Outside the pavilion a young man was waiting for Edward. He was tall but of a light frame, he wore simple padded arming clothes in the blue and red of Sir Jean. Sandy hair hung over green eyes, and the spurs at his feet were silver. The smile on the man’s face was broad and welcoming, full of the warmth of a long lost friend. He stepped forward when Edward emerged. “You must be Edward, I’m Davide, Sir Jean’s squire.” He enthused to Edward, and the younger man had to smile in return, he couldn’t help it, Davide’s humour was infectious. “You just fought your first action if I’m not mistaken and I’ve come with remedies for the post battle blues.” He said this so matter of factly that Edward was stunned, his brows rose and he was fairly sure his mouth might have fallen open.
Davide placed a hand on Edward’s shoulder in comfort, “Relax, no one thinks less of you for it, after my first action I barely spoke for a week, there’s no shame in it.” He turned to face John and gave the boy a wink, “Master Page, John isn’t it?” He asked and received a wordless nod, John’s eyes now alight with hero worship that was normally reserved for Edward, “Would you be so kind as to grab Edward’s helm, sword and arming cote and meet us at the tiltyard to the west of camp?” John nodded and ran back into the tent. “Actually saddle his destrier and bring the brute along too!” Davide called after the page, seemingly as an afterthought. Davide moved his arm around Edward’s shoulders and began dragging him along to the western edge of camp, following the track of churned mud that passed for a road in the mercenary camp.
Edward followed in stunned silence for several heartbeats before he regained the use of his legs and ground to a halt, “Where are you taking me?” He asked lamely, the only words he could manage. Davide looked down at his young charge with an irritatingly superior smile.
“To the tiltyard of course, like I told our young friend John,” Davide said as though he were talking to an infant, again that irritating sense of superiority grated on Edward, “The quickest cure is to train, and also to talk with your comrades, you’re not the only one who might have been shocked by what you saw now are you?” Edward looked down at his feet as the truth of the words sunk in.
“Sir Aethelred had squires.” He mumbled, as close as he could come to acknowledgment of Davide’s point. Davide nodded and squeezed the younger man’s shoulder.
“Now come on, listen to good ol’ Davide and follow me to the tiltyard!” He announced it like some royal proclamation. Edward decided he liked this charismatic youth, despite everything he had yet to truly become acquainted with the other squires within the Great Company, and he could understand why Davide was their undisputed leader.
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The tiltyard was one of the better areas in the mercenary camp. It had received a fair amount of attention. A mercenary lived and died by his strength and skill of arms, and as such the many Captains who called Siegesstand home wanted their men sharp and ready. The yard was large and encircled by a well made two rail fence with several swinging gates, all of fine Arturian oak and stained with precious oil from the east. The ground inside was covered in a layer of white sand that had been brought across from the western coast. The yard was further divided into two sections, one for mounted training that featured three separate barriers for jousting, and several quintains for solo practice. On the other side it was designated for ground work, with a selection of pells, tall wooden posts for practicing weapon blows, and open ground for sparring. Against the fence a pile of fresh pine logs rested, ready to replace any pells that were broken. In a show of solidarity the archery butts were just outside the yard allowing the Knights and Men-at-Arms to watch their archers train as well.
Edward stared openly, after all he hadn’t yet visited this part of the camp, and all in all it was a very fine tiltyard, perhaps the equal of his father’s and certainly bigger. Davide leaned on a rail and watched a pair of Squires in company surcoats circling each other with drawn swords. “I got Aethelred’s boys first, they’re understandably cut up by the loss of their Knight, Sir Clement has already agreed to take them on as Men-at-Arms until another knight needs a squire.” Edward nodded in understanding, Sir Clement wouldn’t have left them out in the cold. It was a well founded fear for most squires, losing your master meant unemployment and never attaining higher station. Unless of course a Captain took charge.
John arrived after they’d been observing the two squires for nearly half an hour, the boy’s face was flushed and he was panting as he came forward with Edward’s destrier. The large brown horse butted his rider affectionately as they got close. Edward’s sword and bascinet rode on the cantle of his war saddle, the sword’s scabbard slapping lightly against the horse’s shoulder. John had Edward’s arming cote over one arm as he pushed the reins into his hand. “I’m sorry Edward, I got lost coming from the horse pickets.” Edward was sure the boy was holding back tears, and he moved quickly to reassure him. A firm squeeze of the shoulder spoke volumes as Edward took the arming cote from the page.
