Lady Hotspur

by Tessa Gratton

  The queen shrugged and looked away. Charm tried to strengthen his weakening legs. He put a hand on her shoulder, to support them both. He knew of such things, such sickness, the slow death that came from the inside, chewing and painful.

  “I think it is a wound I created,” Celedrix whispered. “And I deserve it, but you do not. My children …”

  “No—you don’t deserve this.” Charm sank slowly to a knee, and cold immediately soaked through the thick wool. He put his forehead to her waist and the queen’s hand fell to his head, brushing the thick coronal hair, and her nails scraped his neck and the collar of his coat.

  She said, “I wanted to leave you with strong pillars, a foundation for a long reign. Hal ready, not thrust into this so young. And you woven firmly into Aremoria, not a struggling foreign prince—hush, I know, my son, I know you are not struggling, I know you are ready, but I also never want you to have to be ready. Both of you. And Tigir, Vatta—ah, you must all take care of each other.”

  “Celeda, stop.” Charm pushed his face against her side, wrapping his huge arms around her hips. She was his pillar, she rooted him here, in knowledge and grace that this path was right. “Maybe it is something else. Your healer cannot know, not absolutely. You must hope, and live.”

  “Charm, I will live as long as I can, but we do not have the luxury of preparing for hope. Not when we are princes and queens.” Her voice lowered, became a command. “You must promise to help Hal, when she comes home, and do not tell her. She does not need to know how near she stands to this chasm, nor to this impossible responsibility. I need her to choose the crown, not be dragged into it, not obey me from desperation, but from her willpower, her heart. Do you understand?”

  “I do not,” he murmured against her hip, voice muffled by her cloak. “She should know, and use it, to help you and be what she must.”

  The queen took his chin and pulled him up. Charm stood as Celedrix hauled his face to hers, their noses nearly touching. She said, “But you will do as I command.”

  Swallowing, Charm whispered, “Yes, I must.”

  “I will live six months, or maybe two years, but not much longer, I suspect, and then Hal will be queen, and I want her to have every day she can to come to it, to be ready. To choose. I will fight to make that space for her, fight my enemies and hers, and die when it is time. My mother-line will survive.”

  The sound that escaped Charm was not mature, nor strong, but that of a young boy seeing his hero for the first time in the gloried Hall of God’s Daughters. She had promised him that day, too, that her mother-line would live, and grow, and if he wanted to be bold, he would join her.

  PRINCE HAL

  Dondubhan, early winter

  THE ZENITH DAY dawned beautifully. Bold sunlight attacked the remaining dregs of snow, brightening the very air itself to tearful white.

  They used the lower yard of Dondubhan for the tournament, it being larger and situated beside the barracks for ease of access to weaponry. The royal dais rested before the chapel, facing east, and rugs had been laid all around it for spectators. Dark blue banners rose high behind the chairs reserved for the queen and her party: one—the tallest—glared with a pure star at its center, and the rest were embroidered with the royal birth stars: one for Ryrie Lear and then each of her children.

  In the yard, the snow that had not yet melted (and would not until spring) had been trampled down into the mud, and spread with thick layers of hay. The field of combat was marked with chalk and poles at each corner, tied with four colors: blue for Innis Lear, black for Glennadoer, orange for Aremoria, and purple for Bolinbroke.

  The teams were well matched, Prince Hal thought, and though a percentage of her spirit knotted up with tension, most of her had given in to the urge to enjoy herself and treat this as a holiday entertainment. She had Ter Melia competing in horsemanship; two of her mother’s retainers, Bax and Belavias, competing in the strength challenge and ax respectively; Rianor, a Persy captain on borrow from Hotspur’s retainers would represent Aremoria in lance; and Catrin Glennadoer, as Hal’s retainer, would stand for her side in archery. The final two competitions would be magic, for which the wizard had reluctantly agreed to join, and sword, which Hal herself took up.

  She did not know if she could defeat Hotspur one to one, as they’d always been evenly matched, and Hotspur was the one of them who’d never stopped fighting. But Hal felt her team could win in every other category but strength, where Glennadoer himself would play.

  Hal had taken up a corner of the yard tucked against the armory tower for her team’s base, populating it with extra retainers to act as squires and a few Dondubhan servants willing to keep the Aremore side supplied with food and drink and bandages. One of those servants had wrapped the portable rail with orange and purple to mark the space theirs.

