“Not at all. Marshal Cedfer mentioned that you might be visiting this evening. I suppose, a warrior must always practice, eh?”
“Yes, if we want to stay good. And it’s been too long since I had a proper drill.”
“Fights don’t count?” No mistaking the ironic tone. She wanted to answer sharply, but knew better.
“No. Not really. A fight may not last long enough, or call out what you need to practice. I should drill every day—we did in the Duke’s Company. But no one can practice well on a full belly.” Paks leaned back and fished into her pouch for the correct silver piece. As she stood and turned to leave, she noticed several of the diners watching her.
Although it was full dark, she had no trouble making her way along the street. Uncurtained windows open to the cool evening air spilled light into the lane, and torches burned at either end of the bridge. Ahead, the grange was ablaze with light: torches flared atop the barton wall as well. As Paks came nearer, she could see that the gate to the barton and door to the grange both had sentries before them. She saw two dark shapes enter the barton ahead of her, pausing to exchange greetings with the sentries.
Up close, she realized that the sentries were very young. They carried long billets of wood, and struggled to maintain the dignity of their posts. Paks wondered which entrance to use. She heard the mutter of voices through both. Finally she decided on the barton gate. The youth there stared up at her, eyes wide.
“I’m Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter,” she said. “The Marshal invited me to come to weapons-practice.”
“Oh—eh—you’re the lady as has come over the mountains, eh?”
“Yes,” said Paks. “May I pass?”
“Oh—well—if the Marshal said—yes, lady, go on in. Are—are you really a fighter, like they say?” This last, as she was nearly past.
Paks turned back to him, hand on the hilt of her sword. “Yes. Did you doubt it?”
“Oh, no, lady. I—I just wondered, like.”
Paks turned back to the barton itself and looked about her. The bare little yard was ringed with torches set high on the wall. One man was stretching, arching his thick back with a grunt. Two more were looking over a pair of pikes, smoothing the shafts with pumice. Out of the side door of the grange came Ambros with an armful of short clubs that reminded Paks of hauks. She heard more men coming in the gate behind her, and a confused sort of clatter and mumble from the grange itself. She watched, uncertain, as Ambros dumped the clubs in a heap near the wall. When he straightened, he saw her.
“Ah, Paksenarrion. Welcome. Marshal Cedfer will be glad to see you. Will you come in? Or he’ll be out here in a few moments.”
“I’ll wait,” said Paks. “I can warm up out here.” She unbuckled her sword and laid it by the wall, then began limbering exercises. Others were busy with the same. One man belched repeatedly; a cloud of onion followed him.
“Eh, Gan,” said another. “If you’ve ate as much as I smell, you won’t last the night.”
“Air and onion won’t slow any man,” retorted Gan, grinning. “Might just set off my opponent—”
Paks ignored them. It reminded her of drill in the Company—the familiar mixture of joking and criticism. She finished her exercises and went to buckle on her sword. The barton was half-full of men—she saw no other women—and they were all mature and well-muscled. Most had picked up one of the short clubs; four had pikes, and one had a sword of medium length.
A bell rang, a single mellow stroke. Everyone stilled, and Marshal Cedfer came into the barton, followed by five other men.
“Are you ready, yeomen of Gird?” he asked.
“We are ready, Sir Marshal,” they answered in unison. Paks was silent.
“Then may Gird strengthen your arms and your hearts, and keep them strong for the safety of our land.”
“In the name of St. Gird, protector of the innocent,” came the response.
“We have a guest here tonight,” said the Marshal less formally. “Paksenarrion, come forward. I want all our yeomen to know you.” Paks edged past the others to stand near the Marshal under the torches. “Though she is not a Girdsman, Paksenarrion is an experienced warrior. She has accepted my invitation to drill with us. Those of you who drill with swords will have a chance to cross blades with her if you wish. Now, bring your weapons and let me see—” The Marshal began to look over the weapons, commenting on their condition. He was as thorough as any of the Duke’s armsmasters. Ambros explained that some of the weapons belonged to the men, and the rest were stored in the grange. Then the Marshal began assigning drills: some to one-on-one, others to two-on-one, and others to more basic exercises. When they were all occupied, he led Paks to a corner of the barton where Ambros waited with two short swords.
“If you don’t mind,” said the Marshal, “I’d like to work with these short swords. I suspect you are far more skilled with a short blade than I am. It would be best for the yeomen, I think, to learn the short. Of course, you’ll want a chance to work with your own, but—”
“That’s fine,” said Paks. “But I haven’t drilled with a short sword since leaving Aarenis. I may be clumsy with it.”
“Not as clumsy as I am,” said the Marshal. “I haven’t been able to teach the men to fight in lines with it.”
Paks unbuckled her long sword, racked it, and took one of the short ones from Ambros. “We used a small shield with these, in formation,” she said. “Do you have shields?”
“Yes, but we rarely practice with them. As I said, most of our men are not at all skilled with swords. Once they learn that, then we’ll try adding the shields.” The Marshal, too, had taken a short blade; he gestured at another man to come over. He looked closely at Paks. “You aren’t wearing your mail.”
“No. I didn’t think all of you would have mail.” Paks wished she had a banda, but was not about to ask for one.
“Mmm. I always say, the stripes you take in training reinforce the lesson.” The Marshal looked pleased, and the other two grinned. “Now—we’ll warm up in pairs, then go two-against-two. Is that all right?”
“Surely.” Paks moved the sword around, feeling its balance. It felt subtly different from the one in the Duke’s Company. Lighter, she finally decided.
As she had expected, the Marshal was not nearly as inexperienced as he’d claimed. They tested each other’s ability and strokes, without either making a touch, for a few minutes. Then the Marshal gestured a pause.
“Yes, indeed,” he said. “I see you have much to teach us. Now, Ambros, you stand with her, and Mattis, you take my right.”
Paks shot a look at the young man who came to stand beside her. She felt queer, standing in formation with a stranger against strangers. But if she joined a guard company somewhere, this is what it would be like. Again the blades came up in salute, and the drill began.
Ambros, she saw at once, wanted to move around too much. He shifted from side to side with each stroke, alternately crowding and leaving her flank uncovered. The Marshal’s partner, Mattis, looked as if he couldn’t shift at all, but at least he kept some sort of line. Paks managed to cover Ambros’s lapses at first, but finally the Marshal’s blade leaped in and rapped his side sharply. Paks had managed two touches on Mattis, but none on the Marshal. He signalled another halt.
“I think I see our problem,” he said. “Ambros, you aren’t holding your position. Isn’t that it, Paksenarrion?”
She was not sure how critical she could be without angering them. “Well—yes, part of it. A line works only if it holds together. But I think those who learn a long blade first have more trouble. It seems to me that you, sir, and Ambros both are trying strokes more suited to a long blade. More wrist, and less elbow and shoulder.”
“Ah. I see. Suppose you stand out, and watch us, and give corrections.” The Marshal lined up with Ambros this time, and a nervous Mattis braced himself to meet both of them. Paks shook her head.