“Dodge….side swing…..dodge…..back step…..recovery…dodge….thrust-counter-thrust…dodge,” Roger mumbled the words inaudibly to himself as he performed the moves. His soft-leather boots treading lightly as they allowed his feet to perform the complex dance of a swordsman’s form.

Upon the completion of the form he fell to one knee, resting. His heavy breathing, from a half-hours constant concentration and movement, slowed to a normal pace. With a glance down he noticed his top had become soaked with sweat and was now seethrough; completely exposing the muscles of his abs and chest. A sudden tinge of modesty struck him and he pulled at the thin, white blouse of his practice attire. Causing it to un-stick from his torso, and wave gently in the breeze.

“Ahhh the breezes here feel good,” he thought to himself. “I will give that to this godforsaken stretch of nothing forest.” A sly smile spread across his lips as he thought these words.

A quick glance about gave him an updated layout of his surroundings. Having been concentrating on the form for a half-hour; he had been unaware of any others who may have wandered along onto the practice field.

In no time his eyes fell upon Thomas Mochrie. Thomas was a soldier from some nothingness background, Roger had assumed. Regardless of this, Roger had been impressed by Thomas’s charisma around camp and deft handle of a sword. “Not knight potential by any means,” Roger thought, “but if I see him during a battle I will certainly see to it he does not die unnecessarily.”

Next to Thomas, watching him train, was one of the sergeants of the footmen. "Kincade, I believe someone said his name is," Roger mused. "I should make an effort to meet him one of these days....might come in useful to know the ranking footmen if I do eventually reach Major."

The pair seemed to be working on training, and fixing an issue in Thomas's shield positioning. "He is not covering his legs properly after a strike....that can be costly.......He is also leaving his left foot to heavy on sidesteps." Roger made a mental note to mention that to the sergeant if they met in the near future.

He waved in a friendly manner at the nearby soldiers, and continued with his survey of the area. Two other knights were now sparring a short distance away he noticed, and another knight, who had been exercising a horse, was now absent.

His eyebrows raised questioningly in reaction to the next sight that met his view. A beautiful woman he recognized had also made her way to the edge of the field. “Interesting,” thought Roger, “I wonder what brings Aislinn over to this side of camp.” He had not actually met her as of yet, but after seeing her in the Garrison a few days previous; he had asked a few fellow knights about her, and had found out her name.

With a smirk he rose once again to his feet. “I will have to see about speaking to her at a later time,” he thought, “but for now I have another form I need to complete.” He swung his longsword a few times idly as he warmed up, and began his next form. “Sidestep….thrust…..dodge….dodge…sidestep…..swing….backswing….sidestep.” His mind was once again completely enthralled with the complex dance of movements that made up the form.

War was about to start, but life at the garrison was going on pretty much as it had before. At least it was for Fergus, he couldn’t say what changes might have been made outside of his own cavalry unit. There seemed to be more intensity in the soldier’s approach to the training from what Fergus had seen when he watched them. Not a bad thing as they were starting to seem like a proper army unit as opposed to the gaggle of conscripts they’d been before, but for all their intensity a fair number of them were going to die before the end.

In a quiet hour he was watching some of the infantry units at practice. A silent presence hovering in a shadow, he was ignored in favour of the shouting officers striding around, which was the way he liked it. By no means a teacher himself he could still recognise where people were going wrong from experience, having begun sword training at a young age he’d made most of the mistakes the men were being shouted at for over the years. Almost without thinking about it he began counting up the mistakes of any man who caught his attention, realising with a feeling of growing dread that the men he was singling out – and the officers were singling out – as particularly bad wouldn’t be with them long. A man of middle years with a stiff knee who had problems with his footwork, a boy with mousey hair who fumbled badly and looked terrified whenever a blade came near him, one man who looked like a brawler who kept on trying to use the short sword like a knife and looked like he was going to throw it away and punch his opponent at any second. Did they know how bad they were, how likely they were to die? They must do – even at this stage the differences between them and the better swordsmen were clear.

