The Rose and the Thorn

Orbit

The Battle of Gateway Bridge

Reuben should have run the moment the squires came out of the castle keep. Hecould have easily reached the sanctuary of the stable, limiting their harassmentto throwing apples and insults, but their smiles confused him. They lookedfriendly—almost reasonable.

"Reuben! Hey, Reuben!"

Reuben? Not Muckraker? Not Troll-Boy?

The squires all had nicknames for him. None were flattering, but then he hadnames for them too—at least in his head. "The Song of Man," one ofReuben's favorite poems, mentioned age, disease, and hunger as the ThreeCruelties of Humanity. Fat Horace was clearly hunger. Pasty-faced, pockmarkedWillard was disease, and age was given to Dills, who at seventeen was theoldest.

Spotting Reuben, the trio had whirled his way like a small flock of predatorygeese. Dills had a dented knight's helmet in his hands, the visor slapping upand down as it swung with his arm. Willard carried combat padding. Horace waseating an apple—big surprise.

He could still make it to the stable ahead of them. Only Dills had any chance ofwinning in a footrace. Reuben shifted his weight but hesitated.

"This is my old trainer," Dills said pleasantly, as if the last three years hadnever happened, as if he were a fox who'd forgotten what to do with a rabbit."My father sent a whole new set for my trials. We've been having fun with this."

They closed in—too late to run now. They circled around, but still thesmiles remained.

Dills held out the helmet, which caught and reflected the autumn sun, leatherstraps dangling. "Ever worn one? Try it."

Reuben stared at the helm, baffled. This is so odd. Why are they beingnice?

"I don't think he knows what to do with it," Horace said.

"Go ahead." Dills pushed the helmet at him. "You join the castle guards soon,right?"

They're talking to me? Since when?

Reuben didn't answer right away. "Ah ... yeah."

Dills's smile widened. "Thought so. You don't get much combat practice, do you?"

"Who would spar with the stableboy?" Horace slurred while chewing.

"Exactly," Dills said, and glanced up at the clear sky. "Beautiful fall day.Stupid to be inside. Thought you'd like to learn a few maneuvers."

Each of them wore wooden practice swords and Horace had an extra.

Is this real? Reuben studied their faces for signs of deceit. Dillsappeared hurt by his lack of faith, and Willard rolled his eyes. "We thoughtyou'd like to try on a knight's helmet, seeing as how you never get to wear one.Thought you'd appreciate it."

Beyond them, Reuben saw Squire Prefect Ellison coming from the castle and takinga seat on the edge of the well to watch.

"It's fun. We've all taken turns." Dills shoved the helm against Reuben's chestagain. "With the pads and helm you can't get hurt."

Willard scowled. "Look, we're trying to be nice here—don't be a git."

As bizarre as it all was, Reuben didn't see any malice in their eyes. They allsmiled like he'd seen them look at one another—sloppy, unguarded grins.The whole thing made a kind of sense in Reuben's head. After three years thenovelty of bullying him had finally worn off. Being the only one their age whowasn't noble had made him a natural target, but times had changed and everyonegrew up. This was a peace offering, and given that Reuben hadn't made a singlefriend since his arrival, he couldn't afford to be picky.

He lifted the helm, which was stuffed with rags, and slipped it on. Despite thewads of cloth, the helmet was too big, hung loose. He suspected something wasn'tright but didn't know for sure. He had never worn armor of any kind. SinceReuben was destined to be a castle soldier, his father had been expected totrain him but never had time. That deficiency was part of the allure of thesquires' offer; the enticement outweighed his suspicions. This was his chance tolearn about fighting and swordplay. His birthday was only a week away, and oncehe turned sixteen he would enter the ranks of the castle guard. With littlecombat training he'd be relegated to the worst posts. If the squires wereserious, he might learn something—anything.

The trio trussed him up in the heavy layers of padding that restricted hismovement; then Horace handed him the extra wooden sword.

That's when the beating began.

Without warning, all three squires' swords struck Reuben in the head. The metaland wadding of the helmet absorbed most, but not all, of the blows. The insideof the helmet had rough, exposed metal edges that jabbed, piercing his forehead,cheek, and ear. He raised his sword in a feeble attempt to defend but could seelittle through the narrow visor. His ears packed with linen, he could justbarely make out muffled laughter. One blow knocked the sword from his hands andanother struck his back, collapsing him to his knees. After that, the strikescame in earnest. They rained on his metal-caged head as he cowered in a ball.

Finally the blows slowed, then stopped. Reuben heard heavy breathing, panting,and more laughter.

"You were right, Dills," Willard said. "The Muckraker is a much better trainingdummy."

"For a while—but the dummy doesn't curl up in a ball like a girl." The olddisdain was back in Dills's voice.

"But there is the added bonus of him squealing when hit."

"Anyone else thirsty?" Horace asked, still panting.

