Chapter 12: Neville – Pebble
Olivier of Tuen, King’s Counsellor, paid no attention to the fifteen new recruits who stood together in front of the king. Olivier was a long man, with sucked-in cheeks, a thin nose, corners of his mouth pulled down. He looks annoyed, thought Neville. In a visit to Neville’s father years ago, the counsellor said that he was present at every single one of these ceremonies of loyalty, fealty, whatever-ity; oaths made by morons (Olivier’s own words). While Neville, Robert, and the other thirteen young men knelt before Henrique, Olivier poked with his boot a pebble that was stuck in a crack on the ground.
The young men made their vows to Henrique of Baynard, who stood with his arms crossed on the top of the stairs behind Olivier. Henrique was a huge man, even his neck was muscular. He had a blond mane, a straight, rectangular nose, thick arms with popping veins. A sun in a man’s body, was how Maëlle once described the king to Neville as a child.
Neville’s father’s two best friends were in front of Neville now: one on the top of the stairs, the other at the bottom, poking a pebble. King Henrique visited the former captain once after he lost his legs. Neville’s house seemed too small for that mountain of a king.
When the king showed up at his house, Neville expected him to speak to the former captain, to yank him out of that questioning numbness, that dead air that smelled of mold and moth; but the king couldn’t plant his eyes on the legless man. The mountain shrunk on a chair beside the window through which leaked out that unending Why...?
The king stayed in the house for a while. He shrank a little more every minute that went by, until he finally met Maëlle’s dark, keen stare. Henrique jumped up and went out into the street as though he feared that the house would cave in and the silent Why...? would bury him alive. He never visited again.
‘What do you have in your hand?’ From the top of the stairs, the king pointed to Neville.
Olivier poked the pebble one last time before moving towards the mulatto without looking up. Neville handed over his father’s medallion: the silver eagle of the Baynardian captain. One of Olivier’s eyebrows perked up. He finally looked at Neville. Then his whole face changed, gaining intensity, sweeping away boredom, replacing it with an electricity whose meaning Neville couldn’t read.
‘Neville,’ said Olivier.
‘What is it?’ asked Henrique. ‘Show me.’
Olivier went up half the stairs and gave the medallion to the king.
‘I’ll keep it with me for now,’ Henrique said to Neville, ‘but I hope to return it to you soon.’
‘With your permission, sir,’ Neville stood up. ‘The medallion belongs to my father. He lost his legs, not his honor, while serving Baynard.’ He stretched out his hand to the king.
There were whispers among the other recruits. Henrique raised his golden eyebrows, then laughed loudly and came down the stairs until he was standing before Neville.
‘Keep it. One day, if all goes well, I will give you permission to wear it around your neck.’ The king then opened his arms to the other young men. ‘Soldiers of Baynard! You are now my brothers. Your oath makes mine the blood that runs in your veins.’
Once the ceremony was over, Olivier took Neville by the elbow.
‘You’ve come to take your father’s place,’ he said. ‘You’ve knelt in the place of a man who can no longer kneel.’
Neville said nothing. Olivier didn’t seem to have posed a question.
‘I’ve heard it itches,’ said Olivier. ‘That a lost leg still itches. Is it true?’
‘Visit my father,’ said Neville, ‘and ask him yourself.’
He took back his elbow and went to where Robert was standing. When Neville looked back, Olivier was watching him. The counsellor thoughtfully poked the same pebble. What did Olivier want? Did he care about Neville’s father? Was he afraid of what he would find and, like the king, couldn’t face his fallen friend? If only Olivier would visit Neville’s father, perhaps he would have the power to bring the captain back to life.
‘He’ll never make it,’ said Robert.
Neville needed a few moments to understand what his friend was talking about. Robert pointed to a sickly young man who was talking with the king. He was a few years older than Robert and Neville but very thin and small. He looked like a dried twig beside the mountainous king.
‘No, Leonard,’ said Henrique. ‘You are not built to be a soldier.’
‘I can become strong,’ begged Leonard. ‘I will train three times harder than the others. Five times. I know bushido.’
‘I told him not to come,’ said Robert beside Neville. Leonard and Robert grew up in the same orphanage. ‘He will never be a soldier.’ But the only future an orphan could have was the army. If Leonard couldn’t be a soldier, what was left?
Behind Neville, some of the recruits pointed and laughed. One of them, a young man with thin ears, said:
‘Look at the accident’s descendant!’
Henrique heard it. He walked toward the recruits, who stopped laughing.
‘What is so funny?’ asked the king. He faced the one with the thin ears. ‘Your name.’
‘Vincent, sire.’
‘What kind of man laughs at the weak?’
From the corner of his eye Neville saw Leonard shrinking. Henrique was defending him, but he also said Leonard was weak.
‘A soldier of Baynard defends those who cannot defend themselves,’ said Henrique. ‘He does not belittle the weak but places himself in front of them like a shield. Neville!’ he shouted.
Neville took a fright. Even the soldiers on top of the wall heard the call and turned to look.
‘Tell me about bushido,’ said the king.
Neville wanted to please his king, but he also wanted to make Leonard feel better. Neville thought that a man shouldn’t be made to feel weak only because his body wasn’t strong. He chose his words:
‘True honor is in giving the best you can, in constant evolution. A warrior’s spirit is never idle but always seeking improvement, whether or not he is carrying weapons. The true warrior fights, even if only with his mind, and never underestimates friend or foe.’
Henrique let the words float. His face didn’t let Neville know whether those were the words the king had expected to hear or not, but Leonard, the Accident, wasn’t crestfallen anymore. His head was leaning slightly left, thoughtful. On the top of the wall a bald soldier rested his hands on the rail and watched Neville.
‘A diplomat,’ said Olivier. Neville hadn’t even noticed that the counsellor was there, behind the king’s shoulder.
‘Dismissed,’ said the king and, with a last nod to Neville, went up the stairs, into the Emerald. Olivier didn’t follow.
The sun slid behind the walls, pulling a long shadow over the bailey. The green stone of the Emerald turned to grey in the shade. One last golden ray fell on a young figure at the gate. Dark, copper skinned, with full lips and doe eyes.
‘Thaila,’ said Robert and joined her at the gate. From there, he turned to Leonard, the Accident. ‘Come with us, brother.’ For all orphans were brothers in Debur. ‘Let’s eat something.’
Leonard shook his head. He wasn’t hungry.
Neville took a step to join his friends. He turned one last time to the bailey covered in shade. He noticed Olivier with a half-open mouth and dilated pupils fixed on Thaila. Olivier’s eyes salivated, but, no, thought Neville. Surely Olivier was too old for Thaila. Wasn’t he? Neville looked to see if Thaila had noticed anything, but her eyes were on him. She didn’t even look at Robert when he took her arm and said:
‘Come on, Thaila. Don’t you think Neville and I deserve some sweet bread?’
She still gazed at Neville and only turned away when Robert pulled her hand.
‘Thaila, are you even listening?’
Neville wasn’t sure why Thaila kept on looking at him, but there was something edgy about the quick glance Robert sent his way as he finally got to turn Thaila away. Then a cold wind swept the empty Emerald bailey, and a hoarse echo ran up Neville’s spine.
‘Thaila,’ murmured Olivier.
