Following Orders

Everyone has their own story. Or stories. They’re those ones that you tell over and over and sometimes they get more outlandish with each telling until nobody believes you at all anymore. But sometimes they’re just short and simple about the frog that stuck its tongue out while you were down fishing at the pond.

This is my story. I spent about a week trying to decide how to start it, so I hope this is good enough. Because it took me long enough even to get this beginning right.

Anyway, I’ll tell you right now that this isn’t one of those fancy schmancy stories that your friend made up to impress a girl. It’s all true. And it’s definitely not one of those little tiny stories that you just laugh about around the dinner table. Nope. It’s a big one. And here I am, throwing off the grand beginning I had planned, so I guess I’ll just jump right in to where it all started. To the very very beginning.

I was in the courtyard, polishing away at my master’s armor. My best friend Ronald did the same beside me. Only I wasn’t working very hard. I was too busy watching Ronald’s master. Sir Gawain of the Round Table.

He was tall and big. A bushy red beard hung on to his face like one of those fuzzy caterpillars you see sometimes in the garden. I liked to watch Gawain. I was jealous of Ronald for having such a great master. My Scottish friend honestly had the best luck of any squire in Camelot while I was stuck with drunk Sir Manchmal.

Sir Gawain waved the dust out of the air that a pack of impish boys had kicked up in their mock sword fight. He smiled down at their awed faces. “Why don’t you boys run along?” I could imagine him saying. “You’ve got to keep practicing with those swords if you’re going to be knights one day.” Even though I couldn’t hear the words, it wouldn’t be hard to guess. He tousled the hair of the nearest boy and they all ran off, thumping at each other with a renewed vigor.

“Get back to work you good for nothing boy!” I looked up just in time to receive a clout on the head for my daydreaming.

“Yes sir.” I bent over the neglected breastplate and scrubbed furiously. After a moment, I glanced up to make sure my abuser’s footsteps had retreated before relaxing my pace. I lifted a hand to the back of my head. “Ow.”

Ronald snorted next to me.

“What?” I asked indignantly.

He shook his head. “If you would just do your work rather than watching everybody else’s, you wouldn’t get as many headaches.” Ronald’s accent never ceased to entertain me. It was just something about the way he rolled the words off of his tongue that made me want to laugh at whatever he said.

“There’s nothing to do!” I threw down the breastplate and it landed in the dirt, shining dully up at me, mocking. “This old thing is as clean as it’s going to get. Sir Manchmal’s just too cheap to get another one.”

“Just yesterday you were complaining about having too much work to do. Which is it?”

I threw up my hands. “It’s both! It’s too much boring work and not enough interesting work.”

“And by interesting you mean training, right?” His bright blue eyes squinted in the afternoon sun as he looked at me.

“Exactly! At least your master’s willing to train you. Mine couldn’t care less whether I end up a knight or kitchen boy!”

“You know, I don’t think you would make a very good kitchen boy seeing as you steal biscuits from Cook.”

I punched Ronald playfully in the shoulder and he laughed.

“Well I’m afraid I can’t help you very much there. Sir Gawain might be willing to train you but I doubt it.”

“And why’s that?” I crossed my arms over my chest, knowing the answer, but wanting a different one.

“You know why. He’s real particular about who he’ll take on as squire. You’re just not quite…his type.”

Ronald’s freckled face met my irritated one in complete honesty. I sat down next to him so that we could look each other in the eye. “His type?” I knew what the response would be to this too but I wasn’t in the mood to be turned down. “What’s that supposed to mean? Quiet and patient and nice?”

Ronald cocked his head, his curly red hair getting in his eyes. “Well. Yeah, I guess so. There’s nothing wrong with the way you are Will. It’s just…not Sir Gawain’s type.” He lifted his right hand in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know what else to say.”

I sighed and lifted the dull breastplate back onto my lap to begin shining again. “Well I really don’t care who it is who trains me so long as someone does it. I could even put up with Sir Manchmal if he would even do it. But he won’t.”

Ronald’s face lit up and he slapped me on the back. “Will, I’ve had an idea! Why should you wait around for him to train you? I can do it!”

“What are you talking about? You’re not a knight.” I glared at him skeptically.

He laughed at my expression. “I might not be knight, but I know a lot more than you do right now.”

I wrinkled my nose, knowing it was true and starting to come around to the idea. “Fine.” I didn’t want to seem too excited. “When do we start?”

He motioned to my rag. “Get back to work before you get in trouble again, okay? Can you meet me back here in an hour? Will you be finished with your chores?”

I picked up my work again. “I have to finish up this armor and then sweep the room and then groom the horse.” Sir Manchmal’s horse didn’t have a name. He was just “the horse.” I, on the other hand, didn’t even have a horse to name. But if I was going to learn how to be a knight, I would have to get one eventually, right?

“Well that’s not so bad. I’ve got about the same. Here in one hour?”

“Sounds good.”

The hour passed slowly but I was waiting for Ronald when he arrived. He carried two poles about two feet long each. They were straight and smooth and as he approached, he swung them skillfully through the air. Swoosh, swoosh. I leapt to my feet.

