The snow came within a few days, and before long the squires were trudging through a foot of fresh white powder to the training yards. The next month passed in a blur for Edward, and his days became a routine of serving his Knight-Master in the mornings and training with his brothers in arms in the afternoon. While their new armour was being made, the boys took to training with rebated steel in their arming clothes, the thick padding providing some protection from both the weapons and the cold.
Master Piotr was as good as his word, and within the first week he had called Edward back to his shop for a final fitting. The steel forms were pressed to his body and Edward met the Journeyman; Konrad. He measured Edward’s arms and height to be sure of the lengths on the weapons he was creating. He was a polite young man with a pockmarked face and a nervous stutter, Edward decided he liked him immediately.
Eventually Master Piotr, along with Konrad and several apprentices trooped into camp, bringing with them several wicker baskets. First they produced for John a beautifully made bascinet, it had the peaked faceplate known as a hounskull and a locking pin in the new style that allowed the visor to stay raised until it was closed manually. Next they showed a new brigandine in a glossy black velvet, John was nearly moved to tears by the gifts and thanked Master Piotr profusely, before running off to do the same for Bjorn at Sir Clement’s urging.
Finally they unveiled Edward’s new harness. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. White steel shone in the cold morning light of winter, the cuirass was made of a single piece of steel with a hard ridge down the centre to strengthen and deflect blows. The helm was an armet with many sloping edges and a visor that was etched to resemble the face of Roland the Just of the Nine Worthies. The edges of the armour were all done in brass to accent the silver sheen of the steel, and upon the breast the arms of House de Marche were engraved. A charging bull surmounted by three stars. Edward nearly wept at the splendour of his new harness. A new haubergeon of freshly oiled rings tipped from the basket, and the rings flowed through Edward’s hands like water. A freshly brushed brigandine in green velvet followed, Edward would be able to go into action in full or light harness as the situation demanded, and his eyes stung with tears at the wealth on display.
Konrad stepped forward with his own wrapped bundle. First he showed Edward a six foot stave of fine Arturian oak, it had an octagonal cross section and was surmounted by a six inch blade of razor sharp steel. The spear head had protrusions below it on either side, one was a small hammer head with a short spike on each corner of its square face, the other was a wicked hook. The staff was stained a pleasant brown and the steel had the blue sheen of the highest quality steel money could buy. The butt was shod with a heavy steel cap. Next came a tall slashing spear of much the same make. The blade was broad and leaf-like, and significantly longer as to almost be a sword, and a pair of round lugs extended from its base to protect the wielder's fingers. He then produced a small wooden box, when opened it was lined in blue velvet and resting inside were a trio of new steel coronels, each designed to slot onto the end of a lance in tournament. Konrad presented each like an offering to a god. “I hope my lord does not mind, I had some extra time and thought you might appreciate these as well.” He had said, before producing a matched set of a Longsword and Rondel dagger, each with a wire and leather wrapped hilt and the de Marche crest enamelled on the hilt. The scabbards were stained black with brass fittings and featured the crest repeated on the face in full Green and white colour. Edward reached forward and ran his hand down the hilt of the new sword. With a slow exhale he drew. The blade slid out of its sheath with a deadly hiss, shimmering blue ripples shining along its length.
“Truly I am in the presence of masters and artists.” The young squire breathed. Edward bowed low before them. “Your art is beyond what mere money can buy and I have been blessed with its care.” He uttered formally. Konrad blushed to the roots of his hair, his cheeks now a flaming scarlet at the nobleman’s praise. Master Piotr merely smiled and nodded.
“You’re too kind, young master.” He had said. The procession had left them with their newly acquired possessions, with a pair of notes of hand to cash in at the von Rabsburg banker office in Siegesstand. Sir Clement had come to watch the exchange and whistled with wonder at the fortune in steel that had been unloaded in his camp.
“Not bad boys, but Edward, why do you need such a fancy harness?” The knight asked innocently with a twinkle of mischief alight in his eyes. Edward looked chagrined as he turned to face his master, new sword in hand. He gripped the blade through the scabbard and hilt and looked pleadingly at Clement.
“Please my lord, I was hoping to fight in the tournament, Davide said there would be competitions for the non knights!” He begged. Clement raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Oh relax, Sir Felix has plans for all the Squires to compete, there will be knights though.” Sir Clement admitted. “The tournament will consist of two competitions, one for the invited and another for men of less note.” Clement retrieved a folded page of parchment from his belt. “This is my invitation, it would seem the Emperor knows I am in camp and he intends to observe the tournament personally.”
