“Get his sword!” someone shouted behind him. Remin twisted, but more hands seized him, dragging at his hands. They were trying to take his sword from him and Remin reared up in instinctive rage, throwing off the weight of half a dozen men. In him was a banked fury that never wholly died, terror at the thought of failure, disgrace, a defeat that would be worse than death.
“Stars blast it, get his knees!” another man behind him gritted, and a heavy boot slammed into the backs of his knees. His legs buckled and a dozen men hurled themselves at him at once, toppling him backward with an almighty crash of armor.
White plumes puffed from the visors of a dozen men.
“Are you done, Your Grace?” one of the men on his arms panted.
“Please be done,” said the man Remin had landed on, sounding rather smothered.
“We’re done,” Remin said, sitting up painfully. His whole body was one immense ache.
Even as he was dismissing his men, he could hear the cheers and excited conversation from the pages at the end of the yard. Normally, the boys would be beneath his notice; the attention of one’s lord was not an honor lightly given. But now that it was clear that Tresingale was not going to be wiped out by devils, a few far-sighted lords had sent their sons to be trained by the Knights of the Brede. Remin’s flock of pages was growing.
And he liked to know who was sworn to him, even if they were barely out of leading strings.
“Denin,” he said, beckoning one of Edemir’s boys. “Is there somewhere else you’re supposed to be?”
“Master Trezan sent us to help with cleaning armor, Your Grace,” Denin replied, a little fellow just going spotty with adolescence. He nodded to the men limping out of the practice yard. “Theirs is dirty.”
“I doubt he meant the armor currently in use,” Remin observed, amused. Cheeky little bastard. “When’s your next lesson?”
“Midafternoon, Your Grace,” said a blond boy, Gabrel or Gavrel. Suddenly, Remin was confronted with a sea of hopeful eyes.
“Go get your practice swords,” he said indulgently, the last word almost drowned by the shouts of excitement as the boys stampeded off to obey.
“I suppose someone ought to inform the armorer where his workers have gone,” said Tounot, as he and Justeapproached together. Tounot had been supervising Remin’s attackers. “Are we giving them a lesson, Rem?”
“Might as well see how the new ones measure up,” Remin said, though all three of them knew it was as much a treat for them as the boys. They were already on their way back, tumbling all over each other and baying like hounds.
Remin put on a stern expression.
“All right, pair up, and don’t let me see you big fellows picking on the little ones. Give me two lines.”
The boys had sparred often enough to quickly pick partners and move into the yard, giving themselves room to swing their wooden practice swords. Juste, who did not like small children, went to the end of the yard with the older boys, and Tounot obligingly took the nine, ten, and eleven year-olds to let Remin have the little ones.
There were four of those now, boys so young they were still losing their milk teeth. Little Valentin, who was one of Edemir’s pages and the pet of the barracks, offered a gap-toothed grin. Remin had always had a soft spot for the littlest lads.
Crouching down, he beckoned them over.
“Show me your grips,” he said, beginning with Valentin and working his way down, adjusting small fingers on the hilts of their swords. “Don’t squeeze, remember. Firm but not tight. Pretend it’s part of your arm. You can’t drop your arm, can you?”
“No, Your Grace,” said Valentin and Niccoliot together, echoed faintly by the new boys. They looked to be brothers, brown-haired and freckled, with light blue eyes.
“That’s right. That’s a good grip,” Remin said, patting the last boy’s head. “What’s your name?”
“Onsippe, my lord,” the boy piped, puffing up his small chest.
“All right, Onsippe, you’ll go against Niccoliot. Nicco, come here. Now, where are younotsupposed to hit?”
“Not in the head,” said Nicco, who was one of Huber’s pages and had learned his lessons well. “And not in the balls.”
“That’s right,” Remin said, repressing a smile. “Go on, show me your best form, don’t just whack at each other.”
There was much to correct in such small warriors, and Remin settled into the lesson, amused to hear Duke Ereguil’s admonishments passing so easily from his own lips.
“Don’t look at your hand, look at your target,” he said, moving behind Onsippe to straighten the boy’s sword arm. “Your hand will follow your eyes, and improve with practice. Try again.”
After a while, Remin moved down the line to inspect the other boys, pausing to observe each pair. The nine and ten year-old boys showed significant improvement, and the eleven year-olds were beginning to be dangerous, moving fluidly through their forms.
