by Morgan Rice
“It is your sister’s wedding day,” she rebuked. “You can act as if we are a couple—for once.”
She locked one arm through his and they walked to a reserved area, roped off with velvet. Two royal guards let them through and they mingled with the rest of the royals, at the base of the aisle.
A trumpet was blown, and slowly, the crowd quieted. There came the gentle music of a harpsichord, and as it did, more flowers were strewn along the aisle, and the royal procession began to walk down, couples arm in arm. Gareth was tugged by Helena, and he began marching down the aisle with her.
Gareth felt more conspicuous, more awkward than ever, hardly knowing how to make his love seem genuine. He felt hundreds of eyes on him, and couldn’t help but feel as if they were all evaluating him, though he knew they were not. The aisle could not be short enough; he could not wait to reach the end and stand near his sister at the altar, and get this over with. He also could not stop thinking about his meeting with his father: he wondered if all these onlookers already knew the news.
“I received ill news today,” he whispered to Helena as they finally reached the end, and the eyes were off him.
“Do you think I don’t know that already?” she snapped.
He turned and looked at her, surprised.
She looked back with contempt. “I have my spies,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes, wanting to hurt her. How could she be so nonchalant?
“If I am not king, then you shall never be queen,” he said.
“I never expected to be queen,” she answered.
That surprised him even more.
“I never expected him to name you,” she added. “Why would he? You are not a leader. You are a lover. But not my lover.”
Gareth felt himself reddening.
“Nor are you mine,” he said to her.
It was her turn to redden. He was reminding her that she was not the only one that had a secret lover. He had heard rumors, had spies of his own that told him of her exploits. He had let her get away with it so far—as long as she kept it quiet, and left him alone.
“It’s not like you give me a choice,” she answered. “Do you expect me to remain celibate the rest of my life?”
“You knew who I was,” he answered. “Yet you chose to marry me. You chose power, not love. Don’t act surprised.”
“Our marriage was arranged,” she said. “I did not choose a thing.”
“But you did not protest,” he answered.
They were at a stalemate, and Gareth lacked the energy to argue with her today. She was a useful prop, a puppet wife. He could tolerate her, and she could be useful on occasion—as long as she did not annoy him too much.
Gareth watched with supreme cynicism as everyone turned to watch his eldest sister being walked down the aisle by his father, that creature. The gall of him—he even had the nerve to feign sadness, wiping a tear as he walked her. An actor to the last. But in Gareth’s eyes, he was just a bumbling fool. He couldn’t imagine his father felt any genuine sadness for marrying off his daughter, who, after all, he was throwing to the wolves of the McCloud kingdom. He felt an equal disdain for Luanda, who seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. She seemed to hardly care that she was being married off to a lesser people. She, too, was after power. Cold-blooded. Calculated. In this way, she, of all his siblings, was most like him. In some ways he could relate to her, though they never had much warmth for each other.
Gareth shifted on his feet, impatient, waiting for it all to end.
He suffered through the ceremony, as Argon presided over the blessings, reciting the spells, performing the rituals. It was all a charade, and it made him sick. It was just the union of two families for political reasons. Why couldn’t they just call it what it was?
Soon enough, thank heavens, it was over. The crowd rose up in a huge cheer as the two kissed. A great horn was blown, and the perfect order of the wedding dissolved into controlled chaos. They all made their way back down the aisle, and over to the reception area.
Even Gareth, as cynical as he was, was impressed by the site: his father had spared no expense this time. Stretching out before them were all manner of tables, banquets, vats of wine, an endless array of roasting pigs and sheep and lamb.
Behind them, they were already preparing for the main event: the games. There were targets being prepared for stone hurling, spear throwing, bows and arrows—and, at the center of it all, the jousting lane. Already, the masses were crowding around it.