Hearing them move away, Reuben allowed himself to breathe and his muscles torelax. His jaw was stiff from clenching his teeth, and everything else achedfrom the pounding. He lay for a moment longer, waiting, listening. With thehelmet on, the world was shut out, muted, but he feared taking it off. Afterseveral minutes, even the muffled laughter and insults faded. Peering up throughthe slit, all he could see was the canopy of orange and yellow leaves waving inthe afternoon breeze. Reuben tilted his head and spotted the Three Cruelties inthe center of the courtyard filling cups from the well as they took seats on theapple cart. One was rubbing his sword arm, swinging it in wide circles.

It must be exhausting beating me senseless.

Reuben pulled the helmet off and felt the cool air kiss the sweat on his brow.He realized now that it wasn't Dills's helm at all. They must have found itdiscarded somewhere. He should have known Dills would never let him wearanything of his. Reuben wiped his face and was not surprised when his hand cameaway with blood.

Hearing someone's approach, he raised his arms to protect his head.

"That was pathetic." Ellison stood over Reuben, eating an apple that he hadstolen from the merchant's cart. No one would say a word againsthim—certainly not the merchant. Ellison was the prefect of squires, thesenior boy with the most influential father. He should have been the one toprevent such a beating.

Reuben didn't reply.

"Wadding wasn't tight enough," Ellison went on. "Of course, the idea is not toget hit in the first place." He took another bite of apple, chewing with hismouth open. Bits of dribble fell to his chest, staining his squire's tunic. Heand the Cruelties all wore the same uniform, blue with the burgundy and goldfalcon of House Essendon. With the stain of apple juice, it looked like thefalcon was crying.

"It's hard to see in that helm." Reuben noticed the wadded cloth that had fallenon the grass was bright with his blood.

"You think knights can see better?" Ellison asked around a mouthful of apple."They ride horses while fighting. You just had a helm and a touch of padding.Knights wear fifty pounds of steel, so don't give me your excuses. That's theproblem with your kind—you always have excuses. Bad enough we have tosuffer the indignity of working alongside you as pages, but we also have tolisten to you complain about everything too." Ellison raised the pitch of hisvoice to mimic a girl. "I need shoes to haul water in the winter. I can'tsplit all the wood by myself." Returning to his normal tone, he continued,"Why they still insist on forcing young men of breeding to endure thehumiliation of cleaning stables before becoming proper squires is beyond me, buthaving the added insult of being forced to labor alongside someone like you, apeasant and a bastard, was just—"

"I'm no bastard," Reuben said. "I have a father. I have a last name."

Ellison laughed and some of the apple flew out. "You have two —hisand hers. Reuben Hilfred, the son of Rose Reuben and RichardHilfred. Your parents never married. That makes you a bastard. And who knows howmany soldiers your mother entertained before she died. Chambermaids do a lot ofthat, you know. Whores every one. Your father was just dumb enough to believeher when she said you were his. That right there shows you the man's stupidity.So assuming she wasn't lying, you're the son of an idiot and a—"

Reuben slammed into Ellison with every ounce of his body, driving the older boyto his back. He sat up swinging, hitting Ellison in the chest and face. WhenEllison got an arm free, Reuben felt pain burst across his cheek. Now he was onhis back and the world spun. Ellison kicked him in the side hard enough to breaka rib, but Reuben barely felt it. He still wore his padding.

Ellison's face was red, flushed with anger. Reuben had never fought any of thembefore, certainly not Ellison. His father was a baron of East March; even theothers didn't touch him.

Ellison drew his sword. The metal left the sheath with a heavy ring. Reuben justbarely grabbed the practice wood, which had been left lying in the grass. Hebrought it up in time to prevent losing his head, but Ellison's steel cut it inhalf.

Reuben ran.

That was the one advantage he had over them. He did more work and ran everywherewhile they did little. Even weighed down by the padding, he was faster and hadthe stamina of a pack of hounds. He could run for days if needed. Even so, hewasn't fast enough, and Ellison got one last blow across Reuben's back. Theslice only served to drive him forward, but when he was safely away, hediscovered a deep cut through all four layers of padding, his tunic, and a bitof skin.

Ellison had tried to kill him.

Reuben hid in the stables the rest of the day. Ellison and the others never wentthere. Horse Master Hubert had a tendency to put any castle boy to work, failingto notice the difference between the son of an earl, a baron, or a sergeant atarms. One day they might be lords, but right now they were pages and squires,and as far as Hubert was concerned, they were all just backs and hands to liftshovels. As expected, Reuben was put to mucking out the stalls, which was betterthan confronting Ellison's blade. His back hurt, as did his face and head, butthe bleeding had stopped. Given that he could have died, he wasn't about tocomplain.

Ellison was just angry. Once he calmed down, the prefect would find another wayto demonstrate his displeasure. He and the squires would trap and beathim—with the woods most likely, but without the padding or helmet.

