Chapter Four
“Keep your guard up,” Bevyn said.
Dutifully, David raised his wooden sword above his head, two hands on the hilt, ready for another attack by Dai, a boy bigger than he was (as most of them were), and nearly two years older.
“Now!” Bevyn said, and they met in the middle of the practice ring, set in the courtyard of the castle. The courtyard sloped in a northerly direction, and as Bevyn had taught, David tried to maneuver onto the higher ground.
Anna might have been having difficulties with the whole sewing thing—she’d spent the last twelve evenings complaining about living here: having to spend all day in the women’s solar, the gossip she didn’t understand, the lack of showers, the lack of Mom, which David could appreciate—but David didn’t see how it could compare to what he had to deal with every day. Not only was he having to learn three new languages at once: Welsh, French, and the God-awful Latin, but he actually had to fight boys every day—and have the adults in authority think it was perfectly fine.
So, David was a black belt in karate. Okay, yeah—that was really helpful. David knew how to fight, both fairly and unfairly, and he wasn’t having trouble holding his own in hand-to-hand combat. In fact, nobody wanted to fight him anymore and Bevyn was having him teach the boys a few things. It was the sword fighting and the quarterstaff that were another matter entirely.
“Thwack; thwack; thwack.” Their swords met, little splinters flying off as they hacked at each other. David had done all right that first session around the fire on the road to Castell y Bere, but in the daily grind of squire practice, his inadequacies and inexperience were bare for everyone to see. There were rules for how to swordfight, attacks and counter attacks and strategy, none of which he knew.
Dai’s weapon smashed into his fingers. “Merde!” David swore in French and dropped his sword. Despite his exertions, his hands were freezing in their fingerless gloves and only more painful now that Dai’s attack had nearly severed them. Once he became a knight—Ha! If I became a knight, as if the thought wasn’t entirely ludicrous under the circumstances—David would wear gauntlets to protect the back of his hands, but no one had issued him any yet, the worse for him.
“You became distracted by your footing.” Bevyn gestured to the ground where David’s sword lay, and David bent over to pick it up. “You were not attentive.”
“Yes, sir.” David resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, knowing that Bevyn was right. Every one of these boys had at least five or six years of experience in sword fighting on him—lightsaber fighting with his friends didn’t count—and David was woefully behind.
“Try again,” Bevyn said.
Dai and David faced each other. Dai was sweating despite the cold, and perhaps because he so badly wanted to beat David. Dai was the boy David had dropped to the ground that first day at wrestling, and he’d not forgiven him.
They hacked away at each other for another ten minutes, ending in a draw this time. Finally warm enough, David pulled off his woolen jersey and stood in his linen tunic. It was soaked with sweat and steam came off his torso.
Bevyn gave David a quick nod of his head and slapped his hand on David’s left shoulder as he passed, heading to the keep. “Good.”
David turned to watch as Bevyn strode across the courtyard.
“He said good?” Owain, a tall lanky boy, came to stand next to David. “He never says good! The best I’ve ever gotten is a grunt. Christmas must have gotten the better of him!”
David shrugged. “Maybe he’s encouraged by the fact that I managed to hold onto my sword. He’s happy that I don’t appear completely hopeless.”
“You’re not hopeless,” Owain said. “Dai is second only to Fychan in ability with the sword. You’ve been with us only a few weeks, and you’re younger than any of us. It will come.”
“Thanks, Owain.” The sudden camaraderie of shared experience surprised David. He’d felt so alone since they’d arrived at Castell y Bere, isolated in his difference and lack of Welsh, scrabbling so hard to catch up he’d not even thought he could make friends.
The two boys turned to walk together toward the stables where their horses waited. Mom had indulged Anna with a horse phase for about a year when she was eleven, and David had been given riding lessons too. There was a big difference, however, between riding sedately around a ring and galloping across the Welsh countryside with a shield in one hand and reins in the other. So much of what the boys were learning had to do with riding using no hands at all, just signaling with the knees.
David loved his horse though. The gelding was big and black—bigger than he wanted now, but Bevyn was convinced David would grow a lot taller and Taranis would fit him then. David knew only that he was proportioned all wrong, with too long legs and a ridiculously short torso. He was as short as Anna when he sat down, but his shins alone were three inches longer than hers! Humiliating.
