Page 6 of Fortress of Snow

He finished his buttered bread as he walked across the castle bailey to the stables, where the half dozen young pages and squires were supposed to be waiting. It was a cool springmorning, cool enough for three layers of clothing, with a cold rain beginning to fall. A few of the knights in training were beginning to shiver.

Sir John was nowhere in sight.

“Get inside the stable,” Berenger ordered.

The young knights-in-training looked surprised and grateful as they headed into the relatively warm, dry building. Then they spent the next three hours practicing saddling and unsaddling their horses.

“This is a skill you will need no matter where you go,” Berenger said. “And in a battle or siege situation, you may not have a squire to do it for you. You will need to be able to saddle your horse as quickly as possible.”

The squires were very diligent to practice. They were a good lot who obeyed orders and worked hard. But Sir John was constantly complaining about them. For Berenger, it was harder to overlook Sir John’s constant criticisms of the squires than his terrible temper.

“Help me, please!”

A servant boy who looked about eight years old, his voice high and desperate, his eyes wide, was running across the bailey.

Berenger went toward him. “What is the matter?”

The boy said, “My mother hit her head and she’s bleeding. Please. Come with me.”

“Where is she?”

The boy turned around and ran toward a small servants’ barracks behind the castle.

Berenger never would have thought about going into thebarracks where the female servants lived. He was a knight, after all, and he adhered to the strict code of conduct that all knights were sworn to, but the boy looked so desperate.

Berenger went to the door and peeked inside the gloomy interior.

“Come, come,” the boy said, motioning with his hand.

“I’m coming in,” Berenger announced, unable to see if anyone was inside.

His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he followed the boy over to a low bed where a woman lay, her eyes closed. Blood matted her hair on one side.

“I tried to wake her,” the boy said. “She won’t wake up.”

Berenger knelt and placed a hand over her lips and nose to see if he could feel any breath. He waited, but there was none that he could tell. Meanwhile, the boy had lifted his mother’s hand and was holding it in both of his, his eyes fixed on Berenger.

“We need to find a healer.” Berenger stood and hurried from the sad sight.

The boy followed him.

“What happened to her?” Berenger asked the boy as he hurried along. “How did she get the wound to her head?”

“Margaret, one of the other servants, said she fell and hit her head on a rock. She helped her back here to rest, but when Margaret left, Mother fell asleep and now she won’t wake up.”

“What is your name?”

“Roger, sir.”

“Where is your father, Roger, and your brothers and sisters?”

“My father is dead, and I don’t have brothers or sisters.”

His heart sank. The poor boy. But Berenger’s sister, Delia, would make sure the boy was taken care of. She was good and kind to her servants. For that reason the boy was more fortunate than most would be in his situation.

He finally located the woman they called the healer. She hurried with him back to the woman’s side. But after she had listened with her ear against the woman’s chest, then against the woman’s lips and nose, she shook her head sadly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but your mother has gone to be with Jesus and the angels.”