  As she waited to be called to the field, Hal scanned the crowd, marking the place across the yard where Rowan Lear and Glennadoer stood together, both in black and blue, wearing mail and leather armor: Rowan’s more traditional and spectacularly bright, his father’s studded with spikes and fitted at the shoulders with giant jawbones. Hal spied Hotspur pacing the rampart of the inner curtain wall with a scowl, hair glaring red in the sun.

  Hal grinned.

  The wizard appeared at her shoulder. “This should be interesting,” he murmured. He was not smiling, but a lightness in his eyes gave the impression of excitement. He wore a plain brown gambeson edged in leather and a brown wool shirt and trousers. At his belt was a short sword, and leather gauntlets hugged his wrists. Like hers, the wizard’s dark hair was braided thickly away from his face and bound in a tail still hanging with multiple charms of bone, horn, and yarn.

  “Will you win?” Hal asked.

  He looked across the field at Rowan Lear and nodded.

  Hal spread her arms to call her team to her. “Gather in, you who would die for Aremore glory.”

  It was majestically said, and her players smiled, even Catrin Glennadoer. Though the bold Aremore orange did not suit her pale coloring, the girl’s gambeson was pitch black and drew drama to her square features. She bowed, hand over her heart, and said, “My honor to serve a prince of such a glorious house as Bolinbroke.”

  “We welcome your sacrifice,” she replied, a teasing smile on her lips.

  Catrin said, “I will destroy my brother.”

  Hal laughed and turned to Belavias. “First is ax: that’s you, Belavias. And then horsemanship, then a break to change the field for archery, strength, and lance. Magic next, and finishing with sword for me. And after that, we celebrate our championship.” Hal grinned again. “Keep drinking water, even though it’s cold, and eat in tiny amounts until after your bout. Then, I don’t care if you stuff yourself enough to vomit.”

  Horns bellowed low, dangerous sounds that hit Hal in the gut instead of higher in her chest like Aremore hunting horns. She turned as the drumming began, fast and expectant.

  Queen Solas led a procession out from the queen’s tower to the corner of the field. With her came her sister, Ryrie, and niece, Vae, both in the regal dark blue of Innis Lear.

  Banna Mora wore red, her hand on the elbow of Rory Errigal for escort.

  Young girls and boys dashed past the queen to toss dried petals across the combat field. They spun in circles so their coats and capes flared, joined hands to stomp-dance along with the staccato drums. Then, at a low horn call, they fled, laughing.

  Solas lifted a hand and in a strong voice summoned the champions.

  Hal strode forward immediately, chin up. A brisk wind fluttered the wisps of hair already loose at her temples, and she smiled. She stopped before the queen and waited for Hotspur.

  It was only a moment before Hotspur appeared. The sun caught on her chain mail, dazzling Hal’s eyes. The prince’s smile stretched so wide, Hal was certain it would tear free of her face and grow and grow until it filled the sky.

  Hotspur did not smile. Her expression held the intensity of war, but that flu
sh of excitement high on her cheekbones gave her away.

  These two had not spoken alone again since the tournament was declared, as Hotspur continued to avoid her. This was the only chance Hal had. If she could defeat Hotspur, there would be a window to convince the knight to Hal’s side. But if Hal lost, Hotspur was lost, too, as Mora would use it as proof of her own sovereignty.

  “Welcome, champions,” Solas said. “The stars and roots of Innis Lear await your blessed combat, your battle of strength and strategy. We salute you and offer our favors.” She nodded to Banna Mora.

  Mora took a blue-and-white ribbon from a nearby girl and walked to Hotspur. “My champion, Lady Hotspur of Aremoria, who holds my own honor in her hand to fight on my behalf.” She tied the ribbon to Hotspur’s arm.

  Hotspur bowed and said, “I will do so with all the power of arms at my command, and strength in my heart.”

  Then the queen said, “And to the Aremore champion, a gift.”

  Vae Lear stepped forward, chin down shyly, but looking at Hal with her pale brown eyes. Her long hair was wound with blue and orange ribbons. In one hand she held a ribbon of orange, elaborately embroidered with stars.