“No need for apologies John, we’re still learning the lay of the land here, how about you go grab your sword and join us?” Edward asked earnestly. John nodded gratefully and ran back the way he’d come. Davide tilted his head slightly.
“That was well done, Sir Jean’s always told me that you can learn everything you need to know about a man, by the way he treats his subordinates.” The older squire nodded, “It’s decided, I like you Edward de Marche, get up on that bruiser and meet me over by the quintains.” Edward nodded as he vaulted into the saddle of his horse, his emerald green arming cote now stretched comfortably over his shoulders, and his helm settled comfortably on his head, or as comfortably as he could manage, the stitches on his cheek and ear still tugged painfully with the motion.
Davide awaited him on a creamy white stallion, not as big as Edward’s but with fine lines and an undoubtable athleticism that seemed to cry out from every ridge of muscle. The stallion snorted at Edward’s approach and danced on its hooves. Davide slapped his hand against his mount’s neck affectionately several times to calm him. “Sorry, Fleet isn’t the most social horse.” He said by way of explanation as he tugged on the reins. “Now tell me Edward, have you tilted at the quintain before?” Edward grimaced somewhat but nodded.
“Aye, once or twice, I’m better with a sword.” He explained to Davide. The older squire nodded and gave a nod to a watching page. The boy, who Edward didn’t recognise, ran forward to pass him a lance. It was a serviceable practice weapon. It lacked the six inches of razor steel that Sir Clement’s war lance had, instead having a four pronged coromanel tip to blunt the blow and spread the force. Davide saluted with his own before turning them towards the quintains.
“There is no weapon so knightly as the lance my young friend,” He began, with the practiced tones that Edward knew had come from Sir Jean. “The game is simple enough, hit the shield on the quintain’s swinging arm, and hit it dead centre or the sandbag on the other end will smack you in the back.” Davide grinned before setting spurs to his steed. With a whinny of protest the horse’s haunches bunched and leapt forward, an avalanche of horse flesh. Edward watched as his friend rose in his saddle, his lance descending across his horse’s withers before striking dead centre on the quintain. The arm spun a hundred and eighty degrees and Davide rode by untouched by the sandbag. He spun the tall destrier on his back legs to come down again facing Edward. “Nothing to it!” He called, waving the lance in a tight circle to signal that Edward should try.
Edward settled his reins in his left hand, feeling the leather pass between his little finger and ring finger. Sweat beaded on his hand so much that he felt the very real fear that he may drop his lance in front of his most puissant friend. With a muttered prayer to whichever deity would listen, Edward set spurs to his horse. They hit a gallop within a few strides and Edward rose slightly in his seat, not as high as Davide but he could feel the crupper of his saddle against his backside all the same. The lance came down and Edward could feel the awkward weight in his hand as the tip tried to drag lower.
The connection with the quintain numbed Edward’s hand, he felt the lance strike like a battering ram. But the blow only crushed the outermost edge of the shield, and as he rode by the sand bag pummelled into the boy’s exposed back. The young squire felt his feet leave the stirrups and he rose even higher over the cantle of his saddle. He rolled to try and take the fall on a wider portion of his body, but still the impact drove the air from his body in a great huff. Blood roared in his ears and Edward rolled onto his hands and knees as he tried to draw air into his tortured lungs. In a series of hick hick noises he tried to force the air in, within moments Davide was by his side and rubbing his back furiously. “It’s okay, you’re fine, just your wind knocked out, just relax a little and breathe.” The words sounded oddly far away, Edward could feel the tightness in his chest and the same odd sensation around his eyes.
Slowly, like dragging his feet through snow, Edward drew a painful breath into his lungs. The air seemed to claw its way down his throat. After the first, the second breath came easier, and then the third. By the fourth he was breathing like normal, albeit rapidly and still with a deep shudder as his tortured body reclaimed its share of oxygen. After a moment he moved to sit, and Davide moved with him, continuing to rub the spot behind his lungs. “That was unpleasant.” He croaked, the words biting his sore throat as he spoke. Davide laughed, his dazzling white teeth on brilliant display.
