David Feintuch: The Still

I gaped, incapable of a word.

He dropped to a knee. “I pledge myself to thee as vassal, from this moment unto our deaths or my release. I shall serve and protect thee with honor. I do swear my loyalty, and vow I shall take no other as my liege save thee.” In the age-old gesture, he touched his palm to my chest, and bowed his head.

For a moment I stood transfixed, almost in dread. He’d proffered me his life, his independence. Then, slowly, my hand dropped to his forehead. “Rustin, son of Llewelyn, I accept thee as vassal, and pledge by my honor that I shall do thee and our House no shame.”

I released him. Dazed, I fell back on my bed. He sat alongside me, fluffed my quilt as tenderly as a nursemaid, covered me.

I caught his arm. “Rust, I know I’m not-that is …” I forced myself to meet his eyes. “Am I worth so much?”

“You’re foolish at times.” His smile was gentle. “More often than I’d wish. And selfish. Thoughtless. Yet you’re more. That day the drunken guard came at me in the tavern, and you leaped to defend me, with nothing but a tankard. And the day I gave you Ebon …”

“Yes?” I recalled the foolish tears I’d shed.

“I saw a boy who could be King.” His hand flicked out, stroked my brow.

“But by swearing fealty … you gave me everything.”

“I saw you need it.”

My scorn dripped. “This afternoon, by my shame?”

“No, my lord. Tonight, by your fear.” He sighed. “Now, perhaps, you can allow yourself a friend.”

He settled in his bed.

Much later, I said into the night, “Rustin, I’m so sorry.” There was no reply. I snuggled into my pillow and, swallowing a sob mixed with joy, slept like a child.

At daybreak Rustin made clear by his silence that he preferred to be left alone. Dressed and combed, I trotted downstairs to the airy hall, chatted with his mother Joenne while a servant brought breakfast. I downed eggs and soft cheese, and the weak wine mixed with water that made a common day-drink among the nobility.

“Hallo, Mother.” Rustin crossed the flagstoned hall, his sandals clicking against the tiles.

She beckoned him for a quick kiss, held his face for swift scrutiny. “You kept each other up again?”

“I slept well.” His tone was cool. He poured apple-wine, downed the draught in one swallow. “I’m going with Roddy to the smithy.”

I said, “No, I’ll ride home.” He seemed to take me for granted, and I couldn’t allow that.

He turned on me. “Your clothes haven’t dried yet, you lout. Would you ride in rags, like a nomad?”

Even his mother was taken aback.

He sighed, his brow clearing in an instant. “Oh, come along, Roddy. We’ll see about my new sword, and if the sun lasts you’ll have your clothes dry.”

Still irritated, I plucked at my tunic. “In these rags?”

He crossed the hall, tugged gently at my forearm. “Sorry for my temper. Please come. I want your advice.”

It was why I could seldom refuse him. I nodded to Lady Joenne, followed him meekly to the gate. At times, I understood why my young brother Elryc followed me about.

The keep that Llewelyn guarded lay athwart the harbor, a forbidding stone stronghold that served as the first barrier to invasion by sea. A stone seawall jutted into the bay, cleaving the harbor in twain. This was to make more difficult the task of an invading army intent on siege. They’d have to struggle neck deep or worse, to encamp north of the keep’s walls.

Because Llewelyn’s keep occupied the northern end of the harbor, the town of Stryx had no choice but to spread southward. We ambled along the sunny road that ran along the lapping sea.

Along much of the coast, waves met only unyielding cliffs, but at Stryx the cliffs fell back a thousand paces to where our castle sat high over the town. From my room, I had view of a rocky shoreline that wound along a wide inviting bay.

We ambled along the shore road. Rust squinted in the bright morning light. “Until you’re eighteen, you need your uncle Mar’s favor to be crowned. If you go about like an unwashed ragamuffin-”

“You’re not my father!”

“No, my prince. Your vassal, and sworn to protect you. Even from yourself.”

“Such service I don’t need.” But I said it lightly. I really ought to take more time choosing an unstained cloak, and make sure my breeches matched my blouse.

Even were we blind, we’d have located the smithy from the clanking within, or the sooty breath of coal in the air.

The swordsmith was a runty fellow, not at all the giant one might expect. Beside him, working the bellows with a grin, stood a huge muscled boy who served as prentice.

“Ah, Rustin of the keep. Your sword’s on the rack. Not done yet. Two more dippings, I imagine, perhaps three.”

“That long?” Rustin sounded forlorn. He plucked the weapon from its rack, hefted it, handed it to me with eyebrow raised. I made a few passes, as if testing.

“Take it now, if you want dross. A work of beauty wants time.”

“You’ve had weeks.”

“And I have other orders. Margenthar refitted half his cavalry this year. Those dangling iron stirrups your guards catch their foot in when they ride.” He snorted. “As if mounted spearmen decide a battle. Newfangled nonsense, like all the Norberk fashions, but who am I to argue? I’m just a poor, simple-”

The bellows boy winked. Haughtily, I put him in his place by ignoring his effrontery.

Rust growled, “You’re the best swordsmith in Stryx, but you charge as if you’re the finest in the Estreach.” Rustin’s tone was polite, but had an edge. “I’ve already laid out the expense. When may I have my sword?”

“Um … three days hence?” The smith took up a hammer, donned his glove to pull a bar from the fire.

I scowled at a hayroll, chopped at a haystalk that towered above the rest.

Rust turned to me. “What think you, Rodrigo?”

“A few days don’t seem too-”

“Of the sword, dolt.”

“Oh.” How in blazes should I know? A sword was a sword, in my hand. Falla of Toth, our master of swordplay, droned about the merits of the long blade versus the epee, the weight, the haft, the grip, the-

“Well?”

“It seems a touch out of balance,” I said, guessing wildly. “Perhaps too heavy in the-”

“Precisely!” The smith dropped his bar on the anvil, took the sword from my hand. “Fine discrimination, my lord. The blade is a touch overbalanced as yet for the haft.” He fussed at the sword, flung open the window to hold it in the light. “You see there, where the jewels will be set? And here, the silver? Gold would be better, but the expense … It takes a fine hand to discern such a trifling imbalance.”

I nodded politely, saying nothing. I’d meant to say the haft was too heavy for the blade, not the reverse.

“Three days, then. I can’t wait.” Rustin’s eyes shone. “Thank you.” He bid the smith good day, and we made our way out of the sweltering shop. “You see why I wanted your advice? I’d have never noticed in a million-”

A clatter of horses. We stepped aside, pressed against the wall of the smithy.

A troop of Llewelyn’s guard flashed past. Someone pointed: “There he is!” They reined in so abruptly that one mount reared, pawing the air. Rustin, vigilant, thrust himself in front of me.

The captain dismounted, hurried toward me, his hand well clear of his sword, and my tension eased. “My lord, you’re to return to the castle at once.”

So Mother had noticed my absence. Although Rustin had sent word that I was spending the night, actually it was I who was supposed to inform her. Well, she demanded I ask, not merely inform, but …

Above, the distant call of a trumpet. I ignored it, aware of the smith’s boy who’d come out from his bellows, of windows thrown open and faces peering from above. I strove for dignity. “We’ll be along presently. Leave us, now.”