Devil's Night Dawning

Chapter III: The Quixotic Knight

'Again! One more time!'

Bringing his steed around, Vaskrian levelled his spear again and waited for the two attendants to reposition the target. It was a cold morning, and most of the castle nobility would only just be stirring in the keep. The leaden skies matched the colour of the grimy bailey walls, but the squire had eyes only for the quintain before him.

This was a tall stout pole with a smaller horizontal beam attached to a swivel mechanism mounted on top of it; a battered torso-shaped board of wood dangled from it by a chain on one side, on the other hung a sack filled with dirt.

Spurring his courser into a gallop, he hit the target dead centre, sending the beam swinging around and bringing the sack hurtling towards his back. He ducked in the saddle just in time and it glanced his shoulder as it flew past.

The blow wasn't strong enough to hurt him through his brigandine, but it did force him to clutch the reins more tightly and bring his steed up early. Vaskrian glowered at the quintain, still lazily turning from the aftershock of his charge.

That was the third time in a row he'd hit the target perfectly but failed to avoid the counterpunch. At least it hadn't unhorsed him on any of his tilts – he was improving daily.

He was about to tell the attendants to reposition the target when he heard a familiar throaty voice yelling at him across the courtyard: 'Vaskrian! In Reus' name what are you playing at? I told you to pick up my sword from the smithy more than an hour ago! We were supposed to leave at daybreak!'

Sir Branas, a stout hoary knight of about fifty winters, came trudging through the mud, his tatty hauberk jingling. The attendants, fearing the well-known shortness of his temper, tugged their forelocks and made themselves scarce.

The ageing knight drew level with his squire and glared up at him.

'Your saddle bags aren't even on! And I daresay that means mine aren't either! Too busy tilting when you should be squiring, as usual!'

'But you said I could use the castle facilities to practise,' protested Vaskrian. 'And I have packed the other horses – they're all ready, the sumpter's doing most of the carrying and I just wanted to keep mine unburdened so I could –'

'Enough!' roared the old knight. 'I said you could use the castle facilities to practise whenever it didn't conflict with your duties! Now in Reus' name go and collect my blade! We're late enough as it is!'

Suppressing a sigh, Vaskrian nudged his courser towards the gatehouse where the laden sumpter and his master's charger were being looked after by a bored-looking page boy. Dismounting, he made his way over to the armourer's forge on foot.

By now the castle courtyard was stirring into life as its resident craftsmen began their daily labours, along with the husbandmen who looked after the animals that provided for the Jarl of Hroghar's broad tables. The familiar reek of stale sweat, refuse and burning cinder greeted him as he pushed his way through the dirty gaggle of commoners and beasts. It didn't bother him all that much, he was used to it.

A smile played across his lips as he remembered his mother Aletha's words: 'A castle looks a fine thing when you see it from a distance, but inside it stinks worse than a town square on market day!'

She'd died of food poisoning six winters ago – castle life meant you ate better than most, but sometimes eating your fill could kill you as sure as starvation. A simple washerwoman, she'd been as honest a soul as any. That meant he'd see her again in the Heavenly Halls, when his own mortal span was done.