Then he saw what Huet could do with a bow, and how Rochert could handle a knife. Rochert stayed sober, Orlant sat with him through the shakes, and after, Jord found himself in the barracks sharing stew in a tin plate. ‘Didn’t think you’d be any good, not with what you look like,’ Orlant said to him. ‘No offense.’
Six months later, Jord followed the Prince into a private indoor training arena, obeying the imperious command: ‘Fight me.’
He drew his sword, then swung it, not seriously. He didn’t want to clip the heir. Who knew what happened to a guard who gave a Prince a fat lip?
‘Thought you weren’t a fighter,’ Jord said, levering himself up from the sawdust several minutes later. Eventually he remembered, ‘Your Highness.’
‘I’ve been practicing.’
That was five years ago. He’d never expected his Prince, now twenty, to look him in the eyes and say, ‘You’re my Captain.’ The Prince’s clasp on his arm was firm, his gaze now level with Jord’s own.
It was the closest Jord had ever been to the boy who was a young man now. Except for the times that the Prince had put him in the dirt in the training arena, then offered a hand to haul him back up.
‘What did you say to him?’ said Orlant, and nudged his chin in the direction of Aimeric. Enervated and limp, eyes lifeless, he was slumped on the dirt, back to a tree trunk. He had pushed himself until he could barely stand in drills designed to exhaust men more hardened than Aimeric.
‘Nothing,’ said Jord.
Work hard. Grudgingly, he admired it. Aimeric worked, finishing his day half collapsed, spent his night cleaning armour and supplies, and was first up ready to face the drills in the morning. He shirked nothing, was uncomplaining, and took orders from men below him in birth—which in this company was everyone.
‘They sent an aristocrat to fight in the Prince’s Guard?’ Huet had said when Aimeric had joined up, staring at Aimeric like a clod stares at a flower. It was Jord who had said, ‘Leave it.’ The Prince wanted Aimeric here, so Aimeric was here. Whatever mad ideas the Prince had, you went along with it.
Aimeric had found his way over to where Jord was sitting by the fire, two nights after coming to congratulate him on the captaincy. ‘I’ve finished with the horses, I could take on any tasks that need to be done, if—’
‘Sit.’ Jord took one look at him. Aimeric sat. Awkwardly. He took the mug of cheap wine Huet handed him. He said almost nothing. It became a habit, more often than not, Aimeric finding his way over to sit near Jord by the fire at the end of each day. Jord was uneasy around him at first, the young aristocrat who was quiet while the other men were loud.
They didn’t talk much, with a gulf of class and culture between them. Sometimes Aimeric asked him questions, and Jord found himself talking. Jord looked out for Aimeric where he could. Aimeric made mistakes, but never the same mistake twice. I want to do well here. When Jord gave advice, Aimeric listened, seriously, and sometimes kept working into the night, practicing long after the others were asleep.
It helped, the improvement noticeable, thanks to Aimeric’s dogged persistence. Probably, Jord thought, it was the persistence that the Prince had seen in Aimeric, recognising the potential of his stubborn streak. Aimeric’s stance was steadier, his riding seat better, and he could take a blow now without falling over—at least some of the time.
The rest of the time, he looked as if he would fall over if a plume feather hit him; if he managed ever to stand up in the first place.
‘You better fuck him before he sprains something,’ said Orlant.
They realised quickly that the Prince had re-formed the Prince’s Guard without asking his uncle.
It was the sensation of the court: the boy Prince riding around with a band of thugs; inviting them into the palace; having them enter his private quarters as his personal guard. Commoners wearing the Prince’s star? The Regent didn’t like it. The Council didn’t like it. Most of all, the Regent’s Guard didn’t like it. The Regent’s Guard were aristocrats. The Prince’s Guard were low born: scum, vermin, undeserving, demeaning the starburst insignia. This, in the same refined accent that Aimeric said Captain, the young aristocrat Chauvin spat at Jord in the courtyard, in front of everyone.
Jord snorted, and made to push past him. These fights with the Regent’s Guard had started almost immediately. There were fights over equipment. There were fights over territory. There were fights if the Prince’s Guard breathed, and the Regent’s Guard didn’t like it.
The inner courtyard, full of people and banners, was also full of grins, as onlookers from both factions gathered, and the shouts and goads came not only from the courtyard but from the open galleries above and steps leading to the wall. Jord’s shoulder hit Chauvin’s as he passed, continuing to the north range, leaving Chauvin behind him.
The sound of metal cut through the courtyard. Jord barely had time to turn, draw and defend in a fast, desperate flurry, as Chauvin attacked.
It was fast, but Jord had lived off his blade his whole life. He was good. He was better than Chauvin, and after a first clash of swords he sent Chauvin stumbling backwards, disarmed, almost tripping in the training yard dirt.
And that was when the grins started to fall off the faces of the onlookers, an awful silence opening up. Chauvin was staring at Orlant, red-faced and humiliated. ‘You’ll hang,’ said Chauvin. ‘You’ll hang. You’re no one. I’m kin to a councillor.’
Orlant said, ‘Get the Prince.’
The Prince outranked Chauvin, that was likely all Orlant could think. Jord was pulled out of the courtyard by the Regent’s Guard, and found himself in a cell of meagre dimensions. He sat, his back to the wall, his arms folded over his knees. He could see the passageway outside his cell and the stairs beyond that, where light dimmed from afternoon to night. He couldn’t see anything else, not guards or the faces of any he knew, not prisoners or friends. He felt as he was: cut off, alone, powerless.
He woke to a lone figure standing before the bars of the cell, a boy who had come here by himself and now stood searching Jord’s face, as Jord pushed himself up, awkwardly.
‘Did you draw first?’
‘No,’ said Jord.
‘Then I’ll take care of it.’