Suddenly uneasy watching the drill he walked away, slipping around the edges of the grounds and shaking his head to try and clear the thought from it. But he couldn’t. The men’s faces and the knowledge that they were almost certainly going to die were fixed in his mind. There was nothing to be done about it, which seemed the worst thing of all. Without thinking he’d walked to the stables, a few minutes later he had his warhorse fully tacked and ready to go without any memory of giving the order. Still lost in thought – did they have families? If they did then thank god they weren’t here to see their relations sent out like lambs to the slaughter – he led the horse to the practice field, mounted and began the warm up procedure. After years it was second nature to both him and the horse, and so he was still left to his own thoughts, only occasionally leaving them when the horse tried to break from the routine.

That completed he ran absently through a few sets of movements, coordinating both horse and sword stroke from long hours of practice rather than any particular natural skill – his favourite and best weapons had always been the pole arms, but those were simply too impractical on a horse. By this stage a few others were out – a pair of knights he vaguely recognised were sparring together, another man was running through different forms alone, a woman was approaching the edge of the field, others were in the process of getting ready to train and several more heading in. Glancing over at the assembled infantry he saw that it was the same group, and swiftly looked away before nudging the horse back towards the stable area.

Only when he’d handed the horse over to one of the stable boys did he wonder what he was going to do next and realised that he was really to restless to do anything constructive. His own unit wasn’t due to start drilling as a whole until the late afternoon, when it was cool enough to even consider wearing the armour they did, which still left him with several hours to kill. The only way back to the main building from the stables was over the practice fields, and so for the fifth time that day Fergus picked a clear path through the assorted groups, trying and failing to ignore the infantry.

His route took him past the lone swordsman, who lifted the sword and started again as he approached. Taking a few steps to the side as an extra precaution he watched with passing interest as the man moved forwards, backwards and sideways. It was only after a particular turn that he saw the man’s face – Sir Roger Newbury. Instantly he stopped, well out of the way but watching with the interest he might show to a particularly odd creature. He’d known of the man for years, their positions in society had made it almost impossible for them to have no idea of the other’s existence, although Fergus didn’t recall that they’d had any close dealings with each other. Usually he’d just have glanced his way, perhaps nodded if eye contact was made, but what made him stare was recent events. The man had been disinherited. Fergus had never once argued with his father out of fear, hadn’t in fact spoken back to his brother in years for the same reason, and couldn’t imagine what sort of man could argue with his family to the point of being thrown out of it. Apparently one with very good footwork, in this case at least.

Thomas was getting distracted. Of course he scolded himself for it, and turned back to Kincade's training with as much vigor as he could manage-but time and time again, he found his gaze drawn to the lone Knight working on the field. As a brand-new recruit he hadn't so much as gotten close to someone of such a rank yet, and he couldn't help but be fascinated. After all, Knight was what he wanted. He didn't want to be the nobody foot soldier forever; he wanted the power and the wealth to spread his protection as far as it would go.

After about half an hour of this, Tom shook himself out, laid down his sword, and gave his Sergeant an embarrassed half-smile. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm completely out of the loop today-mind if I go work with the knight over there?" It was an extra training, and he hadn't asked for a break since they started working weeks ago; so it came as no great surprise when Kincade barked his permission. The farm lad grinned his thanks and turned, jogging over to watch the knight at work. "...You're good. Hope you don't mind my watchin'." That was all he offered, not wanting to disrupt Roger's training, but he gave an honest smile and took one step back to better observe the master at work.

So intent was he on the other man's movements that it came as quite a rough shock to glance up a minute later and see the Prince of all Thiasa standing on the other side. Thomas paled. Of course Fergus had been at the garrisons all along, but as a rule the milk and cream didn't mix. For only the second time in his life, the young man felt complete and utter panic. Had he done something wrong? Was the prince staring at him? How long had he been there? Was he waiting for him to kneel?