  Hal bowed to her and held still as the young princess tied the favor onto her arm.

  “I would stand for your side, in friendship,” Vae murmured.

  “Aremoria welcomes your support,” Hal said softly back.

  And then Queen Solas cleared her throat and Hal leaned away. Solas said, “To further bless this day of combat, the winner will be gifted by our hand this gilded dagger.”

  Ryrie Lear accepted a thin black pillow from a girl beside her and lifted it, tilted just slightly to display a beautifully wrought dagger, the hilt wrapped in deep red leather and dotted at the crosspiece with small pink rubies.

  “Lovely,” Hal said, bowing, and Hotspur leaned forward for a better look, nodding her admiration for the prize. Hal raised her voice. “Though I compete for Aremoria’s honor, I dedicate the strength of my team and our winnings to our cousin and friend Banna Mora, in celebration of the half-year mark of her wedding to Prince Rowan Lear. A unity between Aremoria and Innis Lear always should be celebrated.”

  Mora pursed her lips, irritated, but nodded. Rowan said, “We welcome Aremoria’s blessing on our union, and the strength you have to give us.”

  From the sideline, the Earl Glennadoer yelled, “Do not think you can use such a dedication to urge softness from your enemies today, Hal Bolinbroke!”

  The prince whirled rather grandly. “To think so would insult all of us, Glennadoer: What sort of honor would there be in playing half-assed?”

  Glennadoer laughed, but angrily, and pointed. “We’ll see.”

  Before the competitions began, a tall star priest emerged to offer a blessing on the field, invoking the names of the stars that had graced the horizon at sunrise, and led the Learish congregants in a prayer of compassion and togetherness under the zenith sun.

  Then the first bout was called.

  Belavias faced an Errigal retainer armed with a battle-ax and round shield. Wagers rippled around the crowd, and the queen lifted her hand to signal the start. The duke of Taria strode onto the field wearing a thick white belt to act as judge.

  The sun shone down as the warriors met, glinting off plate armor. Hal did not let her attention waver, only smiled, standing with her arms crossed in the center of her team, but for Ter Melia who tended the horse she’d ride in the next competition.

  At every clash of steel, Hal cheered or yelled, calling excited support out to Belavias. The yard of Dondubhan filled with noise, the familiar cries of a tournament, and Hal was transported to her youth and the glorious days of Rovassos’s grand tourneys. The melees, the single-combat challenges, the heady celebrations and weddings, the favors given, the exhilarating laughter. She sought Hotspur across the yard: the lady knight scowled. One of her fists twisted in her badly cut hair.

  Taria yelled hold, citing a mortal blow—though it was only the appearance of such—in Errigal’s favor. Belavias cursed, but dropped his ax and tore off his helmet to growl congratulations at the retainer in wintry blue.

  Sighing, Hal beckoned one of the page boys dashing past and gave him quick, specific instructions, then she strode onto the field to comfort Belavias. He groaned but was a good sport, and Hal clapped the Errigal retainer on the shoulder, pushing him toward the royal pavilion.

  The queen stood to offer the Learish winner a cup of wine and a fine bracelet of hammered copper.

  Retainers moved onto the field to reapply rushes and stamp down a few deep gouges in the mud made by the fighters. Others put up poles with rings attached and fences of various heights, and still others marked out a snaking path for the horses to run.

  Hal backed up to her team and patted the already mounted Ter Melia’s thigh. The mare the knight rode was wide and strong, and stamped a gray leg very near Hal’s booted toe. Hal bumped her shoulder into the horse’s, laughing at the beast’s eagerness, and Ter Melia smiled, soothing her mount. All the while Hal kept her eye on Hotspur, and there, just as the duke of Taria began announcing the rules for the horsemanship competition, a page jogged up to Hotspur and offered her a thinly quilted hood, dark blue and designed for fitting under a helmet. Hotspur frowned as the page spoke fast, and then the knight gripped the hood in a fist, eyes snapping up to hunt for Hal.

  The prince laughed and waved, and Hotspur glared, but the flat press of her lips was dear and familiar, and Hal knew she was amused. Hotspur gave the hood back to the page, and then turned to Sennos. The aide used a ribbon from his own hair to tie back some of Hotspur’s wild curls.