“For sword fighting.” Ronald handed me one of the poles and immediately leapt back.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He smiled wryly. “Just didn’t want to be in the way if you decided to start swinging that thing right off.”

“Very funny. Now let’s get to work.”

“Whatever you say.” He took a few steps back and raised his stick. “Now I want you to strike like this.” He did a rapid jab with his right arm. I imitated the movement. “Not quite.” Ronald adjusted the angle of my arm and then guided me slowly through the strike. “Like this. Now you try.” I did. “Much better! Now keep doing that.”

I jabbed and jabbed again. Ronald did the same across from me. “Hey, I think I’m finally getting the hang of this!” I grunted as I jabbed harder and harder, watching my imaginary sword dart forward, repeatedly killing an invisible enemy. I paused, breathing a little harder than usual. “What’s next? Um, Ronald?”

My friend had stopped moving. His sword had fallen to the ground and he stared grimly at something behind me. “What is it?” I turned to follow his gaze. “Oh,” I breathed. The end of my stick touched the dusty earth by my foot. I swallowed hard.

The tall gate in the castle wall had opened and there a line of people slowly streamed in. I looked more closely and saw that they were all men – knights and soldiers. Many makeshift stretchers held still forms and were carried by those that should have been on them themselves. Out of every three fighters, two could be seen who had blood dried on some part of their body or armor. Slings and crutches were abundant. Those still on their feet were not walking. They were trudging, limping, tripping. All of the faces were grim and haggard. Not a man spoke and as they entered the courtyard, and the sounds of daily castle life died out too. The sun peered over the stone walls, but no armor or swords glistened. If anything, they seemed to only smolder dimly.

Stable hands and servants from every corner of the courtyard rushed as one body to help them. Stretchers were gently stolen from worn and broken hands and crutches replaced by strong arms. It was like a silent dance, the steps well practiced and well known. The women had already brought out basket upon basket of bandages, salves, and needles and thread. Some of Cook’s boys carried large vats of stew and setting them on quickly assembled tables only to return with stacks of bowls and handfuls of spoons.

The stretchers were set in rows upon the ground, neatly laid out with enough space to walk between them. Bowls and buckets of water were ferried to each prone warrior. Some of them, the strong ones, drank from them. Others were tended to by anyone who could treat a wound, including seamstresses, stable hands, and laundry women. The castle’s physician could already be seen working on one man and immediately moving to another. Blood stained hands and tears stained faces.

This wasn’t the first time this castle had known such a scene. I remembered the last time. I was there. It had looked much the same as it did now, the courtyard full of the wounded. But instead of watching the men stream in, I had run to meet them. My eyes searched every face eagerly. A few had met my gaze and then looked quickly away. Some had ignored me completely. Others gave me sympathetic looks. I saw face after face. I examined every fighter, be they soldier or knight. Not a single man returning to the castle that day had avoided my roving eye.

But the one I was looking for had not returned to the castle that day. I didn’t find him in the healthy. I didn’t find him in the sick. I didn’t find him in the wounded. I didn’t even find him in the dead.

I had settled down in a corner to wait. Maybe he would come. Maybe he had just stayed in some town for a few days on the way back. Maybe he was too sick to travel and was healing up. He would return as soon as he could. It was better than the alternative that I couldn’t bring myself to think.

A battle worn knight had caught sight of my small eight year old form. He came over and settled down next to me. My eyes landed on his hand first. It was bandaged up. His right hand. Blood already seeped through and it hung limply by his side. Even as a child, I could tell he probably wouldn’t be able to fight with it any more. I looked up at his face and recognized the grey eyes that were more tired than the last time I had seen them and the scraggly beard that was longer.

“Where is he, Sir Manchmal?”

The old family friend had sighed heavily and then looked down to meet my young, eager gaze. “This isn’t going to be an easy thing to hear, young Will.”

“What do you mean? Is he waiting in another town until he’s well enough to travel?” It was the hope I still clung to with every ounce of my child’s mind. I wouldn’t let myself think the other thing. I blinked innocently, awaiting the tired man’s answer.

He wrapped a strong arm around my shoulder. “No, son. He’s not coming home. Your father died a brave man, saving my life.”

But my young head refused to believe such an outrageous thing. I laughed and it came out hollow. “No, that’s not possible. My father is a good fighter – he’s a strong warrior!”

“Yes he was, my boy. I know it’s hard to accept, but your father won’t be coming back to the castle. He had a good funeral. Sir Gawain’s orders. Many people were saved by your father’s sword.”

I went numb. “That’s…that’s not funny, Sir Manchmal. It’s…it’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry Will.”

It hadn’t taken long for the crying to start and when it did, the kind man comforted me.

As if the blow of my father’s death weren’t enough, the news was even harder on my mother. She had loved my father with all her heart and losing him took its toll. She was with child. Both were lost in less than a week.

I was alone in the world. Or so I thought.

“Come on Will. You can stay with me. I’ll train you up to be the best knight that ever lived, just like your father.” Sir Manchmal had taken me in.

“But my father wasn’t a knight. He was just a soldier.”

“Yes, but if he had had the chance, he would have been the finest of all the knights in the world.”