The high shrill of brass trumpets could be heard rising over the feverish roar of the crowd. Sharp raps on horse-leather drums beat in accompaniment, keeping time with the pulse of a thousand racing hearts. With each passing moment the pace quickened and the tumult grew. Expectation hung heavy in the air, thick like the palatable sense of a rising storm. The roof shook under the assault of pounding feet and gaping mouths, loosing from the rafters a year’s worth of thick dust motes. Buried under a meter of basalt rock, mud-brick and thatch, it could be felt even here.
I found it impossible to keep my mind on my duties. Even at a distance the excitement acted as a contagion, raising my heart rate with the electricity it carried. The cacophony struck a mortal chord within my soul, speaking to my most banal instincts. I felt the crowd’s collective hopes, dreams, and expectations growing together as one in my mind. Crossing any divide or distinction amongst men, I was one of them. Enraptured by the mob I would have charged headlong into battle, I would have cut short my mortal coil for the greater good. My name was no longer my own, but the one shared by all of mankind.
In an instant the thunder broke and the air parted, raining down cheers from the crowd. Their champion had arrived. I stood where I had been, imagining his splendor; the sheen of his plate, the richness of his tunic, the freedom he enjoyed galloping around the royal circus under a shower of rose petals. He was magnificent.
‘Boy.’ The husked voice shook me from my reverie with only one word. From an early age I had been trained by the switch to heed its call without delay.
‘Yes sir.’
‘Mind that rake.’ My rapture hadn’t gone unnoticed by the stable’s head shovelman.
‘Yes sir.’ Snapping to attention I hefted my pole arm, acting as if to continue mucking out the horses’ stalls. Still, my mind stayed mired, unwilling to let its fantasy go. This was my lot in life, born to servants my aspirations could never exceed the switch of the head shovelman or the drafty walls of the Duke’s stables. For my station the glory of the arena or the freedom of lordship were dreams akin to flying upon a pair of eagle wings. Never to be done by me in this lifetime.
‘Working on a lashing, Frederick?’ The question came from my best mate, Pierre, with as much mirth as his melancholic demeanor could muster. He was the closest to a brother I could ever hope to have. In seventeen years I had been my parents’ only son, the strain of royal servitude long since chilling their cramped bedchambers. I was never left wanting in companionship, however. At an early age both Pierre and I had been picked for a predestined life as stable boys under his lordship Ebalus, the Count of Poitou and the Duke of Aquitaine. We had been inseparable ever since. To be completely honest, Pierre and I were as close to opposites as two individuals could possibly be. In terms of temper, when I was hot-headed and brash he could remain rational, pragmatic even. He was completely incapable of living outside of himself, never once stopping to wonder what could be or, more importantly, what should be. Duty was his life’s calling, whatever it may be. On occasion I would tease him, saying that he would unflinchingly wipe the Duke’s ass if that were his appointed station.
‘Of course,’ he would reply, either incapable or else unwilling to fall prey to my jibe. I could never tell which.
‘It must be nice, a life of fiefdom and watching tournaments,’ I said gesturing towards the source shaking the walls.
‘Nice or no, it’s not a life for us. There’s no sense in dwelling on it, what matters is right here in this stable. I’ll have no lashing for something I can never have.’
‘Isn’t that it, Pierre? What star marked sign were they lucky enough to be born under and not us? The thought that by simple circumstance they live a better life makes this drudgery all the more difficult to endure.’
‘Endure it all the same, my friend, neither your whimsy nor your animosity will change the way of the world.’ With that spoken he turned, stone-faced, back to his work scraping horse dung off the floor. It was that ineffable quality of simple reason in my friend that only served to stoke the smoldering embers of my temper. His rationale never quashed my anger the way he hoped it would, but only ever made it greater.
Trying to look convincingly busy I made my way over to the stall in which he worked, shuffling dungs heaps as I went, ‘I can’t Pierre, something within my soul cries out at the injustice of it all. There needs to be a better way.’ He paused for a moment in his labors and gazed stoically at my hand. Taking his cue, I looked down and became aware that the rake I held rattled in my trembling grip.
