“Well, yes, of course I’ll visit Lady Sybilla. You see—”
Lisa turned a surprised face to him when he bolted out of the door, saying over his shoulder, “Excellent. I’m sure I’ll see you later.”
“But, sugar, you didn’t let me finish—”
He ran down the hallway at a full gallop, making a mental promise that he’d devote himself to Lisa later to make up for his atrocious manners. His footsteps reverberated loudly in the empty great hall, echoes bouncing from crackled marble floor to dark wooden panels, and back, in a growing crescendo. Just as he headed to the rear of the house, a door opened, and Lady Sybilla’s grim-faced maid looked out. She frowned at him, and turned to say into the room, “—think you’ll be very pleased with her, my lady. Oh. It’s not her. It’s just the new master running pell-mell like a madman.”
“Good afternoon,” he called politely, not pausing to converse with the elderly ladies. He dashed through the library, stumbled over a parquet floor tile that had chosen that moment to disengage its hold on the subflooring, and continued on through the doors to blessed freedom.
The warmth of the afternoon sun caught him full-on when he arrived at the garden, the mingled scents of hay, flowers, and grass having a soothing effect on his jangled nerves. The scene before him was oddly anachronistic. Ladies in long, flowing dresses with laced-on sleeves strolled around; children in a bewildering array of costumes varying from what he thought of as Robin Hood–esque to outright fantastical leaped and yelled and ran around with plastic swords, shields, and, in onecase, a light saber. To his left, the archery butts had been set up, but were currently empty of all but a couple of children chasing a large Saint Bernard dog.
On the right, a grassy expanse had been turned into some sort of a battleground, with bales of hay serving as a barrier to the rest of the garden. Standing in the middle of the battle area, Vandal, clad in full plate-metal armor—all but a helm—stood waving his sword and shouting at a pair of men.
Alden descended the three stone steps into the garden proper, heading for the men, when a voice called out over the general noise and confusion. “Hey, look who showed up after all.”
Mercy emerged from one of the small sheds, on the heels of two tittering teenagers in what vaguely looked like harem-girl outfits.
“I decided that a little exercise would help counteract all the centuries of dust I’ve breathed in during the last few hours,” he told her, nodding toward where Vandal still chastised two of his students. “What’s going on there?”
“Evidently one of the guys decided to disregard the rule that says you can only bash other people with swords, and not do any sort of stabbing. Dude on the ground was knocked down by Vandal when he stabbed at the guy over there, seeing Alec.” She nodded to their left, where Alden noticed a couple of women clustered around a man seated on a bale of hay, having his armor removed by a man who closely examined each piece. Fenice was one of the women, her good hand gesturing as she spoke to the injured man.
“Was he hurt seriously?” Alden asked, images of lawsuits floating through his head.
“Not hurt at all, just winded, or so his daughter toldme. She’s the one over there.” Mercy nodded toward where a heavily pregnant woman in a medieval kirtle and a flowery wreath on her head strolled around with another woman. “I gather Fenice is trying to convince him to go see a doctor just in case, but his daughter says he just wants to get back at it.”
“If there is any risk that he might be truly injured—,” Alden started to say.
Mercy shook her head even as he spoke. “Evidently he’s not. Fenice is just being overly cautious, which I gather she doesn’t need to be, since the students here sign all sorts of waivers saying they are aware of the physical risks they’re taking, and that they can’t sue if they get hurt. Fenice made me sign one yesterday afternoon, not that I’m likely to shoot my own eye out. But I have a list of rules a mile long about where my students can stand while I’m teaching them, just to keep the Hard Day’s Knights insurance company happy. Are you going to try fighting?”
Alden resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder at the house to see if Lisa was watching from her bedroom window. “I thought I might give it a few minutes.”
“Excellent. I’m sure that Fenice and Vandal will be willing to let you have a go without charge, since you’re not making a fuss about them being here, and staying in your house. Let’s go see Alec and he can fit you with some armor.”
An eye-opening twenty minutes followed, in which Alden learned the difference between abazubandand a gauntlet and why the heavy cotton arming tunic and hose were necessary.
“OK, let me see if I get my spiel right.” Mercyconsulted a sheet of handwritten notes, and pulled out of a bin a weird-looking jacket that appeared to be made up of bits of sheet, cotton batting, and leather. “This is the arming doublet, or gambeson. Let’s have you slip into it. No, over your T-shirt is fine.”
Alden stuck his arms through the thick padded sleeves, and immediately started sweating. “Is it supposed to be this heavy? I thought the armor was supposed to protect me.”
“It is, but this is to keep you from being hurt by the armor. And it has ventilation holes on it so you don’t drown in sweat. OK, see these things?” Mercy pointed to little squares of leather with leather laces hanging from them. They were situated around his waist, on his shoulders, and at the collar. “These are called arming points, and are what we use to attach the armor to you. And here are the pants, which Vandal insists I call hose.”
“Itisan arming hose,” Alec told them, before dumping another bin of armor at their feet and hurrying off to answer a call by Vandal.
“We can tie them on over your jeans. They also have the little ties on them. Just buckle it at the waist... excellent. Aren’t you pretty as a picture?”
Alden rolled his eyes while Mercy beamed at him. He felt hot and bulky, and slightly claustrophobic. “I’m sure I’m ready for the cover ofGQ. What’s next?”
“We start at the bottom and work up,” Mercy said, having had a quick peek at her notes. She gestured to a bale of hay. “Take a seat, and I’ll get your shin thingies on.”
“Shin thingies?”
“Technical term,” she said loftily, and strapped greaves to his lower legs. “Vandal says we don’t do sabatons—thethings that cover your feet—unless you are in competition. These go on your upper thighs, and strap into the arming points. OK, now stand up.”
Alden got to his feet, shaking his legs. They felt like they each weighed ten stone.
“Here’s the breastplate. No, don’t try to hold it. I’ll tie it onto your shoulder straps. See? The extra padding up there takes the weight so it doesn’t hurt you.”
“That’s what you think,” Alden said, shifting the armor a little so it didn’t dig into his tendons.
