In the Eye of Heaven

by David Keck

  He stretched out his hand, just brushing the warmth of her shoulder.

  His near touch broke the spell that held her.

  She gave her head a shake, looking at nothing. "May the Queen of Heaven protect you," she said, and darted off between the tents.

  Durand stood alone. Dark shapes loomed around him: tents and angles. The sounds of conversation distant. The silent storm beyond. He was like one of the rabbits on the hillside, with Coensar's stone dropping out of the dark.

  He closed his eyes, and heard, from among the voices throbbing in the dark, Heremund. The skald, it seemed, was already entertaining.

  "All right, all right," the skald shouted.

  Durand stole into the ring of bleary soldiers, feeling the heat on his face.

  The men leaned in close; the skald hunkered down. "My first time, I was thirteen. She was a big girl. Skin like milk. Reddest lips. Just a scattering of tiny pimples over her forehead. I remember her lips were chapped, and there were little blades of skin like corners of parchment. A taste of iron. She stopped everything, and she knelt over me. My back was on the straw, my tunic rucked up and my breeches around my knees. She struggled her kirtle up over her head. It was this heavy, heavy wool, and narrow. I remember watching as it pulled her smock up behind it. I caught a glimpse of dimpled knees. Round stomach. Big solid thighs. The smock came off in one pull, and there she was standing over me. Big breasts low. Nipples standing in brown, spreading bruises.

  "And I couldn't help myself, on my back with my breeches down. It had been standing there the whole time. I couldn't wait. And sweat gleamed over her chest and sides. And it was too late."

  The circle of men erupted, rearing back. Ouen bellowed and shook his head. Berchard rolled onto his stomach, burying his face.

  Coensar appeared at Durand's elbow.

  Across the circle, Lamoric slipped between two men. Durand was surprised to find the young lord's eyes on him, staring across the circle, hands on his knees.

  Berchard was speaking: "Heremund, my friend, if that's your first time, you're pure as fresh-fallen snow. You must go farther than that."

  "Ah," said Heremund. "No. You see, it was the first time with my nose."

  "What?" Berchard demanded.

  "My nose. You see, she saw what was happening, and, well, she was not happy. There were breasts and a big, round arm." He shrugged. "And I was on the straw.

  "She was gone, but I was on my elbows with this sticky pool of blood under my chin. My nose was running, I thought."

  There were grimaces of recognition around the circle.

  'That," he explained, "was the first."

  "Mine was in my helmet," Ouen said, screwing up his face at the thought. The big knight's nose was little better than Heremund's.

  The skald cocked his head. "You don't go in for the kissing much then, eh?"

  "I wonder," said the giant, "if those dogs folk are seeing out there like a bite of cocksure bastard now and again."

  "Now, now," said Berchard, waving the company to order. "So then. When was your true first time, Heremund Crook-shanks?"

  The bowlegged skald Heremund mimed dismay. "Sir, as a gentleman of breeding I could hardly speak of an affair so private and personal, like. The honor of a lady is involved, after all, ain't it?"

  Men fell about the fire.

  But Durand's glance met Lamoric's. The young lord did not laugh as the others rolled, and there was no shaking his glare. Coensar had told him.

  Among the others, Ouen was striding over the blaze. "That's enough from you, I think." His huge hands caught Heremund as if the skald were a naughty child, and the two disappeared toward the trees, leaving cheers behind.

  Every face waited, and there was a crash from the branches. Ouen returned, slapping the dirt from his palms.

  Durand looked up, only to find that Lamoric had disappeared. His voice was at Durand's ear in an instant.

  "Come with me," hissed the young lord.

  HE WAS BARRED from the light by both Lamoric and the more distant figure of Sir Coensar. So, as the awful conversation began, there was nothing but forest at his back.

  "Durand, tell me why I shouldn't have you hanged here and now."

  Durand said nothing.

  Lamoric shoved him, and then paced before him like something in a cage.

  "My captain tells me you've just come from bloody Radomor of Yrlac. Did you not think to mention it when I took you on? When we sailed for Acconel? When we stood vigil over my sister in the bloody high sanctuary of Acconel? What is wrong with you? Are you mad? Are you in his pay even now?"