The rake clattered to the ground after the first lash fell. For the second, third and fourth I was ready and braced myself with clenched teeth to endure the salvo. Even as I was receiving mine, Pierre bowed his head obediently, steadying himself for his beating.
‘For god’s sake, he didn’t do anything, it was my error!’ I cried as Pierre dropped to one knee after receiving a devastatingly heavy blow. The head shovelman took notice of my protests like a cattleman takes notice of a bothersome fly. He spun on his heel after delivering one last relishing whip to my friend, heading back for me. I could tell he was savoring this opportunity to deal us each a lashing. The only thing he loved more than beating yet more obedience into my obedient friend was squashing any spark of dissidence in me. For my part, I kept giving him ample reason to continue his abuses. A thin smile tugged at one side of his mouth as he stalked back towards me. His eyes glinted hungrily with a predator’s desire to do harm. He looked like an animal torn between two prize kills.
Crossing the distance in swift strides he spun the baton expertly in his hand, revealing its cold iron butt. I had never seen him do this before, mired in uncertainty I froze. He seemed to inhale my terror as he approached. Reaching out one of his wretched skeletal hands his smile became a snarl. Grabbing me by the scruff of my tunic he wrung me off my feet, pulling me in close, his eyes drinking in the moment. Seeing his gnarled features so close and feeling the hot stench of his breath I recoiled in disgust. My dangling leg flew out in a jerky spasm, thudding weakly off his ancient form. This only infuriated him further. With a bark he shook me out to arm’s length and then yanked me in again. Against the whiplash I was unable to control my lolling head and it met the blunted end of his weapon with a sharp crack. I don’t know if he hit me again, or if he even needed to. After the first blow I lost consciousness, and according to Pierre a sizeable amount of blood.
‘-two boys will receive worst next time.’ The words were spoken cotton-soft, muffled by the darkness clouding my senses. I couldn’t discern the identity of the speaker. Its voice floated into my consciousness as lazily as a feather on the wind. Perhaps I was dreaming, though I didn’t remember going to sleep.
‘Yes, madam.’ Pierre. Of course that would be him. I remembered seeing him, being with him, doing what I couldn’t remember. It seemed like that was ages ago, like he was a figment of my imagination.
There was something about the shovelman. Yes. That was it. The fog clouding my mind began to thin as memories emerged. Pierre, the shovelman and me. Doing what? My head hurt, making it all the harder to think. Wait, that was it. My head. The shovelman had hit me on the head for protesting his abuses against Pierre. He must have stayed by my side through it all.
Pierre, diligent to the end.
‘He’s awake.’ I must have groaned. The world around me was coming back into focus in degrees and shades. With it came a hovering face, aged heartbreakingly beyond its years. Stress lined my mother’s expression as she looked down at me. Its weight had drawn her features long, darkening the flesh below her eyes. The effect a lifetime of strain had had was accented even further by how she insisted on gathering her greying hair into an achingly tight knot high above her head. It stretched her features further, making them more severe, but it did nothing to diminish the gathering flesh, crowding at the bottom of her neck and jaw.
She had been her mother’s envy once, though even now she wasn’t altogether unattractive. An ounce of the Duchesses’ makeup would have done wonders to recoup that bygone appearance, affording her the opportunity to feel beautiful again. For a servant, however, that was simply out of the question. Only her highness and the gaggle of bickering court hens she kept in tow were afforded such lavishness. Not that a life sheltered from the sun and hard labor necessitated any need for cosmetic enhancement. They had no melanoma blemishes, no rough cracks to fill in their skin. Their plump white features were comical in their fragility, nearly translucent. And yet they heightened them further, with every shade of pink, purple, green and blue to the point they no longer resembled a human being, they longer appeared to be one of us.
