Squire

Chain mail is hard to polish. Its links are small, hard to reach. Most squires toss the damned thing in an oil bath and let it simmer for a night, but not Grendivall.

He wrapped a fine silk cloth around a fishbone and worked at those links for a full day and night. By sunrise, the shirt sparkled from any angle, well worthy of the greatest knight this side of the Seine.

Only, where was he? Sir Harold was to be on the dueling field an hour ago. His opponent, Sir Friedrich, was just now emerging from his dressing tent. His plate gleamed in the firstborn light.

A messenger road in on a panting horse. She pulled hard on a waterskin and spat out her message: Sir Harold would not attend. Apparently, his hangover was simply too vicious to overcome.

Grendivall sighed. He’d hoped the honourable and wise Sir Harold would pull himself together this time. Alas, dashed hopes are the way of the world.

The chain shirt slid easily over his head. The cuirass was loose about the waist, but it would do. He stuffed the boots with socks and swung down the faceguard. Someone had to be the great and honourable Sir Harold.

Grendivall squinted into the rising sun. Sir Friedrich carried a broadsword, so he chose a claymore to counter. He whispered a dozen prayers to God Almighty and took to the killing field.

The fight was over in seconds. Sir Friedrich made a mad slash at Grendivall’s head. He ducked beneath, body-checked the knight, and bashed his head in with the claymore’s pommel. Sir Friendrich’s moaning form was dragged away by two retainers and his squire declared defeat.

Grendivall took the messenger’s horse back to the dressing tent to find Sir Harold holding a wet cloth to his forehead.

“My honour is maintained?” He asked.

“With ease,” Grendivall said. “Truly, sir, you are the most honourable and gallant knight this side of the Seine.”

“Indeed,” Sir Harold fought back a wretch. “And don’t your forget it.”