The Champion In Silence

It’s just this sort of mentality that has given rise, in the last decade, to the “princess culture” – a whole marketing campaign founded on the presumption that girls want to be adored, worshiped, spoiled, surrounded by an ocean of pink, and lost in a perpetual “spa day” until Mr. Right comes to sweep them off their feet. (Popular stories, from Twilight to Sex In The City are based on this premise.) Of course, every girl probably imagines herself as a princess at some point in her childhood (just as every boy imagines himself as a cowboy, superhero, or knight) – but in order to build a healthy, well-rounded self image, girls need to have characters to emulate who are heroic, strong, and valiant in their own right. Characters like … Silence, of course! But also characters like Mulan, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Alana the Lioness, or Igraine the Brave.

In the most recent episode of the Chivalry Today Podcast, an on-line talk show that explores the “history, literature, and philosophy of the code of chivalry,” there’s an interview with author Peggy Orenstein, author of Cinderella Ate My Daughter. Peggy has some interesting things to say about historical legends and fairy tales (hint: These traditional stories are a lot more egalitarian than we’re often led to believe!), and she talks about the importance of “girl warrior” tales like Mulan – and the story of Silence!

Have a listen to the show and see if you agree with what Peggy has to say about Mulan, Silence, and other “girl knights.”

Has there been a female hero character you’ve come across that has helped you shape your own image of who you are, and what sort of person you want to be? Are you a woman who aspires to be a knight? Are you a man who has found inspiration in the image of a female hero? (Because, you may be interested to know, publishers say that men have no interest in books or stories in which the girl is the strong character.) If so – post your thoughts below and tell other Silence fans how you’ve been inspired by women who break out of the “princess” image!

I recently gave a talk about chivalry, knights, and Arthurian legend to a middle school class – and during the talk, the requisite question came up: “Could a girl become a knight?”

Although I told the class about some of the historical instances of medieval women being granted knighthood, after the talk was done I mentioned to the teacher that there was a 13th century legend called Le Roman de Silence, about a girl knight in the age of King Arthur. The teacher’s face lit up and she said, “The girls in class would love to hear about that!” When I told her that I’d written a novel based on it, she practically begged me for a copy of it to read to the kids in class – and when I emphasized that I was having trouble finding a publisher for the story, she asked if I’d give her a copy of the manuscript and let her share it with the class in that format. (And, I’m happy to report, I did just that.)

But the teacher’s enthusiasm to read The Champion In Silence to her students made me wonder about the rejection letters (and I’ve got quite a stack of ‘em) from publishers and literary agents saying they don’t feel there’s any market for an epic fantasy story about a girl who becomes one of King Arthur’s knights. (Knightly adventures appeal to boys, not girls – or so they tell me.) Every time I mention this tale to a class of students, or at a library, or in the many places where I give my live presentations, I get the same reaction of delight and curiosity from most of the young ladies, and many of the young men, in the audience.

Can it really be true, as publishers are claiming, that girls aren’t interested in stories about knights, battles and quests? Are tales of Knights of the Round Table fodder only for male readers?

Certainly, from the reaction of this teacher – and from her students – I don’t think that’s true at all.

I’m definitely looking forward to getting some critiques from the students in this class as they discover the adventures of Silence. And, if there are any other teachers out there who’re reading this, and who would like to share the (as yet) unpublished story, The Champion In Silence, with their students, please contact me through this website. I would be happy to provide you a copy, and possibly arrange an author visit to your campus to talk to your students and introduce them to this wonderful legend.

And publishers … are you listening? There seems to be an awful lot of young readers (and adults too) out there who are eager to read this story. Are you sure there’s no interest in a novel about King Arthur’s knights that features a girl “knight in shining armor”? Or is The Champion In Silence a virtual gold mine that is just waiting to be discovered some publisher with vision to get beyond the cliched notion that “knight stories are only for boys.”

I’ve got a class full of girls that would beg to differ!