Mochrie's knowledge of Court manners was severely lacking, so he opted out with the choice that seemed the least likely to cause offense. He'd probably look like an idiot to both of them but in the long run he supposed it would be better than being the soldier court-martialed for ignoring the second in line for the throne. Thomas dropped to his knees and swiftly ducked his head, praying for all the world that he wasn't in trouble. Renna needed him well and strong on the battlefield, not moldering away in jail somewhere. "Your Highness." Or was it 'Your Majesty?' or 'Your Grace?' or 'my Prince' or 'my Lord' or....God, the list was endless. Tom gave up trying to think of the proper form of address and simply ducked his head down further. At least he knew it wasn't 'sir' or 'my Lady'. Two eliminated.

"Forgive me. I didn't see you."

It was like watching some sort of exotic dance. Did he work alone because he liked it, or was it because others avoided him? As far as Fergus knew Sir Roger’s father hadn’t ordered people to stay away from him, but perhaps he didn’t need to. Maybe people avoided him anyway in case their own reputations were tarnished by the contact. There were so many men here seeking advancement from all ranks that it seemed possible.

Caught up in watching and wondering he hadn’t noticed the farm boy, not until he plummeted to his knees. Startled, thinking that the man had somehow been hurt to drop like that he stepped forwards, then smartly sideways as the long blade swung a little too close for comfort. Too distracted by the blade’s movements and trying to judge whether he’d need to move further away again he didn’t hear the man say his title, only the second part. “Forgive me, I didn’t see you, Sir.” He murmured, taking another step away from the swordsman and carefully making his way round to stand beside Thomas.

He’d seen this man before, he was certain. Hadn’t he been with the infantry when he’d been watching them earlier? Maybe. He’d seen so many men training that it was hard to remember who was with which unit. “I had no real wish to be seen.” He still spoke softly, glancing at the swordsman in case he started moving around more and came their way. If everyone reacted to him the way Thomas did there’d be complete chaos and the drill sergeants might not want him there at all, even if he did keep himself out from under their feet. It would probably cause no end of injuries as well, at least amidst the infantry, and if the thought of one man being hurt made him stupidly walk near a practising swordsman he couldn’t imagine what he’d do if someone managed to poke someone else’s eye out.

“You may rise,” he said, suddenly aware that Thomas was currently at a very good level for being tripped over or hit. Preparing for the man to move a little as he got to his feet he took a step back, one hand resting on his sword hilt, the other hanging free and as before watching the swordsman. Thankfully he didn’t appear to be working in their direction at that moment.

His sword flashed blindingly as he twisted to swing the blade properly. This particularly challenging set of attacks was the climax of this; the final form he had been taught in his training in Roma. He heard a soft thud to his back and mumbled conversation, but strained even harder to follow through with the next dazzling strike. He was far too much a knight to allow some noise to throw off his concentration in practice; he knew giving in to distraction meant life and death in battle.

A quick exhalation of breath accompanied the final strike of the form; that exhalation giving extra power to the mighty attack. His body was left heaving and strained as he held the balanced sword in a sweaty palm. The form completed, he pulled himself up to his full height and wiped some of the sweat from his brow with an equally sweaty sleeve.

“Prince Fergus?!” He suddenly stated in a surprised manner, once he had gathered himself enough to pay attention to his surroundings. The prince was standing behind him watching him intently. Next to the prince, also watching Roger was Thomas; the soldier he had seen training with that sergeant. The latter was pulling himself up to a standing position after apparently having been on his knees.

He raised a brow questioningly at the sight. “Why were these men next to where he was practicing his forms?” he thought. He, of course, recognized the prince from many a ball, hunt and event at Thiasa castle. They had never been close in any way, but were always civil. “I wonder if he has been made aware of my…disgrace. Yes, of course he has….I am certain all of Thiasa is laughing about it behind my back,” he thought bitterly. He winced at the thought but then pushed it away.

