Candlekeeping

We each held blunted longswords and wore everything but our war plates— those were being cleaned. Quintus pressed into my space with his blade presented, tip towards my chest; I felt the mud press up around my boots as I retreated with my blade in a high guard, tip towards his knees.

His father growled in the church-tongue from somewhere to my right, behind the fence that had been erected for the sparring pit. 

I did not speak the church-tongue. They knew I did not speak it.

Quintus jerked forward as my back came against the fence. I slammed down with my blade, beating his down and catching its front third with the hilt guard. In the same movement I advanced towards him, controlling the space and preparing to end the bout.

Another bark came from Quintus’s father; the boy stepped to the left, dropping his longsword. Having left the line of engagement my blade found nothing but air, and I felt the point of his dueling dagger against my liver well before I had time to defend myself.

He clapped his hand over my shoulder, and we laughed. It was clever.

I turned my attention first to his father, an aged duke with dusty hay for hair, and bowed. Then I turned to Quintus and bowed again.

“Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you, Lord Quintus.” 

The Duke nodded and directed me wordlessly, a tilt of the head. I left the pit.

“As always my thanks to you, Roderika,” Quintus offered me. In response, as his father was looking away, I jerked my middle finger upwards. He stifled his laughter— a kindness for me in the presence of his father— and returned his attention to the matters at hand.

Come evening I was put to task of managing the keep’s commonhall candles that evening, a task which largely left me alone with my thoughts. I let those thoughts stay on the day’s practice bout. His father fed him commands from off the field. Ultimately it was the line of engagement which lost me the bout. Honor dictates I’d have lost the bout anyhow— it was only by obscure laws regarding the inheritance of peasant-knights that had granted me my father’s hand-me-down armor and weapons in the first place— but the actual loss-by-contact inflicted entirely by the line. He broke the line. 

A candle had gone out. I held my hand over the wax before gently pecking at it to ensure I did not burn myself on it. I quickly scraped the wax out into my hand and tossed it out the nearest window, destined for the courtyard mud. I produced another candle from my apron, lit it from one nearby, and continued my rounds.

Breaking the line, of course, was no sin. It was wise given I had control over his blade and over the space once he had over-advanced. It was just odd. Years we had been dueling, years his father had watched, and never had he drawn his dagger for such a strike. That was a killer’s blow, not for sport. Even the Duke, who was in no way fond of me, would not have commanded such an unsporting maneuver without a reason.

The keep’s temple was ahead of me. Three short pews were all the room could fit, and candles hung from the walls. Most had gone out. 

I began picking and scraping my way through the candles while imagining myself at the lectern, speaking out to the room. Speaking about dueling stances, sporting strikes, strikes for war, strikes for killing, strikes for beasts in the dark. The morality of the blade-as-sport and the morality of the blade-as-tool.

I stung myself on the wax. I nursed the burn on the inside of my cheek while I kept my attention away from the footsteps entering the temple.

Waiting still, I replaced the candle. The footsteps did not leave.

The creeping presence behind me jabbed my liver, and I jerked away with a fist raised back— but it was Quintus, and we both laughed. I brought my fist down and one finger to my lips. He began to whisper: “I see the dear lady-knight has been tasked with the greatest of all tasks!”

“Candle-keeping?”

“Dragon slaying! The cruel wax dragons prick your fingers!”

“Oh naturally, and I imagine Lord Quintus is here to save me on behalf of the duchy?”

“Nay! On behalf of a debt owed!”

“And what debt might that be, Lord Quinuts?”

“The debt of a warrior whose honor was sacrificed— I save you as you saved me from my father’s wrath!” He smiled warmly, approaching in the dark and beginning to scrape at the next candle in line.

“But I did not sacrifice my honor. It was a duel played fair.”

“Tsh, then how is it that my dagger found your side?”

“That is the question I have for you, Lord Quintus. Your father is teaching you to kill now.”

“Oh?” The young man choked his concern with a wry smile. “Then a killer I must be.”

I hammered a fist onto his shoulder: “You wouldn’t dare hide something from me.” Naturally, he elbowed back— I laughed and winced as I doubled over.

“I suppose you are right. I wouldn’t dare.”

“Well?”

“Can we finish the candles first?”

“Of course, Lord Quintus.”

And we did. He made slow work of it.

We sat on the front-most pew, with wax piled in my apron.

“I tell you this and you take it to your grave, of course.”

“Naturally, Lord.”

“Well, there has been some disputing between us and the fringe villages. They have begun demanding greater portions of food and payment in exchange for the furs and charcoal they bring. My father, being as he is, would rather not meet their demands. A messenger arrived today demanding a response, lest the fringe villages secede from the duchy in solidarity with one another. Father has no intention of sending a response, and when the secession occurs he intends on sending a retinue and myself to suppress any complaints and collect three weeks’ demands of furs.” He leans back in the pew, arms and legs crossed. His hair was dirty and unbrushed. “So, with the matter being what it is he has taken it upon himself to deliver me with more practical skill than impractical sport.”

