The Story of Silence Page 9

  Swords done, Silence insisted on lessons. And the seneschal, bemused, played along. Each day, he would tell Silence how to hold his sword, how to lunge and slash and parry and strike. And he’d tell Silence to practise each move a hundred times, and Silence would, while the seneschal went about his true job, tending to the hounds, checking on the horses, making sure Cook had enough firewood.

  Silence knew that, with his soft paunchy belly and cheerful smile, the seneschal did not cut the dashing figure of a knight, not like the stiff-backed figures who rode in plated armour across Griselle’s embroidery, nor like his father Earl Cador, who came to Ringmar once a year in the company of guardsmen, astride his charger, his face grimly set. But the seneschal was as close to a knight as Silence would likely find in these woods. And so he took the lessons to heart and practised every day, sometimes twice a day, and told himself that he would be a knight, and he would earn himself a place at court, even if his father wouldn’t grant him one.

  So Silence studied all he could glean of knighthood from the stories told to him in the evenings, and he would ask the seneschal to test his knowledge. ‘Ask me what the virtues of knighthood are.’

  ‘Very well. What are they?’

  And Silence would pull himself up straight and say, ‘Faith. Courage. Honesty. Loyalty. Courtesy. Um.’ He counted on his fingers. He thought there ought to be seven, but he only had five. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes, quite perfect,’ the seneschal said. ‘And which is most important?’

  ‘Courage?’ Silence said.

  ‘No, no. Honesty. For without it, all the others are false. Remember that. You can speak your mind with courage only if you are an honest man.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There came a day when Lord Wendell was to make a visit; his true purpose was to hunt, but he was a well-mannered lord, so he brought along his wife and son and daughter, thinking that Griselle and Silence might enjoy the company, as well as a cart with some gifts for the hall: two plump hens with beautiful plumage, a few skeins of well-dyed wool, a small cask of mead, and sundry other things.

  For Silence, who (like many a child raised as a boy) was blissfully unaware of future events, the day of Lord Wendell’s visit began the same as every other at Ringmar. A pleasant conversation with Clopper and then out to the yard with his practice sword to swing and slash at the air until he was sweaty and panting. And just as he was thinking that it might be a good time to take Clopper into the cool shade of the woods, he heard a call from the kitchens. ‘Hey, then.’ Cook filled the doorway. ‘Little Sir Silence, if you’re done with swinging that sword, will you fetch some water?’

  He dashed over and leaned his sword against the wall of the kitchen house. ‘Of course, m’lady. Knights always help damsels in need. But I’m not little. And I wasn’t just swinging my sword. I was practising fighting.’

  ‘Ah.’ Cook handed him two buckets, then used her apron to dab at her red face. Silence could feel the heat pulsing out of the kitchen behind her. ‘You’re little to me. And I’m not a lady. Nor a damsel.’

  Silence looked up at her, puzzled. ‘But you wear a dress and you have a bosom, so how are you not a lady?’

  She laughed, a gulping sort of sound. ‘You’re a keen one to notice such things. A wise boy, you are. A lady’s not a matter of having a bosom or not. It’s a matter of birth. Were you born high or were you born low?’

  Silence considered this, swinging the buckets in his hands. ‘I was born in a chamber in Tintagel. So, fairly high I believe, for Griselle said the chamber was above the hall.’

  More of her gulping laughter. ‘High indeed. You’re the son of an earl.’

  ‘But I’m not a lady …’ This was all getting confusing.

  ‘That you’re not. Nor will you ever be. And nor will I ever be. I’ll be a cook, and some will call me a wench. And that’s that. Now fetch me water.’

  Across the yard, behind the kennel, Silence tied a bucket to the well’s rope. He liked the well, its stones mossy and damp and cool. He liked to lift himself up and lean over to peer down into its depths to see himself. His face was little more than a blob of white, his hair looking darker than usual, as it was sweaty and flattened to his head (Griselle would insist on combing it later). ‘Hellooo-ooo!’ he called down and let the echo come back around his ears. ‘Whoo-ooo are you?’ And then he smiled down at his reflection and it smiled back. Griselle said he looked mostly like his father, but with a little of his mother’s chin, rounded. He wished it was more square like his father’s chin. But when he was older, he could grow a beard like the seneschal’s and hide his chin entirely. He leaned further over and turned his head side to side. How would he look with a beard? Would it be as blond as the hair on his head? Or come in red-brown, like the groom’s, whose hair was otherwise almost as blond as Silence’s?

