Ears Part 4
This changed my routine for a while as I could not ride until the sores healed. So I sat with the baggage, and we asked in each village if there leather braies or leather hose that would fit me. It took several days to find a pair but they were new and I spent several days rubbing oil into them to soften them enough to make them comfortable. By the time my saddle sores healed, my new leather hose were supple and soft, and protected my limbs from the saddle. Then my riding instruction continued apace as we rode.Whenever we stopped for the night, his Grace and the highest lords in his retinue had the best housing. The outer precincts and guest house of an abbey if we were in a town large enough to have one, or the best house in the hamlet if there was no abbey. My Lord, the other squires, lesser men, and myself frequently made do in hay barns. Though they provided a sound roof to keep off the rain, these had no walls to keep out the wind, nor heat to keep us warm. We bundled close to each other, wrapped in our cloaks and used the dwindling supplies of hay for softness and warmth.
Knowing they could burn easily, we set no fires close to these barns. Our fires frequently brought a few villagers out to hear news. Some came to be sure we didn't disturb the local peace. Others came in hope of finding excitement. We made our food, played instruments and sang, or tried various games of chance if the night was fair. And through it all Samael was there.
Ostensibly he kept Lord Olbrecht's men in line, and out of trouble. But most of them were accustomed to his way. So his focus was me. I listened.
I listened for nuances in words.
Samael would lean toward me as if to reach for bread and murmur, “Listen to the rough voiced one, Yarl. He aims to pick a fight. Listen.” Or he'd ask for ale, and while I poured, he'd advise, “Beware the quiet one, he fingers a pig-sticker.”
I still used my eyes, looking, but as time went on and I saw again and again that Samael knew, knew through his ears. I began to try to use mine more, dared to close my eyes and focus on the minute sounds that told the underlying stories.
“Listen how Alard's voice changes.”
I listened. Alard spoke well, told a good tale. Men enjoyed his tales.
“Look to his eyes. What do they say? Look to his hands. His right stays close, does it not?”
Alard's eyes moved constantly. I pondered this and decided perhaps they moved as if to see everyman there, but most often they darted to Samael then quickly away.
“Listen well to his voice,” Samael scratched an itch and settled back, a slight smile on his mouth. Next day he advised me to pay attention to Alard for much of what he said were half-truths, but each half-truth was hinted at with a change in the timbre of his voice. “You need to know the voice of truth from the voice of falsehood.
So I spent evenings listening to Alard, and Samael scratched his nose or his ear, or his ankle when he heard a lie, until I began to scratch before he could. Then he took me further field to test my skills as we bargained for fodder for Lord Olbrecht's mounts or a barrel of ale for the men.
“Most men rely on their eyes for information. Hopefully you will have greater skill. Sift truth from false. Listen and be able to repeat the truth, and to explain the false.”
I enjoyed this new skill and discovering more.
“They say we should not bear false witness, but most men try to hide some of their truth. Consider if that is also not false witness.” And then he advised that I keep ears open for Kiczold or Thiemo. One tended to drift near others' possessions. The other liked to pick fights.
Practicing my skills with sword or cross bow were hampered. Instead, while I rode in the wagon, I tried a less noble weapon, a sling-shot. Samael had a priest tell the tale of David and Goliath to inspire me to take this simple weapon seriously. Jostling along in the wagon, taking aim was a challenge. It was also difficult to have a steady target. I couldn't aim at the dray horses pulling the wagon behind ours, or at the man who walked at their side. Aiming at the butts of ale we carried, was a bad idea, least I damage them and they leak. I needed a target that was distant enough, yet not so distant that I could only guess whether or not I hit it. Mostly I aimed for trees. There was precious little game to be seen. No surprise that. By the time the wagons rumbled, creaked, and groaned along the road, any animal had long since fled the passage of his Grace's column. Duke Henryk and his closest nobles had first shot on any game surprised by our passage. Their kill were sent back to the wagons and were skinned and gutted even as we traveled.
If food was scarce in the villages, the lords would take out hunting parties. When we did this, Samael armed my Lord with crossbow and pike and me with just a crossbow and we stood on the edges of the line receiving the game those thrashing the bushes drove toward us. The beaters usually surprised more than one animal.
I waited tensely, looking toward the thinning forest, unable to see clearly. Samael must have guessed this. He demanded I shut my eyes and see. I felt my Master twitch at this injunction. My breath came raggedly as I listened to the sounds approaching. I feared to hit one of the beaters with a crossbow bolt.
“Get down,” Samael growled, “Kneel, aim low. Can you hear it?”
I listened and nodded. “Yes,” I hissed, recalling he might not distinguish my nod from other sounds I made. I threw myself on the damp plowed field, bracing my elbows and tried to gauge distance. It sounded small, perhaps a hare. But not too far behind came a beater. If the hare broke the cover of the forest, I would lose its sound on the soft plowed ground. No beater would thank me if I hit them instead. And anyone would be grateful for some stewed hare to thicken the onion broth we had eaten the last two days.
I steadied myself, my breathing, my aim, eased my grip, prayed silently, wished my hands weren't sweaty, and that I could live up to my Father's original hopes for me as I tried to be sure the beater wasn't directly behind my unseen target. I swallowed, my mouth dry.
I had just cocked my bow ready to shoot, when a shrill squeal, loud crashing and a shout went up.
My eyes snapped open, my bolt loosened, as a huge wild boar broke cover to my right.
“BRACE!” Samael and my voices rose as I spun around to see my Master armed with his crossbow. Surprised, he loosened at the beast's head as I lurched half upright to help Samael set and brace the pike. My master threw himself to our aid, bracing the ash pole firmly against the charging boars full weight.
Roaring protest, the boar impaled himself on our pike point, driving toward us, our feet slipping in the mud with the force of his charge. His small eyes seemed riveted to mine as he just kept coming. The pike had no cross-brace to prevent him spitting himself on the pike. His charge ended as others threw themselves to our aid. But his snout was less than a hand-span from my shaking hands, his razor sharp yellow tusks snapping in death. Blood spurted from his neck.
We heaved a collective sigh. My shaking hands and the boar's passing weren't the only reason the pike pole shivered. No one had expected the beaters to flush a boar. Lord Olbrecht stood up, chest heaving, his knife dripping blood. He had slit the boar's throat. He cleaned it in the dirt at his feet.
“Get that thing strung up, bleed it out.” He yanked my Master to his feet, as Samael scrambled upright. Then I stood, separating myself from field, mud, blood and close proximity to the boar.
We had the boar strung up by the time his Grace Duke Henryk galloped toward us. The beaters had flushed other animals, and he had taken down a deer.
Currently I am not udating Ears as planned. The reason being other writing projects which I'm (hopefully) preparing for publication! I will resume Ears' story as soon as I can think.
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