‘Frederick. Son.’ There was a hint of concern in her blue eyes. It fought its way stubbornly to the fore, forcing away severity and rebuke.
‘M-mother,’ I stumbled through the word, the effort of moving my jaw setting alight my throbbing skull. Wincing back the pain I strained to put to words a desire that nagged at my heartstrings, ‘is father here?’ I knew the answer before she spoke in response. I knew I spoke in vain.
‘No.’ Rebuke drove away the vestiges of concern from her eyes, ‘if he were here he would finish what the stable keeper started.’ She spoke with over exaggerated levity. My father would finish what the shovelman had started when I could once again stand.
Still, the secret desire of my heart was to see him standing vigil over me. It was to see that he cared. I knew he had received word as my mother had, but chose to ignore it. Mother would receive hand lashings for neglecting her duties and coming to my side. Her duties would be all the harder for it, but still she was here. My heart ached to know that.
‘Mother-’
‘Quiet Frederick, the damage is done. I’ll be back to my duties now.’ Without my saying it she knew. It must have been the tone of my voice. ‘Pierre, bring him water as he needs it. I can’t afford a burial.’ With that said she tutted out of the room, bustling with motherly aggravation.
I screwed my eyes shut and let out a loud sigh. The sound of a stool scraping across the floor and its thud told me Pierre had pulled up a chair. With my eyes shut I struggled to find the words. My actions had seen him punished and would see him punished again for staying by my side. I was living a waking nightmare that threatened never to end. No words could rectify the damage. There was nothing I could do. Lying in bed with a crown of pain swirling about my head I decided to tell him as such.
‘Did you ever think,’ he spoke slowly, deliberately, ‘there is nothing that you can do?’ My childhood friend knew me better than I knew myself. He knew what I meant was that I hadn’t thought of what I could do yet. He understood my comment as a flicker of defiance. Under any other set of circumstances I would have flown into some tirade about the human spirit or freedom or the injustice of it all. Lying prone on my straw cot, for the first time in my life, I couldn’t muster the strength, save the willpower, to rail against anything.
‘Our hair is going to grow grey, time and labor will ravage our bodies. We’ll be as bitter as the shovelman, as cruel and unjust as everyone else.’ For once I didn’t seek to set fire to our world with my words, but rather had conceded to its simple facts. That we would turn into our parents, or worse still, the shovelman, had been the unspoken fear lying hidden in our hearts for years. Up until now it had been a fate too inevitable and too terrible to contemplate. I had glossed over that fact with my fanciful dreaming and Pierre with his dogged stoicism. Still, we both knew what awaited us.
Now, with Pierre at my bedside and me lying still, we were cornered face-to-face with the truth for the first time. The truth laid bare the void between his world and mine. He was in arm’s reach, but the narrow space between us was filled with all the distance in the world. There wasn’t a thing I could say or do to reach him, and he to me. All the debates and rhetoric we had propounded to one another throughout the years didn’t matter. He would live life in his own way and I mine. In the end we would be separated by the void that lurked between us. At that moment, with him at my bedside, I knew I was saying goodbye to my best friend.
A hollow voice squeaked next to me. It seemed to come from so far away, ‘hush now, be well my friend.’ A tear streaked down my cheek, wetting the matted hair behind my ear. He knew it as well as I did. In his own way he was saying his goodbye. I squeezed my eyes shut, letting sleep take away the pain in my head, the pain in my heart. I let it take it all away.
An unjust world makes thieves of us all. Those were words from another age, another time, when truth was up for debate. In my youth I believed that there was another way, a better way, I railed against the rogue who said those words to me. In my later years I have come to embrace his words. They have been engraved into my being by the blade at my hip, embossed with the blood soaking my hands. I have attained everything I dreamed of as a boy, freedom, choice, escape, and yet I have lost everything. Poor Pierre, I wear his ghost about my shoulders. In the quiet hours I hear him speak, whispering. He’s closer now than he ever could have been. Somehow I think this is how he would have wanted it to be.