  ‘Have you fallen in?’ Cook shouted.

  He dropped back to his feet and lowered the bucket with a splash, hauling it up, then doing the same with the other. The weight was almost more than he could bear, the handles cutting into his palms, but a knight does not complain, and he hurried as best he could across the yard and put the buckets at the kitchen door. ‘Here is your water, m’lady Cook.’

  ‘Off with you, you scamp.’ She shook her apron at him.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Griselle said, coming out of the back door of the hall towards the kitchens. A few chickens scattered away from her. ‘What have you been doing?’ She tugged at his shirt to straighten it and widened her already bulging eyes at his hair. ‘And I do wish that Cook wouldn’t address you so. You are an earl’s son.’

  ‘Yes, she explained that,’ Silence said. ‘High-born. Like a lady, but not a lady.’

  ‘What?’ Griselle squawked. ‘Did she tell you that?’

  Silence paused and tried to recall. ‘No, I told her that. She told me I was the earl’s son.’

  Griselle shook her head, her face pale. ‘Up now to our chamber. Lord Wendell is coming to hunt. He and his family may stay for a day or two.’

  She chivvied him from the kitchen to Ringmar’s rear door. They passed Cook’s patch of herbs and Griselle’s rose garden – in full bloom now – and then inside Ringmar’s hall. Gloomy compared to the summer day. ‘Could we go some time to see Lord Wendell’s hall?’ Silence asked. ‘I would enjoy the ride. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Quite,’ Griselle said. ‘But your father wants you to stay at Ringmar.’ She gave his shoulder a little push, for he was dallying near his favourite spot by the hall’s tapestries, where the woodland scene showed, in the background, a knight riding off, streamers on his lance, towards a cave. If you looked really closely (and he had and often did) you could see a dragon’s snout poking out of the cave.

  ‘But why?’ Silence said. ‘Why do I have to stay here? Why can’t I go to court or at least to Lord Wendell’s keep?’

  ‘Bite your tongue! No more complaining! Why, I stayed for years upon years in a convent so bleak it makes Ringmar look like a fairground.’

  ‘Convents are for ladies. And I will be a knight and knights should be at court.’

  ‘Well, knights and lords spend time at hunting lodges too, so Ringmar should suit.’ She closed the door to the chamber behind them and caught hold of Silence’s sleeve. ‘Off with that jacket.’ She tugged it loose and Silence shrugged on the one she offered him, black with a pattern of vines embroidered on its stiff velvet. Griselle brushed at his shoulders and eyed him with a pursed mouth. ‘This won’t fit much longer. Growing like a weed. Boys.’

  ‘Why can’t I go to court?’ Silence insisted.

  Griselle flapped the jacket at him. ‘Court is a place for men, not little boys. Your father has enough to worry about without having you underfoot. He has coin to manage and armsmen to oversee and he must act as judge of all disputes that arise.’

  ‘But I will soon be a man,’ Silence declared.

  ‘Will you now?’ Griselle said, and Silence was puzzled by the tight amusement in h
er voice.

  ‘The seneschal has been teaching me the sword, and I can ride well, too, and I am working on being virtuous.’

  ‘Enough!’ said Griselle. ‘You can practise your virtues when Lord Wendell visits. How should you greet his wife?’

  ‘M’lady,’ Silence said and stepped back, just a hint to a bow at the waist.

  ‘Very good!’ She picked up a comb and dragged it through his hair. He stood and submitted to this treatment: courage, he told himself. Mooch watched from the bed, her eyes narrowed sceptically. ‘Now, run along, and see if you can be of use to the seneschal. But mind that you don’t get dirty.’ She nudged him along the hall. As he started towards the stables, he heard her mutter, ‘Boys! Or close enough there’s no difference. Now, where’s my sewing basket?’