  Durand held his tongue even when Lamoric glared up at him.

  "For God's sake!" Lamoric lunged, shoving Durand. It was half-hearted. "For God's sake ... just tell me. Tell me what you know of my sister."

  Durand took a breath. "It will not be easy to hear, Milord."

  "Say it!"

  Durand nodded. "Lord Radomor was told she'd been with a man called Aldoin."

  "Sir Aldoin. Warrendell. My Alwen?" "The man was his friend."

  Lamoric spoke, not looking at Durand. "He was at the wedding. Radomor believed this?"

  "He did. Sir Lamoric, he had what he took for proof." It was hard to speak.

  "Proof?"

  'There was a sign she made ... to call him." "What are you saying?"

  "The man, Aldoin, I know to be dead. Your sister..." He felt his face burn in the dark as he remembered catching the woman's arm and turning her back into that tower room. "I cannot say what happened, only that Radomor was angry."

  " 'Angry.'"

  "Aldoin drowned. They could hear him. We could hear him down the well."

  They stood in silence then. Lamoric was bowed and staring at the earth. The shaking knot of his hands touched his mouth.

  "Durand. I ask you, as your kin has served mine since the Gunderic and the Cradle. Do you believe it? This proof? Do you believe it?"

  Durand forced his eyes to meet his master's gaze.

  "She confessed, Lord."

  14. Where Dance the Shadows

  As the Heavens rolled above them, every company sank slowly into a drained and shaky silence. Alone, at first, Sir Agryn prayed First Twilight when the coming dawn silvered the eastern sky. Soon, the others joined him, watching the cool glow swelling in the Heavens above the castle. Even Badan could not resist the call to his knees. Agryn continued his murmured prayer until the needle of Heaven's Eye split the horizon, and he could stand to give thanks for the dawn.

  Durand kept his hands busy with horses and harness, knowing he was a traitor awaiting his sentence. His time with these men was finished, but still he checked long limbs and mended cinches. He curried twitching flanks. It kept him awake.

  While the men waited out the night, villagers built a reviewing stand overlooking the green, hammering, at first, in darkness. The knights would fight where Coensar's rabbits had scattered only a few hours before. The path the castle women had walked would divide the lists, north from south.

  With the coming of the dawn, every conroi creaked into motion. Belted knights yawned and shivered like boys. Grooms threw parti-colored trappers over the heads of war-horses. Men struggled into hauberks and surcoats. Shield-bearers raced with forgotten shields and battle helms. Soon, the whole company struggled out to the lists, half to the north and half to the south. They were tired, and one man among them would die.

  As Durand passed lances and shields between the crowded horses, he wondered. Each man that reached could be the one.

  No one spoke of shirking the strange duty that had been imposed upon them. They must fight.

  As Durand slipped through the close-packed horses to check the crupper-strap on Sir Coensar's mount, all the rustling and muttering subsided. Looking up from the shadows, Durand spotted a knight in black and silver facing the captain.

  Baron Cassonel of Damaryn sat in a tall fighting saddle. His expression gave no hint of his emotions. "Sir Coensar." "It is."

 
"It has been a long time, I think."

  The others were watching; no one spoke.

  "A very long time indeed."

  Cassonel regarded Coensar with a dispassionate stare.

  "And you are in Hesperand once more?" said Coensar. "It has been seven winters."

  "I did not intend it," the baron said. "My lord wished haste."

  "How fares the Duke of Beoran?" "Well enough."

  "Good. I wouldn't wish him ill. I've my own lord to follow now."

  "This Red Knight," Cassonel said. "Yes. The Knight in Red."

  Lamoric touched his helm in mocking salute. Coensar changed directions.

  "You were caught on the road?"

  "I had no intention of coming here."

  "At least the weather is fine." Coensar smiled. "How does the wind blow in Ferangore? Old Duke Ailnor fares well, does he? Or did you miss the old man? It can be hard tracking a man down. You can go years without catching sight."

  If Cassonel was surprised, he hid it well. He did shoot a glance to Durand where he stood among the cinches and stirrup leathers. "The Duke of Yrlac is hale, Sir Coensar."

