Page 47 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set
As their swords clashed, the sound of metal against metal clanking loudly in the courtyard, Roland willed himself to concentrate. Against perhaps the greatest swordsman in England—save his own father—there could be no missteps.
The crowd had swelled, as expected. They’d chosen the courtyard, rather than the training yard, in order to provide such a spectacle.
“A respite,” Sir Eamon had said. The recent mission, and loss of another of the Knight School’s instructors, had weighed heavily on everyone, Roland’s fellow recruits included.
“Let us give them a show, Roland,” his swordmaster had said.
And so, they gave the inhabitants of Castle Blackwood just that.
Wind whispered through the courtyard as he and Sir Eamon circled each other. With a surge, Roland lunged forward, his blade flashing in the sunlight. But the seasoned instructor effortlessly parried his strike, Eamon’s every movement fluid and controlled.
“Do not be too eager, my boy,” Sir Eamon said, unable to shed his role as instructor even as he clearly began to tire. “Patience. Always.”
Undeterred, Roland pressed with a series of swift attacks, but Sir Eamon dodged and blocked each strike, his knowing smile not meant to be taunting.
As the exchange continued, Roland ignored the shouts of encouragement for both men and began to notice a pattern in Sir Eamon’s movements.
He seemed to favor his left side, leaving a brief opening after each attack.
Timing his next move with precision, Roland feigned an attack to his right and quickly shifted his blade to the left, catching Sir Eamon off guard. The instructor barely managed to parry in time.
Seizing the opportunity, Roland pressed his advantage striking, exploiting the opening he’d discovered. Sir Eamon, now on the defensive, struggled to keep up with Roland’s relentless assault.
With a final, decisive strike, Roland managed to disarm his instructor, Sir Eamon’s sword clattering to the ground. The courtyard fell silent for a moment before erupting into cheers. As Roland picked up his instructor’s sword, Sir Eamon chuckled, a mixture of pride and acceptance in his eyes.
“A true swordsman learns not only from his victories, but from his defeats as well,” Sir Eamon said as Roland passed the hilt of his instructor’s sword to him.
“Methinks, however, you will see few defeats.” Smiling more broadly, he added, “In hand-to-hand combat, at least. But one last piece of advice from this old man. Do not let that legendary swagger of yours get in the way of greatness.”
“Legendary swagger,” Roland said, sheathing his own sword. “’Tis the first I’ve heard it said in such a way.”
“As if it is any secret Roland thinks highly of himself,” his friend Alden said, slapping him on the back.
Alden had dark hair, though not as black as Roland’s own, and kind brown eyes unlike Roland’s icy blue ones.
Though they had a few differences, they could pass for brothers.
Albeit opposites in personality, but alike in build and strength.
And the one quality that mattered most to Roland, one of the reasons he’d so quickly befriended his fellow recruit.
Loyalty.
“’Twill be his downfall if he’s not careful,” the defeated instructor said. “Enjoy your victory, my son.”
With that, Sir Eamon left Roland and Alden behind as the crowd began to disperse.
“I thought for certain he had you,” Alden said as they walked toward the keep of their secret stronghold.
Though all knew Castle Blackwood existed, only a select few knew it housed some of the greatest knights in all of England, intent on one purpose.
..to reinstall Empress Matilda as the rightful queen of England.
The usurper, King Stephen, even now was held against his will at Lincoln Castle—a coup that the Guardians of the Sacred Oak, the secret knightly order being trained at Castle Blackwood, had precipitated. Even so, the war had not yet been won.
“He is as skilled as my father,” Roland admitted. “In ten matches against Sir Eamon, I would be lucky to win five of them.”
They passed other recruits, some brought to Castle Blackwood because of their skill with the sword or bow and arrow, others master strategists who could be trained for battles both on the field and in dining halls where wit was as important as might.
But all continued their training to round out those skills, making each a weapon in this underground war, both on the battlefield and off it.