“In the skies over England there appeared a star of wonderful brightness and magnitude. It seemed to take the form of a white dragon, out of whose mouth came two jets of red fire. Seeing this, Uther summoned the wizard Merlin and commanded him to explain the omen. Merlin burst forth with laughter and exclaimed, ‘Most noble Uther, you shall become king of all England, for this dragon star symbolizes yourself supreme above all. And one of the flames coming from its mouth shows that you shall have a powerful son who shall be king upon your death. His name shall be Arthur. The other signifies a daughter, whose heirs shall one day inherit the kingdom of Britain.’ From this time, therefore, Uther was called Pendragon, which in the British language signifieth the head of the dragon.”

- Geoffrey of Monmouth, 1170 A.D.

What’s in a name?

That is a ridiculous question, and one that people usually ask when they’re trying to convince you that names don’t matter. A name is just an empty word, a puff of air, or so they’d link you to think.

But names do matter. Your name defines you. Your name has power. A name can reveal everything about you in an instant, or it can be a disguise all by itself. And until you’ve learned your own true name, you’ll never know who you really are.

A name is a magical thing. That’s why you’ve got to be very careful with your own — especially when you’ve got one as terrible as mine.

This is a story about names, power, and magic. It’s a story about love and betrayal, lies and discoveries, life and death, all on account of one name. And like any story about the meaning of a name, my story starts with a hunt.

I had gone out to the moors that morning, like I did practically every day, just to be by myself — hoping to flush some quail or scare up a rabbit, or at least find a tempting branch to shoot a few arrows at. But not a half-hour past sunrise, I’d caught sight of something ghostly pale bounding through the trees. Just a glimpse, to be sure. But the way it moved, like smoke on the wind, left me with no doubt: I’d spotted the White Hart, and that was something hunters all over the kingdom dreamed of. It was said to be the color of cream, with antlers as long as a man is tall, and a stride that stretched ten paces at a bound.

As soon as I found its tracks, I set out after it. No, I wasn’t planning to hurt it, but in that brief instant I’d caught sight of it, standing in the trees like the prince of the moors, it’s golden eyes looking straight into mine, I thought it was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. But it vanished so quickly that I started to wonder if my eyes were playing tricks on me, and what I’d seen was nothing but an illusion of the morning light.

I had to get another look at it — just to be sure.

According to legends, the last place the stag had been sighted was in the woods of Bodmin Moor, Count Cador’s private hunting grounds. It was an ancient beast. Some people even claimed it was enchanted. There were lots of theories about why and when it would appear — as a sign of danger or tragedy, maybe. No one knew for sure, and most people believed it was gone forever, like all the old magic from the days of Camelot.

The only thing certain about the White Hart was that if anyone could ever track it successfully, they’d be the most respected hunter in the land. Some of England’s most powerful barons and knights had come here to Cornwall just to stalk it — even King Arthur himself when he’d been alive, at least from what my father told me.

But the legends also said that when run to ground, the White Hart was known to turn and defend itself with its powerful hooves and spear-sharp antlers. The hunted became the hunter.

This wasn’t an animal to pursue carelessly.

I’d covered quite a few miles since my chase began, and in that time the cool morning fog had given way to a warm, cloudless July sky. I felt sweat trickling down my spine and soaking into my heavy hunting clothes, but that didn’t bother me. I’d spent all of my fifteen years wearing a wool coat and leather jerkin in every kind of weather. I wasn’t about to let a little heat distract me from seeing something most people only hear about in minstrels’ songs.

I crested a hill and found the tracks leading into a thick strand of trees. Slowing to a walk, I tried to peer through the tangled branches ahead of me as I quietly pushed into the woods. But between the sun on the bright green leaves and the deep shadows underneath, I couldn’t see a thing.

Then, as I came through the woods into a shaded clearing, I heard a noise. Not the sound of delicate, cautious hooves, but the crashing of something big moving quickly — and coming right at me. Out of pure reflex I plucked an arrow out of my quiver. Before I even realized what I was doing, it was nocked on the string of my bow and I was holding ready to shoot. I twitched at the sound of a stout limb cracking, but didn’t release. If that stag broke cover and charged me, that arrow would be my only defense. My shot would have to be quick, accurate and deadly; I wouldn’t have time for a second.

Could I kill the White Hart if it came down to the choice of him or me?

The fletching scratched my cheek.