The future came to pass as I had known it would. Father beat me again once I had recovered, nearly as savagely as the shovelman. My mother struggled in her duties with ravaged knuckles and Pierre stoically bore the punishment for his diligence as my friend.
Countless beatings failed to achieve obedience in me. Though, from the moment with Pierre at my bedside I kept my protestations to myself, letting the embers of dissidence quietly lap up each scrap of injustice. Things would be as they were, I realized that now. I wouldn’t be able to save my best friend. I alone could save myself. He was still there by my side, through good days and bad, but our voices were all but lost to one another. We grew apart.
Once I recovered from my father’s beating I stole two mounts from the stables under the cover of darkness and made my escape into the forests surrounding Pointers. Pierre remained behind. I didn’t warn him of my escape, though somehow I think he knew that would be my plan. His eyes had said as much. He didn’t try to stop me.
‘This is foolish Frederick.’ Without my friend telling me I knew it to be so. ‘The Duke’s men will be waiting, it’s an ambush.’ Of course it was, though that fact wouldn’t change my mind. It had been made up two days ago when I received the news. I had stood in silence for a moment, nodded slowly, and then turned on my heel heading directly for the stables. Securing my mount’s saddle I moved like a sleeper in a dream. I was in shock.
It had been two weeks since I fled Pointers when I received word of Pierre’s fate. It had followed me out of the county and into hiding with the inevitability of death. Every gallop of my stolen steed had darkened the sky behind me, each step sealing his doom. Before my escape I had consoled myself with a fantasy. I told myself that there would be no reprisal for my actions. That they would never find me and that would be the end of it. I was wrong. There would be retribution for my crimes. It would be swift and it would be decisive. I lied to myself thinking that those dearest to me wouldn’t be the ones to pay the price.
Poor Pierre, he took the brunt of the blame for my absconding, naming himself as my sole accomplice. His actions saved my parents as surely as my actions had damned him. Poor Pierre, diligent to the end.
I didn’t say a word, after two days of travel Pointers was once again in sight. A kick to my horse’s flanks spurred her down the gully towards the city gate. At my back I knew Roland was smiling, I could hear it in his voice. ‘To our deaths then!’ With a jolt his mount added her clattering strides to mine.
Ahead of us Pointers rose out of the French tree line like a colossus of stone, its ramparts framed by the glimmer of river flow on three sides. We made our approach to its gate by the only clear route, cutting a scar across a farmer’s wheat field. The morning sun winked out behind the town as we made our descent. We raced into shadow as the sky opened up and started pouring down rain. I didn’t dare tear my gaze from the looming black monolith, willing it to stay in place. My body moved as if possessed. I couldn’t feel anything, but was aware that an arm whipped out from my side, that legs beneath me were locked to my horse’s flanks, that a body was bent over in a crouch, rocking in time to my mount’s thundering shoulders. The ghost arm fell in frantic strikes, each lash spurring my mare faster. Faster. It wasn’t too late.
The black walls dominated my view. Jerking taught the reigns I brought my mount up short. She bucked back and reared on her hind legs. We came back down to the earth together and she whinnied nervously. Above our heads the sky was clear with morning light. My face was streaked with tears.
A silhouette hung limp above the city gate, framed by the oranges, pinks, and lime greens of the dawn sky. Thick droplets of blood flecked off my mare’s flanks and dappled the packed earth under her prancing feet. The air shimmered with the settling dust, even as a scream pierced the swelling calm. The scream was my own.
In the shadow of that silhouette I raged at the shovelman. I raged at the Duke. I raged at my father. I raged at the world for what it had made me become.
‘An unjust world makes thieves of us all,’ the words were spoken by a cotton-soft voice at my shoulder. Ghostly echoes of my outburst were fading as they raced across the morning pall, rebounding dimly off the cold stone of Pointers. I looked up to the ramparts looming above us. Where there had previously been one, now two silhouettes hung, creaking together in the cold morning air.
