‘Congratulations, Horace. Report to Battleschool tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Horace replied, grinning widely. He turned to Sir Rodney and bowed slightly. ‘Thank you, sir!’
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ the knight replied cryptically. ‘You don’t know what you’re in for.’
‘Who’s next then?’ Martin was calling as Horace, grinning broadly, stepped back into the line. Alyss stepped forward gracefully, annoying Martin, who had wanted to nominate her as the next candidate.
‘Alyss Mainwaring, my lord,’ she said in her quiet, level voice. Then, before she could be asked, she continued, ‘I request an appointment to the Diplomatic Service please, my lord.’
Arald smiled at the solemn-looking girl. She had an air of self-confidence and poise about her that would suit her well in the Service. He glanced at Lady Pauline.
‘My lady?’ he said.
She nodded her head several times. ‘I’ve already spoken to Alyss, my lord. I believe she will be an excellent candidate. Approved and accepted.’
Alyss made a small bow of her head in the direction of the woman who would be her mentor. Will thought how alike they were – both tall and elegant in their movements, both grave in manner. He felt a small surge of pleasure for his oldest companion, knowing how much she had wanted this selection. Alyss stepped back in line and Martin, not to be forestalled this time, was already pointing to George.
‘Right! You’re next! You’re next! Address the Baron.’
George stepped forward. His mouth opened and closed several times but nothing came out. The other wards watched in surprise. George, long regarded by them all as the official advocate for just about everything, was overcome with stage fright. He finally managed to say something in a low voice that nobody in the room could hear. Baron Arald leaned forward, one hand cupped behind his ear.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that?’ he said. George looked up at the Baron and, with an enormous effort, spoke in a just-audible voice.
‘G-George Carter, sir. Scribeschool, sir.’
Martin, ever a stickler for the proprieties, drew breath to berate him for the truncated nature of his address. Before he could do so, and to everyone’s evident relief, Baron Arald stepped in.
‘Very well, Martin. Let it go.’ Martin looked a little aggrieved but subsided. The Baron glanced at Nigel, his chief scribe and legal officer, with one eyebrow raised in question.
‘Acceptable, my lord,’ Nigel said, adding, ‘I’ve seen some of George’s work and he really does have a gift for calligraphy.’
The Baron looked doubtful. ‘He’s not the most forceful of speakers, though, is he, Scribemaster? That could be a problem if he has to offer legal counsel at any time in the future.’
Nigel shrugged the objection aside. ‘I promise you, my lord, with proper training that sort of thing represents no problem. Absolutely no problem at all, my lord.’
The Master Scribe folded his hands together into the wide sleeves of the monk-like habit he wore as he warmed to his theme.
‘I remember a boy who joined us some seven years back, rather like this one here, as a matter of fact. He had that same habit of mumbling to his shoes – but we soon showed him how to overcome it. Some of our most reluctant speakers have gone on to develop absolute eloquence, my lord, absolute eloquence.’
The Baron drew breath to comment but Nigel continued in his discourse.
‘It may even surprise you to hear that, as a boy, I myself suffered from a most terrible nervous stutter. Absolutely terrible, my lord. Could barely put two words together at a time.’
‘Hardly a problem now, I see,’ the Baron managed to put in dryly, and Nigel smiled, taking the point. He bowed to the Baron.
‘Exactly, my lord. We’ll soon help young George overcome his shyness. Nothing like the rough and tumble of Scribeschool for that. Absolutely.’
The Baron smiled in spite of himself. The Scribeschool was a studious place where voices were rarely, if ever, raised and where logical, reasoned debate reigned supreme. Personally, on his visits to the place, he had found it mind-numbing in the extreme. Anything less like a rough and tumble atmosphere he could not imagine.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he replied, then, to George, he said, ‘Very well, George, request granted. Report to Scribeschool tomorrow.’
George shuffled his feet awkwardly. ‘Mumble-mumble-mumble,’ he said and the Baron leaned forward again, frowning as he tried to make out the low-pitched words.
‘What was that?’ he asked.
