Wintertide: Book Five: the Riyria Revlations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Don’t see why not. Are you any good?”

  “No, but I would like to try just the same. Sir Malness never allowed it. He didn’t want me to embarrass him.”

  “Are you really that bad?”

  “I’ve never been allowed to train. Sir Malness forbade me from using his horse. He was fond of saying, ‘A man upon a horse has a certain way of looking at the world, and a lad such as yourself should not get accustomed to the experience, as it will only produce disappointment.’”

  “Sounds like Sir Malness was a real pleasant guy,” Hadrian said.

  Renwick offered an uncomfortable smile and turned away. “I have watched the events many times—studied them really—and I have ridden but never used a lance.”

  “Why don’t you get my mount and we’ll have a look at you.”

  Renwick nodded and ran to fetch the horse. Ethelred had provided a brown charger named Malevolent for Hadrian. Bred for stamina and agility, the horse was dressed in a chanfron to protect the animal from poorly aimed lances. Despite the name, he was a fine horse, strong and aggressive, but not vicious. Malevolent did not bite or kick, and upon meeting Hadrian, the horse affectionately rubbed his head up and down against the fighter’s chest.

  “Get aboard,” Hadrian told the boy who grinned and scrambled into the high-backed saddle. Hadrian handed him a practice lance and the shield with green and white quadrants, which the regents supplied.

  “Lean forward and keep the lance tucked tight against your side. Squeeze it in with your elbow to steady it. Now ride in a circle so I can watch you.”

  For all his initial enthusiasm, the boy looked less confident as he struggled to hold the long pole and guide the horse at the same time.

  “The stirrups need to be tighter,” Sir Breckton said as he rode up.

  Breckton sat astride a strong white charger adorned with an elegant caparison of gold and blue stripes. A matching pennant flew from the tip of a lance booted in his stirrup. Dressed in brightly polished armor, he had a plumed helm under one arm and a sheer blue scarf tied around the other.

  “I wanted to wish you good fortune this day,” he said to Hadrian.

  “Thanks.”

  “You ride against Murthas, do you not? He’s good with a lance. Don’t underestimate him.” Breckton studied Hadrian critically. “Your cuirass is light. That’s very brave of you.”

  Hadrian looked down at himself, confused. He had never worn such heavy armor. His experience with a lance remained confined to actual combat, where targets were rarely knights. As it was, Hadrian felt uncomfortable and restricted.

  Breckton motioned to the metal plate on his own side. “Bolted armor adds an extra layer of protection where one is most likely to be hit. And where is your elbow pocket?”

  Hadrian looked confused for a moment. “Oh, that plate? I had the smith take it off. It made it impossible to hold the lance tight.”

  Breckton chuckled. “You do realize that plate is meant to brace the butt of the lance, right?”

  Hadrian shrugged. “I’ve never jousted in a tournament before.”

  “I see.” Sir Breckton nodded. “Would you be offended should I offer advice?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  “Keep your head up. Lean forward. Use the stirrups to provide leverage to deliver stronger blows. Absorb the blows you receive with the high back of your saddle to avoid being driven from your horse.”

  “Again, thank you.”

  “Not at all, I am pleased to be of service. If you have any questions, I will be most happy to answer them.”

  “Really?” Hadrian responded mischievously. “In that case, is that a token I see on your arm?”

  Breckton glanced down at the bit of cloth. “This is the scarf of Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale. I ride for her this day—for her—and her honor.” He looked out at the field. “It appears the tournament is about to start. I see Murthas taking his position at the alley, and you are up first. May Maribor guide the arm of the worthy.” Breckton nodded respectfully and left.

  Renwick returned and dismounted.

  “You did well,” Hadrian told him, taking the squire’s place on the charger. “You just need a bit more practice. Assuming I survive this tilt, we’ll work on it some more.”

  The boy carried Hadrian’s helm in one hand and, taking the horse’s lead in the other, led the mounted knight to the field. Entering the gate, they circled the alley and came to a stop next to a small wooden stage.