  The clatter of the cart and the jingle of bridles announced the arrival of Lord Wendell’s party. A few men-at-arms rode in the lead and a servant sat at the reins of the cart, loaded with shields and spears, as well as the gifts for the hall. Silence stood in the yard as they approached, admiring how the lord sat his horse, the reins easy in one hand, his sword scarcely jostling at his hip. He admired how the lady sat, neat and prim, in her side-saddle, now and then smiling at something that the lord said to her. She held the girl in her lap, and the child seemed to be a miniature of her mother, with the same dark green gown and the same white headdress, and their dark hair done in braids in front, one on each side of their faces. The boy, also named Wendell, rode behind his parents, on a dappled grey horse larger than Clopper. He looked hot in his brown jacket, but glanced around curiously.

  ‘Welcome to Ringmar,’ Silence declared when the cart and horses had come to a halt in the yard. ‘We are glad of your arrival.’ And he offered the bow that Griselle had taught him and then straightened up, the better to inspect everything up close. The seneschal and the groom hurried about, helping the servant and the men-at-arms with unloading and putting the horses away.

  ‘We thank you,’ boomed Lord Wendell. He wore a soft velvet cap that didn’t quite hide his bald scalp, and a rich brown jacket over his broad shoulders and thick chest. ‘It has been a few years since I came to Ringmar. Indeed … I believe you were still a babe in arms, and now you are growing to be a fine boy. Quite tall!’

  The seneschal helped the lady and her daughter down and led their horse away. ‘M’lady,’ Silence said and carefully stepped back with his foot. In the stories, knights were always taking a lady’s hand, but he wasn’t a knight, and he wasn’t sure what he should do with a lady’s hand once he had taken it, so he simply bowed. ‘Welcome.’

  She returned with a curtsy, holding her skirt in both hands. ‘How is Lady Griselle?’

  Silence blinked. He didn’t think of Griselle as a lady … but of course, she was … but … ‘She fares quite well, m’lady. Come within and refresh yourself. Griselle is attending to your chambers, I imagine.’

  ‘Come, come,’ the lady chided, taking her daughter and son each by the elbow and propelling them forward. ‘You saw how nicely Master Silence bowed to welcome us. Now you must return in kind or else he’ll think we have no manners!’

  The two children shuffled and murmured and stared at the ground and the boy bent forward in a sort of bow and the little girl plucked at her dress. Silence felt a burst of pride that Griselle and the seneschal had raised him so well. ‘Welcome,’ he said again.

  Soon enough, the lord and lady were properly brought into the hall and handed over to Griselle, relieving Silence from the role of host. Cook began to load the table with roasted rabbit, bowls of turnips, heaps of bread, platters of greens. Lord Wendell and the seneschal sat next to each other, already deeply immersed in a conversation about tomorrow’s hunt, what game had been seen recently, and which hounds ought to be run. Silence sat on the seneschal’s other side, next to Griselle, who was leaning close to Lady Wendell. Now and then she laughed, loudly, then covered her mouth. The food disappeared and Cook clattered away with the serving bowls, returning with sweets: pastries and stewed berries and, for the seneschal and the lord, mugs brimful of wine.

  ‘To King Evan,’ the seneschal said, raising his mug. ‘May he always uphold the justice of the land. And continue to be generous to his lords.’

  ‘And to Earl Cador, long may he rule Cornwall,’ Lord Wendell added. ‘Until it is Silence’s turn, eh?’

  Silence felt his cheeks flush as he nodded. It seemed impossible that he would rule all of Cornwall, when he had only seen but this tiny corner of it.

  ‘Run along then,’ Griselle whispered in his ear and he stood up from the table.

  The light had nearly faded from the sky; soon Griselle would want him to retire – the hunt would begin early the next morning. So Silence hurried across the yard towards the stables; footsteps pounded behind him and he turned to see Young Wendell jogging after him. They pushed through the stable door together.

  ‘Which one’s yours?’ Wendell asked.

  Silence studied the other boy a moment. He had dark hair, the same hue as his mother’s, and a high forehead over brown eyes. Though not as tall as Silence, he still loomed, thick in the chest like his father. Silence pointed to Clopper’s stall and then walked nearer. The horse shook his head, and rolled his eyes a bit; he didn’t like the company, all the new horses, their smells and sounds. Silence could tell. He reached up and rubbed Clopper’s head, right behind the ears – his favourite spot. Clopper bent his neck, the better to enjoy the scratching.