“They are just villagers, are they not, Lord? Peasants?”

“Yes, but they are huntsmen. It is said they have dogs and longbows enough to make a good warrior squeamish. We will be entering the village by foot.”

“I see. I would like to volunteer to be of your retinue, then, Lord.”

“Of course. I will see to it that father has heard your request. I suspect he will be glad to put you in combat. A good opportunity for him to grant you an actual title and make you marriageable to an ally, I suspect.”

My brow stitched into confusion. “Lord, I have no interest in marriage. Least of all political marriage.”

“Oh I know, Roderika. You have to admit, though, that there is an excellent opportunity in the story you have. The she-knight who by clever scheme kept her father’s arms and armor and set to battle in the duke’s honor? That is a good story. You’ll be valuable for it. Princlings and young counts will be hungry to make you their bride or consort.” He scoffed to himself, looking away. “Leastways until they meet you, then they might have secondary considerations. It would be unsavory for most to wed a woman your height and measure.”

“Of course, I’d make a half-man out of any varlet in my presence. As I do you.”

He returned his gaze and hissed: “Oh hush. I am of good stature.”

“Surely. Politely, Lord Quintus, I am not your father’s to sell. I am my own father’s daughter, and he is long since gone from this world. I am a free woman.”

Then he laughed to himself, offering a hand to my shoulder. “Free? Please. Roderika you are without title and without land. You belong to this place, and belong to my father by that virtue. I suspect that once things go cleanly with the fringe villages you will be adopted to be my sister, and from there sent to labor for your duke.” He released my shoulder and stood to leave. “Sleep well, Roderika.”

And he was gone.

I was cold where his hand had been. My mind crawled with village-faces. And him with his dagger in his hand moving from face to face. Face to face. 

I stood, and resumed the evening’s work.

We clattered down from the horses, landing like so much steel. Quintus did not travel well and he did not speak well in common company. He was born and bred for blue blood consumption. The day’s task would be a measure of his every wit.

“Lord Quintus, may I stand ahead of you?”

“No, Roderika. Follow. You will be my second. Gnaeus, Scipio you follow two-wide behind Roderika with your men behind you.” He began to point in the mud, indicating positions. We took them like servile pawns. “Bannermen, you will walk ahead of us and announce me as I am— Lord Quintus of the Duchy of Deerpound.” The two men advanced, carrying high the banner of the Duke: an indigo field with a white buck facing forward. Its antlers were spread wide, and were asymmetrical.

Once positions were taken, Quintus raised his visor and called for a meal. We broke formation. Those of us with horses returned to them and pulled bag-bread and waterskins from their saddlebags. Those without horses doffed their backpacks and settled on the side of the mud road.

Quintus beckoned me over, and I approached. I doffed my helm and took a knee for him.

“How did you do the straps on your plates? On your ankles?” He whispered.

“Lord?”

“They bite into my boot. If I loosen them they’ll come off.”

“Your father instructed us to hook the bottom strap underneath the heel of our boots, Lord Quintus. Have you done so?”

“No. Thank you, Roderika. You are good to me.”

I gave him a patient smile, before standing and returning to my bag. I had time enough to just about remove my waterskin before Quintus rallied the retinue back into formation. I kept my waterskin with me.

When we arrived the village was tending to market. People were milling about with their various house goods ready for exchange, speaking amongst themselves and their neighbors with little sign of substantial resistance.

“Lord Quintus of the Duchy of Deerpound!” The bannermen shouted in time.

Gnaeus, Scipio, and myself slammed our vambraces against our chest, letting out a resounding rattle that took what little attention was left to steal from the village folk.

“Send out your village Speaker!” Quintus this time, puffing out his chest and dropping his voice an octave.

Quintus advanced, raising a hand to stop the rest of the formation in place. He came to stand in front of an elderly woman. Her head was wrapped in a vibrant, patterned cloth. She had the look about her of an old tree waking up from a long winter. Where the tree’s great big knot should be was her smiling face. She gestured over her shoulder and a young man brought two chairs out. Quintus and the Speaker sat, and began to make diplomacy.

I drank from my waterskin, passing it back to Gnaeus and Scipio. Quintus had made an hour out of nothing, speaking in hushed heat with an elderly woman that looked about ready to fall to pieces.

Finally, he stood. He returned to us. Came to the formation and intercepted my waterskin as Scipio was finishing with it. He took it, drank from it deeply, and then tossed it down to the mud.

Dumbfounded, I looked up to him and raised my visor.

“Lord?”

“Was that— Apologies Roderika, Scipio. Whoever it belonged to, apologies. The old crone refuses to concede.”

