By Jonathon David Hawkins
"Ye lazy little gits!" roared Master Rowan, wading into the flock of boys, hickory switch stinging. "Get yerselves to yer works afore I flay the lot of you!" The boys scattered like quail, but young Puck didn’t quite fly fast enough. A hard swat of Master Rowan’s heavy hand knocked Puck into the dust and the switch stung the boy’s knuckles as he covered his head.
The Stable Master roared still, words falling on his apprentice’s head in time with blows from the switch. "And ye be the worst of the lot! Lazing about all day, playing at swords and battles when ye have work to be about." The switch had ceased it stinging, and now heavy arms were folded across that broad chest, underlining that leathery face with its baleful glare. "Well? What have ye to say, little Puck?"
"I want to be a squire!" snapped Puck, clenching swollen hands. "A squire, not a stupid stable boy!"
"Ye’d be stupid either way, boy. The only difference is what stew pot that stupidity drops ye into. And as long as my apprentice ye be, I’ll have a decent day’s work from ye. Now get with the broom and the pitching fork."
Scuffing the gravel with a bare foot, Puck turned sullenly toward the stables. The boy grabbed his broom and lashed out at the floor, scattering dust and straw. Walking safely out of the Master’s earshot, Puck began muttering darkly, lamenting the pointlessness of the work. He always did underestimate the range of the Stable Master’s large ears: he soon found himself hoisted into the air by the scruff of his neck like a sulking kitten. "Ye think my job be worthless, boy? What makes ye think such a fool thing?" Master Rowan released his grip and Puck returned to earth, eyes flashing.
"What do we do, Master Rowan? Caleb and Alan ride out and fight bandits, Lord Falker is the protector of all the surrounding villages. And we feed horses!" Puck was spitting mad now, doing a fair impression of a wet cat. "And I don’t even do that! I muck out stalls and sweep floors!" The offending broom was flung to the floor.
Sighing heavily, Master Rowan used his toe to flip the discarded broom up into his open hand and pointed it at Puck’s small chest. "Lord Falker rules lands and I be ruler of his stable. Alan and Caleb are men-at-arms while ye tend to their horses. We have our place and they have theirs. But the task ye have needn’t be glorious to be important, and ye needn’t where armor to have honor. If ye want to be known as a good man, lad, do yer work well and honest."
"I don’t want to be good!" shouted Puck. "I want to be famous!"
"Then perhaps, Lord Puck, ye may one day be the most famous stall-mucker in all the lands, so I’ll help ye on yer way." Puck’s face sagged as he caught the broom tossed to him by his master. "Sweep the entire stable. Twice. And muck out every stall. And the saddle’s need cleaning, so soap them and polish them: top, bottom, and belts." Dark brown eyes fixed on young blue eyes, "And there’ll be no scampering of for Festival afore ye be well and truly done, eh?"
A questioning eyebrow was raised, to which Puck nodded reluctantly. "Yes, sir, Master Rowan." There was resignation in his voice, and he went to work dutifully. The boy worked well and hard, but after Master Rowan left for Festival, heavy jug in hand, the pace soon slackened. The floor was swept twice, and all the stalls were mucked out as well as could be asked. But the flock of boys had returned by then and Puck couldn’t resist the temptation, so he smeared some saddle soap on a rag and wiped it quickly across the seats of all the saddles as they hung from their hooks and then he was off to Festival, too.
Festival was soured by news of bandits on the outskirts of the domain, and the next day Lord Falker, Caleb, Alan, and the other men-at-arms donned armor and tunics and mounted their destriers, weapons in hand. Lord Falker grinned at the cluster of eager boys that gathered around the castle gates. He gave them a wink and saluted them with a tap to the crest of his helm with his heavy-headed mace. "We’ll be back afore morning, lads, and there’ll be more feasting. Ye can count on that." Falker’s grin spread wider at the cheer that rose up from Puck and the others as the party galloped out of the gate. But the only feasting that would be done to found at a funeral celebration.
The Lady Falker was wailing in anguish as the remains of the party returned to the castle, Lord Cameron Falker’s armored body lain across the bare back of his horse. "Ambush," explained Caleb wearily, words and heart heavy. "They led us into the wood and they mobbed us. In the fray one of the cowardly bastards cut the girth of Lord Falker’s saddle. He fell with it and broke his neck upon the stony ground." Wailing rose from all the women’s throats now as Alan dropped the fallen lord’s saddle to ground, tossing the severed strap atop it.
As Falker’s sons pulled their father gently down, Master Rowan took the rein’s of his lord’s horse, inspecting the stallion’s flank. "There be no cut on him, swordsmen?" His comment and question were lost amid the sorrow of the moment, but the look of perplexity did not leave the Stable Master’s face. He picked up the ruined saddle in his free hand and led the destrier to his stall.
That night Puck dragged himself to the stall that served as his quarters only to find Master Rowan stumbling out of it. The Stable Master’s shoulders were slumped and he looked tired beyond imagining and his leathern face was streaked with tears. Master Rowan’s jug made an empty sound as he dropped it onto the shelf. "C’mere, Puck. Let me see yer." Puck was unsettled seeing his master like this, and he flinched when that calloused hand clasped his shoulder. "Yer a good lad, Puck. I know that. I know ye be a good lad at heart." More tears spilled down Master Rowan’s cheeks as he shuffled off to his quarters at the back of the stable. "A good lad, ye’ll be a good man," he muttered softly to himself.
Confused, Puck lay down on his palette. Something hard lay on his straw-filled pillow — it was the severed length of the girth strap, it’s silver buckle glittering in the light of his candle. Turning it over and over in his hands, inspecting the designs worked into the dark leather, Puck ran light fingers over the cut edge of the strap. He did it again. He held the strap up closer to the light of the candle. Wrapping himself around the buckle, tears streaming, Puck wept himself to sleep.
Kant couldn’t believe that Stable Master Puck was gone, that he was Stable Master now. The title didn’t seem to fit him, not the way it had on Master Puck. Kant stood in the old Stable Master’s quarters at the back of Lord Matthew Falker’s stable. Master Puck hadn’t left much behind when he died, but Kant wasn’t bringing much new into the quarters himself; almost all his possessions were held in the bedroll beneath his arm. So he stood and looked about the old man’s room, remembering him with mixed feelings. Master Puck had been caring in his way, but he had also been the sternest of task master’s, demanding that every job be done to absolute perfection, no corners rounded or short cuts taken. Lord Falker used to laugh and say that Master Puck was worse than Old Rowan ever was, though Kant had only been an infant when Master Puck’s own Master had died of consumption.
A glimmer over the washstand caught Kant’s attention. To the right of the crucifix on the wall a silver buckle, leather strap trailing, was fixed to the wall by a thick iron staple. Kant walked over to it and inspected curiously. A slight grin spread across Kant’s lips. This bit of leather had no doubt cost some apprentice a fair dose of the hickory switch from Master Puck, who was always so meticulous about caring for his lord’s saddles. Heavy use had caused a thin groove to wear through the girth strap , a flaw that the densest of stable hands should have spotted, and the leather strap had snapped at that line of weakness.