“Perhaps,” Alden acknowledged. “Or perhaps not. These instructors were once the best, but someone must become the next best. You are that person with the swords, there is no doubt.”
“You’ve not seen my father wield a sword. Nor my brothers, though none could best him.”
“You speak highly of your father, and brothers. Yet all support the king.”
It was not a question, so Roland didn’t answer it as one. If there was anything he liked speaking of less than the Lion of Ravensbrook, the moniker his father earned years ago in battle that followed him throughout his life, it was his family’s support of an unjust cause.
“How is it you have no siblings?” he asked, changing topics as they made their way into the keep.
“My mother nearly died birthing me,” Alden said.
The son of a blacksmith, he was the only recruit Roland knew of who was not a knight.
Even so, his strength and cunning were enough of an asset to their order that Roland could see easily why his friend had been recruited. “She could bear no children afterward.”
Roland shook his head. “The eldest son of an earl, with five siblings. The only son of a blacksmith, with none. We’ve much to set us apart.”
“There is much more than those facts,” another of their friends said, catching up to Roland and Alden. “To set the two of you apart.”
“Darien,” Roland exclaimed. “You missed the match.”
“Indeed. I’ve just returned from a special session with Stirling. While you play with swords, the real men of Blackwood hone skills that will actually win battles.”
Roland laughed. “You do not believe swords win battles? Perhaps because you’ve never actually seen one?” he teased.
“I’ve seen plenty,” Darien said. The golden boy of their order, a man all loved, instructors and fellow recruits alike, was as mysterious as he was charming. “And know well the importance of archers.” He smiled. “Such as myself.”
While it was true Sir Darien was a superior archer, Roland took exception to his assessment of their importance, at least over swordsmen. “And when you can no longer play at war from a distance? When your enemy is upon you?”
“Both are necessary,” Alden said, ever the peacemaker. “As you know. I’m surprised you bait a man who will never concede to you.”
“As always, blacksmith, you speak the truth,” Darien replied as the three men turned toward the hall. “So, tell me, how skilled is he truly? I’ve yet to train against him.”
They spoke of the match, of their instructors’ skill and of their missing compadre. The three men had been recruited during the same period, along with a fourth, who had left Blackwood to marry in secret. There had been no word of Sir Gareth since he left.
“The baron will never accept him,” Roland said of the bride’s father, the same man who financed their cause. A man none cared much for, despite that fact.
“Nay, he will not,” Alden agreed.
“One of many reasons not to fall in love.”
Roland hadn’t realized his friends looked at him strangely until they became so quiet he looked at them. He had been noticing the craftsmanship on the torches as they passed.
“Do not tell me the two of you believe in such a sentiment.”
“Love?” Darien asked. “I’ve not met anyone who thought the sentiment was so unworthy. Though it should not surprise me to hear you say such a thing.”
“You of all men should know, eldest sons of earls do not marry for love.”
Darien did not seem convinced.
“Gareth is not the eldest son of a noble,” Alden pointed out.
“Nay, but will pay a price, I am certain, for marrying Lord Ashcroft’s daughter in secret. Love,” Roland spat. “Naught but ill comes from it. Thankfully such a thing isn’t necessary for dalliances.”
“Of which you have plenty,” Alden said.
“Speaking of dalliances,” Darien said. “A few of us are going into the village this eve.”
“If that is an invitation...” Roland stood at the entrance of the hall where the midday meal was well underway. “Count us among the few.”
“Us?” Alden asked. “I’ve an early morning session with Lord Stirling. And unlike Darien, I’ve little skill with the bow and arrow to speak of.”
“Us,” Roland repeated. “If your aim is not true after a few pints of ale, then we can no longer be friends.”
“If I knew such a feat would be so easy, I’d have missed the mark long ago.”
Though Roland scowled at the jest, Darien laughed as they sat down with their fellow recruits, all talk of training and the village momentarily forgotten in favor of the meal before them.