  "I had heard rumors. His son ..."

  "The duke is hale. And you may find that he outlives some of us here."

  "God willing," said Coensar. "You fight on the north?" "Aye."

  "I think it will not be long till we meet once more ".Cassonel said and led his men to the southern company.

  Durand felt a hand grip his shoulder. He looked up and saw Coensar grinning down. "That, I enjoyed." And Durand took some comfort that he and the captain, at least, would not part on bad terms.

  As Cassonel and his retainers took up their place in the line across the mist-steaming yard, nine long shadows fell over the battleground, stilling the men. Into this silence, horns brayed from the reviewing stand. Durand winced at the shiver they sent through his bones. The Lady of the Bower and her handmaidens looked out over the chaos of pennons and horses, then they mounted the rough steps into the stand and took their places—nine silhouettes against the green canvas of the stand's back wall.

  There were others in the stand: travelers lost in Hesperand. His Stream Maid must be there as well, somewhere behind the green canvas awnings—a woman he had simply let walk away from him. He had not even asked her name.

  Again, there was fanfare.

  "The Lady of the Bower'welcomes the peers of the realm to this festival in honor of the Maid of Spring."

  From his position among the horses, Durand made out warriors in green surcoats. Each man carried the coiling horn of some fantastic beast. It occurred to him that, although they looked every inch a fighting man, each must be a herald to the Lady of the Bower. He wondered who they were, and how they had come to be in Bower Mead. A graybeard herald was speaking.

  'To further honor the Maid, her ladyship enjoins all free men who are of age and not infirm to take part in a display of skill at arms to begin before this hour has passed." He narrowed his eyes and set a fist on one lean hip. "Let no man shirk his chance to demonstrate his devotion to the Maiden of Spring."

  He raised the coiling horn. Silver fittings glinted against the dark curl. "The next blast upon my horn will mark the beginning of the combat." With this, the herald bowed sharply and dismissed them all to prepare.

  "Well, you others, have you heard him?" said Coensar. "A surprise, eh?"

  Durand caught himself staring up from among the horse's arses, gaping like a fish. Hesperand was an old duchy, and this tournament predated knights and shield-bearers both. There had only been fighting men. There he was, standing in mud and shirtsleeves, expected to climb on horseback and fight armored men with real blades.

  Guthred grunted: "I'm bloody infirm."

  Lamoric twitched around, his red battle helm oddly menacing.

  "The rest of you," he said. "No excuses." "Right," said Guthred. "You're on horseback if I've got to tie you there. Get to it." And the crowd broke.

  Every man of age meant twenty-one or more, and rank didn't matter—shield-bearers and grooms charged in a sudden storm.

  Durand wove through the anxious mob. He'd planned to keep out of sight, and leave as quickly as he could. Now, he was hunting up tack and saddles to join the battle line.

  "Hurry, you drove of goats," barked Guthred, "or you'll fight as you stand!" A horse screamed—the wrong horse— and the man spun. "Get out of there, you daft bastard! You think Lamoric wants you bashing around on his good bloody palfrey?" One of the grooms ducked a hasty backhand.

  Durand rooted his hauberk and shield from the packs and hauled a good sturdy cob from among the horses. The brute was no warhorse, but it looked strong enough.

  "The riding saddles, you stupid whoreson," Guthred was shouting. "How many fighting saddles you reckon we've got? Throw an extra cinch round."

  With a few quick slips of strap and buckle, Durand urged the cob to the line. He would be lucky if the brute didn't break his neck running away. Around him, the companies took shape, reinforced by scores of raw men on bare horses. Wide-eyed beasts threw their heads. Grooms in gambesons hunkered over saddlebows, clutching spare lances.

  Coensar was speaking. "—a second rank. Or third. And tight. Knee to knee. There shouldn't be room to drop an apple between us when we're riding out."

  Coensar's head swiveled as he looked over the crowd. Lamoric, beside his captain in line, sat low, his battle helm red as raw flesh. After the night before, Durand wondered what turn the man's thoughts had taken. The helm neatly masked any trace.