He smiled in a welcoming manner at the duo. “Prince Fergus,” he bent his waist politely as he spoke the words. “It is good to see the barbarians have not yet felled you. I had hoped we would cross paths here in the garrison.” He modestly pulled at his training blouse again and it unplastered itself from his torso. “Thomas,” he nodded toward the soldier, “I am pleased to meet you. Your superiors speak highly of your potential.”

His breathing had returned to normal at this point. He stood before the two men, his sword tipped in the ground and supporting his right hand. “What has led you to position yourselves so precariously close to myself as I exercise a form?” his eyes fell on the prince once again. “I apologize if I did not see you before now, but you yourself know not to break a form mid-stride. Was their something you sought me for?” he grinned suddenly as a thought struck him, “a joust perhaps?”

The Prince had taken part in the previous years royal jousting tourney just as every other knight of nobility in the realm, and had fallen to Rogers own lance in the fifth tier. The joust had been one of the more impressive ones of the tourney thus far. Each man had broken two lances on the other before Roger unseated him in the third charge. It had been a great testament to Fergus’s skill; as Roger had not had a single lance broken on him up to that point in the tournament.

Thomas brushed grass off his trousers and shot a nervous glance to Fergus. It was probably impolite to answer before the Prince; but then, he'd been there first. And Fergus seemed to be a quieter soul, rather like his father in that regard. Of course it was impossible to tell with royalty. Still, he hadn't done the "Why are you in my way, peasant?!" routine, so maybe he was safe. Only time would tell. The lad settled for a crisp bow in the Prince's direction, deciding to introduce himself before he answered Roger's question. At any rate he was so busy glowing with surprised pleasure at the Knight's recognition he needed a moment to control himself.

"Thomas Mochrie, your Highness. At your service." The boy was plainly out of his ease with a Prince, but when he turned back to look at the disinherited Lord he was all smiles. "And honored to meet you, Sir." He didn't know the knight's name. It didn't matter. He was a Knight, and a strong and able one if the foot excercises were any indication (which of course they were). Kincade hadn't even found anything to pick out and label as 'what not to do, private'. It had been a perfect routine, and one that looked as if it came as naturally to him as breathing.

At Roger's suggestion of a joust, Thomas had to laugh. He grinned and shook his head, then gazed at the knight with twinkling eyes. "A joust? With the likes of you? Maybe His Highness had it in mind, but for me I think you'd earn a living just as well as a jester as a Knight." His grin widened. "If you're really wantin' it that much, I might be persuaded to stand still and let y'run me over a few times. It'd amount to the same end."

Another laugh, and then the lad tugged shyly at his forelock. "Tell you truly, sir, I only wanted to watch. Watching is learning. You're good. And..."

He felt foolish for a moment. The words he was about to say didn't belong in his mouth; or any other farmboy's for that matter. But Renna's face strenghtened him, and he straightened his shoulders to look Roger Newbury in the eyes. "I want to be a knight. Therefore I learn from the best." It was plain that he was deadly serious; his free hand dipped down to caress the hilt of his sword as though he was reassuring a troubled lover.

As he watched the form continued to the climax, the final strike coming when Thomas was getting to his feet. For a moment Fergus looked as surprised as Roger was to be there – while he’d been watching it hadn’t been his intention to actually be seen or spoken to by the man, then years of training took over and a soft, empty smile appeared on his face as he dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Sir Roger.” For a moment his mouth had formed the start of the word Lord, only changing to the lesser title of Sir as his brain caught up with it. “You’re looking well.” Soaked with sweat, a little more world weary, but still well all things considered. Fergus doubted he’d be holding up anywhere near as well in his position.

