Michael Sullivan - Wintertide

Nimbus walked to a drape behind the bunk, and flung it aside, revealing an open wardrobe filled with tunics, jackets, coats, capes, jerkins, gambesons, vests, doublets, baldrics, belts, breeches, shirts, hose, boots, and shoes.

Hadrian looked at the wardrobe and frowned. "So how was I supposed to know all that was there?"

"Why don't we begin by getting you properly dressed?" Nimbus suggested and motioned for Hadrian to pick something.

He reached toward a pair of wool pants, but a cough from Nimbus stopped him.

"No?" Hadrian asked.

Nimbus shook his head.

"Okay, what do you think I should be wearing?"

Nimbus considered the wardrobe for several minutes, picking out various pieces, comparing them, putting one back, and then choosing another. He finally selected a white shirt, gold doublet, purple hose, and shiny black shoes with brass buckles. He laid them out on the bunk.

"You're joking," Hadrian said, staring at the array. "That's your best choice? I'm not sure gold and purple are for me. Besides, what's wrong with the wool pants?"

"Those are for hunting and, like the tabard, not appropriate for dress at court. Gold and purple complement each other. They announce you are a man that makes no excuses."

Hadrian held up the clothes with a grimace. "They're loud. Disturbingly loud."

"They exude refinement and grace," Nimbus corrected. "Qualities, if you don't mind me saying, from which you could benefit. I know knights in the field dress in order to bully rabble-rousers and brigands, and under such circumstances, it's appropriate to select garments based on certain utilitarian qualities." He took an appraising look at Hadrian's attire. "But you are at the palace now, competing with a higher class of…thug. A strong arm and loud voice will not be enough. You need to sell yourself to the knights you wish to intimidate, to the ladies you wish to bed, to the lords you wish to impress, and to the commoners who will chant your name during the competitions. This last group is particularly important, as it will raise your stature with the others.

"A knight skilled in combat may stay alive, but it is the one skilled in persuasion that wins the king's daughter for his wife and retires to a vast estate. Truly successful knights can obtain multiple fiefs and enter their twilight years as wealthy as any count or earl."

Nimbus lowered his voice. "Regent Saldur mentioned that you might be a bit rough around the edges." He paused briefly. "I think we can both agree I've not been misled. It may take some doing to refine your mannerisms. So, in the meantime, I plan to overcompensate with clothing. We'll blind everyone with dazzle, so they won't see the dirt on your face."

Hadrian reached for his cheek.

"That was a metaphor," Nimbus informed him. "Although now that I look at you, a bath is certainly in order."

"Bath? It's freezing outside. You're supposed to groom me, not kill me."

"You may be surprised to discover that in civilized society we bathe indoors with heated water. You might even find it enjoyable." Turning to the boy, Nimbus ordered, "Renwick, run and fetch the tub and get some others to help carry buckets. We'll also need a bristle brush, soap, oils, and-oh yes-scissors."

The lad ran off and quickly returned with a small army of boys carrying a wooden tub. They left and returned with buckets of hot water. After preparing the bath, all the boys left except Renwick. He dutifully stood beside the door, ready for further requests.

Hadrian undressed and tested the water with a hesitant foot.

"Are you versed in the basic concept of bathing? Or do you need me to instruct you?" Nimbus asked.

Hadrian scowled at him. "I think I can handle it," he said, settling into the water. The tub overflowed and created a soapy mess. He grimaced. "Sorry about that."

Nimbus said nothing and turned away to give Hadrian a modicum of privacy.

The hot bath was wonderful. Hadrian had been assigned an interior chamber selected, no doubt, for its lack of windows. There was a simple bed, two wooden stools, a modest table, but no fireplace, which left the chamber chilly. If desperate, there was a large hearth in the common room at the end of the hall that also sported carpets and a chess set, but despite the cold Hadrian preferred to remain in the isolation of his private room. Having not felt comfortably warm in days, Hadrian sank lower to submerge as much of himself as possible.

"Are these yours?" Nimbus asked, noticing Hadrian's weapons resting in the corner of the room.

"Yes, and I know they're worn and dirty just like me."

Nimbus lifted the spadone still encased in the leather baldric with a noticeable degree of reverence. Turning it over gingerly, he ran his fingertips along the hilt, grip, and pommel. "This is very old," he said almost to himself. "Wrong sheath though." He laid the sword across the foot of the bed.

"I thought you were a courtier. What do you know about swords?"

"You'll learn that there are many weapons at court. Survival in the maelstrom of the body politic requires being able to size up another by what little they reveal to you."

Hadrian shrugged. "It's the same in combat."

"Court is combat," Nimbus said. "Only the skills and setting differ."

"So, how would you size me up?"

"Regent Saldur told me your background is completely confidential and that divulging anything would result in my-not too painless-demise. The only information he provided was that you were recently knighted. He refrained from any detail about your station or ancestry. The regent merely mentioned you were lacking refinement and instructed me to ensure you fit seamlessly into the Wintertide festivities."

Hadrian kept an unwavering stare on the tutor. "You didn't answer the question."

Nimbus smiled at him. "You really want to know, don't you? You aren't toying with me?"

Hadrian nodded.

The tutor turned to the page. "Renwick?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Fetch Sir Hadrian a cup of wine from the steward in the kitchen."

"There's wine in the common room, sir, and it's closer."

Nimbus gave him a stern look. "I want some privacy, Renwick."

"Oh, I see. Of course, sir."

"Very well then," Nimbus said after the boy left. He pursed his lips and tapped them several times with his index finger before continuing. "The truth of the matter is that you are not a knight. You haven't even served as a squire, groom, or page. I doubt you've ever set foot in a proper castle for more than a few minutes at a time. However, and this is the important point-you are indeed noble."

Hadrian paused in his scrubbing. "And what makes you think that?"

"You didn't know where the wardrobe was, you've never taken a bath in winter, you shook my hand when we met, and apologized for spilling your bath water. These are most certainly not the actions of a knight raised from birth to feel and act superior to others."

Hadrian sniffed the scented soap and discarded it.

"Most telling, however, was the handshake itself. You offered it as a simple gesture of greeting. There was no agenda, no flattery, no insincerity. There also was no insecurity or sense that, by virtue of my clothes and mannerisms, I was your better. How odd, considering, as I now know, you were not raised a noble." Nimbus looked back at the sword resting on the bed. "It's an heirloom, isn't it?"

Picking up a bottle of oil, Hadrian pulled the cork and deemed it acceptable. He added a bit to the bristles of the brush. "I got it from my father."

The tutor ran his hand along the sheathed blade. "This is a remarkable weapon-a knight's sword-tarnished with time and travel. You don't use it as often as the others. The bastard and short sword are tools to you, but this-ah-this is something else-something revered. It lies concealed in a paltry sheath, covered in clothes not its own. It doesn't belong there. This sword belongs to another time and place. It is part of a grand and glorious world where knights were different, loftier-virtuous. It rests in this false scabbard because the proper one has been lost, or perhaps, it waits for a quest yet to be finished. It longs for that single moment when it can shine forth in all its brilliance. When dream and destiny meet on a clear field, then and only then will it find its purpose. When it faces that honorable cause-that one worthy and desperate challenge for which it was forged and on which so much depends-it will find peace in the crucible of struggle. For good or ill, it will ring true or break. But the wandering, the waiting, the hiding will at last be over. This sword waits for the day when it can save the kingdom and win the lady."