“Jump!” he said suddenly, and I did. I leaped the fence, and sensing it was some kind of a test, I jumped it again.
Then I went through the fence and gathered wood and returned to the fire. Kory talked to the old man of other days and times. Finally, he said:
“Why do you wish to fight? Is it that you wish to kill someone?”
“No. But I saw my father die, and he was a fine swordsman. I would be better, and when they come to kill me, I would fight the best of all. Even if they kill me, I would wish to leave my mark upon them. There was one man among my father’s killers who was best of all. I would be better.”
After pausing I said, “A man’s destiny is a man’s destiny. I would not look for him, but I think he looks for me. And when he finds me I would not wish him disappointed in the way I hold a blade.”
“Hah!” Kory ate, and then looked at me again. “Your father, then … he taught you something?”
“Much. But he was a man of peace. He taught me to fight as a gentleman fights, and so would I, against gentlemen, but there will be others.”
“Aye! There are always the others,” said the old man.
“Yes.” Kory looked at the old man. “I will teach him.” Again he turned to me. “It will not be easy. It will be work until your muscles cry out in pain, and work again until the pain is all gone from them. It cannot be done in a month, or even a year, but I will teach you all I know.”
“And that is more than any other man knows,” the old man said. “Good. You will find him a good lad.”
“Yes,” Kory said quietly, “I know him. He will walk a bloody trail in the years before him, but the blood that is spilled needs spilling. Today we eat, tonight we sleep, and tomorrow … we work!”
How swiftly passed the months! How soon came the end of the year! Up and down the lanes of England we traveled, and over the border and into Scotland. We camped beside Hadrian’s Wall and later by the shores of Loch Lomond. We went down into Yorkshire and we camped in lonely places. We sharpened knives, scissors, and all manner of blades, we did tinsmithing. We shod horses and we peddled cloth, thread, and needles. And ever and always, we fenced.
By dawn light and campfire, in clearings in the forest or on the lonely moors, in deserted bars and wherever we might find a place, we fenced. Always we sought seclusion, for gypsies or vagabonds who had skill with weapons were ill-liked. Also, Kory must keep himself from sight. It would be a hanging for him, if he were caught.
I was in the hands of a master. My father had been skilled, but Kory was a marvel, no less. At night we read by the campfire, or talked of what we had earlier read, or of our experiences during the day. Sometimes Kory would join in. Usually he simply listened, smiling infrequently.
The old man was called Thomas Bransbee. What his true name was, I do not know, yet as we traveled, I picked up a few things about him. He had gone to the best of schools, had held some official position at one time, and his family had suffered because of it. I guessed that he had been involved, or was suspected of being involved, with one of the numerous factions that had supported the claimants to the throne after the death of Henry VIII.
Sometimes we parted from Kory for the day, even for several days, but then he would appear again. As my skill sharpened, so did his, for the constant fencing was renewing his old talents.
“It is a wrong name we go by,” he said one day. “They call us gypsies because they believed we came from Egypt. It is not so. We were a wandering tribe from India who left there long, long ago. Our words resemble those of the Hindu: some of our songs are the same, and customs.”
He was a wise man and had traveled much. During the periods when we stopped for rest or when I sometimes rode with him on his cart, or walked beside him to save the horses, he talked of his wanderings all over Europe and Asia. He had known many men of importance, serving them in various capacities, or simply traveling with them. His own tribe of gypsies had been largely destroyed by war and plague, yet he was known to other bands, and welcome everywhere.
We collected herbs at the roadside. There were many, often thought of as weeds by the unknowing. It was possible to bundle these into small bales or collect the seeds and sell them at various shops in the villages or to doctors who made their own medicines from them.
I was gaining education in much else, too, for Kory told me of the tricks and artifices used by thieves and pickpockets, swindlers and cardsharps. It was an education in the ways of the streets. Little did I know then how much I was soon to need it.
Wanderers along the highroads were always in danger from local thugs who felt secure in attacking or robbing those of us who were considered vagabonds ourselves, having no protection from the law … when there was any.
Wayfarers usually banded together, that they might protect one another. At the time when trouble came to us, there were three carts traveling together—Bransbee, Kory, and two gypsy brothers who were pugilists, often boxing at the county fairs.
They were good boxers both, and better than average at wrestling as well. Frequently they arranged a match or two with strong boys from the country towns, sometimes whining, sometimes losing, whichever might be the most profitable at the time—or sometimes whichever might be the wiser.
The old man was alone at the time, for I’d been walking with Kory and his cart. But we were only a short distance behind, and the place for our meeting was in a hollow just ahead of us.
Bransbee had turned the corner and we heard a clatter of hooves and then a shouting and we heard Bransbee cry out in protest.
While walking, I carried always a stout stick. Grasping it now, I ran on ahead. As I turned the bend of the lane I saw that a half-dozen young men and boys, all upon horses, had surrounded the cart and were throwing its contents into the road.
Two of the boys had pinioned the old man’s arms and were laughing at him. Of the others some remained in the saddle, and the rest had dropped down and were looting the cart.
My first glance told me these were no ordinary ruffians, for all were well clad and well mounted. I rushed upon them. One of them heard me coming and turned sharply, raising a stick he carried. Stick fighting was something I had known from childhood in Ireland, and I thrust hard with the end of mine, bending to avoid a counterblow. The end of my stick took him in the wind and he doubled with a grunt. I knocked his stick from his hand and fetched him a clout across the shins that set him yelling.
Two of the others turned on me, but by that time Kory was coming at a run. And suddenly the two pugilists burst from the wood where their cart had been drawn up, out of sight.
At once we were in a fierce set-to with fists, sticks, and clubs, and I found myself facing a brawny youth, a wide-faced young man with thick, black, curly hair and two hamlike fists. He had turned suddenly on me and caught me off guard, and his first blow sent my stick flying. He would have dealt me another blow then but I dove under his club and tackled him about the knees. It was like hitting a wall, for his thighs were powerfully muscled, his calves as well, and his feet were solidly placed. He grasped me in his two huge hands, pulled me away, and swung a blow at my face.
Jerking back, I tried to break free and did succeed in avoiding the blow, but never had I felt a grasp so filled with sheer power. I was off my feet but I kicked out, catching him on the kneecap. He winced, his grip relaxed, and I broke free.
He lunged at me but suddenly Kory was there, the handle of an axe in his hands. “Do it,” he said, “and I will smash your skull.”
Powerful as he was, the young man was no fool. He stepped back and looked at Kory. “Oh yes,” he said, “I shall stop for now, but we’ll have the lot of you up to prison for this.”