Turning to look at the man he tried to think if he’d heard the name before, but he was fairly certain he hadn’t. He nodded anyway, lodging it in his mind for later reference if it was mentioned to him again. The change in Thomas’s attitude between speaking to him and speaking to Roger was so big that Fergus shifted backwards without thinking, suddenly under the impression that he’d been intruding in a privet conversation between the knight and his follower. An impression that only solidified when Roger said that the man’s superiors spoke highly of him. Not to Fergus they didn’t, he was a little too far removed for that.

He seemed a little far removed from the conversation as well. Being quieter meant that by the time he was ready to answer Roger’s question Thomas was babbling on about jousting. Or letting Roger run him into the ground. Was he actually pausing to breath? Watching with clear disbelief Fergus couldn’t see any sign of it at all until the man stopped smiling and confessed in a deadly serious voice that he wanted to be a knight. At that, seeing a gap, he turned back to Roger and tried to keep his tone measure rather than hurry through what he was going to say before Thomas started talking again.

“I understand entirely. I remembered that you had some forms from your time in Roma and thought it might be interesting to watch. That last one was from the country, was it not?” It wasn’t one he recognised in any case and while they had a number of different fighting styles and forms on the island Fergus knew and recognised all the ones traditionally taught to the Knights in the country. A smile spread on his face in return and a touch of excitement was in his expression and voice despite his attempt to hide it. “As to the joust, my unit will be drilling this afternoon. Perhaps once we have finished we could try and arrange a small contest.” There’d be no shortage of volunteers for such a contest, he was sure. Jousting was a lot more exciting than drilling, and the majority of the cavalry were young men as eager as Roger was to fight and as eager for a change in routine as Fergus was. In a military environment as well winning even a joust held for mostly entertainment purposes could begin the road to advancement. Perhaps that was why Roger asked – it must rankle that he should have had a much higher post than his current one.

It was almost funny how Thomas had been drawn to Roger, he decided once he remembered that the other man was there and his wish to be a knight. Roger’s father, if Fergus recalled correctly, had come from the same sort of position as Thomas. Might not be such a good idea to mention it to Roger, though, it wasn’t likely to have good results. “Have you asked if there’s a position as a squire available?” Fergus suddenly asked, frowning and turning his head to look at Thomas. It seemed a logical career move to make, if Thomas was as serious as he seemed about being a knight. He wasn’t going to get very far as a foot soldier anyway. Folding his arms across his chest he continued “There’s not likely to be positions open now unless there’s been an accident, but once the fighting’s started there might be something.” He’d need other skills besides the sword and pike work if he was interested in that route but Fergus was sure he could pick them up as he went along or even try and pick them up beforehand. “What do you think, Sir Roger?” He asked, turning his head back to the knight, “is there a chance of that?”

The Prince was so refined. It wasn't his fault that Tom was so ill at ease; but Fergus' quiet presence simply made the boy feel more awkward than ever. It was irritating; Thomas wasn't used to feeling like a gangly adolescent any longer-even women didn't trip him up the way they'd used to. But something in the Prince's soft-spoken elegance was nettling, and pointing out just how broad and rough he really was.

Tom had a solution for this. Whenever he couldn't figure out how to deal with a person, there were usually two options. Ignore them, or pretend to be Renna. Since the lad enjoyed his masculinity the latter choice was definitely the road less traveled, but one couldn't simply ignore the Prince of all the realms. His sister had had a way about her; she was very much like her father in her ability to look at someone, and then to say exactly what they needed to hear. It was a rare gift and one that her elder brother lacked entirely, but the two were close enough that he could pretend if he needed to. Usually it worked.

Thomas studied the Prince in silence as he talked, wondering what Renna would see if she was there. He was quiet. That might just be Court manners, but the way he was standing-it wasn't a position of command at all, but almost one of shame. He hadn't wanted to be seen. He'd been watching from the shadows. Maybe he'd been looking at the girl across the way; a pretty little maiden-no, that was wrong too. Renna would have pointed out that his face was dark, and heavy, and then laughed and said that maybe she'd refused him. But he was a prince. He couldn't be refused.

