Sir Peter tsked. “No, I wouldn’t, unless I thought it was for your own good. However, what your father might decide to do is not in my control. I would advise that if you want to be in the group of knights that goes after the rebels…” The knight stopped speaking and looked at both squires squarely in the eyes. “…both of you need to be on your best behavior. While squires are a critical part to any group of knights, no commander would allow any individual they felt would compromise the objective to participate. The last thing any knight wants to do is play babysitter to a squire who is in over his head.”
Burchard lowered his eyes in acknowledgement of what his knight master was saying. He would have to prove not only to his father but to the other knights that he was worthy of being sent with them into Stinyia. It made sense. Even if his father was the type to just let him go because he was in charge, Burchard would never have accepted a handout, not without proving to everyone he deserved to be there just as much as the other squires.
Taking a deep breath, Burchard was surprised to find himself yawning.
“I’m sorry. I have worn you out with all this talk. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Ruschmann gave Burchard’s hand one last squeeze before walking out with Sir Peter.
Burchard’s eyes began to droop when he heard someone slide into the chair that Ruschmann had been sitting in. He forced himself to open his eyes and saw Lady Gladys.
“M’lady,” he said, struggling to push himself back upright to greet her properly.
“Hush, Burchard,” she said and put a gentle hand on his cheek. “You’re still healing.”
Burchard gave her a tired smile, and his eyes started to flutter shut of their own accord. As he sank back into his pillow, he swore he felt Lady Gladys’s lips on his cheek, but he could not get his eyes to open to verify.
5
It took several days before Burchard was deemed well enough by Lord Hampton to leave the healing rooms and return to his bunk at the barracks. Burchard was relieved to be out of there. As much as it had been nice to not worry about his father or anyone else critiquing his every move, he was itching to get his sword back in his hand. He couldn’t remember very many times in his life when he had not had a sword of some sort strapped to his side. Even his earliest memories of himself, he had a wooden sword in his belt. Instead of a stuffed toy, he had slept with a wooden sword in his bed. His father had thought the behavior amusing and had encouraged Burchard to develop his interest in swordsmanship from a young age. His mother had not been pleased but had no say in the matter.
Burchard shut the door to the healing rooms and took a deep breath, relishing being outside again. The side door was the quickest way into the healing rooms and was used often when there was an emergency instead of carrying a wounded man through the entire castle. It also gave him a chance to go unnoticed since the door was on the side of the castle, away from the knights’ daily bustle.
Sir Peter was leaning against the side of the barracks when Burchard rounded the corner. He gave his knight master a quick bow. “Good morning, sir.”
Sir Peter smiled. “Good morning, squire. Why don’t you put on some suitable clothing and grab your sword. I’ll meet you at the training yard in ten minutes.” Without waiting for a response, Sir Peter pushed off the building and headed in the direction of the training yard.
Grinning to himself, Burchard took the steps into the barracks two at a time, thrilled Sir Peter was as eager as he was to get a sword back into his hand. He quickly changed out of the undyed shirt and pants that the healer had put him in and into a thick pair of brown wool pants and a dark green shirt. He pulled on his soft leather boots, followed by his belt with the scabbard. He gave his sword a quick once-over before heading back out.
As Burchard approached the training yard, he could hear the clang of swords as other knights and men-at-arms practiced. Sometimes the yard would get quite full, making it difficult to have enough space to maneuver for anything other than the most basic of drills. Much to his relief, there was a small group of knights being led by Sir Martin and the rest of the yard was empty. Behind the training yard was a small archery range, which was full of the castle’s archers practicing.
Burchard walked straight up to Sir Peter. “What’s the plan?”
Sir Peter smiled at Burchard’s eagerness. “To take it slow. You’ve had over a week off; I don’t want you to get hurt because we rushed into complicated sword maneuvers.”
“Does that mean I’m just doing drills solo?” Burchard asked in a flat tone. He had been hoping for a challenge.
“You can warm up with slow drills, but I was planning on sparring with you. We just will keep it slow and stick with basics. If it goes well today, maybe you can practice with Ruschmann tomorrow. I have had him under my wing while Sir Daniel is recovering. The extent of his wounds was far greater than yours. I imagine it’ll be another week or two before Sir Daniel is cleared by Lord Hampton,” Sir Peter informed Burchard.