  Ahead of Hadrian lay the main arena, which an army of workers had spent weeks preparing by clearing snow and laying sand. The field was surrounded by a sea of spectators divided into sections designated by color. Purple housed the ruler and his immediate family, blue for the ranked gentry, red for the church officials, yellow for the baronage, green for the artisans, and white for the peasantry, which was the largest and only uncovered section.

  Hadrian’s father used to bring him to the games but not for entertainment. Observing combat had been part of his studies. Still, Hadrian had been thrilled to see the fights and cheer the victors along with the rest. His father had no use for the winners and only cared to discuss the losers. Danbury questioned Hadrian after each fight, asking what the defeated knight did wrong and how he could have won.

  Hadrian had hardly listened. He was distracted by the spectacle—the knights in shining armor, the women in colorful gowns, the incredible horses. He knew one knight’s saddle was worth more than their home and his father’s blacksmith shop combined. How magnificent they had all seemed in comparison to his commoner father. It never occurred to him that Danbury Blackwater could defeat every knight in every contest.

  As a youth, Hadrian had dreamed of fighting at Highcourt a million times. Unlike the Palace of the Four Winds, this field was a church to him. Battles were respectful—not to the death. Swords were blunted, archers used targets, and jousts were performed with the Lance of Peace. A combatant lost points if he killed his opponent and could be expelled from the tournament for even injuring a competitor’s horse. Hadrian found that strange. Even after his father explained that the horse was innocent, he had not understood. He did now.

  A large man with a loud voice stood on a platform in front the purple section, shouting to those assembled, “…is the chief knight of Alburn, the son of the Earl of Fentin, and he is renowned for his skill in the games and at court. I give to you—Sir Murthas!”

  The crowd erupted in applause, drumming their feet on the hollow planks. Ethelred and Saldur sat to either side of a throne that remained as empty as the one in the banquet hall. At the start of the day, officials had announced that the empress felt too ill that morning and could not attend.

  “From Rhenydd he hails,” the man on the box shouted as he gestured toward Hadrian, “only recently knighted amidst the carnage of the bloody Battle of Ratibor. He wandered forest and field to reach these games. For his first tournament ever, I present to you—Sir Hadrian!”

  Some clapping trickled down from the stands, but it was only polite applause. The contest was already over in the eyes of the crowd.

  Hadrian had never held a Lance of Peace. Lighter than a war lance, which had a metal tip, this one was all wood. The broad, flared end floated awkwardly but it was still solid oak and not to be underestimated. He checked his feet in the stirrups and gripped the horse with his legs.

  Across the sand-strewn alley, Sir Murthas sat on his gray destrier. His horse was a strong, angry-looking steed cloaked in a damask caparison covered in a series of black-and-white squares and fringed with matching tassels. Murthas himself held a lozengy shield and wore a matching surcoat and cape of black-and-white diamonds. He snapped his visor shut just as the trumpeters sounded the fanfare and the flagman raised his banner.

  Mesmerized by the spectacle, Hadrian’s gaze roamed from the stands to the snapping pennants and finally to the percussionists beating on their great drums. The pounding rolled like thunder such that Hadrian could feel it in his chest, yet the roar of th
e crowd overwhelmed it. Many leapt to their feet in anticipation. Hundreds waited anxiously with every eye fixed upon the riders. As a boy in the white stands, Hadrian had held his father’s fingers, hearing and feeling that same percussive din. He had wished to be one of those knights waiting at their gates—waiting for glory. The wish was a fantasy that only a young boy who knew so little of the world could imagine—an impossible dream he had forgotten until that moment.

  The drums stopped. The flag fell. Across the alley, Murthas spurred his horse and charged.

  Caught by surprise, Hadrian was several seconds behind. He spurred Malevolent and lurched forward. The audience sprang to their feet, gasping in astonishment. Some screamed in fear. Hadrian ignored them, intent on his task.

  Feeling the rhythm of the horse’s stride, he became one with the motion. Hadrian pushed the balls of his feet down, taking up every ounce of slack and pressing his lower back against the saddle. Slowly, carefully, he lowered the lance, pulling it to his side and keeping its movement in sync with the horse’s rapid gait. He calculated the drop rate with the approach of his target.

