Philip's head popped into the common room door. "One of the squire's taking on the prince and winning!"

The soldiers that had been chatting, relaxing, or playing games jumped up from their tables and bolted out into the hallway. Berimund scowled. He'd been hoping to win back two coin with the next toss of the dice. He rose with the rest however, wondering which one of the squires had been foolish enough to challenge Prince Arthur.

The prince had changed in the last year, and not really for the better. He'd buckled down to his studies apparently and certainly to his weapons training. Everyone knew how formidable he was; Sir Walaric, current commander of the knights, wouldn't shut up about his skill and claimed the credit. Still, the study and training hadn't curbed the arrogance. The prince crowed when he won, constantly bragging and rubbing the nose of his victim in his defeat at every opportunity. His peers had gone from sycophants to noble rowdies, many as skilled as he, reveling in their own prowess.

Berimund slowed as he reached the training yard. The low lying fence at its edge was hardly visible through the soldiers lining it, stretching necks to gawk at the current display and commenting here and there. Berimund found a small spot and shoved past shoulders to join them. His eyes roved the yard until he spotted the combatants, and then he gaped.

Berimund wasn't a knight, but respected enough to earn friends among them and informed enough to register shock at the prince's challenger. This lad had been attached to the royal knights at the age of twelve. He'd spent his previous years in his own part of the kingdom to the east where his noble father maintained control for Uther Pendragon. His house was appreciated, honorable, with decades of service under its belt. They knew their place, and this lad had seemed ever demure, so why the challenge now?

The prince's footwork was without fault as he slashed, parried, sidestepped, and twirled. Every time Berimund watched him he begrudgingly enjoyed it. Prince Arthur might not be turning into the man Berimund wished to see as king, but without doubt had achieved warrior status even as a youth. For this reason, Berimund's surprise was the greater to behold a challenger just as agile and poised as his prince, light on his feet, elegant with his sword, and pressing his advantage.

The soldiers along the fence almost gasped as one when the prince stumbled backwards, barely catching himself. Berimund tilted his head to the soldier next to him. "Doesn't he have an unfair advantage?"

The soldier grinned. "The squire or the prince?"

Berimund raised a hand to acknowledge the touché. Still, he had meant the squire. The lad was at least five years the prince's senior, a good head taller, though not as broad shouldered, yet even that worked to his favor, augmenting his flexibility in the chain mail.

Berimund amended his concern when the prince came back stronger and the squire went on the defensive. He couldn't quash a bit of pride to see the royal heir so handy against one with more leverage. Until the prince faltered and crashed to the ground, his sword knocked from his grip and the squire's own pricking his armored chest.

A smattering of clapping sounded among the soldiers, but several refrained, uncertain if cheering were acceptable when their prince had lost. The squire withdrew his sword, muttered a few words, and reached down a hand to aid the prince's ascent. Prince Arthur pushed his offer away, rising on his own accord. His face gleamed beet red, and Berimund knew it wasn't just from the exertion of the match. He said something back, glaring at the squire, and stomped away from the training yard.

The soldiers dispersed, the excitement over, but discussing amongst themselves the finer points of what they'd witnessed. Berimund observed the squire stumbling exhausted to a bench, and another knight approaching him, the one assigned to his training, Sir Remont. Berimund trailed the rest of the soldiers back to the common room. Maybe he could win his coin back now.

Less than half an hour later, he left the common room content. He'd won his coin and an extra five. Maybe he could pick up something special for Mariella. He had the rest of the day off. He could wash up and wander the market.

He paused as he approached the communal bath, hearing shouting and several thudding impacts. Sir Remont appeared, huffing, mouth screwed up, eyebrows drawn, brandishing a practice sword. He passed Berimund as if he were nonexistent. Berimund crept to the open doorway to find a curly head laid back along a tub's rim. It vanished momentarily, its owner sinking into the water, then appeared again along with a groan.

Berimund stepped inside, beginning to remove his arming coat, but his presence alerted the lad who turned abruptly so Berimund beheld him in profile. "Well done out there," he commented. The squire nodded, then bent his head and raised a hand cupped with water to the unseen side of his face.

Berimund came closer and the squire sank down farther into the water. "Never seen anyone challenge the prince and claim victory."

The lad spoke then, his voice soft and smooth, displaying good breeding. "I didn't challenge him."

Berimund cocked his head. "Oh?"

"He challenged me." The tone turned bitter, and as Berimund's eyes slid to an empty tub in preparation for his own cleansing, they passed over the lad's left shoulder blade, revealing a bright red wheal. Berimund frowned. The lad hadn't been hit in the back during the match as far as he knew.

"How did that happen?" Berimund inquired, pointing. The lad raised his head enough to comprehend what Berimund indicated, but was letting his longer hair drape his features.

"Eh...Tripped."

Berimund squinted and his mind whirled. Impacts, Sir Remont, and this squire hedging. He wasn't stupid. He broke all protocol, not caring that the lad was noble, and thrust out his hand to grip his chin and turn his face towards him. Skin around the left eye revealed reddening that would soon bruise. The lad pulled away, but that exposed more of his back and several other welts. They were the width of a sword and all fell into place as Berimund recalled Sir Remont gripping his weapon as he trudged down the hall. The lad had been hit with the flat of a blade. Punished for daring to win.

Berimund stared sympathetically. "Sir Remont is a hard man." The lad looked away, but he needn't confirm it. Remont had a reputation for fawning over the king and his heir. Berimund guessed he'd been enraged that this victory had displeased the younger royal and might the older. "You should see the physician."

