Michael Sullivan - The Rose and the Thorn

Reuben should have run the moment the squires came out of the castle keep. He could have easily reached the sanctuary of the stable, limiting their harassment to throwing apples and insults, but their smiles confused him. They looked friendly-almost reasonable.

“Reuben! Hey, Reuben!”

Reuben? Not Muckraker? Not Troll-Boy?

The squires all had nicknames for him. None were flattering, but then he had names for them too-at least in his head. “The Song of Man,” one of Reuben’s favorite poems, mentioned age, disease, and hunger as the Three Cruelties of Humanity. Fat Horace was clearly hunger. Pasty-faced, pockmarked Willard was disease, and age was given to Dills, who at seventeen was the oldest.

Spotting Reuben, the trio had whirled his way like a small flock of predatory geese. Dills had a dented knight’s helmet in his hands, the visor slapping up and down as it swung with his arm. Willard carried combat padding. Horace was eating an apple-big surprise.

He could still make it to the stable ahead of them. Only Dills had any chance of winning in a footrace. Reuben shifted his weight but hesitated.

“This is my old trainer,” Dills said pleasantly, as if the last three years had never happened, as if he were a fox who’d forgotten what to do with a rabbit. “My father sent a whole new set for my trials. We’ve been having fun with this.”

They closed in-too late to run now. They circled around, but still the smiles remained.

Dills held out the helmet, which caught and reflected the autumn sun, leather straps dangling. “Ever worn one? Try it.”

Reuben stared at the helm, baffled. This is so odd. Why are they being nice?

“I don’t think he knows what to do with it,” Horace said.

“Go ahead.” Dills pushed the helmet at him. “You join the castle guards soon, right?”

They’re talking to me? Since when?

Reuben didn’t answer right away. “Ah … yeah.”

Dills’s smile widened. “Thought so. You don’t get much combat practice, do you?”

“Who would spar with the stableboy?” Horace slurred while chewing.

“Exactly,” Dills said, and glanced up at the clear sky. “Beautiful fall day. Stupid to be inside. Thought you’d like to learn a few maneuvers.”

Each of them wore wooden practice swords and Horace had an extra.

Is this real? Reuben studied their faces for signs of deceit. Dills appeared hurt by his lack of faith, and Willard rolled his eyes. “We thought you’d like to try on a knight’s helmet, seeing as how you never get to wear one. Thought you’d appreciate it.”

Beyond them, Reuben saw Squire Prefect Ellison coming from the castle and taking a seat on the edge of the well to watch.

“It’s fun. We’ve all taken turns.” Dills shoved the helm against Reuben’s chest again. “With the pads and helm you can’t get hurt.”

Willard scowled. “Look, we’re trying to be nice here-don’t be a git.”

As bizarre as it all was, Reuben didn’t see any malice in their eyes. They all smiled like he’d seen them look at one another-sloppy, unguarded grins. The whole thing made a kind of sense in Reuben’s head. After three years the novelty of bullying him had finally worn off. Being the only one their age who wasn’t noble had made him a natural target, but times had changed and everyone grew up. This was a peace offering, and given that Reuben hadn’t made a single friend since his arrival, he couldn’t afford to be picky.

He lifted the helm, which was stuffed with rags, and slipped it on. Despite the wads of cloth, the helmet was too big, hung loose. He suspected something wasn’t right but didn’t know for sure. He had never worn armor of any kind. Since Reuben was destined to be a castle soldier, his father had been expected to train him but never had time. That deficiency was part of the allure of the squires’ offer; the enticement outweighed his suspicions. This was his chance to learn about fighting and swordplay. His birthday was only a week away, and once he turned sixteen he would enter the ranks of the castle guard. With little combat training he’d be relegated to the worst posts. If the squires were serious, he might learn something-anything.

The trio trussed him up in the heavy layers of padding that restricted his movement; then Horace handed him the extra wooden sword.

That’s when the beating began.

Without warning, all three squires’ swords struck Reuben in the head. The metal and wadding of the helmet absorbed most, but not all, of the blows. The inside of the helmet had rough, exposed metal edges that jabbed, piercing his forehead, cheek, and ear. He raised his sword in a feeble attempt to defend but could see little through the narrow visor. His ears packed with linen, he could just barely make out muffled laughter. One blow knocked the sword from his hands and another struck his back, collapsing him to his knees. After that, the strikes came in earnest. They rained on his metal-caged head as he cowered in a ball.

Finally the blows slowed, then stopped. Reuben heard heavy breathing, panting, and more laughter.

“You were right, Dills,” Willard said. “The Muckraker is a much better training dummy.”

“For a while-but the dummy doesn’t curl up in a ball like a girl.” The old disdain was back in Dills’s voice.

“But there is the added bonus of him squealing when hit.”

“Anyone else thirsty?” Horace asked, still panting.

Hearing them move away, Reuben allowed himself to breathe and his muscles to relax. His jaw was stiff from clenching his teeth, and everything else ached from the pounding. He lay for a moment longer, waiting, listening. With the helmet on, the world was shut out, muted, but he feared taking it off. After several minutes, even the muffled laughter and insults faded. Peering up through the slit, all he could see was the canopy of orange and yellow leaves waving in the afternoon breeze. Reuben tilted his head and spotted the Three Cruelties in the center of the courtyard filling cups from the well as they took seats on the apple cart. One was rubbing his sword arm, swinging it in wide circles.

It must be exhausting beating me senseless.

Reuben pulled the helmet off and felt the cool air kiss the sweat on his brow. He realized now that it wasn’t Dills’s helm at all. They must have found it discarded somewhere. He should have known Dills would never let him wear anything of his. Reuben wiped his face and was not surprised when his hand came away with blood.

Hearing someone’s approach, he raised his arms to protect his head.

“That was pathetic.” Ellison stood over Reuben, eating an apple that he had stolen from the merchant’s cart. No one would say a word against him-certainly not the merchant. Ellison was the prefect of squires, the senior boy with the most influential father. He should have been the one to prevent such a beating.

Reuben didn’t reply.

“Wadding wasn’t tight enough,” Ellison went on. “Of course, the idea is not to get hit in the first place.” He took another bite of apple, chewing with his mouth open. Bits of dribble fell to his chest, staining his squire’s tunic. He and the Cruelties all wore the same uniform, blue with the burgundy and gold falcon of House Essendon. With the stain of apple juice, it looked like the falcon was crying.

“It’s hard to see in that helm.” Reuben noticed the wadded cloth that had fallen on the grass was bright with his blood.