"Once a Knight, Part One" by Anne M. Leath

“Sylvan, you must help me, you’re the only one who’ll do it.” Rhia pleaded, hands grasped together desperately in front of her dress.  She put on her best “honest look” and raised a well groomed eyebrow at the squire, and when that failed she batted long brown lashes, like she had seen her sister do.

The effect was not lost on the yellow-haired Sylvan, squire to Sir Donavan, the finest and most respected knight in the ArchDuke’s realm.  Sylvan contemplated the request for nearly half a second before his strongest quality, his sense of greed, won out.  “What’ll you give me if I do?” He grinned sardonically and crossed his arms over the embroidered insignia on his chest plate.

Rhiannon thought on this for a few moments, she was sure that a bribe would work.  “I’ll give you this ring—you can pawn it off on whatever kitchen maid you happen to be nesting with at the moment, or do with it whatever you want.”  She produced a gaudy jewel atop a hillock of gold, a piece that would dwarf the hand of much older lady.  She watched approvingly as Sylvan’s eyes grew wide and he couldn’t help but to reach for the thing.

“Where in blazes did you get that!?”  He snatched the ring from her fingers and stared at the red jewel, turning it over and over to catch the light glinting off the facets.

“Lord Farington gave it to me, or to my manservant to give to me rather.”  She rolled her eyes thinking of the way that Eamon had fawned over the bauble, trying it on himself, admonishing her for not seeming more interested.  She had barely looked at the thing, was disgusted by its overt gaudiness. 

Sylvan’s face dropped.  “You expect me to take it then? When Farington—his Lordship, has given it to you, why every eye in the house would be upon me if I produced that piece to anyone!”

“Well you don’t have to show it to anyone, “she began, irritated, “You could just save it and sell it later—take it to market when Sir Donavan goes on the tourney rounds again.”

He considered this and nodded, making a clucking sound with his tongue, “And you wouldna’ tell anyone  then?”

“Of course not, and neither will you.”  She leveled a harsh gaze at him. 

Sylvan cackled rudely, “What? Tell them that I was beating you about with a sword? Teaching you to fight? You are crazy!’ 

“Well then.”  Rhia extended her hand “We have an agreement.”

Sylvan looked at the offered palm and merely continued to chuckle, “Yeah, and agreement.  Alright, you want to learn how to use a sword—you be at the back paddock at dawn, and don’t wear no frilly dress neither.”  He motioned at her ridiculous frock—Eamon’s choice, as per usual.

“Agreed.”  She turned on her heel and ran back up the stairs to the main keep.  This is going to be fabulous!

Eamon paced back and forth in front of the fireplace.  Where was that girl?  She was always late.  Never a care for her appearance, her dress, her hair, her complexion.  He sighed in abandon as he sat down on the chaise and fanned himself with a lace handkerchief.  All this talk about learning to fight of late, with a sword for God’s sake!  He was sure that he felt quite faint.

Just as he was sure he would fade away into a melted puddle, he heard the latch in the door turn and he rose quickly, crossing the room to his charge, the ArchDuke’s daughter, like a lion focusing in on its dinner.  “You milady are going to be late for dinner if you do not bathe and change immediately!”  He waggled a finger at Rhiannon as she crossed the floor and came to stand before him, face flushed with excitement.

“Oh Eamon! Its so exciting! I’ve found someone to train me!” She grinned ecstatically at him.

“The only thing you need to be trained in is punctuality, how to be a lady, how to respect your elders, sit properly in a dress, and shield your fair skin from the sun!”

“That’s five things Eamon, and don’t you think you’re overreacting, you’re just upset that I’ve actually found someone to teach me how to use a sword.”  She turned around and lifted her hair for him to untie the laces at the back of her dress.

Working his fingers expertly, Eamon undid the laces and cursed under his breath, “Never was a child so determined to be something she is not—should not be! Your sister was never like this.”

“You tell me all the time how you much prefer me to her, and now you are complaining!” Rhia answered from underneath the curtain of velvet as Eamon pulled the gown over her head.

“I shall only complain more if you do not listen to me now! For God’s sake girl, you smell like a horse stable! I swear—“

“That’s because I’ve been in the stables Eamon, where there are horses, I know it’s a frightening thought…” She laughed.

“Enough!” He flicked his wrist at her and motioned for her to climb into the small wood basin filled with water near the fireplace.

Rhia climbed in and made a hissing noise as the ice cold water gripped her legs, “Gods Eamon are you trying to freeze me out!”

“If you’d been here when you were supposed to, the water might have been hot. Now, you will have to suffer for beauty’s sake.”  He dumped a bucket of equally cold water over her head and tossed her a chunk of soap as he then turned to carry away her dirty garments. “Get scrubbing.”

“You’re such a grumpy old queen sometimes.” She grumbled as she washed and shivered, teeth chattering.

“Sometimes?” He looked over his shoulder and winked, “I shall have to work on that then.” 

Seven months later when Rhia landed her first square hit on Sylvan’s shoulder, knocking him over to his surprise, and then again on his hip, she knew that she was in trouble.  The sour expression on his face and equally sour curse as he turned and stomped off across the paddock told her that was the end of her sword fighting with him. 

As she hiked back up to the keep, sword in tow over her shoulder, she sighed heavily and finally dropped her elbow to carry it at her side. 

“Giving up then?” came a gruff voice from side of the stables where stacks of hay were lined up.

Rhia turned and looked around for the source of the voice, a sound not unlike iron being scraped against hard rock.  It was Sir Fiontan, leg propped up against the hay racks as he chewed on a piece of straw and stared her down.  Rhia walked slowly over to the old knight and placed her sword back in its scabbard, her brother’s old scabbard, at her hip.

