by K. C. Julius
Cole scowled, then sank lower in his chair. “Can you believe he once thought to join some religious order?” He shook his head in disbelief, then winced. “What a waste that would have been! The ladies fairly fall over themselves to garner his attention, the lucky bastard.” He eyed Borne critically. “I warrant he’s giving you some competition on that score too, although he doesn’t spout poetry. How the maidens melt before your pretty verses!”
“I never spout,” replied Borne coolly, examining his blade. “And I’ve better ways to occupy my time here than wenching.”
“You’ve made a few exceptions,” Cole noted caustically. He eyed the sword in Borne’s hands. “You do realize you’re going to rub that bloody thing to a nub if you keep at it? Besides, it’s not as though you’re likely to use it any time soon, now that the Twyrn is over.”
Borne forced a grin, but he was feeling far from cheerful. Cole’s mention of the Twyrn reminded him of the judge’s decision to declare a tie between Borne and Roth—a most unsatisfactory outcome. Borne had bested the Nelvor in the joust, and now that there was to be no melee, the opportunity to prove himself the better man once and for all had been lost.
“Your Roth doesn’t use his advantages with the ladies anyway,” Borne muttered. “He’s too holy for philandering.”
“I don’t see what you have against him,” Cole snapped. “He has nothing but praise for you. There are those who say his prayers saved your life after your fall, you know.”
“Bollocks! I’d had the wind knocked out of me, nothing more.” Borne laid his sword aside, unsettled by a surge of anger. “God’s bones, I need some fresh air.” He pushed open the casement windows to discover the rain had abated with the last of the light. A look back at Cole’s dour expression made him laugh. “A little airing will do you good. Better still, let’s go and have a cleansing ale or two at the Tilted Kilt.”
His hound, Magnus, rose expectantly to his feet.
Cole brightened, then reached for his new plumed hat. “Anything to relieve this headache,” he replied, hauling himself to his feet. “Lead on, my fine fellow!”
* * *
Borne had been frequenting Gilly’s establishment regularly ever since the fateful night of Dal’s death. At first he’d gone back in hopes of learning who had murdered the poor lad, for he felt he owed this to Maura. But the wizard, who might have enlightened him, had disappeared without a trace, and while Gilly assured Borne the culprits were being pursued, no charges were ever pressed. And in time his continued patronage of the Tilted Kilt was for less noble reasons—notably the fine ale and handsome barmaids, several of whom he’d become better acquainted with after hours.
Tonight, the pub was bustling with trade, its custom spilling out onto the lantern-lit street, along with strains of fiddle music and bursts of laughter. Despite the warmth of the evening, a fire burned in the great hearth, over which a suckling pig was fragrantly sizzling. Candles flickered along the walls, casting a rosy glow on Gilly’s bald head as he sweated and affably swore behind the bar.
“Blearc’s breeches!” roared the publican as Borne and Cole wended their way toward him. “That was a fine performance against the Nelvor, Braxton! And you made an admirable first showing as well, young man.” He leaned over and shook their hands in turn, then thrust two flagons of cool brown ale into them, waving away the coins Borne offered.
Clarie, the matronly bar mistress, swooped over, a ruby the size of a duck’s egg twinkling against her ample bosom. She pecked them both on the cheek, then led them to a corner table already occupied by a number of young knights, most of whom the newcomers knew from the training grounds.
“There’s room for all if you don’t mind close quarters,” said Sir Simm, sliding over. As the eldest son of Lord Ien of Glornadoor, Simm was distantly related to the royal house.
The newcomers settled in, and in no time Borne, known for his expert mimicry, had the table in stitches with his imitation of Seor Crannelo, a rather pompous Albrenian knight attached to the House of Nelvor.
“Thees ees nut hoo et ees doon in Valendrrrreia!”
Quesen, a young knight from Langmerdor, hooted, “That’s exactly how he sounds!”
“Only you need a longer nose to look down,” declared Sir Glinter of Karan-Rhad, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.
As the ale and conversation flowed, Borne felt a nudge in his side.
