Sir Gavin led Achan out of the stronghold and into a nearby wheat field. The sky was grey now, and the flat land stretched out in all directions. Frost painted glistening white stripes in the furrowed, dead fields.
Sir Gavin plunged the waster into the frozen earth and it listed to one side, not having gone very deep. He folded his arms. “First things first. Whenever you come against an attacker you need to study him in a glance. You’ve no time to dally in this, do you understand?”
Achan nodded. “What am I looking for, sir?”
“Weapons and armor, mostly. Different rules apply depending on whether your opponent is wearing armor, what kind of armor, and what kind of weapon you both have. There will be times when you see that you are outmatched. Every man wants to be brave, but sometimes it’s best to run.”
Achan had never heard of a knight running from anything.
Sir Gavin must have read his expression. “Aye, lad. We’ve all had to retreat at some point in life. Doesn’t mean we can’t keep fighting the next day. But you have to know when you’re beat. My point is, sometimes you can tell if you’re beat before you start fighting.
“Take a sword, for example,” Sir Gavin said, toeing the waster. “There are all types. Those with a rounded tip are cutting swords and therefore useless against all types of armor. And since that sword can’t cut through armor and doesn’t have a sharp point to pierce it, if you’re carrying a cutting sword and meet an armored opponent, you’re beat. Until you’ve been fighting as long as I have and are willing to risk your skill against armor — which is a daft thing to do, but you might have reason — you’d best not take on an armored man with a cutting sword. Understood?”
“Aye,” Achan said.
“Some will say that one should never fight without a shield. It’s true that the shield is a formidable weapon. One you can barely live without if you have no armor. But shields are often forgotten, broken, or dropped. So until you learn to hold your own without one, I shall not give you that crutch.”
Achan shifted and the frozen grass crunched beneath his feet. He struggled to grasp Sir Gavin’s meanings. It was almost as if the man were speaking in a foreign tongue. The sky was a pale grey now. They were running out of time before Poril would be expecting the milk.
“All right, then.” Sir Gavin yanked the waster from the grass and handed it to Achan, hilt first. “Let’s see your grip.”
Achan took the handle with both hands and spread his feet the way he’d seen knights do. He put his right foot forward and held the sword out in front, tipped slightly to his left.
Sir Gavin frowned and fingered his beard braid.
“Is something wrong?” Achan asked without moving. “Are my feet right?”
“You’re fine,” Sir Gavin said. “It’s just…not many are left-handed.”
Achan relaxed his posture and brought the sword down to his side. “Is that bad?”
The old knight’s eyes twinkled. It was like looking into two versions of the world: one a blue sky under a bright sun and the other a dark sky filled with stars.
“Not bad at all,” Sir Gavin said. “We will use this to your advantage. You will train right-handed as well as left-handed. A warrior is only as good as his biggest weakness. This way we will make you strong with both hands. It’s not a big difference with a longsword. You’ll notice it more with the short sword.”
A thrill washed over Achan. He was going to learn the short sword, too? “What other weapons will I learn?”
“Once you’ve got a grasp on the longsword, I’ll teach you the short sword and shield. Then the axe and the dagger. That should do to keep you alive.”
Achan’s eyebrows sank in puzzled humor. “Because so many are looking to kill me?”
“Riga and Harnu, to start.”
Achan stiffened. “I can take care of them. What about the lance, sir? Will I learn to joust?”
“No. Jousting is a sport these days. The lance will only slow down your training on the other weapons.”
“Are you in a hurry to teach me, sir?” Perhaps the knight would give him some important detail that would give him hope with Gren.
“Aye. I told you already: you’re behind. Practice all you can and waste no time on thoughts of jousting.”
The clip-clop of hooves turned Achan’s head back to the stronghold. Noam led Prince Gidon’s ebony courser over the drawbridge and into the field to exercise it. His curious gaze fixed on Achan and Sir Gavin.
The knight took the practice sword from Achan. “Keep this waster with you as much as possible, and whenever you can, practice guard positions. See here.” He raised the weapon above his head. “High guard.” He lowered it straight out in front. “Middle guard.” He pointed it at the ground between his feet. “Low guard. Practice switching between positions quickly and smoothly.” He swung the waster to the side of his right leg, then the left. “Back guards. Practice those too. You use an axe?”
Achan nodded. “Keeping the hearths hot is my responsibility.”
“Good. An axe uses different muscles than a sword. If I’m to train you in the axe, I need you strong enough to handle it.”
“But what about you?” Achan asked. “Shouldn’t I see to your needs? Clean your armor, get your meals? I’m not sure which horse is yours. How will I—”
Sir Gavin raised a calloused hand. “Not necessary, lad. You’ll be of little use to anyone a weakling. Get yourself strong first.” He handed the waster to Achan.
Achan accepted the sword without meeting Sir Gavin’s eyes. He was far from a weakling. His fight with Riga and Harnu was proof of that. Besides, the wooden sword was lighter than he expected.
But after practicing the guard positions over and over, Achan’s arms ached desperately and the waster didn’t seem so light anymore.
At sunrise, Sir Gavin dismissed him. Achan hid the waster under in his wool blanket and rushed through the milking with aching forearms.
When Poril left to deliver Lord Nathak and the prince’s breakfast, Achan quickly washed the dishes and ran to Gren’s cottage.
No one answered the door, so Achan jogged around to the back. He found Gren standing in a wooden tub, skirts hiked up to her knees, legs splattered with dark, smelly water. A long rack stretched creamy wool on tenterhooks behind her like a frame.
He stood watching her from the shaded wall of the cottage. Her chestnut hair hung long and silky to her elbows. As always, she wore her grass green dress that made her hair and skin look lustrous. Achan had once told Gren she looked pretty in green, and he’d never seen her wear another color since. He wished she’d wear a cloak, though. Outside in this cold with her feet in water like that…she was likely to catch a fever.
“Is it so terribly difficult to remember a cloak, Gren?”
She gasped and her wide, brown eyes found his. “You scared me!” She lowered her voice. “Well? How did it go?”
“He gave me a waster.”
“Really? How exciting!”
“If I became a knight…” Achan inhaled deeply, still slightly out of breath. The rank smell of urine and dung from Gren’s fulling water filled his nostrils. “Would that change your father’s opinion of me?”
Gren’s smile faded. She looked down to where her feet vanished into the smelly liquid and stomped on the fabric a bit. She didn’t speak for so long it seemed she’d forgotten to answer. “More wool,” she finally said. “We’re to dye it red for Prince Gidon. You’d think he has enough red clothing by now. I wish I could work with the silk that Lord Nathak orders on bolts from Nesos.”