Intrigued by the news that he’d get to spend more time with Ruschmann, at least for a little while, he did three slow laps at a jog around the training yard before stretching. When his stretches were completed, Burchard moved to a spot a far enough away from Sir Peter that he wouldn’t hit him with the sword, but close enough for the knight to critique his moves. He unsheathed his sword and held it loosely in his right hand. High, middle, low, he instructed himself. Two sets of strikes followed by two sets of blocks. Then he swapped his sword to his left hand and repeated. He was going slow as he had been told. At first, he thought it was silly to go slow, but as he began his fifth round with his right hand, he could feel his body tiring. I guess even a week of bed rest can really set me back.
Apparently, Sir Peter could also tell he was tiring. “Finish this round, and then you’ll take a break.”
Burchard nodded. When he was done with his left hand, he slid his sword back into the scabbard and snagged a canteen from the fence post.
From behind Burchard came coughing. It would start, pause, and then start again. Turning, Burchard tried to hide his dismay when he saw his older brother, Reginald, or Reggie as he was known to most. Reggie was sixteen and had curly black hair that was cut right below his earlobes. They shared the same blue eyes and nose. Where Burchard was lean, Reggie was built much more solidly, with broad shoulders and a thick torso. He was almost a carbon copy of their father in his younger years.
Unable to stop himself, Burchard stiffened, and his hand dropped to his sword hilt. “Squire Reginald,” he said formally.
“I want to practice with you,” Reggie announced.
Burchard took a step back so he could see Sir Peter’s face. His knight master’s expression was carefully blank. As the General’s favorite and oldest son, Reggie could do whatever he wished when it came to Burchard, and their father would turn a blind eye to it. Although this was the first time Burchard had encountered Reggie since he’d become a squire, Sir Peter had met him before.
Mouth tight, Sir Peter nodded. “I will allow it as long as you promise to take it slow, squire. Your brother was just released from the healer’s care.”
Reggie smirked at Burchard. “I promise I won’t damage him.”
Burchard barely caught the whispered “too much” at the end of his brother’s sentence. Burchard kept his face neutral, refusing to react to his brother.
Burchard put the cap back on his canteen and unsheathed his sword. Since the day before Reggie left to start at Trinity Page and Squire School, they had been rivals. Reggie had asked Burchard to practice with him one last time before he departed for Trinity. Burchard had eagerly obliged. Just at the end of their round, he had disarmed Reggie in front of their father, who arrived home at that precise moment. Reggie had been beaten by their father for the first and only time in his life because he had allowed his younger brother to disarm him. Six years later, he still hated Burchard for it.
Two days later, after Reggie left for Trinity, the General had returned to Wolfensberger Castle, and eight-year-old Burchard got to feel the brunt of his father’s anger for disgracing the ten-year-old by disarming him. The whipping Burchard had been given made the beating Reggie had gotten look mild in comparison. Ever since that day, he had to be careful to not spar with Reggie to the point where he would win. Otherwise, he was punished. His father’s logic had never made much sense to him. Why would he care that his younger son was a better swordsman?
Burchard swung his sword a few times before stepping into position in front of his brother. His face was carefully schooled into a mask. Reggie raised his sword and crossed it lightly with Burchard’s.
“One…two…begin,” said Sir Peter from his position on the sidelines. To Burchard’s surprise, Reggie started off with a simple drill. They continued that way for several minutes. Burchard settled into the rhythm and allowed himself to relax. Suddenly, Reggie gave him a wicked grin before slamming his sword down much harder than his previous strikes. Burchard’s arms vibrated from the impact. Not expecting the force of his brother’s strike, Burchard found himself giving up ground. Reggie shifted to the side, spun, and did a backhanded strike. Burchard scrambled to get his sword up in time.
Frustration bubbling up, Burchard could feel his body protesting at the strength of Reggie’s blows. He struggled to keep his face blank and to meet Reggie, but all he could do was block. He couldn’t get his own strikes in. He spared a glance toward Sir Peter, wondering if his knight master would rescue him or not. Sir Peter gave a slight shake of his head. I guess it’s up to me.
Burchard frowned. He had been warned to take it easy, but Reggie was doing his best to make him look bad. He returned his attention to his brother, deciding to push back. As Reggie swung his sword in a high strike from the right, Burchard spun out of the way, then leapt toward his brother from the side, doing a middle strike before his brother could regroup.
Reggie glared at him. Burchard focused on his brother’s face and sword, taking a step to the left, then found himself falling forward. His brother had tripped him. Face in the dirt, Burchard flushed deep red as he felt his brother’s sword caress his neck. If that wasn’t enough, Reggie also planted a foot in the middle of his back.
“Yield,” Reggie said.
Burchard couldn’t move enough to respond without getting a mouthful of dirt.
Reggie ground his foot into Burchard’s back again. “Yield!” he demanded.
