Corporal Dent was quite out of breath by the time he finished this diatribe. I think only then did he realize that, ravenous as we were, we were all sitting still and silent at the table. Gord’s face was scarlet. Rory’s hands were clenched into fists at the edge of the table. Spink’s shoulders were tight as steel. Trist managed to speak first, all his elegance and usual laconic style erased from his voice. He looked around our table, meeting the eyes of as many of his fellows as he could and thus making it clear he spoke to us rather than replying to Dent. At first, he seemed to be genteelly changing the topic of conversation. “The son of a soldier son is a soldier before he is a son.” He took a sip of coffee and then added, “The second son of a noble is also a soldier son. But perhaps such soldier sons are nobles before they are soldiers. So I have heard it said. Perhaps that is the good god’s way of balancing the advantages a man is born with. To some are given the ability to remember always that their fathers are nobles, while others are soldiers to the marrow. For myself, I’d rather be the son of a soldier first, and the son of a noble second. As for those who are nobles first? Well, I’ve also heard it said that many of them die in battle before they learn to fight first as a soldier and primp like an aristocrat afterward.”
There was nothing humorous about his words; I had heard them before, from my own father, and judged them wisdom, not wit. Yet every one of us laughed and Rory was so carried away as to bang his spoon on the table edge in rough applause. All laughed, that is, save Dent. The corporal’s face first went white, then scarlet. “Soldiers!” he hissed at us. “That was all you were ever born to be, every one of you. Soldiers.”
“And what’s wrong with being a soldier?” Rory demanded bellicosely.
Before Dent could reply, Gord softened the discussion. “The scriptures teach us that the same is true of you, Corporal Dent,” Gord observed mildly. “Are not you a second son, and destined to serve as a soldier? The Writ says to us also, ‘Let every man take satisfaction in the place the good god has given him, doing that duty well and with contentment.’ ” Either the man had excellent control of his features or Gord sincerely meant his words.
The color rushed up to Corporal Dent’s face again. “You, a soldier!” Scorn filled his voice. “I know the truth about you, Gord, at least. You were born a third son, and meant to be a priest. Look at you! Who could imagine you were ever born to soldier? Fat as a pig, and more fit to be preaching than brandishing a saber in battle! No wonder you argue by quoting the Holy Writ at me! It was what you were meant to know, not fighting!”
Gord gaped at him, his round cheeks hanging flaccid for an instant, his round eyes opened wide. Dent’s words were deep insult, not just to Gord but also to his family. If the allegation were true, it would be shocking.
Gord knew it. He knew his status among us hung by a thread. He looked, not at Dent, but around the table at the rest of us. “It isn’t true!” he said hotly. “It’s a cruel thing even to speak of it to me. I was born a twin, and due to my mother’s size, both priest and doctor attended our birth. The doctor cut my mother’s belly to lift us from the womb. He took out my brother first, but he was blue and lifeless and small. I was hearty and strong, and the priest pronounced that by my size and heartiness, I was clearly the elder of the babes my mother bore that day. I am a second son, a soldier son. My poor little brother who died before he drew breath should have been the priest for our family. Both my father and my mother wonder daily why the good god did not bless them with a priest son, but they accepted his will. As do I. I bowed my head to the good god’s yoke and came here, and serve him as I am fated to do, I shall!”
He spoke with vehemence, and for the first time I wondered if, free to choose his own road, Gord would have chosen differently. Certainly his ungainly body did not look as if the good god had fated him to be a soldier. Could the priest who had attended him after his birth have been mistaken about the relative ages of the twins? I had seen enough of stock to know that when sheep dropped twins, it was not always the largest that came first. I do not think I was the only one who suddenly harbored a tiny doubt of Gord’s fitness to be my fellow.
Gord knew it. He offered what further proof he had. “My family does not circumvent the laws of the good god. I have a younger brother. My father has not named him as priest son to replace my twin who died. No, Garin will be our family artist. Much as my father would love to have a priest son, the good god did not bless our family with one, and my father has never ignored the will of the good god.”