  Durand was left riding at the man's back. If he had never seen Ferangore, this might have been his chance to win favor with the young lord. Now, though, he owed Lamoric a debt, and would throw his whole will behind it.

  A hairy fist clamped his knee. Guthred peered up at him. There was a spear.

  "Here boy. You asleep? Even you won't do much damage without a bloody lance."

  Durand took the spear.

  "Point it at their lot," Guthred added, helpfully. "And move this bag of bones." He slapped the cob's rump. "I've got to have a word." He barged his way past Durand and through the close-packed horses toward the front.

  There was movement among the heralds.

  There were a lot of bare blades in the hands of scared men. Durand swallowed. A night without sleep had skimmed his face over with grease. His mouth was dry right to the back of his throat, and, somewhere along the line, he had missed his last chance for a piss.

  The cob shifted its weight, side to side.

  "Durand?"

  Behind him, red-haired Cerlac rode at the head of a straggling column, looking more like a knight-at-arms now in mail and surcoat.

  "Your chance, eh?"

  "I suppose."

  The man seemed to notice something.

  "Hells. Are you riding bare-headed, then?"

  "I'm lucky I've still got my hauberk." There were plenty of men on the verge of riding against lances wearing nothing more than quilted canvas.

  "I reckon I can manage another lucky stroke for a comrade at arms. Here." The young knight called back down the line behind him, and soon a boy ran up, holding a helmet over his head like a plattered roast at a feast. Cerlac plucked it from the boy's hands.

  "It's a bit rough." The thing looked like a hammered iron bowl, but there was a broad nasal bar to blunt any slash across the eyes. "The webbing's still good, and the iron's sound enough."

  He held it out, and Durand gladly took the thing. "You're generous."

  "Now you've got a fighting chance, eh?"

  "I'll do my best to get it back to you in one piece." Durand put the thing on his head, blinking at the sharp smell and the unfamiliar weight.

  "I owe you my life after that bucket last night. Good luck."

  Durand touched the brow of the helm in salute. He felt free. Cerlac nodded and rode for his place down the line.

  Suddenly, Durand was jostled. Coensar was bobbing and twisting in his saddle, looking up and down their line. Durand saw
pointing across the lists, then Coensar was shouting back. "All right, you lot Back them out." There were moans of confusion. "Get them out of line!"

  On the field, the heralds were already tramping out to get things started. But the conroi wallowed back, tearing itself loose of its astonished battalion.

  Coensar stood in his stirrups. "Follow me. We haven't much time!" They rode, swinging round the whole field. In the midst of the enemy line, Cassonel, in his black and silver gear, stood in his stirrup irons, watching them come, incredulous. In a moment, they would join Cassonel's battalion, losing Coensar the chance he had bled for.

  Only as Coensar led their conroi jostling into the northern company, did Durand see the explanation: The heir of Mornaway had taken up a place in the ranks opposite Lamoric's men. On opposite sides, Moryn would have had his chance at Lamoric. Now, the man was forced to be an ally.

  Arranging it had cost Sir Coensar dearly.

  They settled into the line, horses twitching. Their erstwhile allies stared back in astonishment.

  The Lady's heralds walked out into the lists. One of the men passed down the ranks in front of them. It would be any moment now.

  There was a heavy ripple running through the opposing line: more jockeying. Men and horses jostled to make way for a new conroi, and a sober Baron Cassonel emerged in the front rank. The man regarded Coensar steadily. The Baron of Damaryn would give Coensar his chance.

  The green-clad heralds took up places at each of the four corners of the field. Across the way, Durand spotted red-haired Cerlac who shrugged back with a smile. Now they would fight against each other. Durand checked to be sure that his sword was free in its scabbard. He touched the pommel of his misericord dagger. He tried to find the balancing point of the lance. Each breath snapped his throat dry as parchment.

  Durand could still not see into the reviewing stand, but a shadow had risen against the canvas. The long figure's arm was raised. The heralds noted it as well, each of the four raising a horn to his lips.

  Horses stamped. Durand gripped lance and shield.

  There was a wispy something in the Lady's hand, and—as soon as Durand had seen it—it fell.