Chapter Text
Emil has been a squire in the service of House Davinos for not quite two weeks, the first time Sir Corinna pokes her head into the room where he is assisting Sir Fortesque with his armour, in preparation for morning training.
“Heads up, we got green-and-gold incoming.” she says, without preamble.
“Confirmed?” Sir Fortesque asks.
“Officially? No. Unofficially? He’s here on time, wearing his new cloak, and was polite to the General, so I’m lining up the plays ahead of time. New lad’s got those cute freckles, tagging him in for Urchin.”
None of this makes much sense to Emil, but Sir Fortesque nods as if it is all very much standard. “Noted. I’ll brief him on the protocol.”
“Listen up.” he says, once Sir Corinna has moved on. “This isn’t something you can ever let the General, Sir Julien, or any of the senior knights know about, but when the Lady Royce comes to observe training, you have one job, and one job only: make Sir Julien look good.”
“Yessir.” Emil says, mostly out of habit. “Sorry, but—how?” Sir Davinos often speaks, or at least gives orders, at training to the squires as a whole, but so far he has spoken to Emil directly precisely twice. The first time, when Emil was introduced, the briefest of formalities. The second time, about a week ago, when one of the older squires had caught him off guard during sparring and he’d taken a blow to the temple.
It had only been with a practice sword, and it didn’t hurt that much, and he wasn’t really very dizzy, so he’d insisted that he could continue. Emil has worked his whole life for this chance, and he does not intend to let it go to waste. After Sir Fortesque had examined him and declared him fit to continue, Sir Davinos had looked over, grinned at Emil and said, “Got some grit in you, boy. Good to see.”
Emil had been about to stammer out some sort of thanks in response to this praise, but then the General had sighed and said something about young men not needing encouragement to be reckless, and Sir Davinos had stared at the General and muttered something Emil doesn’t feel he should repeat even in his head, and then everything had gotten very quiet and awkward and weird for a while, which Sir Fortesque later assured him was not his fault.
Which is to say, generally, that while he greatly respects Sir Davinos and is naturally honoured to be able to serve House Davinos, the way many generations of his family have, Emil does not think he understands him very well, or indeed has any idea of how he might offer him aid.
“Oh, Corinna comes up with all the strategies, don’t you worry. She knows about these things.” Sir Fortesque says, comfortingly. “She reads literature. So for Urchin, all you have to do is—and I’ll let you know when’s a good time—ask Sir Julien if he will help you with training. Doesn’t matter what, exactly—ask him to demonstrate a move, ask him his opinion on something—”
Emil swallows. “I—I don’t know that I’m allowed to bother Sir Davinos during training.”
“Trust me, today you are. If the Lady Royce speaks to you after, your job is then to praise Sir Julien for being so generous with his time as to aid you. Got it?”
“Yessir.” Emil says. Sir Fortesque hasn’t steered him wrong yet, and surely enough, about an hour into training, after Sir Corinna has led the General over into a far corner of the grounds on some matter regarding horses, and the Lady Royce is settled by the side with one maid holding a parasol above her head, Fortesque gives him a nudge, and a nod, and Emil carefully steps over to where Sir Davinos is working through forms. “Excuse me, Sir Davinos?”
Sir Davinos turns to look at him curiously. “Fortesque’s lad. Emil, wasn’t it? You didn’t get your bell rung again, did you?”
“Nossir.” Emil says, quickly. “Apologies for being forward, Sir Davinos, but I was hoping you might show me the feint you were demonstrating earlier. I—I can’t quite get the timing on the counterstrike.”
Sir Davinos, for a wonder, smiles at him. “Sure thing, lad. Let’s see what your form’s like. Slowly, first. The speed comes after you’ve gotten it right.”
The next quarter-hour or so is exhausting but exhilarating. Sir Davinos is a genius, able to pinpoint and explain each necessary adjustment in stance and timing, running Emil through the moves again and again until he swears he feels the shape and rhythm of it in his bones.
“Is this your latest recruit, Sir Davinos? I don’t recognise him”
Emil looks up, and then immediately dips his head, because the Lady Royce has wandered into the training ground. “This is Emil Baymont, my lady.” Sir Davinos says. “He’s Fortesques’ new squire.”
“I am honoured to meet you, my lady Royce.” Emil says, eyes still firmly on the ground, frantically running through his etiquette lessons in his head.
“You may lift your head.” Lady Royce says kindly. “Are you enjoying your training?”
Emil carefully lifts his gaze. “Yes, very much, my lady, thank you. I am very grateful for Sir Davinos’ guidance.”
Lady Royce smiles. “It seems my future knight is in good hands, Sir Davinos. Train him well.”
“Yes, my lady.” Sir Davinos says. Once the Lady Royce has returned to the stands, he turns and grins at Emil, bright and happy. “Right, lad. Want to learn the fancier version of that feint?”
That night, Sir Fortesque claps Emil on the back, grinning as the gathered knights open another bottle of wine, a rousing cheer as the roast makes its way to the table. The Davinos family, and the more senior knights, are having a formal dinner with the Lady Royce, but the rest of the men have been left to their own devices for the evening. “Good work, lad. Look at this—proper Cormoray wine, courtesy of Sir Julien and his very good mood.”