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The Great Company’s camp buzzed at the news of the Emperor’s arrival. Sir Clement wasn’t the only one to receive an invitation to the main event, as Edward discovered when they attended a meeting in Sir Felix’s tent. There they found the erstwhile footpad who had snuck into Clement’s camp their first night at Siegesstand. He was a shell of a man, covered in bruises and cuts ranging from fresh to half healed and yellow. Sir Jean stood over the man with a knife in hand. Meanwhile Edward performed the wine service along with Davide and Bjorn carved the meat for their masters as they met in secret.
Sir Felix was the first to break the silence as he sipped from his horn cup. “We haven’t got much out of him Clem, whoever employed him holds more fear for him than Jean’s knives do.” The captain said with something approaching defeat in his tone. “What we do know is that he was after me and not you, which means someone doesn’t want me to be named Ober-Captain, and there’s only one other in contention so I think we can guess who sent him.” Sir Clement and Jean both nodded at the information.
“Lord von Reichenbach.” Clem said simply and the others nodded. The huddled figure of the hired assassin groaned at the name, his eyes widening in horror. Felix grinned wickedly at the man.
“Thank you for your service.” He muttered cruelly before turning his gaze on Jean, “He’s no more use.” he ordered and the First Lance’s knife plunged down into the assassin’s neck, sending a jet of crimson across the carpeted floor of Sir Felix’s pavilion. “Damn it Jean, you could have taken him outside, these rugs aren’t cheap.” Felix objected.
“Oh just buy another one.” Jean muttered as he threw a wink at his squire. Edward felt his gorge rise at the cold blooded murder, but looked away all the same. He met Clement’s eye, who offered a simple nod of encouragement. Felix’s attention was back to his circle of officers.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“The decision will be made during the tournament, I have the votes and am now in contention, but the Emperor will make his decision based on the tournament, I know it.” The captain took another long gulp of his wine. “He wants to know the best men are the ones in charge, and for some reason he thinks that equates to Tournament performance.” His eyes moved to the squires. “I want the squires to make up our team in the melee.” The knights’ heads all spun to look first at the surrounding servers and then back to the captain. Sir Felix spoke over their protests. “It’s a calculated risk I promise you, think about it.” He told them. “If they lose they’re just squires they’re not expected to defeat belted knights, but if they do well or better yet, if they win, well then we show that our Squires are better than the knights of other companies.” Edward gulped at the suggestion. Davide however had crossed the room to kneel before Sir Felix.
“My lord, we will win, I promise you.” He declared proudly, looking up to look the man in the eye. Sir Jean grinned proudly from across the room. Felix placed his hand on Davide’s shoulder.
“That’s a good man Davide, you do Sir Jean proud. Jean I want you to oversee their training in the tiltyard for now, push them hard.” The order rang with the finality of a coffin-makers hammer, and Edward felt the very real fist of fear curl inside his gut.
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Edward’s head drove into the sand of the tiltyard for what seemed like the hundredth time that afternoon. They’d been training for a month under Sir Jean’s careful tutelage now and still he felt he was not improving. Not once in all that time had he managed to get a sword to Sir Jean, and he could feel the agony of cuts and scrapes all over his body. Sir Jean stood opposite, his sword resting negligently over his shoulder, looking no worse for wear except perhaps for the spreading sweat patches all over his arming clothes. Edward pushed to his feet and retook his stance, winning a nod of approval from his instructor.
Davide, Bjorn and the rest of the squires stood off to the side, most leaning on the fence of the tiltyard itself. Bjorn looked to his friend, “Ten ducats says that won’t work on Edward again.” Davide grinned at his friend before gripping his proffered hand.
“You’re on, no way he saw it.” He answered.
As they spoke the two crossed blades again. Jean cut downward in a heavy blow, but Edward switched his grip and held the flat of his own with his palm tilted slightly over his head so that the blow slid off like rain off a steep roof. Edward stepped through and kicked at Jean’s right knee, the joint collapsed as the knight grunted. Moving forward Edward moved his grip to a more solid half sword, pivoting on his hips to drive the pommel into the side of Jean’s head. The knight raised his hilt to deflect the blow and flicked out with his elbow. The move had levelled Edward the day before, but now he turned on his heel allowing the blow to pass him, slipping his blade over the extended limb and forcing Jean face first down in the sand, arm bent awkwardly behind him and Edward’s knee in his back.
Sir Jean laughed, though the sound was slightly strained from the pain of his bent arm. “I didn’t think you saw that.” He managed to spit out without getting too much sand in his teeth. Edward pushed off the instructor’s back, offering a hand to help him up as he heaved in air.
“I was sure it was a feint because you used it yesterday on me, but I had no better answer.” Edward answered, allowing himself a shocked but bashful grin. He liked Jean and thought praise from the man was a true gift. The Knight grinned as he rolled his shoulder ensuring there was no real damage done.