“I guess we know what you have to work on.” He lifted Edward easily with his arm under the younger man’s shoulder. “Come on back on your horse, practice is the only way to improve.” Edward nodded and gripped his steed’s reins and hauled himself back into the saddle on shaking legs. The beast was well trained at least and hadn’t moved from his master’s side.
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The day wore on with several more runs at the quintain, and despite not being up to Davide’s standard, Edward improved with every pass. A quick lesson from a passing knight showed Edward how to tuck his shoulder across his mount’s withers as he rode past so as to avoid the sandbag’s blow. Eventually Davide called a stop to the practice and nodded to where a proud John stood by the fence, leading a train of archers with wicker panniers filled with harness. Edward smiled and rode over. Tall Boy tugged his forelock as Edward approached.
“M’lord, Master John ‘ere said you’d be needin’ this.'' The north country archer spoke with a heavy brogue, but by now Edward was accustomed.
“Thank you Tall Boy, your help is invaluable as ever.” Edward acknowledged as he dismounted and threaded his reins over the rail. The archer grinned at the praise and ducked his head in embarrassment. “Would you mind assisting us into our harness?” Edward continued, seeking to keep the archer around, his familiar presence was some comfort.
“O’ course sir.” Tall Boy answered, kneeling by Edward to begin the process of lacing on his sabatons. Between John and the archers, the steel fairly flew onto their bodies, their now sweat soaked arming clothes pressing with an uncomfortable dampness against hot skin. Edward shrugged his shoulders and rolled his joints as he tested the fit, it hadn’t been long since he’d worn the armour and it was in obvious need of repair.
“I need to go and see the Armourers before the tournament starts, if Sir Clement allows me to compete I’ll be needing it in perfect condition.” He mused to himself, darker thoughts currently taking a backseat to his more mundane worries. Davide nodded as he tested his own armour, he wore a similar style to Edward, though his common origins showed. The armour Davide wore was older and didn’t quite fit, and the torso was covered by a brigandine covered in faded linen in what was once probably red. His helm however, was of the finest make. It was a beautiful armet with interlocking faceplates and a pinned visor, Davide noted his friend’s gaze with an appreciative grin.
“Cost me all of last season’s pay but I’d like my head to stay attached to my neck.” It was a common joke but Edward still snorted. “Now I believe you promised John he could train with us, better get into your own harness John.” The elder squire continued. The young page grinned, his leg harnesses were already on and Tall Boy was assisting with the rest, Edward noted with some interest. Of course the archer and page spent a lot of time together, it made sense they were friends, and it was obvious he wanted the young boy to succeed.
Once they were all in harness they were joined by Sir Aethelred’s former squires and in fact the squires of all the Company’s officers. Even the squire of Captain Felix joined them, a Norglander named Bjorn Skeggison. He was young like Edward but towered over all of them with the body of a giant. Edward licked his lips nervously at the thought of facing such power, Bjorn smiled encouragingly, “I was wondering when you’d be joining our ranks young Edward.” The newcomer said, his voice only containing the barest hint of an accent. Edward nodded in response.
“Sir Jean said I would learn a lot from you, and that I should be training with you all.” Edward said.
“Smart man that Sir Jean, he has a keen eye, after all he picked Davide here out of a gang of brigands we took three years ago, from a pot scrubber amongst thieves to the finest sword amongst the squires of a famous company!” The Norglander laughed as he slapped Davide’s back, Davide looking decidedly uncomfortable at the mention of his past life. Edward recognised the look immediately.
“So who will I be sparring with first?” Edward moved on hurriedly, acknowledging the grateful look from Davide. Davide raised his blade.
“Since my knight is the one who invited you, only fitting I be your opponent, besides I wanna see first hand what our foes saw at Castle Farneze.” He grinned and Edward blushed, he knew his fighting was considered a talking point after the assault.
“I got lucky, and I’d be dead had Sir Clement not saved me, I need to train so I don’t have to be rescued again.” The admission felt like a blow, Edward’s head dropped and he stared at his shoes, he could feel the end of his greave digging into his instep uncomfortably. A hand descended on his spaulder, it wasn’t a blow as he expected, it was a hand of comfort. Edward raised his head and was surprised to see Bjorn there.