  The wind roared past Hadrian’s ears and stung his eyes as the charger built up speed. The horse’s hooves pounded the soft track, creating explosions of sand. Murthas raced at him, his black-and-white cape flying. The horses ran full out, nostrils flaring, muscles rippling, harnesses jangling.

  Crack!

  Hadrian felt his lance jolt then splinter. Running out of lane, he discarded the broken lance and pulled back on the reins. Hadrian was embarrassed by his slow start and did not want Murthas to get the jump on him again. Intent on getting the next lance first, he wheeled his charger and saw Murtha’s horse trotting riderless. Two squires and a groom chased the destrier. Along the alley, Hadrian spotted Murthas lying on his back. Men ran to the knight’s aid as he struggled to sit up. Hadrian looked for Renwick and as he did, he noticed the crowd. They were alive with excitement. All of them were on their feet, clapping and whistling. A few even cheered his name. Hadrian guessed they had not expected him to survive the first round.

  He allowed himself a smile and the crowd cheered even louder.

  “Sir!” Renwick shouted over the roar, running to Hadrian’s side. “You didn’t put your helm on!” The squire held up the plumed helmet.

  “Sorry,” Hadrian apologized. “I forgot. I didn’t expect them to start the run so quickly.”

  “Sorry? But—but no one tilts without a helm,” Renwick said, an astonished look on his face. “He could have killed you!”

  Hadrian glanced over his shoulder at Murthas hobbling off the field with the help of two men and shrugged. “I survived.”

  “Survived? Survived? Murthas didn’t even touch you, and you destroyed him. That’s a whole lot better than just survived. Besides, you did it without a helm! I’ve never seen anyone do that. And the way you hit him! You punched him off his horse like he hit a wall. You’re amazing!”

  “Beginner’s luck, I guess. I’m all done here, right?”

  Renwick nodded and swallowed several times. “You’ll go on to the second round day after tomorrow.”

  “Good. How about we go see how well you do at the carousel minor and the quintain. Gotta watch that quintain. If you don’t hit it clean, the billet will swing around and knock you off.”

  “I know,” Renwick replied, but his expression showed he was still in a state of shock. His eyes kept shifting from Hadrian to Murthas and back to the still-cheering crowd.

  ***

  Amilia had never been to the tournament before. She had never seen a joust. Sitting in the stands, Amilia realized she had not even been outside the palace in more than a year. Despite the cold, she was enjoying herself. Perched on a thick, velvet cushion, she draped a lush blanket over her lap and held a warm cup of cider between her hands. Everything was so pretty. So many bright colors filled the otherwise bleak winter world. All around her the privileged were grouped according to their station. Across the field, the poor swarmed, trapped behind fence rails. They blended into a single gray mass that almost faded into the background of muddied snow. Without seats, they stood in the slush, shuffling their feet and stuffing hands into sleeves. Still, they were obviously happy to be there, happy to see the spectacle.

  “That’s three broken lances for Prince Rudolf!” the duchess squealed, clapping enthusiastically. “A fine example of grand imperial entertainment. Not that his performance compares to Sir Hadrian’s. Everyone thought the poor man was doomed. I still can’t believe he rode without a helm! And what he did to Sir Murthas…well it will certainly be an exciting tournament this year, Amilia. Very exciting indeed.”

  Lady Genevieve tugged on Amilia’s sleeve and pointed. “Oh, see there. They are bringing out the blue-and-gold flag. Those are Sir Breckton’s colors. He’s up next. Yes, yes here he comes and see—see on his arm. He wears your token. How exciting! The other ladies—they’re positively drooling. Oh, don’t look now, dear, they’re all staring at you. If eyes were daggers and glares lethal…” She trailed off, as if Amilia should know the rest. “They all see your conquest, my darling, and hate you. How wonderful.”

  “Is it?” Amilia asked, noticing how many of the other ladies were staring at her. She bowed her head and kept her eyes focused on her lap. “I don’t want to be hated.”

  “Nonsense. Knights aren’t the only ones who tilt at these tournaments. Everyone comes to this field as a competitor, and there can only be one victor. The only difference is that the knights spar in the daylight, and the ladies compete by candlelight. Clearly, you won your first round, but now we must see if your conquest was a wise one, as your victory remains locked with his prowess. Breckton is riding against Gilbert. This should be a close challenge. Gilbert actually killed a man a few years ago. It was an accident, of course, but it still gives him an edge over his opponents. Although, rumor has it that he hurt his leg two nights back, so we shall see.”