Reuben paused after dumping a shovelful of manure into the wagon and sniffed theair. Wood smoke. Kitchens burned wood all year, but it smelled different in thefall—sweeter. Planting the shovel's head, he stretched, looking up at thecastle. Decorations for the autumn gala were almost complete. Celebration flagsand streamers flew from poles, and colored lanterns hung from trees. Though thegala was held every year, this time would be a double celebration in honor ofthe new chancellor. That meant it had to be bigger and better, so they adornedthe castle inside and out with pumpkins, gourds, and tied stalks of corn. Whenthe question of too few chairs arose, bundles of straw were hauled in to lineevery room. For the last week, farmers had been dropping off wagons full. Theplace did look festive, and even if Reuben wasn't invited, he knew it would be awonderful party.

His sight drifted to the high tower, which had lately become his obsession. Theroyal family resided in the upper floors of the castle, where few were allowedwithout invitation. The tallest point of the castle held its title by only a fewfeet, but it soared in Reuben's imagination. He squinted, thinking he might seemovement, someone passing by the window. He didn't, but then nothing everhappened in the daylight.

With a sigh, he returned to the dimness of the stable. Reuben actually enjoyedshoveling for the horses. In the cooler weather there were few flies and most ofthe manure was dry, mixed with straw to the consistency of stale bread or cake,and it barely smelled. The simple, mindless work granted him a sense ofaccomplishment. He also enjoyed being with the horses. They didn't care who hewas, the color of his blood, or if his mother had married his father. Theyalways greeted him with a nicker and rubbed their noses against his chest whenhe came near. He couldn't think of anyone he'd rather spend the autumn afternoonwith, except one. Then, as if thoughts could grant wishes, he caught the flashof a burgundy gown.

Seeing the princess through the stable's door, Reuben found it hard to breathe.He froze up whenever he saw her, and when he could move, he was clumsy—hisfingers turned stupid, unable to perform the simplest of tasks. Luckily he'dnever been called on to speak in her presence. He could only imagine how histongue would make his fingers appear deft. He'd watched her for years, catchinga glimpse as she climbed into a carriage or greeted visitors. Reuben had likedher from first sight. There was something about the way she smiled, the laughterin her voice, and the often serious look on her face, as if she were older thanher years. He imagined she wasn't human but some fairy—a spirit of naturalgrace and beauty. Spotting her was rare and that made it special, a moment ofexcitement, like seeing a fawn on a still morning. When she appeared, hecouldn't take his eyes off her. Nearly thirteen, she was as tall as her mother.But there was something in the way she walked and how her hips shifted when shestood too long in one place that showed she was more lady than girl now. Stillthin, still small, but different. Reuben fantasized of being at the well one daywhen she appeared in the courtyard alone and thirsty. He pictured himselfdrawing water to fill her cup. She would smile and perhaps thank him. As shebrought the empty cup back, their fingers would meet briefly and for that onemoment he would feel the warmth of her skin, and for the first time in his lifeknow joy.

"Reuben!" Ian, the groom, struck him on the shoulder with a riding crop. Itstung enough to leave a mark. "Quit your daydreaming—get to work."

Reuben resumed shoveling the manure, saying nothing. He had learned his lessonfor the day and kept his head down while scooping the strata of dirt cakes. Shecould not see him in the stalls, but with each toss of manure he caught aglimpse of her through the door. The princess wore a burgundy dress, the new oneof Calian silk that she had received for her birthday along with the horse. ToReuben, Calis was just a mythical place, somewhere far away to the south filledwith jungles, goblins, and pirates. It had to be a magical land because thematerial of the dress shimmered as she walked, the color complementing her hair.Being the newest, it fit well. More than that, the other dresses were for agirl—this was a woman's gown.

"You'll be wanting Tamarisk, Your Highness?" Ian asked from somewhere in thestable's main entry.

"Of course. It's a beautiful day for a ride, isn't it? Tamarisk likes the coolerweather. He can run."

"Your mother has asked you not to run Tamarisk."

"Trotting is uncomfortable."

Ian gave her a dubious look. "Tamarisk is a Maranon palfrey, Your Highness. Hedoesn't trot—he ambles."

"I like the wind in my hair." There was a certain flair in her voice, awillfulness that made Reuben smile.

"Your mother would prefer—"

"Are you the royal groom or a nursemaid? Because I should tell Nora that herservices are no longer needed."

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but your mother would—"

She pushed past the groom and entered the barn. "You there—boy!" theprincess called.

Reuben paused in his scraping. She was looking right at him.

"Can you saddle a horse?"

He managed a nod.

"Saddle Tamarisk for me. Use the sidesaddle with the suede seat. You know theone?"

Reuben nodded again and jumped to the task. His hands shook as he lifted thesaddle from the rack.

Tamarisk was a beautiful chestnut, imported from the kingdom of Maranon. Thesehorses were famed for their breeding and exquisite training, which made forexceptionally smooth rides. Reuben imagined this was how the king explained thegift to his wife. Maranon mounts were also known for their speed, which waslikely how the king explained the gift to his daughter.

"Where will you be going?" Ian asked.