“My young friend, you just described being a warrior.” The other squire said in a tone that did not match his intimidating physique. “We fight for a living, it’s dangerous bloody work, and for most of us it ends the same way.” He continued on, making sure that Edward met his eyes. “No one is beyond needing rescue sometimes, there is always a better sword, a stronger arm, that’s why we’re the Company, and why we train together.” The large youth spread his tree trunk arms to encompass the tiltyard. “That’s why we are brothers of the temple of violence and this is our house of worship,” His grin was infectious, “Now pick up your sword and go hit Davide for me, the bugger has beaten me in our last two fights.”
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That brought Edward up short, he looked at the lithe youth that was Davide with new respect, how could someone as powerful as Bjorn lose to someone as small as Davide he wondered as he crossed to where his friend stood. Saluting with his blade he raised his voice.
“I guess we’d better get this done, or Bjorn might insist on fighting me.” He chuckled. Davide tilted his head quizzically.
“He’ll fight you next, we don’t finish until we’ve all fought at least one pass with each other, poor John might be in for a few bruises.” He nodded to where the diminutive page was squaring up to Bjorn with a poor, forward garde. Edward winced as he heard the first blow fall on John’s blade and carry past the garde and into his helm. The younger boy rag dolled across the sand from the force of the blow. Bjorn rushed to the fallen boy’s side, the giant now appearing shocked at his own strength and muttering a string of apologies. John stood on the shaking legs of a newborn deer to face the Norglander again.
“It’s okay, I’m fine.” The quavering voice said as he brought his sword to bear once more. Edward smiled with affectionate warmth, he’d need to tell Sir Clement of the page’s bravery. He turned then to face Davide.
They fought three passes, in the first Davide moved before Edward was sure what was happening, his sword passed over Edward’s and created a lever by which to throw him to the ground. He yielded as the tip of his friend’s blade touched his faceplate. The second pass started and ended with the same maneuver, this time however, Edward saw the motion. It all began with Davide’s right leg moving forward. On the third pass, Edward saw the start and drove forward, connecting with his own leg as they locked shin to shin. His pommel rose from his Dragon’s tail garde and slammed into the chin of Davide’s helm, rolling the elder Squire backwards. Edward kept on him, continuing the motion to bring his blade back down across the horizontal to connect with Davide’s head, sending the man to the sand. Edward pressed his foot onto Davide’s sword arm and presented a blade to his faceplate. Davide raised his free arm in surrender.
“Well struck!” He laughed, “I didn’t expect you to pick the movement so quickly, you've got a gift for this kind of sword work my friend.” He continued as Edward helped him to his feet. There was a cheer from behind and Edward turned to see Bjorn collecting coins from the other squires with a broad grin on his face. The others looked less than happy at the outcome. John stood next to Bjorn, a black smudge blossoming under one eye as he held his helm under one arm, Edward could see with a hiss of sympathy the helm was busted, the visor torn off its hinges.
“Didn’t you notice him adapting in the second pass Davide?” Bjorn called. To which his friend merely shrugged.
“I was too focused on my own movements it would seem, he got me good.” Davide answered with good humour. Bjorn proceeded to turn and kneel before John, something the page found horrifying, the poor boy’s face coloured and his eyes widened in horror.
“Young John, please forgive my clumsiness, I have damaged your kit and struck your face, this is a most heinous foul on the tiltyard, please allow me to see you to the armourer and arrange its repair, then you must join us for drinks at the Four Ponies.” The blushing page, his skin a deep and rosey pink, did his best not to meet the squire’s eyes, just nodding his assent and looking for any chance of escape. Edward was thankful for his helm’s visor, hiding the grin that was spreading across his features.
“Bjorn, I believe you owe me some passes before that happens though.” He called, and Bjorn’s head snapped around with a wide grin of his own. John merely looked on with an expression of intense relief and gratitude.