  Ter Melia defeated Gelis of Hartfare, the queen’s master of horse, skewering all the loops easily despite the weight of her lance, commanding her horse perfectly, and did it all faster. Though Gelis was skilled, he did not carry himself with Ter Melia’s grace. On the dais Banna Mora herself smiled—though Ter Melia stood for Hal and Aremoria, she’d been one of Mora’s knights once.

  At the break, while retainers set up archery targets and dragged huge logs onto the field for the test of strength, Hal wandered to Vae Lear and accepted a small cup of watered wine. She picked, too, at the candied meat Vae offered: it would be the only food Hal ate until after the sword fight, else she risk overfilling her belly.

  “This is most entertaining,” Vae said in her soft way, pale brown eyes riveted to the retainers working in the field. “And it is tied for now. Do you think my brothers will win their bouts?”

  “Mared maybe, but not Rowan.” Hal slid the young princess a sly smile. “My wizard is one of the greatest.”

  “Surely the greatest have names.”

  “Or perhaps they are so skilled, they leave little trace of themselves in our stories.”

  Vae laughed lightly. “Well, my aunt likes him, and she knows the island.”

  Hal couldn’t help glancing at the queen, seated on her tall throne. Rings adorned Solas’s fingers, and she wore a copper-and-garnet circlet about her neck. She spoke with Banna Mora and Rowan, who leaned casually against his wife’s knee from a seat on the ground. Hal had seen no sign of Solas favoring the wizard, but then, Hal was not often around the queen, and Vae was.

  The wizard himself stood beside the hulking Glennadoer, slight as a child in comparison.

  For archery, Mared was defeated by Catrin, though it was determined by less than a breath’s distance, and Mared appeared thrilled for his half sister, flinging his arms around her proudly.

  Aremoria lost directly after in the strength competition. But none had expected the massive bear Earl Glennadoer to lose. He threw logs and hefted bundles of wood with roars, and though Bax of Aremoria strove to his utmost and did his country proud, he was no match. Unfortunately, Rianor de Perseria lost the lance throw against the duke of Taria’s brother, and so Aremoria was behind again.

  Banna Mora asked Hal if she’d like to surrender; there was no shame in it, when the odds were overwhelming. And Hal
would be treated extremely well as a hostage of Innis Lear, Mora could attest. Hal asked if Rowan Lear would be the one seeing to her comfort as well, to which most of the crowd laughed uproariously.

  All that remained was the wizarding contest, and Hal to face Hotspur. If her wizard won, and Hal won, they would still take the day.

  The sun rode high against the blue when Rowan Lear and the nameless wizard stepped onto the field.

  Despite the cold, both men were barefoot and coatless. Rowan had done away with his mail, wearing only trousers and a robe open over his chest that hung from his shoulders like limp wings. He’d painted a spiral around his heart in chalk mud, and written in the language of trees across his belly. All his white-gold hair draped loosely down his back. Besides a single iron ring he was unadorned.

  But for missing boots, the wizard remained as simply dressed as he’d been this morning: brown soldier’s gambeson and trousers, plain shirt. There were no hash-marks on his face or hands or feet, and all the yarn and charms had been unwoven from his thick dark hair. In places it kinked unevenly where the braids had bound it for so long, lending an even wilder aspect to him.

  Their spare dress was part of the rules established between Hal and Hotspur, with the help of Connley Errigal, who would be judging this contest instead of Taria. The two wizards were allowed to bring only their bodies and voices, no premade magics or familiars. Any tools they used must be gathered off the field itself, like dirt or rushes or the very wind. Their magic ought not exceed the limits of the circle Connley would draw on the yard, to protect onlookers, and just as in the regular combat bouts, no mortal injuries were allowed.

  Hal had asked, when the rules had been agreed upon, why Connley was called witch but Rowan wizard. She could not rightly explain herself why she’d assumed her wizard was a wizard, but not a witch, though both seemed appropriate. Rowan had wryly said, “I am called witch by plenty,” and then Connley, cheeks pink, answered that none called him wizard because he did not use the stars in his magic—his was the realm of potions and charms, of forestry and shadow-magic. The rootwaters were his greatest ally. While Rowan, Connley claimed, allied his power with prophecy and the will of the stars.