And although Roland was hitting Shelby again and again, Shelby was hardly ever hitting his younger brother.
Roland imagined the little acorn bouncing left or right off the curved wall of the well. His sword flew this way and that at almost lightning speed. Roland stabbed Shelby’s breastplate once, twice, three times. Each was harder than the one before. Roland knew if he wanted to be a knight, this might be his last chance.
“Take that, Sir Shelby,” he yelled in delight. With the fourth powerful thrust, Roland heard a crunch. He looked down and saw the end of his sword break off and fall to the ground. It was not a good sword. The grip was rough and the cross-guard that was meant to protect his hand was not attached properly.
The shield Roland was using was small too, and its handle was hard to hold tightly.
Roland wasn’t going to blame his equipment. He had often heard his father say “A bad tradesman blames his tools.” Roland didn’t want to be a bad tradesman. He wanted to be a good knight. In all the tasks his father had set them, he had stuck out his bottom lip and tried harder than he had ever tried before. In the final fight, everything seemed to be going well right up until the moment when his sword broke in half.
Shelby, with a bigger shield and a longer, better-made sword, at once saw his chance. He hit Roland across the helmet.
The noise was horrible and Roland knew his face was going to come up in bruises. But there was little he could do. He didn’t have enough reach with his broken sword. His body still hurt from being hit by the sandbag. And he was as tired as he had ever been in his life.
He felt Shelby’s sword crash against his helmet. Twice, thrice, four times.
Roland’s whole body was shaking now with the clanging of the sword on his helmet. When the blows stopped, it was only because Shelby had turned around to make sure that their father was seeing how well he was now doing.
For a few seconds Roland had the chance to attack his brother from behind. Roland’s wooden sword was broken and so was sharper and more dangerous. And there was no armor on Shelby’s back.
With his ears still ringing, Roland lifted his weapon slightly. But Sir Gallawood’s words came straight back to him. “The object is to be true to yourself.”
Roland at last knew what being true to himself meant. He wasn’t a dirty fighter. He knew he wasn’t a cheat. He had to behave like a good knight.
At that moment, Shelby bent his knees, lifted his sword and swung it around with frightening speed. Roland quickly spun to get out of the way, but Shelby’s sword was moving too fast. And because Roland had turned around, the sword slashed not across his breastplate but his unprotected back.
It was a terrible blow. It felt like a red-hot strip of steel had been pressed against Roland’s skin. He fell to the ground face-first in agony. He rolled onto his back, hoping the softness of the grass would stop the pain. Shelby stood above him, ready to strike the final blow.
“Stop, stop, stop,” yelled Mr. Wright. “I think that’s it.”
“No,” groaned Roland in a tiny voice. “I can get up.”
With that, Roland painfully wriggled sideways. Shelby stabbed the grass where Roland had been only a split second earlier. Roland pulled himself to his feet and, despite everything, held on to what was left of his sword. Shelby pulled his own sword out of the ground. He raced back toward Roland and swung it as hard as he could.
Roland held out his shield and stopped the blow, but the shield broke in two and fell to the ground. The hand that was holding it now stung horribly.
Roland knew it was now or never. He stuck out his bottom lip and raced at Shelby with a series of swings and swipes. He found an opening and drove what was left of his sword into Shelby’s breastplate. It was a fine thrust. But the second the broken wooden sword hit the steel, the sword smashed into dozens of tiny pieces.
There was nothing more Roland could do. He had no sword, he had no shield and his back was throbbing. Roland fell to one knee, held his hands in the air and said with a small, sad voice, “I yield. You were too good for me, Sir Shelby. Well done.”
“I told you I was the best,” said Shelby. “We never needed a contest.”
When Roland took off his helmet, his red hair looked black because of all the sweat, and his freckles were all joined together by dirt.
Shelby removed his helmet and straightened his blond hair with his hand. He tried to stop puffing and panting. Roland had put up a terrific fight, but Shelby didn’t want anyone to think it had been close. He wanted it to look like beating his brother had been no trouble at all.
“I have acquired a great deal of knowledge watching you two today. I will give you my decision after Mass tomorrow.”
That night, an exhausted Roland blew out his candle and put his head down on his straw bed. Above the sound of the chickens next to the door and the pig under the table, and the summer rain on the roof, he could still hear Shelby breathing. It seemed to be happy, light breathing. Roland was sure Shelby must be smiling.
“You’re going to be chosen tomorrow,” Roland finally said. Shelby said nothing.
Roland stared up at the blackness and felt very, very sad. A wonderful chance had been offered to him, the chance to be a knight. It was an opportunity that would come to a boy like him only once in a hundred lifetimes. Yet Roland had lost the “fighting” part and had won the “making” part.
“Shelby was right,” he whispered to Nudge, who was lying in a small elm-wood box next to the bed. “Roland Wright—future armorer. It doesn’t even sound good.”
Roland tried hard to feel happy for Shelby. Even if he was no longer going to be a real knight, Roland had made a promise to Sir Gallawood.
No matter what happened, Roland had to be noble and generous. He had to tell himself that he was sure that Shelby would be a good page, a good squire and, in time, a good knight.
There was only one thing that stopped Roland bursting into tears. He knew he couldn’t have tried any harder.