“Absolutely, give me a moment Master John, I must educate our newest Squire.” Edward gulped, he’d been trying to distract the large squire and somehow forgot it would entail being beaten by this gargantuan young man. Bjorn resettled his helm as he strode back to the centre of the tiltyard, he rolled his shoulders and Edward gulped again as he saw the power in the armoured youth. He stepped out and moved to face Bjorn, taking his blade up in hands that had already begun to sweat. Bjorn saluted, pressing his blade to his chest and sweeping it out to his right side as he bowed. Edward returned the gesture before falling into the Dragon’s Tail, and Bjorn swung.
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Edward awoke on the side of the tiltyard, his helm had been removed and his friends stood all around, Bjorn had discarded his own helm and looked shaken, the tall youth chewed on his lip anxiously. Davide’s face swam into view as he knelt by his friend, he grinned as he saw Edward’s eyes open. “You probably shouldn’t block with your head my friend, and apparently John takes a blow better than you.” The joke brought a chuckle out of the surrounding squires and a weak smile onto Edward’s face.
“Well I’d say I’ve been hit harder, but honestly I don’t think I have.” Edward chuckled aloud, his face scrunching as the motion caused a fresh spike of pain to hammer behind his eyeballs. He turned his head to look at the distraught Bjorn, “That won’t work again my friend, I saw how you did it.” The words were spoken with good humour and had the desired effect, Bjorn’s worry cleared like clouds splitting before the sunshine. The giant knelt beside the downed squire and placed a hand on his breastplate.
“For what it’s worth, I am sorry, I am still learning to control my blows, Davide says I have all the finesse of a maul.” Edward nodded as he pushed himself up into a sitting position.
“Sir Clement said the same of me when I first picked up a sword, that blow would level any enemy who sought to take you though.” It was carefully worded, this game of trading compliments was a necessary one when building camaraderie. John leaned down and placed Edward’s arm over his shoulders to lift him up. “I dare say I’m due to see the armourer.” Edward grinned broadly as he saw what remained of his bascinet. The aventail, still torn from the fight in the castle, had lost even more rings and the crown of the helm was so deformed Edward had to wonder at his survival. John raised his own helm in mute answer.
“Let’s all go for a walk, the lads will still be at their training for a few hours, we’ll head to Hammer Street and meet you all later at the Four Ponies, come on Bjorn.” Davide’s words were light but there was an unmistakable command in them that wouldn’t have been out of place on any highborn lord of Arturia, Edward had to wonder at his new friend.
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Hammer Street, as it was called, was a broad cobble stone street inside the fortress proper that housed some of the finest Master Armourers and Cutlers on the continent. Edward marvelled at every shop window they passed, a fortune in steel was on display. It was his first time inside the Fortress, and when he thought about it he had to ask how the others knew their way around. Davide explained that Sir Jean had accompanied the Captain into several meetings with Grand Duke von Rabsburg and as such they had been brought along during their brief previous stay in the mercenary encampment.
Davide strode with purpose down the street until he came to a sign of crossed hammers, the shop was rather plain in comparison to the others, the window simply opened onto the shop front and held no display pieces. Davide grinned at Edward’s skeptical look. “Master van Dorne sees no reason to advertise, he’s already regarded as the best armourer this side of...well anywhere.” Edward raised a brow, though he remained skeptical, even if the explanation made sense. “Just trust me Edward, now come on.”
They entered the store, and as Edward had seen from outside, there was no work on display, the interior was made of a uniform serviceable Arturian Oak, and there were several plush armchairs. A small dais on the opposite side of the room was surrounded by racks of calipers and measuring strings with knots at regular intervals. A counter stood at the far side, opposite the door and behind it was a curtain that led through to what Edward could only assume was the workshop from the noise and smell of sweat and hot steel that wafted through. A bored looking boy of no more than twelve stood behind the counter, he wore a simple blue apprentice’s tunic that showed he was in his first year and as such was not yet trusted with the more complex duties in the workshop as yet. As customers entered however, his whole demeanour changed, here was someone who was eager to prove himself Edward thought.
“Good afternoon Messires, and welcome to The Dorne Hammer, I’m Apprentice Gabriel, how may I be of service?” He asked in very well mannered Imperial, Edward suspected he was a younger son of the Gentry if not of the Nobility. The bow he gave them was perhaps a bit too low, even for one of Edward’s rank.