George finally looked up and managed to whisper, ‘Thank you, my lord.’ He hurriedly shuffled back to the relative anonymity of the line.
‘Oh,’ said the Baron, a little taken aback. ‘Think nothing of it. Now, next is …’
Jenny was already stepping forward. Blonde and pretty, she was also, it had to be admitted, a little on the chubby side. But the look suited her and at any of the castle’s social functions, she was a much sought-after dance partner with the boys in the castle, both her yearmates in the Ward and the sons of castle staff as well.
‘Master Chubb, sir!’ she said now, stepping forward right to the edge of the Baron’s desk. The Baron looked into the round face, saw the eagerness shining there in the blue eyes and couldn’t help smiling at her.
‘What about him?’ he asked gently and she hesitated, realising that, in her enthusiasm, she had breached the protocol of the Choosing.
‘Oh! Your pardon, sir … my … Baron … your lordship,’ she hastily improvised, her tongue running away with her as she mangled the correct form of address.
‘My lord!’ Martin prompted her. Baron Arald looked at him, eyebrows raised.
‘Yes, Martin?’ he said. ‘What is it?’
Martin had the grace to look embarrassed. He knew that his master was intentionally misunderstanding his interruption. He took a deep breath, and said in an apologetic tone, ‘I … simply wanted to inform you that the candidate’s name is Jennifer Dalby, sir.’
The Baron nodded at him and Martin, a devoted servant of the thickset bearded man, saw the look of approval in his lord’s eyes.
‘Thank you, Martin. Now, Jennifer Dalby …’
‘Jenny, sir,’ said the irrepressible girl and he shrugged resignedly.
‘Jenny, then. I assume that you are applying to be apprenticed to Master Chubb?’
‘Oh, yes please, sir!’ Jenny replied breathlessly, turning adoring eyes on the portly, red-haired cook. Chubb scowled thoughtfully and considered her.
‘Mmmmm … could be, could be,’ he muttered, walking back and forth in front of her. She smiled winningly at him but Chubb was beyond such feminine wiles.
‘I’d work hard, sir,’ she told him earnestly.
‘I know you would!’ he replied with some spirit. ‘I’d make sure of it, girl. No slacking or lollygagging in my kitchen, let me tell you.’
Fearing that her opportunity might be slipping away, Jenny played her trump card.
‘I have the right shape for it,’ she said. Chubb had to agree that she was well rounded. Arald, not for the first time that morning, hid a smile.
‘She has a point there, Chubb,’ he put in and the cook turned to him in agreement.
‘Shape is important, sir. All great cooks tend to be … rounded.’ He turned back to the girl, still considering. It was all very well for the others to accept their trainees in the wink of an eye, he thought. But cooking was something special.
‘Tell me,’ he said to the eager girl, ‘what would you do with a turkey pie?’
Jenny smiled dazzlingly at him. ‘Eat it,’ she answered immediately.
Chubb rapped her on the head with the ladle he carried. ‘I meant what would you do about cooking it?’ he asked. Jenny hesitated, gathered her thoughts, then plunged into a lengthy technical description of how she would go about constructing such a masterpiece. The other four wards, the Baron, his Craftmasters and Martin listened in so
me awe, with absolutely no comprehension of what she was saying. Chubb, however, nodded several times as she spoke, interrupting as she detailed the rolling of the pastry.
‘Nine times, you say?’ he said curiously and Jenny nodded, sure of her ground.
‘My mother always said: “Eight times to make it flaky and once more for love”,’ she said. Chubb nodded thoughtfully.
‘Interesting. Interesting,’ he said, then, looking up at the Baron, he nodded. ‘I’ll take her, my lord.’
‘What a surprise,’ the Baron said mildly, then added, ‘Very well, report to the kitchens in the morning, Jennifer.’
‘Jenny, sir,’ the girl corrected him again, her smile lighting up the room.
Baron Arald smiled. He glanced at the small group before him. ‘And that leaves us with one more candidate.’ He glanced at his list, then looked up to meet Will’s agonised gaze, gesturing encouragement.