  “Killed?” Amilia felt her stomach tighten as the trumpet blared and the flag flew.

  Hooves shook the ground, and her heart raced as panic flooded her. She shut her eyes before the impact.

  Crack!

  The crowd roared.

  Opening her eyes, she saw Gilbert still mounted but reeling. Sir Breckton trotted back to his gate unharmed.

  “That’s one lance for Breckton,” Leo mentioned to no one in particular.

  The duke sat on the far side of Genevieve, appearing more animated than Amilia had yet seen him. The duchess ran on for hours, talking about everything and anything, but Leopold almost never spoke. When he did, it was so softly that Amilia thought his words were directed to Maribor alone.

  Nimbus sat to Amilia’s right, frequently glancing at her. He looked tense and she loved him for it.

  “That Gilbert. Look at the way they are propping him up,” the duchess prattled on. “He really shouldn’t ride again. Oh, but he’s taking the lance—how brave of him.”

  “He needs to get the tip up,” Leopold noted.

  “Oh, yes, Leo. You are right as always. He doesn’t have the strength. And look at Breckton waiting patiently. Do you see the way the sun shines off his armor? He doesn’t normally clean it. He’s a warrior, not a tournament knight, but he went to the metal smith and ordered it polished so that the wind itself could see its face within the gleam. Now why do you suppose a man who hasn’t combed his hair in months does such a thing?”

  Amilia felt terrified, embarrassed, and happy beyond what she believed to be the bounds of emotion.

  The trumpet blared, and again the horses charged.

  A lance cracked, Gilbert fell, and once again Breckton emerged untouched. The crowd cheered, and to Amilia’s surprise, she found herself on her feet along with the rest. She had a smile on her face that she could not wipe away.

  Breckton made certain Gilbert was all right then trotted over to the stands and stopped in front of Amilia’s seat in the nobles’ box. He tossed aside his broken lance, pulled off his
helm, rose in his stirrups, and bowed to her. Without thinking, she walked down the steps toward the railing. As she stepped out from under the canopy into the sun, the cheers grew louder, especially from the commoners’ side of the field.

  “For you, My Lady,” Sir Breckton told her.

  He made a sound to his horse, which also bowed, and once more the crowd roared. Her heart was light, her mind empty, and her whole life invisible except for that one moment in the sun. Feeling Nimbus’s hand on her arm, she turned and saw Saldur scowling from the stands.

  “It’s not wise to linger in the sun too long, milady,” Nimbus warned. “You might get burned.”

  The expression on Saldur’s face dragged Amilia back to reality. She returned to her seat, noticing the venomous glares from the nobles around her.

  “My dear,” the duchess said in an uncharacteristic whisper, “for someone who doesn’t know how to play the game, you are as remarkable as Sir Hadrian today.”

  Amilia sat quietly through the few remaining tilts, which she hardly noticed. When the day’s competition had ended, they exited the stands. Nimbus led the way and the duchess walked beside her, holding on to Amilia’s arm.

  “You will be coming with us to the hunt on the Eve’s Eve, won’t you, Amilia dear?” Lady Genevieve asked as they walked across the field to the waiting carriages. “You simply must. I’ll have Lois work all week on a dazzling white gown and matching winter cape, so you’ll have something new. Where can we find snow-white fur for the hood?” She paused a moment then waved the thought away. “Oh well, I’ll let her work that out. See you then. Ta-ta!” She blew Amilia a kiss as the ducal carriage left.

  The boy was just standing there.

  He waited on the far side of the street, revealed when the duke and duchess’s coach pulled away. A filthy little thing, he stared at Amilia, looking both terrified and determined. In his arms he held a soiled bag. He caught her eye and with a stern resolve slipped through the fence.

  “Mi-milady Ami—” was all he got out before a soldier grabbed him roughly and shoved him flat. The boy cowered in the snow, looking desperate. “Lady, please, I—”