“I say,” murmured Cole, “that black-eyed wench over there looks not so much older than myself. What do you reckon would be my chances?”
Borne appraised the young barmaid’s dark tresses and alluring curves. “You’ll need more than your fine manners to win her. The sapphires around her neck are worth a small kingdom. She’s in someone’s keeping already.”
Noting their attention, the raven-haired maid smiled provocatively. Emboldened, Cole raised his glass in salute, to which the girl inclined her head invitingly. “By the gods,” he breathed, then pushed away from the table.
Borne watched him with good-humored resignation. The lass was clearly out of Cole’s league, but Borne admired his friend’s determination. And who knew? Perhaps she saw something to her liking in the young lordling. Cole was a good-looking lad, if a trifle scrawny, and he’d fill out in a few years’ time.
Grinning, Borne turned back to the conversation at the table.
“I’ve a mind to get a new hound,” said Quesen. “Is yours available for breeding, Braxton?”
Borne reached down to scratch Magnus’s ears. “I’m sure he’d be accommodating, but you’re unlikely to find a Great Karabas bitch here in Drinnkastel, unless there’s one in the royal kennels.”
“Well, if there is one,” said Sir Glinter, “she’d be glad of an occupation. The royal household keeps no coilhorn herds, and Great Karabases live to work. I’m surprised you brought yours to the capital.”
Borne shrugged. “Magnus goes where I go. He’d only pine if I left him at home.”
“Aye, they’re a loyal breed, no mistaking that. In Karan-Rhad, they’re kept by shepherds. I’ve never heard of one as a house pet of a noble family.”
Borne was convinced he’d finally been caught out, and felt his face flush.
“I meant no offense, sir,” said Glinter. “Your Magnus is a fine hound.”
“None taken,” Borne replied easily, but he was relieved when Cole plunked down beside him.
“On me, gentlemen!” the youth announced triumphantly, as Clarie served another round. Leaning close to Borne, he whispered, “Yoletta. Her name is Yoletta.” He pressed a lace handkerchief to his nose and inhaled deeply. “She’s given me a token of her affection!”
“And what did you promise her in return?”
Cole gave him a startled look. “She didn’t ask for anything.”
“Ah, but she’ll expect a gift all the same.”
A line of worry creased Cole’s brow. “Such as what? Jewelry? Do you think she’d like that?”
Borne sat back, stretching out his long legs. “I’m sure she would. But the quality of gems she’ll expect will lighten your purse considerably.”
The frown vanished, and Cole lifted his mug with a flourish. “What else is money for, if not to lavish on a beautiful woman?”
Laughing, Borne raised his own ale. “What else indeed?”
As usual, the talk among the knights eventually turned to the Twyrn, and the general feeling of frustration with its premature end. Mayer of Morlendell slammed his tankard down on the table and thundered, “Sard it all, it’s not right! The melee is what I came for, not the jousting. How are the knights of Drinnglennin supposed to maintain a fighting edge if we don’t engage in battle from time to time?” It was clear he was itching for a fight.
“Well, don’t go instigating a brawl on these premises,” replied Simm, who’d sensed Mayer’s belligerence as well. “It’s the best pub in the cit
y, and I for one don’t fancy being barred from it.”
“I’ll get my fill of fighting soon,” declared Sir Glinter, “and it won’t be in mock battle or pub brawls. As soon as this edict keeping us cooling our heels in the city is lifted, I’m off to Gral with a company to join Marechal Latour.”
Borne’s interest was piqued. “As a mercenary?”
Glinter nodded. “You should come along. You’ve the makings of a fine soldier in you, and a soldier’s got to fight!”
“Hear, hear!” said Mayer.
As Borne surveyed his frustrated companions, the seed of an idea took root. “I think, gentlemen, what we all crave is some distraction. What would you say to a little contest of our own?”
All eyes turned expectantly toward him.
“We’re listening,” said Quesen.
Cole grinned. “When those damned dimples deepen, I know you’ve something devilish in mind.”