"No," the lad refused firmly.

"He can lessen the pain."

"I'll get in trouble."

Berimund stared for a couple more seconds, folding his arms across his chest. "Then come with me."

The lad's brows rose curiously. "Where?"

"Home."

Berimund thought it fortunate the children were out when he showed up on his doorstep with the squire. He explained the issue to Miriella in the briefest terms, and she tended the lad, dabbing ointment on his browning bruise and the swollen marks on his back, then using the last of their medicinal herbs to brew a pain relieving tea. By the time the children returned, crowding into the house and exuberant over the presence of a real knight, even though the squire tried to explain he wasn't one yet, the lad was smiling again.

Berimund convinced him to stay for dinner, and he spent the time peppered with questions about knighthood and training. When the children had been tucked into bed, Berimund invited the squire out to the back garden. The summer night radiated heat, but a northern breeze made it pleasant. They sat silently for a time until the squire spoke up.

"Thank you for your hospitality."

Berimund nodded. "Our pleasure."

"I have to be honest," his eyes bore a hint of guilt, "I've been warned away from common born soldiers."

"Sir Remont?" Berimund inquired with a chuckle.

"Not just him. My father. Or, step-father."

"You lost your father."

The squire nodded. "Fighting for the king. I vowed to become a knight myself at his bier."

"Is your step-father like Sir Remont?"

"No. He's never laid a hand on me." The squire looked over at him, intelligent eyes reflecting surprise at his willingness to share.

"Anything you say, I won't repeat. You have my word."

The lad relaxed, leaning against the back wall of the house. "I miss home sometimes. My brother and sisters." His eyes flicked to the back door. "It's nice to be in company such as this again."

"Even common born." Berimund's eyes twinkled.

The squire laughed shortly. "Truth is, I didn't stay away from common born, not entirely."

"Oh?"

"My closest playmates were children of our maid." His cheeks flushed and Berimund tilted his head.

"One is a girl?"

The squire nodded.

"And you like her?"

"Can't. Won't. Besides, she's not attached to our household anymore. Her mother perished, and her father earned his place in a blacksmith's guild and left to find better work. But it wouldn't matter anyway."

"As she's not noble."

The lad bobbed his head.

"Well, you'll fare better here, then. Enough noble ladies to turn your head."

The squire smirked, then sighed. "If I don't get thrown in the dungeon first."

Berimund shifted on the bench they shared. "The king won't do that. He may be a strict man, but he'll consider your victory fairly won no matter what Sir Remont claims."

"I suppose."

"But..." Berimund prompted, sensing the equivocation.

"The prince. He'll make it difficult for me."

"Might. But I have a feeling Sir Leon is going to be a better man than he."

The squire, Leon, glanced around. "That's dangerous talk."

Berimund shrugged, then clapped a hand on Leon's knee. "Should get you back. You'll need strength. You'll be sore tomorrow."

After Berimund dropped Leon off at the squire's barracks, he made his way to Sir Walaric's chamber. Light seeping underneath the door indicated he didn't sleep. Berimund's knock was answered with a gruff, "Enter."

Sir Walaric glanced up from a parchment at his desk. "Berimund."

Berimund bowed his head, newly glad his respectable service had earned him some recognition.

"What is it?"

"What did you think of the match today?"

Walaric's mouth pursed in a thin line. "More work must be done." He didn't say if that meant the prince or the squire.

"May I speak frankly?"

Walaric pushed back into his chair, eyes alight with curiosity. "Why? And yes."

"It was evident today Leon is a valuable warrior."

Walaric harrumphed.

"It would be a pity to lose one like him."

Walaric grimaced. "What rumor sent you here?"

Berimund blinked. "None. I only know the lad, and I'd hate to see him lost to us."

Walaric's fingers drummed on the desk. "The prince rashly asked for his removal. The king won't, of course, but life will be harder for young Leon."

"There's a call for knights to deploy to the border of Mercia for a time," Berimund hinted.

Walaric raised his eyebrows. "Yes."

"Might be just the experience a young squire needs."

Walaric smiled slowly. "It would. Sometimes I've wondered that the king hasn't made you one of us."

Berimund smiled back. "He can't. But even if he could, I think I wouldn't."

Walaric nodded thoughtfully and waved him away. "Be assured I don't let princes decide who is worthy of the king's service."

Berimund bowed again, backing out the door.

Two weeks later found Leon at Berimund's door, gripping his hand. "Wanted to say farewell."

The children clustered around him, bereaved to let their "knight" go. The squire had joined them for every dinner he could in the last couple weeks. He patted heads and slapped shoulders and assured he'd write.

Berimund lingered to watch Leon march down the lane and wave one last time. The children scattered to play, but Watkin, now ten, didn't budge. He laid a hand on his son's shoulder. The boy had grown closest to Leon, fully enamored of his ambitions and tales.

"How's your time with Marsilion?" Berimund asked, referring to his apprenticeship with the master carpenter.

Watkin shrugged. "Okay."

Berimund squeezed his shoulder. "Common born can't be knights in Camelot."

"I know," Watkin muttered dejectedly.

"So do the best you can elsewhere."

"Yes, father."

Berimund's gaze followed his son as he slumped away in the direction his oldest sister had taken. His thoughts fled to Sir Remont and Prince Arthur. Being common born had its own decided advantages. His son would never be within their reach.