I stood there without moving, straining against the tension of my drawn bow and trying to make out a shape, any shape, in the trees. Then a drop of sweat ran down my forehead right into the corner of my eye. For an instant I was nearly blinded, and with my sight blurred I could have sworn I saw not a stag, but (I know how crazy this sounds) an old man in a white robe. He was absurdly tall and had a long, pale beard, and he was staring straight at me from the shadows.

The craziest part was, the man seemed to have a pair of antlers growing out of his head. And in a voice like the first rumble of thunder from an incoming storm he called out: “Who are you?”

Struggling to keep my bow steady, I blinked to clear my vision. When I looked again, I realized there was no old man with antlers — it was just the mossy, sun-bleached stump of an oak with two jagged branches sticking out. The sound I’d heard wasn’t a voice, just a covey of birds flushing from the ferns.

Then I saw the leaves shaking. Something was moving beside that tree stump, but it didn’t look like an enchanted stag, or any other animal I’d ever seen.

I lowered my bow and looked for a place to hide. I knew every inch of Bodmin Moor, and in just a moment I could find —

I searched around frantically. Nothing was familiar. When did I cross off the moors and onto the lands to the south? I must have followed that stag farther than I realized.

With no other choice, I dashed behind the nearest tree trunk and dropped to one knee. Not much of a hiding spot, but it would have to do. I’d barely made it there when I saw a man push through the undergrowth — a man wearing a gray hood and brown leather jerkin, and carrying a hunting spear.

A poacher, no doubt heading for the moors!

Though Count Cador’s lands were strictly prohibited to anyone but the count himself or his invited guests, once in a while someone was bold enough to try hunting there while Count Cador was far off in his castle at Cadbury. But anyone caught taking game on Bodmin Moor could be caught and jailed by the count’s game warden. Poaching was a serious offense, and anyone who risked it was very foolish.

Or very dangerous.

Before I could react, I heard more noise in the woods. A moment later two other men came into sight, just a few paces behind the first. Both of them carried broad-bladed spears as well, and all three were headed straight in my direction.

I dropped into a crevice between the roots with my back against the tree trunk. If I stayed very still, my dark clothes and the deep shadows of the woods might keep me hidden — as long as no one looked too close. I didn’t have any other choice, though. They’d see me for sure if I tried to make a run for it.

I fought down a gasp when the first man stepped past my hiding spot, not more than three paces from where I was hunched and doing my best imitation of a pile of leaves. Though my heart was hammering, my eyes took note of every detail about him: His tunic was made of rough-woven fabric, his tall boots were buckled tightly at his knee, and each crease of his leather gloves was stained by seasons of sweat. What caught my attention most, however, was the well-used look of the handle of the hunting knife that hung from his belt.

The woods had grown so quiet that I could hear each breath he took: short and quick, almost like he was sniffing at the wind. He’d hardly stepped past the tree when he stopped and straightened himself to his full height, and I was afraid he’d turn and look right at me. Then, waving the other two to follow him, he fixed his gaze on the ground and moved on.

I started breathing again when the three of them disappeared into the trees without looking back, but just as I was about to leave that place as quick as I could, something caught my attention: a tiny fleck of silver on the forest floor. I leaned forward to see what it was, and spotted a tiny piece of metal lying almost exactly in the spot where the dark-hooded man had paused.

Was it something he’d dropped, or had it been there all along, waiting for him to disturb it with the toe of his boot?

Peering closer, I saw that it was something like a coin, a little silver disk that had a strange emblem set into its surface: The figure of an eagle with its wings outstretched, its talons extended, and two heads glaring to either side of its coiled neck.

Something about that image of the two-faced eagle paralyzed me, even though every part of me knew I should be sprinting through the woods while I had the chance. Staring at that eagle, I had the feeling its claws might reach out and grab me, unless …

“Quiet now,” a voice hissed.

I settled back into my hiding spot as the branches stirred and that man in the dark hood stepped back into view.

“There’s tracks,” the man said, bent almost to the ground. “Something’s disturbed the ground here.”

“An animal?” asked one of the others pushing through the branches. Were they looking for the White Stag too? If so, I had to do something. I couldn’t let a trio of poachers harm a beautiful beast like that.