Crowds were already parting for the knights on both sides. For the MacGils, the first to enter, of course, was his brother, Kendrick, up on his horse, bedecked in armor, followed by dozens of the Silver. But it was not until Erec arrived, set back from the others, on his white horse, that the crowd quieted in awe. He was like a magnet for attention: even Helena leaned forward, and Gareth saw her lust for him, like all the other women.
“He’s nearly of selection age, yet he’s not married. Any woman in the kingdom would marry him. Why does he choose none of us?”
“And what do you care?” Gareth asked, feeling jealous, despite himself. He too, wanted to be up there, in armor, on a horse, jousting for his father’s name. But he was not a warrior. And everyone knew it.
Helena ignored him with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You are not a man,” she said, derisively. “You do not understand these things.”
Gareth blushed. He wanted to let her have it, but now was not the time. Instead, he accompanied her as she took a seat in the stands, with the others, to watch the day’s festivities. This day was going from worse to worse, and Gareth already felt a pit in his stomach. It would be a very long day, a day of endless chivalry, of pomp, of pretense. Of men wounding or killing each other. A day he was completely excluded from. A day that represented everything he hated.
As he sat there, he brooded. He wished silently that the festivities would erupt into a full-fledged battle, that there would be full-scale bloodshed before him, that everything good about this place be destroyed, torn to bits.
One day he would have his way. One day he would be king.
One day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thor did his best to keep up with Erec’s squire, hurrying to catch up as he weaved his way through the masses. It had been such a whirlwind since the arena, he could hardly process what was happening all around him. He was still trembling inside, could still hardly believe he had been accepted into the Legion, and he had been named second squire to Erec.
“I told you boy, keep up!” Feithgold snapped.
Thor resented him calling him “boy,” especially as he was hardly a few years older. He nearly lost sight of him as he darted in out of the crowd, almost as if he were trying to lose Thor.
“Is it always this crowded here?” Thor called out, trying to catch up.
“Of course not!” Feithgold yelled back. “Today is not only the summer solstice, the biggest day of the year, but also the day the king chose for his daughter’s wedding—and the only day in history we’ve opened our gates to the McClouds. There has never been such a crowd here as now. It is unprecedented. I hadn’t expected this! I fear we will be late!” he said, all in a rush, as he sped through the crowd.
“Where are we going?” Thor asked.
“We’re going to do what every good squire does: to help our knight prepare!”
“Prepare for what?” Thor pressed, nearly out of breath. It was getting hotter by the minute, and he wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Why, the royal joust!”
They finally reached the edge of the crowd. They stopped before a king’s guard, who recognized Feithgold and gestured to the others to let them pass.
They slipped under a rope and stepped into a clearing, free from the masses. Thor could hardly believe it: there, up close, were the jousting lanes. Behind the ropes stood mobs of spectators, and up and down the dirt lanes stood huge warhorses—the largest Thor had ever seen—mounted by knights in all manner
of armor. Mixed among the Silver were knights from all over the two kingdoms, from every province, some in black armor, others in white, wearing helmets and donning weapons of every shape and size. It looked as if the entire world had descended on these jousting lanes.
There were already some competitions were in progress, knights from places Thor did not recognize charging each other, clanging lances and shields, followed always by a short cheer from the crowd. Up close, Thor could not believe the strength and speed of the horses, the sound the weapons made. It seemed like a deadly business.
“It hardly seems like a sport!” Thor said to Feithgold as he followed him along the perimeter of the lanes.
“That’s because it is not,” Feithgold yelled back, over the sound of a clang. “It is a serious business, masked as a game. People die here, every day. It is battle. Lucky are the ones who walk away unscathed. They are far and few between.”
Thor looked up as two knights charged each other and moments later, collided at full speed. There was an awful crash of metal on metal, and one of them went flying off his horse, and landed on his back, just feet away from Thor.