“Thank you young Gabriel,” Davide answered for them, “We’d hoped you might fetch your master for us, we have several orders to make and they are quite specific.” The apprentice nodded and made his bow once more before diving back through the curtain, Davide meanwhile turned and took a seat in the arm chair. Bjorn soon joined him and Edward followed suit, John merely stood behind them, unsure if he should sit as well.
When Master van Dorne arrived, he proved to be the quintessential armourer. He was pushing fifty years old with a bald crown and gray hair cropped short around the back and sides of his head. His face was lined with years of exposure to heat and elements and several small puckered scars stood out on his cheeks where hot steel had landed and scorched him. His moustache was a great bristly thing that reminded Edward of the walruses he had seen on the rocks of the bay near castle Bordeaux when he was a boy, it surmounted a broad smile on a face that looked like it could hardly bear humour. Yet the man emerged in a burn spotted apron of thick leather, though the lower half was covered in mail, painstakingly sewn to the material, with arms wide and a broad grin. “Davide my boy, so glad to see you back in one piece, how did your new helm fare?” The man’s voice was a booming sound that Edward was sure set off avalanches in the surrounding mountains, evidently years with a hammer had not helped his hearing, “Don’t tell me, it was perfect of course, just as I said it would be.” He continued with no reduction in volume.
Davide rose from his chair and bowed. “Master Piotr, the helm was exquisite and never took so much as a blemish.” He swept his arm back to encompass his friends, “I have brought several of my brothers in arms to partake in your skill.” Edward’s brows rose again as he realised the helm he had so admired was made by this man, his estimation for the man’s craft rising ten fold. Master Piotr turned his grey eyes on the gathered group of young warriors and if possible his grin broadened.
“How may I help young masters?” He asked in a slightly quieter voice, with a tone that reminded Edward of his Grandfather who had bounced him on his knee and snuck him sweets from the kitchens when his mother wasn’t looking. He couldn’t help but return the man’s smile. Davide pulled John up first by his shoulder.
“Young John here fell afoul of the giant sitting in the chair over there and broke his helm.” Davide said as he pressed the young Page forward. Master Piotr looked down at the young boy as he cowered. John held forth the battered steel in his hands and the Armourer took it, turning the tortured helm over in his hands.
“This is shit work Master John, it served its purpose but it never would have lasted long,” He told the boy matter of factly, before casually tossing the steel over the counter and into a waiting bin. “I shall make you a new one, of much finer make that will suit you much better.” He answered with a note of finality, “Perhaps a Brigandine too, you’re too slight I think for a full harness yet but you should never go into battle unprotected.” The boy began to protest.
“Oh Master Piotr, I can’t afford that, if I go down the street I might be able to get my helm fixed.” He said in a tremulous voice as he edged towards the counter.
“Nonsense, Master Piotr is right, and besides as I broke your helm in the tiltyard I feel it is only fair I replace it.” Bjorn said as he rose and placed a firm hand on John’s shoulder, turning him back to Master Piotr. “Please send the bill to Captain Felix von Rabsburg’s tent good Master, I will cover the bill myself.” The giant grinned as a young man in Journeyman green emerged to take John’s measurements. The bashful page allowed himself to be steered away, still mumbling his protests. Once he was sure the boy was in his Journeyman’s capable hands, Master Piotr turned back to the gathered group.
“Now who’s next?” He asked of them. Edward stood and raised a hand, before offering a deep bow.
“That would be me Master van Dorne, my harness has perhaps fought its last day in the taking of Castle Farneze and I would be grateful for your expertise.” The Master Armourer turned his full attention on Edward as he sized the young man up.
“What’s your name, young master?” He asked without preamble.
“Edward de Marche sir, Squire to my Uncle, Sir Clement D’Arlay.” Edward answered automatically. Master Piotr’s smile broadened, something Edward had not thought possible.
“Richard de Marche’s boy, I thought you had a familiar look about you, I did some work for your father some fifteen years ago, needed a gift for King Theodore so he did.” The man’s eyes took on a cast of old memories. “It’s not every day I make something for royalty, I tell you, I made six swords before I was happy with the one I sent, so are you his eldest?” Edward smiled at the recognition, it was good to hear his father spoken well of.