“Hard to tell, in all these leaves,” the man in the hood said. “Have a care where you put your own feet.”

The other two stepped cautiously around the spot where the first man was examining the ground.

He slipped back his hood and I could make out his face in the dappled sunlight through the trees. His beard was jagged and black as coal, and his eyes seemed forever narrowed in a suspicious glare. He had the hungry look of a hunting dog kept on its leash too long.

Seeing his face, I felt my fingers tense on my bowstring. My arrow was still nocked there, and that black-bearded man was kneeling hardly ten paces away from my poor hiding spot. At that distance, I could hit even a small target with my eyes closed.

As the muscles in my hand and elbow flexed against the bow’s tension, I thought: I could loose this arrow before he could blink. I’d put it right through his throat.

Strange thought, to consider killing a man in cold blood. I’d never done anything like that before.

How different things would’ve been, if I had just let that arrow fly.

Then one of the other men spoke and chased the idea of murder right out of my mind. “Is this it, Yestin? Is this what we come looking for?”

“I don’t think so,” the kneeling man answered in a deep growl of a voice. “These tracks are moving the wrong direction.”

“How’n you be so sure?” the third man asked. “You see something we don’t?”

“I don’t know,” Yestin answered with a snort. “Either of you see that boy over there, watching every move we make?” Suddenly his arm shot out like a snake. All eyes followed his finger and a moment later all three of them were staring right at me. “You there! Who are you?”

I’d been seen. I had get away, fast. But as I leapt to my feet, that shining disk caught my eye once again. Just a quick twinkle of silver on the ground, but something about the image of that double-faced eagle made me grab it and slip it into the front of my coat as I dashed away.

Behind me, that rough voice barked, “Get back here, boy!”

He was mistaken if he thought I was a boy who was going to turn around and get myself killed at his command, but I wasn’t about to stop and explain that.

The man shouted, “Get him!” then I heard all three of them come crashing through the woods after me.

I was light and quick, but I wasn’t sure I could outrun a trio of full-grown men. I whirled and fired my arrow. But I dared not pause long enough to aim, and I heard the shaft go glancing away through the trees. At least it might put a little caution in their steps.

I turned and ran again as a spear went flying past me so close I could hear it piercing the air. With a thunk it bit into the trunk of the nearest tree. There wasn’t time to reach into my quiver for another arrow — they were too close.

Passing a thick hawthorn bush, I made a quick turn and crouched low. Maybe I could throw them off if I got out of sight. I held my breath as I heard two sets of footsteps going by. Then that rough voice growled, “Come back here! He’s gone this way!”

So much for losing them.

I ran once more. There was a shout behind me, then another to my left as well. In a moment I’d be cut off and surrounded. And a moment after that I’d be dead.

I ducked a low branch and vaulted a fallen log, trying to put as many obstacles between them and me as I could. But I had no idea where I was or even which direction I was going. I was just running in a blind panic. And I’d hunted enough animals to know blind panic was usually fatal.

Then I heard the trickle of water somewhere ahead — a stream, or maybe a pond! Running water and slippery rocks would definitely slow them down. I tried to head toward the sound, but with all the voices and commotion I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. I certainly had no time to stop and listen. Those men were on my heels.

Suddenly a buzz like an angry bee went shooting past my ear. Behind me, a man’s voice shouted out a furious curse. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder and saw one of them writhing in pain and holding a bloody welt on his cheek.

When I turned my gaze forward again, I found myself staring right into a pair of warm, brown eyes. I came skidding to a stop and nearly jabbed the tip of my bow into those eyes before I realized that this wasn’t one of those poachers. It was a boy my own age, dressed in a plain linen tunic with black hair that hung down to his neck. In his hand, he held the strap of the leather sling that had sent the stone whizzing past my ear.

“They’re right behind you,” he whispered. “We’ve got to get hidden. Come on, this way!”

I stammered in amazement, then set after him as fast as I could.

The tale continues in The Champion In Silence, the first book of The Chronicles Of Silence, available soon.

ALL MATERIAL ON THIS PAGE COPYRIGHT 2011, SCOTT FARRELL — No part of this chapter may be used or reprinted without written permission of the author.