SO, YOU WANT TO BE A KNIGHT?

"The boy's too old," Sir Randolph said to Archer as he looked at Rodger's strapping six feet of young manhood with the air of a man not easily impressed. "Too old to start the training. You should've brought him here years ago."

"He's had very thorough instruction in swordsmanship already, from his own father," Archer informed him.

"Has he now? I'll be the judge of that," the old knight replied. He walked around Rodger several times, surveying him with a critical eye.

I feel exactly like a horse in the marketplace, being looked over by a potential owner, thought Rodger. His face flushed with embarrassment under the head-to-toe scrutiny. Too old to train? Give me half a chance and I'll show you—

"You've got good shoulders on you," Sir Randolph acknowledged. "And stout arms."

He grabbed Rodger's hands and turned the palms up. "But your hands are soft."

Soft? After all those lessons with Father? How can he possibly think my hands are soft? I—

"Don't like hearing that, do you, lad?" The man smiled with grim amusement as he read Rodger's hurt pride in his face. "Good. You've got some spirit in you. And you'll need it."

He turned to Archer. "For now, until he can prove himself, he's a page."

"A page? But he's fifteen—"

"That's my final word," the knight said. "As it is, I'm doing you both a favour. Unless you care to challenge my decision before the king."

"Ah, no, sir. A page he is," Archer conceded to Sir Randolph's authority.

"Good. Bring him back tomorrow and we'll start."

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"A page?" Rodger protested to his uncle that night after they retired to Archer's quarters. "That's a title for the little boys! I'm going on sixteen!"

Archer smiled at him. "Patience, my dear nephew. You know that, and I know it, but they don't. Go out there tomorrow and show them. You'll be promoted to squire quickly enough."

The next day, Rodger returned to the castle's practice yard, where he was paired up with the oldest and the sturdiest of the pages in a mock swordfight. He quickly defeated him.

"Hmph!" was all that Sir Randolph had to say, but Archer wouldn't let it rest there.

"I think it's safe to say that he's proven himself, sir. You and I both know he doesn't belong with the pages. He's head and shoulders above them. Promote him to squire."

"You're full of advice, aren't you, Sir Archer? But when I want your opinion, I'll ask for it."

He addressed Rodger. "So, Rodger of Gisborne, you want to be a squire, do you?"

He motioned to one of the older boys. "Stephen, show our aspiring squire what he can expect from us."

A hulking nineteen year old, with flaming red hair and a scar that ran across the bridge of his nose and down his cheek, looked Rodger over with a sneer as he chose his sword from the table.

"You think you're ready to fight with the big boys, Gisborne?" the man taunted. He whirled the sword around his head in an elaborate flourish clearly meant to intimidate.

"I'm ready," answered Rodger, with more bravado than he felt as he glimpsed Stephen's brawny forearms. But all eyes were on him. He would not, could not fail in front of these young men, or his uncle. The honour of the Gisborne name was at stake.

He lunged as his father had taught him, but Stephen, more agile than he appeared, deflected the blow easily, and brought his weapon down in a hard bash against Rodger's arm. The training swords were made of wood and their edges were blunt, but they were heavy and they still hurt.

"Move, Gisborne! Don't stand there all stiff! Move!" he heard Sir Randolph say as he rubbed his bruised arm. "Never mind your arm. Do you think your enemy will give you a moment to nurse your wound in a real battle? You hesitate like that, boy, and you'll be dead a dozen times over."

Rodger gritted his teeth, took fresh hold of the practice sword, and stepped forward to slash at his opponent. He and Stephen exchanged several blows, and Rodger's shaken confidence came back as he put his father's training into use. The other boys cheered as he fended off one blow after another. But as he took the offensive once again, the older boy, with one swift motion, knocked his sword from his hands, and jabbed Rodger with his own sword.

"Gotcha!" he grinned.

Stephen meant the gesture as a playful one, but the dull point of the sword hit Rodger squarely in his newly healed ribs. He grimaced in pain, and shoved Stephen away from him.

"Temper, temper!" Stephen scolded, still grinning.

"Shut up!" Rodger snarled as he rubbed his sore chest.

