The sword hisses as he pulls it from its sheath. The knight in the glade does not so much as look up as he advances, which unnerves him, but he presses on. The distant sound of the battle coming to its conclusion is dulled by the thick bracket of trees that rings them.
‘You are too young to die here, squire,’ says the knight as he approaches. She sits on the stump of a long fallen oak, which bulges with white mushrooms and fat moss, with the haft of her long glaive resting on one shoulder. ‘Go back home so you can die in a comfy bed sixty winters from now, surrounded by your children and grandchildren.’
‘You killed my master,’ he says, bitter tears stinging the edges of his eyes as he lofts his dead master’s sword, still advancing.
‘And you think you will fare better?’ says the knight, looking up for the first time. There is something in her eyes that falters his pace to a standstill. A confidence so bold and so sure, hammered into her after years of courtyard sparring and a lifetime of flesh and blood battles. The knight is a mankiller. He is a lowly boot squire, who until today, wasn’t even allowed to touch his master’s sword.
‘Did he even know your name?’ the knight asks cooly, while she idly threads daisies together in a chain.
The squire grits his teeth, gripping the sword tighter as its slicks in his sweaty hands. ‘I was below his notice, so mighty was he. He need not know my name for me to do my duty.’
‘Which was?’
‘Cleaning his noble boots,’ growls the squire, willing his voice lower than it is. A few winters more and he’ll be a full man, with the proper height and voice and beard.
A rueful smile works its way onto the knight’s face. ‘Is blind subservience truly so honoured in your country?’
The words sting the squire like a slap. ‘What else is there but duty?’ he demands.
The knight grabs the haft of her glaive and stands, drawing up to her full height, and towering over the squire. ‘Everything. You just have to take it.’
The squire gazes at her in awe and terror. He shifts his stance, holding out the sword further in a vain attempt to keep her at bay should she suddenly lunge.
But the knight remains motionless, watching him with considering eyes. ‘If you will not go home and live quietly, boot squire, then you must learn how to live another life.’
Conflicting emotions wash over the young squire. ‘How?’
The knight nods. ‘That sword is a start.’
Paddy Dobson
23rd July 2022