With only thirty men-at-arms housed at Castell y Bere, they were under-manned, and the stables, a long, low building which hid the postern gate, was only half full. The stable boys worked hard all day long, trucking manure and hay out of the stables, making clean beds for the horses, cleaning them, brushing them, and saddling them—and yet, for Hywel, born a poor shepherd boy, this was an advancement, and would provide him with a secure future for his entire life.
If Llywelyn lives through this war, that is.
Typically, all the men and boys threw themselves at the food when it appeared at dinner and were in bed not long afterwards. Books and movies of medieval times often depicted feasting in the great hall as a long drawn-out affair, and while the meals could last for a couple of hours, people didn’t usually eat that whole time. It was just that there was nowhere else to go in the castle, so people sat around, munching and drinking until it was time to sleep, often on the floor of the great hall itself. David had done it a couple of times when the barracks were particularly cold and thought it not so bad, especially compared to sleeping on the rocky ground outside.
Taranis whickered as Owain and David walked into the stables. David stroked his nose, telling him what a good boy he was.
“What did you say?” Owain said.
“I told him he was beautiful and fast, and we would have a fine ride today,” David said.
“Tell him so in Welsh,” Owain said. “He’s a Welsh horse and needs Welsh words.”
David ducked his head, embarrassed. There is too much to learn; too much I do wrong by instinct, and no time to make it right.
“Let’s go, boys!” Maredudd, Bevyn’s second-in-command, shouted into the stables. One by one, they led the horses out of their stalls, across the courtyard, and down to the first gatehouse (Castell y Bere had two), situated on the western approach to the castle. Because of the uneven ground, horsemen usually didn’t mount until they were near the gate. It was as easy for a horse to misstep and go lame as it was for a man to turn an ankle, and the horses were, quite frankly, more valuable than the boys.
As always, Cadair Idris rose high to the northeast of the castle, a spectacular mountain peak in a country of beautiful mountains. Clouds circled it, and David wondered about the possibility of more snow. They would ride on patrol regardless of the weather. Rain or snow made no difference if the Welsh were to keep the English at bay.
This day, however, was a special day. Everyone had breakfasted on the remains of the Christmas feast, and now the boys, along with a dozen noblemen and Prince Llywelyn, were going to hunt boar, apparently a tradition the day after Christmas.
Anna’s comment when she’d heard about it resounded in David’s ears: That sounds about right. Good will and peace to all men, and now let’s kill a giant pig!
Christmas had not been wonderful, other than the singing, which David had enjoyed. Anna’s misery combined with thoughts of Mom’s lonely Christmas had pretty much put paid to anything in the way of good cheer for him.
Prince Llywelyn stepped out of the keep just as Hywel brought his horse from the stables. Everyone mounted: eight boys, ranging in age from fourteen to eighteen; Bevyn; Maredudd; Prince Llywelyn; and the other noblemen, most of whose names David had a hard time remembering because they were all named either Owain, Gruffydd, Hywel, or Rhys, as were their fathers—and headed down the long, twisting road to the valley floor below Castell y Bere. Trackers, handlers who would control the hunting dogs, and stable boys who’d hold the horses once they found the boar, came too.
They rode in two lines, each paired with another rider. Dai and Fychan always led the group, and today David maneuvered to a position that allowed him to ride with Owain. He was perhaps two years older than David, the son of one of Prince Llywelyn’s cousins. Genealogy was incredibly important to the Welsh, but that (and Latin verb forms) was something David was having a difficult time getting his head around. Plus, as was the case with Latin, he didn’t care. As far as was relevant here, David had no genealogy at all, so it always made for awkward conversation.
In what village were you born?
Uh.
Who was your grandfather on your mother’s side?
Uh.
Fychan had taken to whacking David up the back of the head on his way by, while saying “Who’s your da? Who’s your da?” When David didn’t answer, he would sneer and say, “Dafydd hasn’t got a da!”
For all practical purposes, that was true in both this world and the old one, which certainly didn’t make David feel any better. While his mother had been married to his father, even if David were illegitimate it would have been okay here, as long as his father acknowledged him. David didn’t even have that consolation.
They reached the valley floor and reformed the group, as it had become stretched out in too long a line. Amazingly, Prince Llywelyn himself approached and aligned his horse with Owain’s. Owain and David bowed their heads, a little awed to have him in such close proximity. He looked well, with no apparent aftereffects of the fight at Cilmeri.