“You’ve a gift for this sword play Edward, very few people have the ability to see their opponent like you do.” Jean told him in a hushed tone that didn’t carry to their observers who were offering a few cheers and applause. “Davide has it too, it’s why I took him as a squire.” He added conspiratorially. “Alright, enough for today, you need a rest and to get those cuts cleaned, tomorrow we begin melee training.” He grinned and re-sheathed his sword, nodding to the squires sir Jean left, whistling some tune from Bordeaux.
Davide and Bjorn each threw an arm about Edward’s shoulders. “Now that was something my young friend, I believe it deserves a free drink or two at the Four Ponies, don’t you think Davide?” Bjorn asked.
“You’re paying.” Davide laughed as they headed back to the communal arming pavilion that Sir Felix had erected for the Company’s use. Training for the Tournament had become an all consuming passion for most of the Company, and the Tiltyard had become their new place of worship. In the month since the meeting in Felix’s tent, Edward had come to be more than just a good sword. He’d begun to become an adept lance, and his spear and axe work were improving alongside. The Tournament had finally been announced, and only two weeks away. The Emperor had entered the Fortress two days prior carried on a palanquin draped in Imperial Purple and surrounded by legionnaires in gold trimmed white harness, a great plume of black horsehair rising on the Commander’s helm.
It hadn’t just been the man himself however, as it seemed the entire Imperial Court had braved the winter travel to arrive alongside him. Six Grand Dukes, the Emperor’s three brides, three dozen nobles of various ranks and the Crown Prince, Cesare von Bludden. Edward had watched on in amazement at the amount of wealth on display as carriages of purple and perhaps the finest herd of horses he’d ever seen trotted by in magnificent procession. The strangest members of the procession were the Emperor’s High Magisters. Six black robed men and women, faces hidden behind dark silken veils, who brought with them covered wagons that squawked and growled in volumes and tones that Edward could not recognise as any animal. While these people were treated with great respect by the Imperials, the Arturians gave them a wide berth and spat on the ground to banish ill omens when they passed. Edward’s head began to ache any time he saw them.
With their arrival things changed around Siegesstand. The fortress and the services within were suddenly cut off to the majority of the mercenaries. Only Captains were allowed inside with a select few officers. Several enterprising merchants began to set up a market outside the gates each day to allow for continued business. Master Piotr first among them. At the least it kept the camp fed. A pair of archers in the company had begun a vegetable plot with some seeds they had “found” and before long several members of the company had pitched in and a small farm had developed between the tents.
Edward watched life evolve around him in a state of wonder. The tales of war he’d heard as a boy never mentioned the intervening months of domesticity. He’d seen one true fight and now he spent his days training or sewing or any number of menial labours he had to perform for Sir Clement or his own kit. Some nights he would sneak out of camp with Davide to spend an hour in each other’s arms and forget the stresses of the day. Bjorn stifled a laugh every time they would disappear.
Although it wasn’t outwardly discussed with the squires, Edward gathered that there had been several more attempts on Sir Felix’s life. He knew that now Bjorn slept in the captain’s bed and Felix had a new cot in Sir Jean’s tent to throw off would be assassins. Whoever this Lord von Reichenbach was, he was growing more desperate, and to Edward that made him even more dangerous, albeit sloppy. Sir Clement set about reinforcing their defences. A fence of ropes went up around the Company’s encampment, further dividing them from the Mercenary Camp proper, and sentries were posted along its length. He rotated the sentries every few hours to keep them fresh and made a clear gate, anyone who wished to enter needed a pass signed by Clement, Jean or Felix. A measure that had infuriated Grand Duke von Rabsburg when an archer had tried to prevent his entry to camp when he came to see his grandson.
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With all training and preparations made as well as can be made, the start of the tournament loomed nearer and nearer. In the final week, the stands and tournament field were built by an army of carpenters who swarmed over a vacant field. Great stands that could seat a thousand spectators seemed to rise from the earth and a great viewing box for the Emperor and his chosen companions was built with an ingenious heating system built in that would pump boiling water through pipes set into the walls to keep the box warm while he viewed the festivities.
While it was tradition for a squire to enter a tournament in his knight’s colours, Sir Clement had approached Edward three days before the tournament started, and told him to wear his de Marche colours. Edward knew it was a nod of respect, and that his uncle did it by way of showing approval for his training, and so made all haste to speak with a team of seamstresses the next morning.
When the day finally dawned, Edward was resplendent in a surcoat of fine wool, the proud Bull of the de Marche family rearing in glorious argent splendour upon his breast. His horse was dressed in a fine green caparison that hung to just an inch above the ground. It was ringed in cloth of gold with the family motto repeated along its length; Etenim Victoria. In truth, Victory. So, clad in his finest harness and cutting his most regal figure, Edward rode to the tournament grounds, alongside Davide, Bjorn and their brother squires of the company. For the day, John had been made Sir Clement’s squire and would act in Edward’s stead. The Archer Tall Boy would assist Edward as he needed.