"Enough, both of you," Sir Randolph reprimanded them. "Remember, we are gentlemen here, and we comport ourselves as gentlemen at all times. Take a rest and cool off."

Gentlemen? scoffed Rodger. What does a lout like Stephen know about being a gentleman? He probably wipes his nose on his sleeve and spits bones on the floor at the supper table.

He retreated, panting heavily, to the bench and sat down. His arm throbbed with pain, and nausea assailed his stomach. But he had little time to rest and recover, for in a few minutes he was called back up to have another go with one of the other squires.

"What's next?" Rodger asked his opponent as they finished their bout at the cost of a few more bruises.

"Archery practice," the boy answered.

Rodger looked across the yard to the row of targets. Okay, I can hold my own there, he thought. Surely I can do as well as any of them.

But then, some distance away, he spotted a strange apparatus—a dummy figure holding a shield, suspended from a swinging pole, the rotating arms of which were hung with sandbags.

"What is that?" he asked the boy.

"A quintain," the other squire told him. "Never seen one? It's how we train with the lance. You ride your horse at it, and try to hit the shield. If you hit it, the arms swing 'round and you have to be careful that you don't get knocked off your horse." He grinned at Rodger. "Ever used a lance before?"

"No."

The boy laughed. "Then you're in for some fun. Watch out for those sandbags! They hurt like hell when they hit you."

After the years of intensive sessions with his father, Rodger had felt prepared for whatever these men in London had to throw at him. By the end of that first day of training, he saw that he'd been dead wrong.

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After a supper consumed in the dining hall, Rodger wrapped his hands in strips of cloth smeared with ointment to soothe the bloody blisters that covered them, before he crawled into his cot in the chilly communal sleeping quarters. Archer's apartments in the castle, where he had stayed for the first two weeks of his visit, were not luxurious, but this was spartan in the extreme—a hard cot and a thin blanket.

'It's part of your training,' Archer had said. 'You'll learn endurance—very important for a knight.'

But all of Rodger's thoughts were on his bedroom at Gisborne Hall—a soft bed, plenty of pillows, warm quilts and blankets, a fire in the hearth….

I used to believe Father was hard on me. I thought I was tough. I thought I was ready for this, that it would be easy, but now I see he was far too easy on me.

He turned on his side and tried to sleep, but the cot was too narrow, every muscle and bone in his body ached fiercely, and there was no kind Mother there to comfort him. No one felt sorry for him. Even Archer was unsympathetic. 'You'll be fine', was all Archer had said when he'd shown his torn hands and bruised limbs to his uncle.

I should go home. I don't belong here.

But he knew he couldn't go home. That would be admitting defeat. He had to stay for now, and take advantage of the opportunities laid before him. His father would wish it, as part of his education, and would not be pleased to see him give up and come home too quickly.

He had come to London with his uncle for another, more personal reason—to learn to defend himself. There would be no repeat of that terrible night on the streets of Nottingham, not if he could help it.

Next time Peter and I meet—

He quickly crushed out that thought as unworthy. He could defend himself if need be, but it was beneath him to seek revenge. If he did, he'd only lower himself to Peter's level.

'Rise above it, Rodger,' had been Little John's parting advice as he'd hugged him goodbye. 'Don't take revenge. Show Peter and every other boy like him that you're the bigger man.'

Little John was right. He wanted to be like his father, but only in the ways that were admirable. He would imitate his father's loyalty, his honesty, and his courage. He would be brave and do what was right and honourable, as Father had done so many years ago when he'd abandoned his bad course.

Only at this moment, as he thought of his family and his home, it was hard to be brave.

'When are you coming home?' Mother had written in her last note. 'Richard and Ghislaine keep asking me when you'll be home. What should I tell them? They miss you, Rodger. We all miss you, darling.'

A miserable tide of loneliness engulfed him. He turned over on his cot, tears stinging his eyes, to see one of the other boys watching him from the next cot. The boy propped himself up on his elbow while Rodger hastily wiped the tears away. He steeled himself for the inevitable mockery, but to his surprise the boy quietly asked, "Do you miss your family?"

Rodger stared at him for a moment before replying, "Yes."