“Not devilish,” said Borne, “just a reason to keep our swords sharp and our spirits high.” He leaned across the table with a conspiratorial air. “Have any of you, my friends, ever heard of mob ball?”
* * *
The contest of mob ball is not for the fainthearted. Murder is prohibited, but not much else. The rules of play are few: two teams compete against one another to capture and carry a ball, called the mobie, to their own goal. The mobie is constructed from a sewn-up pig’s bladder, which has been filled with cork shavings to keep it afloat should it end up in water. It may not be carried on horseback, or in any sort of conveyance, nor concealed inside a player’s clothing. To score, the mobie must be tapped on both posts and the crossbar of the opponents’ goal. The field of play most commonly encompasses an entire village, although chapels, graveyards and private gardens are strictly off-limits.
Mob ball is considered a peasants’ game, but that didn’t deter the bored young lords from seizing on Borne’s proposal. It was decided, over copious ale, that the teams would be divided along geographical lines, as was customary, between the northern and southern realms of Drinnglennin. The men of Morlendell, Valeland, Tyrrencaster, Branley Tor, Drinnkastel, and Fairendell would represent the North, while those from Nelvorboth, Cardenstowe, Lorendale, Glornadoor, Karan-Rhad, Palmador, and Langmerdor would make up the Soth’ers side. The goalposts would be set a mile apart, the halfway point being the Grand Square, where the toss-off would occur. The game would end at the first goal, and if there were none achieved by dusk, which at this time of year was just shy of midnight, a tie would be declared.
As soon as the men streamed out of the pub that night they began recruiting players for their respective sides, for it was further agreed that the match would take place in two days’ time—right after midday prayers, out of respect for those who adhered to such devotions. While mob ball is traditionally played by every able-bodied male in a village, that would obviously not be possible in a city the size of Drinnkastel, so each side in this particular match would be limited to two and twenty. Thus the competition for team selection was fierce, requiring the respective captains to give preference to the most athletic of contenders.
Borne took it upon himself to obtain the necessary permission from the city fathers to hold the match, and that he was able to do so in such short order was nothing short of miraculous. A fond connection with the mayor’s young wife might have assisted him.
News of the match spread like wildfire through the city, and by noon on the appointed day, the people of Drinnkastel were out in force, although not all approved of the contest. Grumbling shopkeepers took pains to board up their storefronts, for although the mobie was rarely kicked, scrums of young men pressing forward along the narrow alleys were sure to present a danger to both premises and wares. Sandbag barricades were erected in the Grand Square, behind which spectators could safely watch the toss-off for the beginning of play. Once the teams left the wide courtyard, it would be every man, woman, and child for themselves. Most would prudently withdraw to the balconies overlooking the lanes to cheer on their favorites.
Some pranksters had apparently decided that coilhorn bells would make a sonorous addition to the sporting atmosphere, as these had been strung from every overhang and post, their dangling ropes inviting passing urchins to give them tongue, and this inevitably set off the barking of every stray dog, of which there were many, in the vicinity. Purveyors of soft wax that could be molded into earplugs were enjoying brisk custom. The pubs, too, were doing a rollicking trade, even before most decent folk had considered their midday meals, and various street performers, ever with a nose for profit, were out in force juggling, piping, and strumming on strategic corners. Several songs had already been composed about the event, with the last verses to be added later, once the victors were declared.
High in the tower of the Elementa Temple, the great bell chimed once, signaling an hour to go before the toss-off. The Grand Square’s atmosphere reached carnival proportions, the crowd behind the barricades giddy with anticipation. Furious, and highly illegal, betting as to which side would prevail ensued.
At last the opposing teams entered the wide square, to a cacophony of coilhorn bells and the thunder of drums. The Nor’er team included the flower of Drinnkastel’s nobility, but the Soth’ers were slightly favored, for the mighty Nelvorbothians were heavily represented on its side. The Soth’ers were clad in black, as a salute to Lord Roth, their captain, who had personally commissioned and paid for uniforms for his team, and the Nor’ers had chosen tunics of red and white in honor of the House of Konigur.
