Pocket turned and saw the young coburn amble confidently into the trees. He bore his quarterstaff in hand, a rucksack slung over one shoulder. Pocket felt his hair tingle at the memory of the squire’s skill in the melee. Four against one and he emerged the victor! Pocket found he was feeling more agreeable to the prospect of a third traveling companion after all.

Flyn approached with easy strides then stopped before Sir Corc, a bemused expression on his face. Sir Corc was broader across the shoulders, but Flyn was of a height with the knight and looked him boldly in the eye.

“The Grand Master explained this arrangement to you?” Sir Corc asked.

“He did,” Flyn said with a laugh.

“And you agree with it?”

The same laugh, “I don’t.”

“All squires must go on errantry before they are spurred, young Flyn. It is tradition.”

“Alone,” Flyn countered, his tone friendly. “It is tradition they go alone.”

“And in their sixth year,” Sir Corc said, his voice rising slightly. “You have squired only two years. You travel with me.” With that Sir Corc turned and started out of the copse.

“I won the sword,” Flyn said to the knight’s back.

Sir Corc stopped and it was a long moment before he turned. “You did. You won it. Because a good knight died at the hands of one not worthy to wear the mantle of this Order. But seeing as the death of Sir Tillory was not enough to strip one knight of his spurs, I see no reason why it should cause another to win his. Your valor and skill at arms has been noted and rewarded. You are going on your errantry and should you return, you will be knighted. Be content with that.”

“I would have beaten him,” Flyn said lightly.

Sir Corc’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“The Dread Cockerel,” Flyn shrugged. “I would have beaten him.”

Sir Corc shook his head slowly. “Valor and skill at arms. The Grand Master said nothing about brains.”

Flyn laughed at that with genuine amusement. “Well put! You have me! Indeed it is you who has been given the least courtesy by our Grand Master, saddling you with my thankless company. My apologies, sir.” Flyn extended his hand. Sir Corc regarded it for a second or two and then took it wordlessly.

“But,” Flyn added as they clasped arms. “Coalspur is mine.”

Pocket watched as Sir Corc’s expression curdled. He released the squire’s hand, stepped over to the mule and pulled the big sword free from the harness. He tossed it to Flyn with a jerk of his arm. “Then you can carry it.” With that the knight turned and began walking away.

Flyn stood cradling the weapon and looked at Pocket for the first time. “I guess we had best follow.” Then he winked.