The boy nodded in understanding. "It's okay, you know. My father sent me here when I was eight. I hated it. I wanted to go back home every day. I still do sometimes. But some days it's not bad. It can even be fun."

"I'm not so sure after today," said Rodger.

"Don't let Stephen bother you," the other boy said. "He likes to tease, especially the newcomers. Don't let on that he annoys you and you'll get on fine."

"I didn't make much of a first impression," said Rodger ruefully, but the boy shook his head.

"You're the first new lad in a very long time that Stephen hasn't knocked to the ground in two strokes, and sent back to the bench whimpering. Even old Randolph sat up and took notice, believe me. You fight well. You won respect today, Rodger of Gisborne."

Rodger smiled gratefully, his heart warmed by the unexpected outreach of friendship. Suddenly he didn't feel quite so alone anymore.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"I'm Geoffrey, from Longdale."

"Nice to meet you, Geoffrey," said Rodger. "And, thanks."

"For what?"

"For not laughing at me for crying."

Geoffrey smiled. "I wouldn't dare," he said. "I saw how well you handle a sword. It might be my turn to cry next, if we're paired up on the practice grounds tomorrow."

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In the days and weeks that followed, Rodger slowly found his place among his fellow squires. The long days of training, in all weather, were arduous, and competition on the field was relentless. Injuries were common, so common that even broken bones were treated lightly. The blisters on Rodger's hands turned into hard calluses. At night he dropped into his cot too exhausted to care that it was narrow and cold. But he began to take pride in the discipline and self-denial that toughened his body and gave focus to his mind. And in the evenings, gathered with his fellow knights-in-training around the dining tables, he felt the camaraderie born of their shared purpose and goal.

He and Geoffrey became fast friends, and, as Archer assured him, "with one loyal friend by your side you can take on the world." He thought of his father and Robin, and their friendship that spanned decades, and hoped his new friend would prove to be such a companion for him. Geoffrey was a bright lad, well-read, full of a quiet humour, and not the least bit envious of the attention Rodger received for his skills with a sword.

"I'm here to make my father proud," he told Rodger. Like Rodger, he was destined to run his family's estate. Geoffrey's father had been badly wounded in a border war some years earlier, Rodger learned, and had never fully recovered. He ran his little manor in Longdale now, where he lived with his wife and three daughters. Geoffrey was his only son.

Stephen eventually stopped teasing Rodger, and said he was "al'right for a new boy". Stephen was a born leader, and Sir Randolph's star pupil, and they all more or less looked up to him. Rodger and Geoffrey felt privileged when Stephen joined their table at mealtimes and shared in their conversation and games of chess.

In the daylight hours, Rodger was so busy with his new life and routine that the longing for home faded into the background. But at night, alone with his thoughts, his heart would turn back to the little village of Locksley, his family and friends, and—Eleanor.

He remembered the dance in the town square of Nottingham. How beautiful Eleanor had been! They had danced together as if they were the only two people in the world. For the first time he had seen her as someone other than a childhood companion. If he were to go home to Locksley, they could not return to their innocent friendship. They could never be friends again in the same way. She was a girl growing into a woman, and he was becoming a man.

I wonder if Eleanor misses me. Not that it matters. She would never think of me….no, I'm only fooling myself. She probably hasn't given me a moment's thought since I left.

But, I miss her….

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Rodger had been at the castle with Archer for more than three months when he was summoned to appear before King John. He had supposed that it was only a matter of time before he would be called in, given his uncle's position as one of the king's personal guards, but he'd heard so many stories over the years of the monarch's animosity toward his father and Uncle Robin that the inevitable meeting filled him with dread.

"Why do you work for him?" he asked Archer that evening. "After everything he's done to our family!"

"You sound like your father and Robin," Archer replied. "But it's a fair question. I'll tell you the same thing I told them. I do it to keep the bastard off our backs, that's why."

"I don't understand."