Prince Llywelyn spoke. “The English are known to have quartered in the north for the Christmas feast, and the scouts report that we should remain undisturbed today.”
David glanced at Owain, but he seemed struck dumb by this conversation opener, so it was left to David to keep it going. “Will we meet them soon?”
“Soon enough,” Prince Llywelyn said. “Is your spear sharpened?”
“Yes,” David said. “Bevyn tells us we’re ready.”
The prince nodded. “I would have you watch yourself today. A boar is a dangerous beast and not the easiest first hunt.”
“If I were Bevyn, I wouldn’t want to rely on me,” David said. “I don’t know enough.”
Prince Llywelyn raised his eyebrows. “Then I suggest you learn faster.” He spurred his horse away.
Owain sputtered at Llywelyn’s back, perhaps wanting to protest on David’s behalf, but it merely left David speechless, not only at his words, but at the wink that had taken some of the sting out of them.
“Twice in one day?” Owain said, once the prince was out of earshot.
“What do you mean?” David said.
“First Bevyn and now the prince took the time to speak to you today. I’ve lived among the prince’s entourage for three years and that’s the first time he’s looked at me directly.”
“And you didn’t answer!” David said.
“Of course not! What was I supposed to say? He was talking to you anyway.”
“Why?” David finally put voice to the question that had nagged him since that first sword fighting experience on the road from Cilmeri. Why are they bothering with me? Why am I not a stable boy like Hywel?
Owain shrugged. “Because you’re smarter than the rest of us combined?”
Like that counted for anything? The lessons with the priest after breakfast, other than the impossible Latin, were the basics: reading, writing, and arithmetic. It was astounding, really, that they were learning anything academic at all, but it was important to the prince that the future knights of his household were even mildly educated. That David was learning to speak, read, and write three unfamiliar languages simultaneously was incredibly challenging for him, but that wasn’t what was impressive to the Welsh. The nobility learned multiple languages routinely.
It was his ability to do all the math in his head as well as his grounding in philosophy that startled them—just the fact that David had heard of Plato and Aristotle and could describe their philosophical positions. He knew how to think and discuss abstractly. It was all thanks to his mom, really, but David couldn’t tell them that.
At first, David didn’t even speak up in class, partly because he didn’t know this middle version of Welsh well enough, and partly because he didn’t want them to think he was smart and send him in the direction of becoming a priest or monk. David might not think sword-fighting was the best job ever, but it was better than sitting in a scriptorium for the rest of his life, copying books. Then again, they’d seen his handwriting, so probably that job was a non-starter from the beginning.
The company headed north from the castle, crossing a stream about a quarter mile from the road. Taranis got wet, but only up to his knees. David made a mental note to make sure he rubbed him down particularly well when they got home. The riders continued northeast, skirting the mountains that fronted the valley to the north, and following the Cadair River east. They spread out, more than they would have if looking for the English, and kept an eye out for traces of a boar.
Once under the trees, they slowed, and the tracker got down from his horse. Owain had told David that they wouldn’t be here today unless he’d found the boar last night, in preparation for this morning’s hunt. Boars are nocturnal. In winter, the adult males live alone so the intent was to approach his burrow, roust him out, surround him, and let him charge. What could be more fun than that?
A rustling sound came from the right. A thicket screened whatever made the noise, but David turned, finding the spear loose in his hand and slipping in his sweaty palm. David had carried it straight upright, its base resting in a leather cup near his right leg, but now he pulled it out and held it, javelin like, in his right hand.
“Steady,” Bevyn said.
The dogs bayed. Their handlers pulled them back and unleashed the larger hunters—at least one of which was a mastiff.
“Dismount,” Prince Llywelyn said.
Everyone obeyed, trying to hurry, leading their horses away from the scene and handing them to the servants. David gave Taranis’ reins to Hywel.
“Good luck, sir!” he said.
David decided it wasn’t the time to remind Hywel that David was no more noble than he was. Heart pounding, David took his place in the semicircle of men, spaced some three feet apart, spears out, waiting for the boar to come out of his bush.