Mochrie's imagination was working full gear, and by the time Fergus turned to address him, the pieces of the puzzle had clicked into place. Thomas bowed at the waist and forced himself to relax; now that he'd seen him from Renna's point of view there was nothing to worry about. "Squiring, my lord? Thank you for the suggestion; but it hadn't even crossed my mind. I'd thought I was too old, y'see...and that only noblemen's sons could squire. My aim was to just fight my way into the title, well as I could. Really, though, it's very kind."

Tom lifted his head, and made himself dare to look Fergus straight in the eyes. Renna would have done it. Of course, Renna was a pretty little maid and not a hulking soldier overstepping his bounds, but with any luck they could each speak with the same truth. He made his voice soft. "Don't you worry about the soldiers none, Highness. Some will die." He nodded over to the fields. "But the cause is worthy. The barbarian demons took my sister; the beginning of the summer. Makin' them harmless and knowin' the rest of the women can live in peace is worth losin' a few men over. Don't fret too much. We need to win this."

When Fergus finally found a point in Thomas’s excited babbling to speak, his words were very controlled and even. It seemed he was still unsure of how to act toward his disgraced comrade. “I understand entirely. I remembered that you had some forms from your time in Roma and thought it might be interesting to watch. That last one was from the country, was it not?” he said gently. “Why yes,” responded Roger, “That form is called Permaneo vir Superstes, and is the final form I was instructed on before I was recalled to Thiasa.”

Nodding, the prince continued with the discussion. “As to the joust, my unit will be drilling this afternoon. Perhaps once we have finished we could try and arrange a small contest,” his face had brightened and his timbre was one of excitement. “I would be honored to take part in such a contest,” Roger responded evenly with a slight bow. On the inside he was dancing, but on the outside he maintained a controlled décor. He had decided to play his hand close to his chest with the prince; as he was still unsure of how his superior felt about his current condition.

The prince suddenly turned to the man beside him. “Have you asked if there’s a position as a squire available?” Fergus asked with a frown. Roger raised an eyebrow as he listened. “There’s not likely to be positions open now unless there’s been an accident,” the prince continued, “but once the fighting’s started there might be something.” Roger nodded at those words, “all too many open positions after the first major battle,” he thought evenly; death was something that knights were all too accustomed too for it to bother them as much as non-warriors, but it was still saddening to look over ranks of men knowing so many would die horrid deaths.

With no warning the prince turned back toward him, “What do you think, Sir Roger?” He asked, “Is there a chance of that?” Roger opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the excited youth. "Squiring, my lord? Thank you for the suggestion,” said Thomas hurriedly, “but it hadn't even crossed my mind. I'd thought I was too old, y'see...and that only noblemen's sons could squire. My aim was to just fight my way into the title, well as I could. Really, though, it's very kind."

Roger finally found a spot in Thomas’s rant he could interject. “Thomas!” he said lightly, “My god man, you shouldn’t have to become a knight,” he grinned as he spoke, “You could just talk our opponents to death.” Roger burst into laughter after he had stated thus.

After collecting himself he took on a more serious look. “Thank you my prince for bringing this matter to my attention.” He then turned to Thomas, “Thomas it is not every day that such a suggestion is made by a prince, and because of that I am going to overlook the years you have over many other squires, and look instead at the training you have already been given, and the obvious willingness and vigor you possess. Let us take two days as a trial period. Firstly, today you can help me get into my armor for the joust with the princes men, and then on the morrow you and I can train together, so that I can see your skill and potential. If by late tomorrow, I am convinced you have what will be required. I will take you on as my squire, and knight in training.”

