“I think we should wait until we have at least two—maybe three—hands of yeomen, all drilling well. How else could we show them what we mean? And if—I don’t mean to be illwishing, but if this doesn’t work—if we find that our neighbors do tell the lords’ men, then better only a few bartons die, than many.”
Gird nodded, glad he hadn’t had to say it himself. “Barin’s right, I think. If your barton grows and prospers, and you’re sure it’s safe, then I will not tell you not to tell the next village. But we’re like a man starting a journey with a heavy load: it’s better to take a few slow steps, and be sure it’s balanced and will hold, than to set off at a run and have the whole thing fall apart.” His hands mimed the falling load, and they all laughed. “One village at a time. I think myself it would be better if only one in each barton knew the name of the yeoman marshal in other bartons.”
“But if he dies?”
“Each of you tell one of your yeomen—not someone you usually work in the field with—how to contact us, here. And let us know the name of that person. Later, everyone will know everyone, but for now, as Barin said, if someone tells, it’s better that only a few die.”
When the yeoman marshals had left, Gird and his troop used the hand of days between the last of the autumn rains and the first of the snows to transport and stow the food and supplies the villages had given them, cut and haul wood for their fires, and add such refinements to their shelters as time and ingenuity allowed. When that first bank of blue cloud rolled across, cutting off the slanting autumn sun, and dropping the temperature, Gird felt that they were as well prepared for winter as possible.
This did not mean he had thought of everything. His own well, in the foreyard of his cottage, froze only in the bitterest winters, and only after midwinter. The clear-running creek that was one of the reasons for choosing Sunbright froze solid before Midwinter, and they must either melt snow and ice for water, or carry it (a cold, heavy load that sometimes froze before they got it home) from a spring some distance away. He had thought to dig the jacks trenches ahead, before the ground froze, but had not realized that the “loose” dirt from them would freeze, and have to be chopped into chunks to fill the trench.
Problems had the advantage of helping Gird keep everyone busy. In the villages, winter boredom led to quarrels and occasional fights. Here, such dissension could be fatal. So his four tally groups had assigned chores, and whenever the weather allowed, Gird chivvied everyone out for a march or drill practice. He divided the groups slightly differently. One brought food from storage, and another cooked it, while the camp chores group had to maintain the fire, the jacks, and the supply of water. The tool groups were set to repairing tools broken or chipped, and to making useful items for the camps. One of the things the villages had sent (at Gird’s request) was yarn; Rahi taught several of the men to knit, using smooth-polished twigs as needles. Knitting was an unusual parrion; she had had it from Mali’s brother’s wife, in the time she lived there, and liked it much better than weaving.
Midwinter was a different kind of problem. Gird had always known when Midwinter was coming because the village headman said so. Here, he realized, everyone thought of him as headman, and he should know when to celebrate Midwinter. He looked up, at a heavy gray sky. The days were still getting shorter, so it wasn’t Midwinter yet. He felt that it would come in a hand or two of days, but he did not know when it would be, or how to find out. But missing the Midwinter celebration was unthinkable.
He asked the others. Most thought it would be “soon” but no one had an exact date. Would it matter? At that thought, a colder chill ran down his neck. Of course it mattered; Midwinter and Midsummer were the ends of the axle on which the year turned. He had to know. He had to find out. Now that the men knew he did not know, they were looking at him nervously.
“How did you find out last year?” he finally thought of asking Ivis.
Ivis flushed. “Last year—well—we all went into one village or another, near Midwinter, and celebrated there.” And before Gird could decide to do the same, he said, “I don’t think we can, this year—we’re too many.”
“True, but we can ask.” Ivis’ village was too far away, across the wood, but one of them could make it to Fireoak and back. To Gird’s surprise, Fori asked to go.
“I can stay with Barin, and ask about Girnis. And the barton.”
Gird nodded. “Good—but be sure you’re back before Midwinter.”
Fori set off the next morning with a sack of food and everyone’s prayers. Gird watched all the faces staring after him, and said, “Since you’re all so glad to be outside, get your sticks.” A general groan, but not so dismal as he’d expected.
Stick drill had progressed a little farther. Felis, once his arm healed, was able to demonstrate what he had learned of swordsmanship. Gird suspected it wasn’t much, but he himself had never gotten that far. One thing he did know was the length of swords Kelaive’s guards had used. He asked the others; the duke, Ivis said, carried a longer sword, but no longer than from waist to ground. He had seen him standing with its tip resting on the ground. So, Gird thought, a sword could have a blade that long, or shorter. He asked his one-armed smith, who mentioned curved blades and broad-bladed swords, but agreed on length. That meant that a longer stick could fend off a sword—not fence with it, to lose chips as the sword chopped—but if the stick could hold the swordsman back, the sword could not harm the person with the stick.
It seemed reasonable, but they had to test it. Slowly, Gird insisted. Carefully. No more broken bones, if possible. Felis took those of his original group who had learned the most about swords, and these faced Gird, Cob, and a few others Gird thought he could trust to stay calm.
The sticks were nowhere near spear length, but about the length a man would choose as a walking staff, or for guiding cattle. So far they were not all the same length, although a broad hand would cover the difference. Gird had watched them in use over the past season, noticing carefully what went wrong most often, when the sticks clashed in ranks, which grips did not hold. Now, with Felis well again, they would see. He felt a little silly, standing there with a real stick facing an imaginary sword, but what else could they do?
Felis waggled his wooden “sword” and swiped at Gird. Gird lowered his stick, and pointed it at Felis, who sliced at it. Before the “sword” struck, Gird jabbed the stick at Felis’s face. Felis jerked back, and his sword stroke went wild.
“Wait,” said Felis. “Try that again, slower.” It would not be slow in battle, but they were only learning. Gird nodded, let Felis begin his sideways swipe with the sword, and then jabbed again. Again Felis jerked his head back, and this time, while he was still off balance, Gird jabbed again, and got him in the chest, gently. Felis grunted, then straightened. “I can’t—I think I’m just not good enough—but if you keep poking that at my eyes—I have to back up.”
“Let Cob and Arvan try it,” said Gird, stepping back, Arvan advanced with his “sword” and very little enthusiasm, to meet Cob. Here Cob was the shorter by a head, yet with the length of his stick he could force Arvan off balance.
“It’s too easy,” said Felis, scratching his thick red beard. “These sticks we’re using for swords don’t have the weight of a real weapon. If someone got a blow in, it would jar your stick aside—”
“But could they?” Arvan was frowning. “Cob, just hold it still—let me try.” He swung hard at the stick, and managed to bat it aside, but it swung back on rebound, and Cob needed little force to control it.