Scipio offered a consoling touch on my back, barely felt through all the layers of armor and cloth.

“What do you intend to do, Lord Quintus? Your father’s instructions were clear.” Gnaeus leaned on his halberd while he spoke. He was the only person in the retinue bigger than myself. 

“They were indeed. I suppose I will try to terrify them into submission first, though.”

“Lord Quintus, is that wise?” I interjected. His hand was already on the hilt of his blade.

“Wise is obeying your betters, and these forest-folk have little intention to do so.”

“No, but making a butcher of yourself will not ensure anything other than the frustrations of these people. Who can say they will not retaliate?”

“Wise is obeying your betters, Roderika.” 

“Lord Quintus, they have been nothing but good-hearted in the face of four knights and ten armed men. You cannot expect violence to improve their reaction. Or their decision making. They know exactly the game they play.”

“Roderika! I am schooled in these things, you are schooled in candles, cooking, and the technicalities which allow you to speak to myself and my father in the first place. Do not mistake our obligations for equity.” He snapped like a hound, and his eyes burned like a fighting dog’s. “Now, accompany me. I will set your blade to the task since you seem so persistent on resisting these folks’ punishment on their behalf.”

He stepped back. The village folk were clustering near their homes now, with the Speaker remaining in her chair. Waiting. I turned my gaze back to Gnaeus and Scipio, both of whom offered only a glance before returning to their ready stance.

I followed Quintus.

“For treasonous activities you will be put to the blade of Roderika, a conscript warrior of the Duchy of Deerpound. Do you understand your punishment, Speaker?” He spoke with venom in his voice. He hated her.

“Lord Qui—”

“Answer my question, crone!”

The village sat in its silence. Quintus could not see it, could not see past himself. Every man in the village seemed to have fetched a longbow and readied themselves in the doorways of their homes, with their children and wives carrying long knives and quivers of their own. It wouldn’t be enough to save any of them— Gnaeus and Scipio alone could wade through the village and survive unsca—

“Roderika, draw!”

My hands followed instruction, compelled. My father’s longsword in my hands in a simple forward guard. An old woman at the killing edge.

“Raise!”

I took my blade up into a high guard. I would be Quintus’s executioner?

“Do you understand, old witch?” Quintus demanded a final time.

“Yes.”

“Roderika! Release!”

I could not. I jerked my guard forward, bashing Quintus in the side of the head with my fist and the guard of my blade. He stumbled back into the mud, dropping his helmet in the process. As he shouted obscenities I fumbled for my own helmet, taking it on. He stood, drawing his blade— his speech was slurred and his face was pink with rage. Something he said was directed towards Gnaeus and Scipio.

He pulled his helmet on, screeching about mud, and lunged at me with his tip presented. It slid against my chestplate, and was deflected into my left bicep where the rest of the meager force was absorbed again by the armor.

From somewhere deep within, somewhere more aware of what was truly happening, I shouted: “Leave!” The old woman, the Speaker, had been paralyzed until that moment. She stumbled out of the chair and fled.

“You bitch!” Quintus slammed his open palm into my chest, sending me back several steps. The blow did little harm, but unsteadied my footwork. I staggered into a high guard, my warbraid being tossed over my chest in the process, while he took the forward stance I had almost slain the Speaker with. Quintus pressed into my space with his blade presented, tip towards my chest; I felt the mud press up around my boots as I retreated. Tip towards his knees. “That steel you wear belongs to us! Your father belonged to us! He was a plaything! Just as you are! You exist for us, not for these groundlings!” I shook my head hard, sending my braid back behind my shoulders to grant me full flexibility of movement once again. “Do not deny me! I am to be your duke, Roderika!”

As his advance pressed I gave a single step up. I slammed down, beating his blade to the side and catching its tip with my guard. With his blade in my control and my stance forward I needed only slam forward to knock the wind out of him.

But it wasn’t done. I felt the tension vanish from his blade— he stopped resisting.

I stepped to the right as he stepped to the left. His longsword fell to the mud. In his hand was a dagger which stabbed at empty air. Underneath his visor his eyes screamed with blue fury. I extended my blade, straight towards the base of his palm. My blade slammed through the leather mitt protecting his hand and drew blood. 

He howled like an animal.

I twisted my blade up and followed through with a horizontal cut to his forehead. His helmet absorbed the blow, but the blunt force rendered him stunned. I extended my left hand forward and grabbed the front of my blade. My right hand slid down, grabbing the blade at the center. From there I brought the hilt around onto him like a hammer, collapsing the back plate and punching through with enough force to cut short his howling.

I pulled away, towards the villagers, and righted my blade grip. Gnaeus and Scipio advanced, the former with his halberd outstretched to control the space while the latter retrieved the still-howling boy-duke.

Scipio tore off Qunitus’s helmet.

Quintus’s eyes met me with hate.