He turned toward the prince, “Prince Fergus, I would be honored to take part in even a joust of enjoyment with the knights of your train. I am told they are one of the finest sections of knights our army has to offer, and I look forward to crossing lances with some of them.” He was unable to control his excitement through the entire response, but it was close enough for etiquettes sake. “If I may be as bold as to ask, might I also run drills with you and yours beforehand? It would be unfair for me to meet men on the lists who are warm and ready having just completed a drilling session, and I and my horse cold from inactivity.”

It was a blatant lie of course; Roger was a gifted jouster, and an experienced knight. He could coldly cross lances with the most warmed up gaggle of knights in the kingdom and still come out on top, but he wanted to see how the Prince was as a leader. He wanted to show and share his own skill with Fergus, and perhaps win himself a position in the Prince’s unit. “A captain in the royal guard would have great opportunities for advancement,” he mused. “I must not fail today. I may never have another opportunity like this.”

He looked forward to further interaction with Thomas, and was glad Fergus had opened the door for him to be given a squire. “Perhaps that was Fergus’s way of telling me I am not without allies in my disgrace,” he thought furtively. Such thoughts inadvertently led him to think again of his dear little sis and best friend. “I must win this for Rachel,” he thought, and the resolve of someone fighting for a loved one firmly gripped his heart. “One day I will see to it she leaves Newbury Fief. I pray father does not take his anger at me out on her in any way. He knows how dear she is to me. How we were always in second place to Julian and Isobel in his, and mothers, affections….I must win this to give her a haven. My dearest sister…the only true family I have.”

He quickly swallowed the emotions that were overcoming him. A bright smile played across his face once again. “What say you Thomas? Will you take this opportunity?”

Not a form he recognised. There must be hundreds he’d never heard of or seen before throughout the world, maybe even the barbarians had them in one way or another. There was no way Fergus could think of to find out and even if he did it would easily come under the heading of useless information. Much like the questions he asked that fell within etiquette’s boundaries. “You were there for some time, were you not?” He couldn’t remember when exactly or for how long, both brothers had travelled in the area and he hadn’t kept track of their movements. If he’d been in Roma long enough to learn several forms then he’d been there for a while, perhaps several years.

Usually people did stare, but not so obviously. Fergus tried to focus on Roger, but he couldn’t stop looking at Thomas out of the corner of his eyes. He was staring. Hard. “Good. I shall look forwards to it.” Trying to focus on the prospect of a joust he was mostly successful at hiding the sudden desire to crawl under a rock and stay there. Only the fixed set of his posture and expression in what was meant to be relaxed gave him away.

Fergus wasn’t sure about being able to talk someone to death – but his enthusiasm was certainly daunting. Smiling with clear amusement he shook his head at both Thomas’s plan and Roger’s statement. “Then you’d be obliged to join the cavalry as a knight. If you look at the infantry officers you’ll see that they’re all very capable fighters but they’ve got little chance of promotion to posts higher than Lieutenant because the higher ranks are all cavalry and few of them could ride well enough for a title or place. There’s exceptions, of course,” he glanced at Roger and by extension Roger’s father, “but really, if you want to be a knight you’re not going to get far with the infantry.”

Of all the things people had done for him in the past, taking on a squire hadn’t been one of them. And he hadn’t even asked. Concealing his surprise as best he could he turned to Thomas, smiling and never for a moment considering that Thomas, unconventional as he was, would refuse the offer. “You’ll want to try and watch someone putting armour on first.” The entire process of putting armour on was as complicated as it sounded. Fergus knew that from both the perspective of trying to put it on someone and having it put on him, taking it all back off was slightly easier if it wasn’t bent out of shape because you could at least see what order things came off in. “Sir Beauclarc is usually almost finished by the time the rest of us are starting, if you tell his squire that I sent you to learn he’ll talk you through it. If that’s all right, Sir Roger?” Uncertainty entered his voice as he realised just how much he could have offended Sir Roger by ordering Thomas to do something. The knight probably wouldn’t have ever tried to talk someone through the process of putting armour on though, so perhaps he wouldn’t mind.