“That honour goes to my brother, Sir Richard the Younger, my father has been blessed with twelve children and I am the fourth, and his third son.” The others turned to look at their young friend, realising perhaps for the first time that he was of the nobility. Master Piotr moved Edward by the shoulder towards the raised dais with its surrounding measuring devices.
“I shall send you back to your father dressed as a Saint of War, mark my words, now shall we say full white harness?” The armourer asked eagerly, “It’s all the rage amongst the western nobles these days, steel from head to toe.” Edward nodded.
“If I may request some decoration?” He asked.
“Of course young master, you’ll be the cock of the walk on the tournament field don’t you fret.” Master Piotr promised with a knowing wink. In moments an apprentice was with them and took notes as Master Piotr himself took the measurements, all the while shouting numbers at the boy. Before long the armourer had measured every inch of Edward’s body, before giving him a pat on the shoulder. “The majority of the work will be done within the week, we’ll get you to come in for a final fitting in four days to ensure it is all correct and then I will deliver it personally to your camp.” Edward grinned as he thought of his new harness.
“My family banks with the von Rabsburgs, please send your bill of sale to their offices and I’ll sign the money over.” Once more Edward bowed, “Would you have any recommendations for where to buy suitable weapons in Siegesstand I’d be eternally grateful.” He added as he prepared to leave. Master Piotr placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“If you’re after weapons, my journeyman, Konrad, is better than half the men who call themselves masters out on the street, if you’d carry his mark on the tournament field I’d esteem it a great favour.” Edward nodded in turn.
“Excellent, in that case I’ll need weapons for the tournament, a poleaxe, long spear, and a set of coromanels for my lances, will he have sufficient time for that?” Edward asked.
“I’ll see it done for you young master.” The gratitude in the man’s voice was genuine and Edward had to wonder if the Journeyman would be going for his Master’s Mark soon.
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Half an hour later they were all ensconced in a private room in plush chairs around a broad table with wine flowing freely at the Four Ponies tavern. It was a great inn, with many private rooms to allow the nobility to carouse without being disturbed by the serfs who also frequented it. Edward reclined happily as he nursed his sixth cup of wine. Davide leaned across the table and quieted the chatter as he looked at Edward.
“Is your father really Sir Richard de Marche, the King’s Shield?” Davide asked expectantly. Edward merely nodded. “Did he really fight for a night and a day protecting the wounded King at Rowan’s Bridge?” Davide asked in awe, and Edward exploded with a loud guffaw.
“Is that where the story is these days?” He asked around several hearty laughs. “No, though he did stand over him for an hour before help came.” He acknowledged. “My father was probably one of the finest warriors of his day, the King knighted him the following day when his wounds had been seen to.” Edward looked out the window in the direction of Arturia, his gaze longing for home. “He presented him with a horse and a patent of nobility, told him to build a fort at Rowan’s Bridge and named him Baron, from there my father built wealth and Duke Eric Fitzroy, took him under his wing, taught him the ways of court and provided him with his own daughter as bride; Lady Evalyn Fitzroy, my mother.” Edward realised he’d perhaps been oversharing his family story and looked back. “I’m sorry my friends I don’t mean to prattle, I’ve never been away from home for so long and I’m afraid I miss them somewhat.” Davide grinned.
“We all know that feeling Edward, it’s been five years since I left the only home I knew.” He said by way of sympathy.
“I haven’t seen the frozen shores of Norgland in near a decade.” Bjorn said. “And well rid of it I am, vicious Sverkan clanners were taking over everything last I heard, and I’ll die before I kneel before the Storm Drake.” He asserted, raising his glass before draining it and calling for more wine.
“Well Edward I’d say you’re one of us now, are you ready to take the field in the winter tournament?” Davide asked. Edward looked around at his new clutch of friends and realised for the first time since he left home, perhaps he wasn’t so alone.
“They’ll never take us all.” He asserted.
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Edward woke bleary eyed and naked on a pallet in the Inn’s upper rooms, Davide lay curled in the crook of his arm in an equal state of undress. His head pounded from the wine and he reclined slowly into his pillow, enjoying the feel of his companion against his body. He turned and found a quick note scribbled on a torn piece of parchment.
Edward,
Don’t worry I’ve gone to take care of the morning chores, just be back before noon.
John.
“Bless that boy.” He muttered before curling back into his friend’s arms.