The crowd gasped. The knight did not stir, and Thor looked down and saw a piece of a wooden shaft stuck in his ribs, piercing his armor. He cried out in pain, and blood poured from his mouth. Several squires ran over and attended him, dragging him off the field. The winning knight paraded slowly, raising his lance to the cheer of the crowd.
Thor was amazed. He had not envisioned the sport to be so deadly.
“What those boys just did—that is your job now,” Feithgold said. “You are squire now. More precisely, second squire.”
He stopped and came in close—so close, Thor could smell his bad breath.
“And don’t you forget it. I answer to Erec. And you answer to me. Your job is to assist me. Do you understand?”
Thor nodded back, still trying to take it all in. He had imagined it all going differently in his head, and still didn’t know exactly what was in store for him. He could feel how threatened Feithgold was by his presence, and felt he had made an enemy.
“It is not my intention to interfere with your being Erec’s squire,” Thor said.
Feithgold let out a short, derisive laugh.
“You couldn’t interfere with me, boy, if you tried. Just stay out of my way and do as I tell you.”
With that, Feithgold turned and hurried down a series of twisting paths behind the ropes. Thor followed as best he could, and soon found himself in a labyrinth of stables. He walked down a narrow corridor, all around him warhorses strutting, squires tending nervously to them. Feithgold twisted and turned and finally stopped before a giant, magnificent horse. Thor stopped and looked up, and had to catch his breath. He could hardly believe that something so big and beautiful was real, and that it could be contained behind a fence. It looked as if it were ready for war.
“Warkfin,” Feithgold said. “Erec’s horse. Or one of them—the one he prefers for jousting. Not an easy beast to tame. But Erec has managed. Open the gate,” Feithgold ordered.
Thor looked at him, puzzled, then looked back at the gate, trying to figure it out. He stepped forward, pulled at a peg between the slats, and nothing happened. He pulled harder and it budged, and he gently swung open the wooden gate.
The second he did, Warkfin neighed, leaned back and kicked the wood, just grazing the tip of Thor’s finger. Thor yanked back his hand in pain.
Feithgold laugh.
“That’s why I had you open it. Do it quicker next time, boy. Warkfin waits for no one. Especially you.”
Thor was fuming; Feithgold was already getting on his nerves, and he hardly saw how he would be able to put up with him.
He quickly open the wooden gates, stepping out of the way this time of the horse’s flailing legs.
“Shall I bring him out?” Thor asked with trepidation, not really wanting to grab his reigns as he stomped and swayed.
“Of course not,” Feithgold said. “That is my role. Your role is to feed him—when I tell you to. And to shovel his waist.”
Feithgold grabbed Warkfin’s reigns and began to lead him down the stables. Thor swallowed, watching him. This was not the initiation he had in mind. He knew he had to start somewhere, but this was degrading. He had pictured war and glory and battle, training and competition among boys his own age. He never saw himself as a servant in waiting. He was starting to wonder if he had made the right decision.
They finally burst out of the dark stables and back into the bright light of day, back in the jousting lanes. Thor squinted at the bright light, and was momentarily overcome by the thousands of people cheering, the noise of opposing knights as they smashed into one other. He’d never heard such a clang of metal, and the earth tremored from the horses’ gait.
All around him were dozens of knights and their squires, preparing. Squires polished their knight’s armor, greased up weapons, checked saddles and straps and double-checked weapons as knights mounted their steeds, grabbed their weapons, and waited for their names to be called.
“Elmalkin!” an announcer called out.
A knight from a province Thor did not recognize, a broad fellow in red armor, galloped out the gate. Thor turned and jumped out of the way just in time. He charged down the narrow lane, and Thor watched as his lance brushed off the shield of a competitor. They clanged, and the other knight’s lance struck, and Elmalkin went flying backwards, landing on his back. The crowd cheered.
The knight immediately gathered himself, though, jumping to his feet, spinning around, and reaching out a hand to his squire, who stood beside Thor.
“My mace!” the knight yelled out.