Will stepped forward, nervousness suddenly drying his throat so that his voice came out in barely a whisper.
‘Will, sir. My name is Will.’
‘Will? Will who?’ Martin asked in exasperation, flicking through the sheets of paper with the candidates’ details written on them. He had only been the Baron’s secretary for five years and so knew nothing of Will’s history. He realised now that there was no family name on the boy’s papers and, assuming he had let this mistake slip past, he was annoyed at himself.
‘What’s your family name, boy?’ he asked severely. Will looked at him, hesitating, hating this moment.
‘I … don’t have …’ he began, but mercifully the Baron interceded.
‘Will is a special case, Martin,’ he said quietly, his look telling the secretary to let the matter go. He turned back to Will, smiling encouragement.
‘What school did you wish to apply for, Will?’ he asked.
‘Battleschool please, my lord,’ Will replied, trying to sound confident in his choice. The Baron allowed a frown to crease his forehead and Will felt his hopes sinking.
‘Battleschool, Will? You don’t think you’re … a little on the small side?’ the Baron asked gently. Will bit his lip. He had all but convinced himself that if he wanted this badly enough, if he believed in himself strongly enough, he would be accepted – in spite of his obvious shortcomings.
‘I haven’t had my growing spurt yet, sir,’ he said desperately. ‘Everybody says that.’
The Baron rubbed his bearded chin with thumb and forefinger as he considered the boy before him. He glanced to his Battlemaster.
‘Rodney?’ he said.
The tall knight stepped forward, studied Will for a moment or two, then slowly shook his head.
‘I’m afraid he’s too small, my lord,’ he said. Will felt a cold hand clutch his heart.
‘I’m stronger than I look, sir,’ he said. But the Battlemaster was unswayed by the plea. He glanced at the Baron, obviously not enjoying the situation, and shook his head.
‘Any second choice, Will?’ the Baron asked. His voice was gentle, even concerned.
Will hesitated for a long moment. He had never considered any other selection.
‘Horseschool, sir?’ he asked finally.
Horseschool trained and cared for the mighty battlehorses that the castle’s knights rode. It was at least a link to Battleschool, Will thought. But Ulf, the Horsemaster, was shaking his head already, even before the Baron asked his opinion.
‘I need apprentices, my lord,’ he said, ‘but this one’s too small. He’d never control one of my battlehorses. They’d stomp him into the ground as soon as look at him.’
Will could only see the Baron through a watery blur now. He fought desperately to keep the tears from sliding down his cheeks. That would be the ultimate humiliation: to be rejected from Battleschool and then to break down and cry like a baby in front of the Baron, all the Craftmasters and his wardmates.
‘What skills do you have, Will?’ the Baron was asking him. He racked his brain. He wasn’t good at lessons and languages, as Alyss was. He couldn’t form neat, perfect letters, the way George did. Nor did he have Jenny’s interest in cooking.
And he certainly didn’t have Horace’s muscles and strength.
‘I’m a good climber, sir,’ he said finally, seeing that the Baron was waiting for him to say something. It was a mistake, he realised instantly. Chubb, the cook, glared at him angrily.
‘He can climb, all right. I remember when he climbed up a drainpipe into my kitchen and stole a tray of sweet-cakes that were cooling on the windowsill.’
Will’s jaw dropped with the unfairness of it all. That had been two years ago! He was a child then and it was a mere childish prank, he wanted to say. But now the Scribemaster was talking too.
‘And just this last spring he climbed up to our third floor study and turned two rabbits loose during one of our legal debates. Most disruptive. Absolutely!’
‘Rabbits, you say, Scribemaster?’ said the Baron and Nigel nodded emphatically.
‘A male and a female rabbit, my lord, if you take my meaning?’ he replied. ‘Most disruptive indeed!’
Unseen by Will, the very serious Lady Pauline put one elegant hand in front of her mouth. She might have been concealing a yawn. But when she removed the hand, the corners of her mouth were slightly uptilted still.
