The Camelot Spell - Laura Anne Gilman [4]
On a whim, Gerard took the left-hand hallway instead of the right, and eased open the door in the stone wall to find himself in the courtyard opposite from the stable.
He crossed the courtyard quickly, then let himself into the stable. The cool shade inside the wooden structure was a relief after the heat of the kitchen. He blinked and let his eyes adjust. It seemed quiet enough, despite so many knights having their horses stabled there. More than fifty had come to Camelot. Of them, twenty-seven knights total, plus their squires fortunate enough to travel with them, would soon set off on the Quest. No more and no less, Arthur had decreed: Nine times three, for a number that was pleasing to him. The knights would be dependent upon themselves, not what they could bring with them, and so all would begin the Quest as equals.
“Some more equal than others,” Gerard said to himself, reaching up to stroke the neck of his master’s beast, a roan gelding with a surprisingly sweet disposition, despite a wicked-looking eye. “A good horse will trump a wise man every day,” he murmured into the horse’s ear, quoting something his master often said—especially when Gerard’s actions or words failed to please him.
“Here now, away from him!”
Gerard turned, astonished. A stable boy stood not a foot from him, hands fisted at his hips, a scowl on his face. He wore dark trousers and a shirt made of a rough homespun and streaked with sweat and dirt. Shaggy black hair fell over his forehead and into his eyes, for all the world like a pony’s forelock.
“Away from the horse,” the boy repeated slowly, as though speaking to a dullard who could not be expected to understand his words. In the dim light, the boy was unable to see Gerard’s tunic, which was marked in the upper corner with his master’s colors, proclaiming him a member of that knight’s household.
On a normal day, Gerard would have remembered the manners expected of him, and the responsibility lectured into him from his first hour with Sir Rheynold. On a normal day, he would have informed the stable boy that he was squire to the man to whom this horse belonged, and thus within rights to touch such an expensive beast. On a normal day, he would even have thanked the boy for keeping such good watch, above and beyond his duties to shovel and polish.
But it wasn’t a normal day. And it certainly wasn’t a good day, considering that he had been up and running errands since dawn as though he were still a page. It rankled the competent squire, emphasizing the fact that he wasn’t considered man enough to go on the Quest. And Gerard suddenly very much wanted someone other than himself to share his unhappiness. A stable boy, someone so low in Camelot’s pecking order as to be almost invisible, was perfect.
“Begone, sirrah,” Gerard said, drawing himself up to his proud height. Although he hadn’t reached his full growth yet, he looked far more imposing than the scrawny boy before him. “I’ll do what I please, as I please, with my horseflesh.” And the horse was his, in a way. That was part of the oath Sir Rheynold made in return for his services. To teach and to care for Gerard, and to give to him as if he were the man’s own son.
“Sure,” the other boy said scornfully. “You’ve the look of the d’Abmonts, that’s certain.”
Gerard flushed. Sir Rheynold d’Abmont was a huge bear of a man, ruddy-faced and red-haired; nothing at all like his own more fair and slender form.
“I am his squire, Gerard of Abmont.” He might have claimed his family name—he was of the bloodline of Sir Kay, the foster brother of the king himself—but that was bragging, and he had done nothing to earn it save be born. His place in the Abmont household he had earned.
The stable boy snorted, sounding a great deal like a