The dogs barked in a cacophony now. They had pushed through the brush to find their prey. The branches rustled and a dog backed through a hole in the bush. Another dog squealed. At the sound, David hefted his spear again, and just to be on the safe side, pulled his sword from its sheath to hold in his left hand. He was near the far left of the circle, with an older man on one side and Bevyn on the other.
“Steady, lad,” Bevyn said. “Hold your spear low, not over your shoulder. You open yourself up to his tusk that way.”
David shifted position, and the next second, a huge boar—maybe five feet long and nearly two hundred pounds of compact, angry pig—burst out of the bushes in front of him, scattering branches and throwing off a dog that he’d impaled. As one, the men crouched to face him. He squealed and grunted, no longer advancing and still distracted by the dogs.
“Now!” Prince Llywelyn said.
Half of the men, including Bevyn, threw their spears at the same time. Yet the boar must have thought the prince was talking to him because as the men threw, he charged toward the center of the ring of men. Two of the spears hit—one on the right shoulder, another in the left rear. Perhaps because of them, the boar changed direction at the last second and turned toward where Bevyn and David stood.
Bevyn pulled out his sword. David had dropped his in the snow, once he saw the size of the boar. He held his spear with two hands, bracing himself to ram it into the boar because his only alternative was to drop it and run. Another spear hit the boar, low on the right side of his neck. He opened his mouth to squeal.
David squealed too, though his throat was so full of spit and fear no sound came out. At that moment, the prince appeared on David’s right and grasped David’s spear with both hands.
“Ready?”
“Ready!” David said, though nothing could have been further from the truth. He and the prince threw themselves forward just as the boar charged—and rammed himself onto their spear, which went straight down its gullet.
The boar’s momentum carried it past David, knocking him sideways as he released the spear. David rolled, arms over his head. Boar and boy came to rest no more than six inches from each other. David opened his blue eyes in time to stare into the boar’s brown ones before the life left them.
“Are you all right, son?” Prince Llywelyn fell to his knees beside David, patting him all over to make sure he wasn’t bleeding anywhere. David carefully sat up, feeling his arms and legs. His heart still pounded, but he grinned at the prince.
“I’m alive!” David said, not thinking about who could hear him and how juvenile that sounded.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Prince Llywelyn said in the same dry tone he’d used with David earlier. “First hunt, indeed.” He helped David to his feet and handed him his sword. “I suppose Bevyn could rely on you after all.”
“Yes, he could and did.” Bevyn tousled David’s hair, and then the three watched as the handlers soaked a cloth in the boar’s blood to satisfy the hunger of the dogs and call them off the hunt. It turned David’s stomach, and he glanced away. He didn’t want to watch the preparations to move the boar and bring him back to the castle.
“What a great day. Makes one glad to be alive, doesn’t it?” The prince looked down at David and gave him a wicked grin before walking toward the other noblemen who gathered on the other side of the boar to mount their horses.
“Can you ride?” Bevyn said.
“Am I that pale?” David said.
“Yes.” Bevyn whistled to Hywel, who’d been watching and now hurried over with Taranis. “Exhilaration comes first, then chills as the energy drains from you. When it is a man you’ve killed, the next emotion is revulsion, perhaps nausea, but this is a boar, an evil creature. Don’t allow his death to trouble you that way.”
“Yes, sir,” David said.
Back at the castle, David dismounted, even more exhausted than he usually was after patrol because, as Bevyn had warned, the adrenaline had seeped away, leaving him shivering and weak.
“Go and rest,” Owain said. “I’ll rub down Taranis.”
David shook his head. “Thanks, Owain, but I’ll do it. I’ll feel better when I’m done.”
An hour later, men carrying the boar appeared in the courtyard. For the rest of the afternoon, the kitchen was busy preparing it and then roasting it, with the odor of cooking wafting into every corner of the castle. It was dark outside by the time David found Anna on their usual bench and plopped down beside her. Usually she wrinkled her nose at his smell—sweat and horses and no bath for more than a week—but not today.
“I hear you killed it.”
“Prince Llywelyn killed it,” David corrected her. “I was merely holding onto the same spear he was when he did it.”
“Uh huh,” she said, not believing him. “I’m glad your day was more interesting than mine.”
“I’m sorry you’re so bored,” David said.
Anna shrugged. “I’ll live.”
David stared at her, waiting for more. He’d given her an opening to complain and she hadn’t taken it. David had even felt up to listening for once.
I killed a boar today!