In the less formal environment of the garrison’s Roger’s excitement somehow suited the occasion, while Fergus’s guarded smile and laugh somehow didn’t. “You must give us some chance, my lord, we do not all have your experience and talents.” Fergus had ridden against Roger before – and fallen to him. A lot of people had and he could probably, in Fergus’s estimation, defeat well over half of Fergus’s unit in a joust without any problems. Being a cavalry unit meant that entry often required a non-military rank as well, and the holders of such ranks were not always the most talented of individuals. “Of course you may join us, but I fear you may end up observing more often than not. Perhaps you can help us find areas for improvement.” There were bound to be some weak areas, and coming from the most warlike of the fifes Roger might spot them and suggest ways of fixing the problem more easily than Fergus. Besides which the man had been trained to take the post of Major General eventually, Fergus personally had his doubts that Roger could settle for being a simple knight in anything.

Thomas was still staring at him. Fergus wanted to go on ignoring him but it didn’t seem like a viable option and instead he gave the man a half hearted glare, hoping that he’d get the point and stop staring. Or at least do it more discreetly. He turned away again sharply as Thomas spoke. Was it that obvious? “I’m sorry about your sister,” with his abrupt tone he didn’t sound it, but he did mean it. “But these men are out here for my brother, they’re not soldiers by trade or inclination. You know we’re sending some of them to certain death out there, and that’s not worthy.” His eyes drifted over the field, to where one sergeant was bellowing at one of the men Fergus had seen earlier. Thomas clearly thought this was some righteous crusade to save the women, some others thought it was about religion, to Fergus it was all about land. Men who were highly unlikely to ever own a scrap of whatever land they conquered as an army were being sent of to die for it. It was how the world worked and there was nothing to be done about it, he knew that, but it still felt off somehow. Shaking his head again with his unease at the situation clear he murmured “it just can’t be.”

Roger’s question on top of this train of thought received a blank look from Fergus. Only when he thought back over their conversation did he realise that Thomas hadn’t actually agreed to be a squire yet – Fergus had just assumed that he would because it was the sensible thing to do for any career option. With one eyebrow arched to echo Roger’s question he turned to Thomas again, waiting for an answer.

Thomas was offended. He couldn't help it. The prine and his knight were being more generous than he had ever hoped, but something rankled at being told he could talk an enemy to death when the two men teasing him were going on and on and on about Roma and jousts and squiring and armor and all in these funny, cool, emotionless tones. Frankly, it was boring. But the point remained-the two men were droning paragraphs of mindless dribble, and HE'D only spoken a few sentences at a time. It was beyond irking.

But this was an important occassion, and he needed to focus. The young man glanced over to the waiting Kincade, and bit his lip. Become a squire? It seemed almost...disloyal. the sergeant had taken him under his wing, and spent hours of his time teaching his recruit how to survive. Yes, he wanted to be a knight. Did he want to do so at the cost of the relationship he had with Kincade? He wasn't sure.

Thomas studied his teacher, then swiveled back to look at the knight staring him down. Kincade would want him to step up. Maybe he'd be the one to bring blood and common sense to the ranks of the noble. Maybe h'ed be the one to make the word 'knight' have the ring of grit and steel, and not the polished image it currently had. Maybe that was what the world needed.

The boy took a last glance at the waiting sergeant, and then all at once knew that he wasn't ready. "Thank you, my lords. But at this time I must refuse."

He was mad, he knew it. Still, he bowed low and forced himself to turn a dream aside. "I'm only a farm boy; just learning to fight over the last few months. I know nothing of court manners or hiding how I feel. If I were to squire now I feel sure that I would only shame my lord by some mistake or other-I can already see my manners are offensive to you both." It was true. Neither seemed very pleased with his open, blunt honesty-something else that rankled. "If you would keep me in mind, I'd be grateful. But for now I have a lot to learn. Thank you again."