"Why do you think King John leaves our family alone now? Do you think he's forgotten us? Hardly. He leaves us alone because Tuck and I work to keep it that way. Listen, Rodger. John would like nothing better than to see us all hanged. So, I humour him, okay? I remind him all the time, and so does Tuck, that your father and Robin run their estates and pay their taxes and don't cause him any problems. The king is hated by more than a few. The last thing he needs is more trouble, and he'd get it if he did anything to our family. It's the same reason Sir William has been Sheriff of Nottingham for so many years. He'd have replaced him long ago with someone as rotten as Vaisey if Tuck and I hadn't talked him out of it. That's why we stay here, to keep our family safe."

Rodger thought about Archer's words, and then asked Tuck the same question.

"I have no wife, no family," answered Tuck, "but I have a full heart. Your family has become my family, Rodger. I would gladly give my life for any of you. If I can help you by keeping King John at bay, I count it a privilege."

The next morning, Rodger dressed carefully in his best clothes, and tried to remember everything his parents had taught him about proper court etiquette. He and Archer followed the guard into the throne room, where King John was seated, surrounded by his numerous attendants.

"Leave me," John ordered. "I want to see these two alone."

The attendants filed out, and Archer and Rodger stepped forward and bowed.

"So, this is your nephew, Gisborne's boy."

"Yes, my lord. This is Rodger of Gisborne."

Rodger's mouth was dry, his hands sweaty. He lifted his eyes briefly, and saw King John for the first time. The man was richly dressed in velvet and furs. Rings covered his hands. His ruddy hair was sprinkled with grey. His face wore its habitual expression of haughty disdain. He looked Rodger over for some time. Rodger didn't know where to focus his eyes. Surely it would be impertinent to stare back at him? Finally, King John spoke.

"You look just like him," he said, a trifle peevishly. "There's no doubt of whose son you are."

"Many people tell me that, sire," Rodger answered without thinking. He saw Archer flash him a reproving glance. 'Don't speak unless you're asked a direct question', Archer had instructed him, and he'd forgotten the first rule already.

"Huh!" King John gave a short laugh. "You've got his arrogance, too, don't you, boy?"

"No, sire, I—" Rodger subsided into silence. Archer quickly covered a chuckle with a cough. The king stepped down from the throne and stood in front of Rodger. They were the same height, or would have been if Rodger could have met his eyes.

"Look at me, Rodger of Gisborne."

Rodger looked up, to meet the king's intense, and displeased, stare.

"It's like having your father right in front of me again!" John burst out. He turned away and paced the length of the room in agitation. After a moment he stopped, and flung his hands up dramatically.

"Am I never to be free of you Gisbornes?" he cried. "And Locksleys? You've been the bane of my existence! I should have had your father castrated when I had the chance!"

"Now, sire," said Archer soothingly. "You know that Nottingham is the most peaceful part of England. There's been no real trouble from that quarter for many years now. Neither Sir Guy nor Robin of Locksley have given you any grief."

"Robin Hood—ha! If I hadn't been forced to sign that pact with my brother, you know what I'd do to him?" John snorted derisively. "And Sir Guy! What ever possessed my foolish brother to restore his lands and title to him?"

He rounded on Rodger. "You'll be the next holder of Gisborne, I assume?"

"Yes, sire. I'm the eldest son."

"There are more of you?"

"I have a younger brother, and a sister, sire."

"And what are you doing in London, pray tell?"

"I—I'm visiting my uncle, sire."

"Obviously!" He rolled his eyes. "Why else are you here?"

"He's a squire, my lord, in training to be a knight," Archer answered when Rodger hesitated. "You remember, sire, I asked your permission, and it was granted."

"Oh, yes, so it was. You must have caught me in a good mood." He turned back to Rodger. "Well, Rodger of Gisborne, Sir Rodger, you'd best swear your allegiance to me when the time comes, if you know what's good for you. I'll have no more rebellion from any of your family!"

"Yes, sire."

The interview was at an end. King John yawned, and waved his hand at them in dismissal.

"Bored now," he said. "Be off with you both. And send Tuck in here."

Archer and Rodger retreated to the hallway outside.

"That went well," said Archer, with a grin and a wink.

"You think so?" asked Rodger in astonishment.

"He didn't say anything about wanting to see your head fastened up on London Bridge," replied Archer, "so he must have taken a shine to you. Yes, I'd say that went very well indeed. I'll be very much surprised if you're not invited to dine with him in the near future."