  ‘Is he fast?’

  ‘Very,’ Silence said.

  ‘He doesn’t look it.’ Wendell levered his body up against the door of the stall, leaning over to examine Clopper’s flanks and fetlocks. ‘My father is going to get me a charger when I become a squire, as soon as I start jousting, he told me.’ He let himself down to the ground and waved a hand towards his dappled horse, which chewed at whatever was in its trough. ‘Arrow’s a good enough mount for my sister, but he’s no mount for a squire. Neither is this one.’

  ‘Clopper’s a very good …’

  ‘Clopper?’ Young Wendell snorted. Then stretched. ‘I want another pastry.’

  Silence followed him out of the stables, back into the twilit yard. Normally he stayed awhile in the stable, telling Clopper a story or two, or helping the groom with some task or other. But he felt he ought to be a good host. More, he felt he ought to do as Wendell did; weren’t they supposed to be friends, or at least companions?

  Back in the hall, the little girl had fallen asleep in her mother’s lap. The adults still talked, heads tilted close. The pastries were gone, but Silence hurried out of the back door to the kitchens, retrieving one for Wendell and a pitcher of wine as well.

  ‘What, don’t you have servants?’ scoffed Young Wendell as Silence went to the table to refill the men’s mugs.

  Courtesy, Silence thought, as a feeling of outrage swelled in his young chest. Courtesy was a knightly virtue. He cast his eyes sideways at Young Wendell. ‘Would you care to look at the tapestries?’ he asked. ‘They’re quite interesting …’

  But before Silence could explain just how interesting they were (he was keen to share their magic with someone else), the other boy scoffed, ‘Tapestries? Is that all you have to do here?’

  Silence felt a flush creep up his neck. ‘But they’re quite marvellous …’ The other boy was laughing, so Silence trailed off. In fact, he didn’t wish to share his tapestries with this oaf.

  ‘Up you go,’ Griselle called. ‘Both of you. The morning will be here before you know it.’

  Young Wendell grumbled as Silence took a taper and led them up the stairs, but as Silence entered the chamber he shared with Griselle, he felt a pang of relief. It was tiring being a host.

  The hunt was a great success. The hounds flushed out two massive harts and the party crashed and leapt and darted through Ringmar’s woods to bring them down. Clopper had done a fine job, nimbly bounding over a stream, and landing so softly that Silence was able to draw and release
an arrow that landed soundly in the hart’s neck. Lord Wendell delivered the killing stroke and complimented Silence on his aim.

  Young Wendell had charged on his dapple in pursuit of the other stag, the seneschal and a man-at-arms giving chase as well, but they returned empty-handed. ‘Just slipped into a thicket,’ the seneschal said, dismounting and helping to truss up the fallen hart. ‘The hounds couldn’t give chase.’

  Indeed, the hounds were panting, tongues lolling. ‘You ought to prune some of your brambles,’ Young Wendell said.

  ‘Now, it’s a wood, not a garden,’ Lord Wendell chided gently, as he inspected the edge of his sword.

  Silence thought the comment quite ignorant. The magic of the woods, well, part of the magic of the woods, came from them being quite unpruned, untouched, and almost fully wild. One never knew what one might find. He swung himself down from the saddle and lifted up one of the panting greyhounds, running his fingers down its thin legs, picking some bark and pitch off its paws. Then he remounted, holding the dog in front of him on the saddle, and started to ride back towards Ringmar, rubbing the dog’s ears (and now and then reaching out to stroke Clopper’s neck) and recalling the actions of the hunt, so that he could recite it to Griselle perfectly.

  Back in the yard, Lord Wendell and the seneschal conferred about butchering the hart, and the groom led away the horses. Silence took charge of the hounds, settling them into their kennels and checking their ears and paws and noses. Young Wendell followed him into the kennel, leaning against one of the waist-high partitions that separated the pens.

  ‘You ought to have some lymers,’ Wendell said. ‘I’d’ve caught that hart if you had lymers.’ He reached out with a toe of his shoe and poked at a greyhound’s ribs. ‘These dogs are much too loud. At Tintagel, they’ve dozens upon dozens of breeds. Boarhounds and kennets and raches and lymers and …’