The squire beside Thor jumped into action, grabbing a mace off the weapons rack and sprinting out towards the center of the lane. He ran towards his knight, but the other knight had circled back, and was charging again. Just as the squire was reaching him, just as he was placing the mace into his hand, the other knight thundered down upon them. The squire did not reach the knight in time: the other knight brought his lance down—and as he did, his lance swiped the squire’s head. The squire, reeling from the below, spun around quickly and went down to the dirt, face first.
He was not moving. Thor could see blood oozing from his head, even from here, staining the dirt.
Thor swallowed.
“It’s not a pretty sight, is it?”
Thor turned to see Feithgold standing beside them, staring back.
“Steel yourself boy. This is battle. And we’re right in the middle of it.”
The crowd suddenly grew quiet, as the main jousting lane was opened. Thor could sense anticipation in the air, as all the other jousts stopped in anticipation of this one. On one side, out came Kendrik, walking out on his horse, lance in hand.
On the far side, facing him, out walked a knight in the distinctive armor of the McClouds.
“MacGils versus McClouds,” Feithgold whispered to Thor. “We’ve been at war for a thousand years. And I very much doubt this match will settle it.”
Each knight lowered his visor, a horn sounded, and with a shout, the two charged each other.
Thor was amazed at how much speed they picked up, and moments later they collided with such a clang, Thor nearly raised his hands to his ears. The crowd gasped as both fighters fell from their horses.
They each jumped to their feet and threw off their helmets, as their squires ran out to them, handing them short swords. The two knights sparred with all they had. Watching Kendrick swing and slash had Thor mesmerized: it was a thing of beauty. But the McCloud was a fine warrior, too. Back and forth they went, each exhausting the other, neither giving ground.
Finally their swords met in one momentous clash, and they each knocked each other’s swords from their hands. Their squires ran out, maces in hand, but as Kendrick was reaching for his mace, the McCloud’s squire ran up behind him and struck him in the back with a mace, the blow sending him to the ground, to the horrified gasp of the cr
owd.
The McCloud knight stepped forward and pointed his sword to Kendrick’s throat, pinning him to the ground. Kendrick was left with no choice.
“I concede!” he yelled.
There was a victorious shout among the McClouds—but a shout of anger from the MacGils.
“He cheated!” yelled out the MacGils.
“He cheated! He cheated!” echoed a chorus of angry cries.
The mob was getting angrier and angrier, and soon there was such a chorus of protests that the mob began to disperse, and both sides—the MacGils and McClouds—began to approach each other on foot.
“This isn’t good,” Feithgold said to Thor, as they stood on the side, watching.
Moments later, the crowd erupted: blows were thrown, and it became an all-out brawl. It was chaos. Men were swinging wildly, grabbing each other in locks, driving each other to the ground. The crowd was swelling, and it was threatening to blow up into an all-out war.
A horn sounded, and guards from both sides marched in, and managed to split up the crowd. Another, louder, horn sounded, and silence fell as King MacGil stood from his throne.
“There will be no skirmishers today!” he boomed in his kingly voice. “Not on this day of celebration! And not in my court!”
Slowly, the crowd calmed.
“If it is a contest you wish for between our two great clans, it will be decided by one fighter, one champion, from each side.”
MacGil looked to King McCloud, who sat on the far side, seated with his entourage.
“Agreed?” MacGil yelled out.
McCloud stood solemnly.
“Agreed!” he echoed.
The crowd cheered on both sides.
“Choose your best man!” MacGil yelled.
“I already have,” McCloud said.
There emerged from the McCloud side a formidable knight, the biggest man Thor had ever seen, mounted on his horse. He looked like a boulder, all bulk, with a long beard, and a scowl that looked permanent.
Thor sensed movement beside him, and right next to him, Erec stepped up, mounted Warfkin and walked forward. Thor swallowed. He could hardly believe this was happening all around him. He swelled with pride for Erec.