Borne had been wondering how his selection as the Nor’er captain would be received by their supporters, since every member of his side outranked him. He had his answer upon entering the square, as a sea of spectators, garbed in crimson, roared their approval. Several bold maidens even slipped past the barricades to press nosegays into his hands.
Borne was impressed to see the raven-haired Yoletta waving at Cole from amidst the crowd. The blushing lad blew her a gallant kiss, then grinned at Borne.
While few of the contestants had ever played mob ball, they were, to a man, extremely fit. The young nobles had spent a good portion of their lives training for tourney play, and, if necessary, warfare. And while they called good-natured insults to one another and appeared at ease, there was no mistaking both teams’ determination to prevail. With the cancellation of the melee, this was the younger knights’ only opportunity to prove their prowess to their battle-seasoned elders.
The teams squared off before the toss-off plinth. Roth, fresh from his prayers, stepped forward and offered his hand to Borne. Tall and broad-shouldered, he cut an imposing figure. “May the best team win,” he said, with a warm smile.
“That’s usually how it works,” Borne replied.
They turned together to the platform from which the ball would be thrown. The honor to open the game had been awarded to none other than Clarie, the buxom matron of the Tilted Kilt. When she mounted the wooden pedestal, the crowd erupted with approval, for it was a novelty for a commoner to play any role in the contests of nobility.
Clarie obviously had a generous and influential patron; she was splendidly dressed for the occasion in a gold-threaded ivory gown, and the massive ruby between her ample breasts blazed in the sunlight like fire. As she lifted the mobie above her head, the clangor that had threatened to deafen the city subsided. A hush fell over the crowd as the players jostled for the best position.
The temple bells chimed—once, twice. Then Clarie tossed the mobie high into the dazzling June sky.
Chapter 19
As the ball plummeted earthward, both sides surged together. Borne, a designated runner, was hefted between Sir Jurrien and Willern DuBleres; beside him, Cole and Mayer were also hurled aloft. All eyes were on the mobie, which was dropping dead center into the scrum. Borne’s teammates passed him above their heads like a scuttled crab to position him for a catch, but just as the mob
ie dropped within his reach, Roth’s arm shot out and swept it to his players. It skidded over the fingertips of a dozen grasping hands before being batted to a black-garbed participant.
The Soth’ers were in possession.
The crowd roared as the roiling pack parted and Sir Flean of Glornadoor, cleaving the ball to his chest, rolled out of his teammates’ clutches to hit the cobblestones at a run. He sprinted across the Grand Square, his defenders forming a scrum at his back that propelled him down Delvin’s Way, pursued by the earsplitting clatter of bells.
Half of the Nor’ers were right on the Soth’ers’ heels, intent on breaking through the knot of defenders and stealing the mobie. The eleven remaining reds, acting on instructions from Borne, departed the square on various parallel streets, hoping to intercept Sir Flean and the heaving mass of muscle at his back.
Borne and his runners converged on Delvin’s Way, not far ahead of the Soth’ers. “Kenndrik, Damien, up the grilles! Wait for my signal,” he instructed. While two men scaled the iron window bars on either side of the street, Borne turned to the four others he’d chosen to serve as tacklers, among them Sir Jurrien, the tallest man in all of Drinnkastel.
“Take them down, but not too low, gentlemen,” Borne cautioned. “You don’t want a knee to your head!”
He turned next to Cole. Borne had been scrupulous in selecting his team, and including his best friend was no act of mere favor. Cole was the fastest runner of the group, and had earned his place. Now he waited expectantly for his instructions, his eyes bright with excitement.
“Wait for me at the stone wall ahead,” Borne said, “and be prepared to run as if Alithin herself were blowing at your heels!”
With a grin and a brisk nod, the youth shot off down the lane.
The Soth’ers hove into sight. They barreled toward Borne and his men, with Flean still hugging the ball at the fore. Lord Roth ran just behind him, the golden cap of his hair bright in the midday light. When they spied Borne and his men ranged before them, the blacks faltered for a heartbeat, but then they surged onward with a roar.