“Sir Fiontan, how nice to er..see you.”  She half-bowed, half-curtsied out of habit and awkwardly looked around, making sure no one else was watching.  Fiontan had been a knight since her grandfather was ArchDuke and she had heard tales of his ferocity on the field, his legendary stubbornness, and none too few tales of how many rows he would get into with her father.  Fiontan’s manner was blunt and his tongue unforgiving, and her father was definitely not his biggest fan, even if the knight was under his direction.

The scarred old face of the knight did not change as he continued to chew on the straw, looking her up and down.  “You finally put that yellow haired pup down?”

Rhia looked at him questioningly and then nodded, smiling, “If you mean Sylvan, I think he’s done with helping me.”

Fiontan cleared his throat, “He’s a shoddy swordsman anyhow.  Nothing to learn from him ‘cept how to fall down.”

Rhia straightened her back and piped up, “Well, I have learned how to land a fair hit, I’d say that’s something.”

The man laughed, a wheezing, garbled sound, “Well, a hit against a talentless whiney squire, the size of me left arm, that is something.”

Her face reddening, Rhia crossed her arms over her chest and stuck out her boot, “Sir Fiontan, if you are quite done, why don’t you fight me then?” She swallowed thickly, knowing immediately that she had perhaps just made the biggest mistake of her life.  If the knight didn’t keel over from laughter, from the looks of his response, he just might go to her father and expose the whole thing.

Fiontan clutched his side and spit out the piece of straw, gasping for breath, “Well.  For one thing, milady.  I  do not train anyone with a hand at spoiling them.  Even your brother started out under my boot as a piddling paige before he became a knight.”

“I’m not asking you to spoil anyone, Fiontan.  I am asking you to fight with me, fair and square.”  She tried to steel her voice so that it didn’t sound quite so trumped up with false courage.

He grinned a toothless, crooked grin, “I’ll fight ye on one condition, milady.” 

“Name it.”

“You ride against Donavan in the tourney next season.” He plucked another piece of straw from the pile at his feet and propped his legs up again.

Rhia paled.  “I thought you just said I couldn’t have learned a thing…and you—Sir Donavan is the best jouster in the realm—I don’t even know how to ride a joust---you…you—this is not funny!”  She snapped her gaze up and narrowed her eyes at the old knight, “You are making jest—you are teasing me! You old bast—“

Several coughs ensued as Fiontan burst into gales of laughter again, “No! No! I jest not.  I am quite serious.  If I train you, you will ride against him in one year’s time.  I’ll learn you the sword, the joust, and the bow if you like.  If  I’d known you had that temper, I’d of taken you on a lot sooner.”

She sniffed slightly and contemplated whether his offer was serious or not.  “Why are you doing this?”

“Cause nothin’ would please me more than to see your father’s best knight defeated by his own daughter in his own tourney.”  He spat at the ground, “Course, you’ll joust and fight as a man, which we’ll need do something about.”

“Hold still!” Eamon dusted her face with powder of talc and crushed abalone shell.  “These bruises will never cover without a miracle worked, and I am not sure even I can pull it off.”  He muttered as he smeared more pink stain on her cheeks.  “If you don’t tell that old bloated bastard to keep marks off your face from your sparring, I’ll have words with him!”  He tossed the powder brush into its canister and spun around in a cloud of white dust.

Rhia coughed slightly and pulled up her stockings quickly, “I wouldn’t go screaming to him if I were you, he’ll only make it harder on me next practice.” She rolled her eyes heavenward as Eamon pulled at the stays of her corset, “Dear God—do you have to strangulate me!”

“Hold your breath child!  You waist is grown thick and your chest small with all this brandishing weaponry about! Have you no care for your girlish figure?”  Eamon yanked at the corset with stubborn pride, “Someone needs to take care in getting you a husband, you are the most distressing example for an old loyal manservant, do you expect me to sit in this old manor for the rest of my days dreaming of better hallways in which to walk?”

“I am sure you can dream all day long about many things Eamon.  You can dream about my future husband all you want, for that is something I’ve no care to think about.  Now, riding in the practice tourney, That sounds exciting!”  Rhia gritted her teeth as Eamon tugged and fussed with her formal dress, fluffing up the hem and shoving her feet into the constricting slippers beneath.

Rhia could barely think of anything else.  Her first tourney was in one month, a practice round before the smaller tourneys that preceding the annual Tourney of the Realm.  She had learned in the past months all the necessary skills to compete, at no small cost to her personal safety.  Bruises and scrapes were a daily plight for Eamon to cover up, she ached in every muscle, and was tired each night as she climbed into bed before rising several hours before dawn to meet Fiontan a league from the keep to practice before a blazing bonfire until the sun would rise.  Rhia’s sense of adventure only grew as she learned more, as Fiontan told her tales of dragons, simple people in need of defense, and grand tourneys for competing.

She was sure this was what she wanted, despite Eamon’s begging, nagging, and pleading otherwise.  He’d tried to encourage her to flirt with the visiting Lords and ranking elite that came to see her father.  He’d even surreptitiously written supposed love letters in her hand to a few of them.  She’d done her best to avoid conversations, looks, even been downright rude to a few of them, hoping they would move on to more pliable options.  When at last he had threatened to throw himself from the highest turret of the keep unless he got to leave this “dreadful” manor at some point in his life, she had told him he could come with her to the tourneys as her squire.  An attendant for her alter self, the creation of Fiontan and Rhia’s work—Sir Reginald.

Eamon, beginning to think this was all of the world he just might get to see if she refused to marry one of the handsome lords he did so much admire, accepted his charge.