‘Well, yes,’ said the Baron. ‘We all know how rabbits are.’
‘And, as I said, my lord, it was spring,’ Nigel went on, in case the Baron had missed the point. Lady Pauline gave vent to an unladylike cough. The Baron looked in her direction, in some surprise.
‘I think we get the picture, Scribemaster,’ he said, then returned his gaze to the desperate figure who stood in front of him. Will kept his chin up and stared straight ahead. The Baron felt for the young lad in that moment. He could see the tears welling up in those lively brown eyes, held back only by an infinite determination. Willpower, he thought abstractedly, recognising the play on the boy’s name. He didn’t enjoy putting the boy through all this, but it had to be done. He sighed inwardly.
‘Is there any one of you who could use this boy?’ he said.
Despite himself, Will allowed his head to turn and gaze pleadingly at the line of Craftmasters, praying that one of them would relent and accept him. One by one, silently, they shook their heads.
Surprisingly, it was the Ranger who broke the awful silence in the room.
‘There is something you should know about this boy, my lord,’ he said. Will had never heard Halt speak before. His voice was deep and soft-spoken, with the slightest burr of a Hibernian accent still noticeable.
He stepped forward now and handed the Baron a sheet of paper, folded double. Arald unfolded it, studied the words written there and frowned.
‘You’re sure of this, Halt?’ he said.
‘Indeed, my lord.’
The Baron carefully refolded the paper and placed it on his desk. He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the desktop, then said:
‘I’ll have to think on this overnight.’
Halt nodded and stepped back, seeming to fade into the background as he did so. Will stared anxiously at him, wondering what information the mysterious figure had passed on to the Baron. Like most people, Will had grown up believing that Rangers were best avoided. They were a secretive, arcane group, shrouded in mystery and uncertainty, and that uncertainty led to fear.
Will didn’t like the thought that Halt knew something about him – something that he felt was important enough to bring to the Baron’s attention today, of all days. The sheet of paper lay there, tantalisingly close, yet impossibly far away.
He realised that there was movement around him and the Baron was speaking to the other people in the room.
‘Congratulations to those who were selected here today. It’s a big day for all of you so you’re free to have the rest of the day off and enjoy yourselves. The kitchens will provide a banquet for you in your quarters and for the rest of the day you have free run of the castle and the
village.
‘Tomorrow, you’ll report to your new Craftmasters first thing in the morning. And if you’ll take a tip from me, you’ll make sure you’re on time.’ He smiled at the other four, then addressed Will, with a hint of sympathy in his voice.
‘Will, I’ll let you know tomorrow what I’ve decided about you.’ He turned to Martin and gestured for him to show the new apprentices out. ‘Thank you, everyone,’ he said, and left the room through the door behind his desk.
The Craftmasters followed his lead, then Martin ushered the former wards to the door. They chatted together excitedly, relieved and delighted that they had been selected by the Craftmasters of their choice.
Will hung back behind the others, hesitating as he passed the desk where that sheet of paper still lay. He stared at it for a moment, as if somehow he could see through to the words written on the reverse side. Then he felt that same sensation that he had felt earlier, that someone was watching him. He looked up and found himself staring into the dark eyes of the Ranger, who remained behind the Baron’s high-backed chair, almost invisible in that strange cloak of his.
Will shuddered in a sudden frisson of fear and hurried out of the room.
It was long after midnight. The flickering torches around the castle yard, already replaced once, had begun to burn low again. Will had watched patiently for hours, waiting for this moment – when the light was uncertain and the guards were yawning, in the last hour of their shift.
The day had been one of the worst he could remember. While his yearmates celebrated, enjoying their feast and then spending their time in light-hearted horseplay through the castle and the village, Will had slipped away to the silence of the forest, a kilometre or so from the castle walls. There, in the dim green coolness beneath the trees, he had spent the afternoon reflecting bitterly on the events of the Choosing, nursing the deep pain of disappointment and wondering what the Ranger’s paper said.
As the long day wore on, and the shadows began to lengthen in the open fields beside the forest, he came to a decision.