“What about the Changelings?” asked Simone. “Because Roél slew their lord, and Céleste killed the witch, and they freed Laurent and Blaise and rescued Avélaine, wouldn’t the Changelings seek revenge?”
“Perhaps,” replied Valeray. “Mayhap some of them can make themselves invisible or change into something so small as to be overlooked—a fly, a flea, a gnat, or some such. But it would take more than one Changeling—in fact at least five altogether; one for each manor, that is—for at times some of these occurrences happen leagues upon leagues apart within but moments of one another.” He turned to Saissa. “Isn’t that correct, my dear?”
“Oui. Certainly within a candlemark of one another, or so my daughters and daughters-in-law and I do say.”
Émile frowned. “And you know this how . . . ?”
“We fly the messenger falcons, and in the message we usually note when the feeling of malignancy occurred. At times it is ’round the mid of night. At other times it is just after dusk. And at still other times it is in the moments ere dawn. Seldom does it occur when the sun is up. But even were these sensings to happen a candlemark or so apart, there is not enough time for a single spy to get from one manor to another. Perhaps, as Valeray says, if several Changelings worked in concert, we would all sense the malignancy nigh the same moment, yet I believe instead it is Hradian—and only Hradian—using some sort of magic to spy on us, for her motives are strongest.”
Émile nodded and took another bite of jam-slathered toast.
“Well then, let us suppose it is Hradian,” said Simone, “is there ought we or anyone can do to counteract it?”
Valeray shook his head. “For the moment, non. Yet mayhap one of magekind can suggest a way. Even so, the nearest mage of worth is days distant; it would take time to fetch him. But even then, if no occurrence happens in his presence, I think he would be as puzzled as are we.”
“But he might have a suggestion,” said Simone.
“Oui, he might,” replied Saissa. “Yet I believe that what we said yestereve still holds: after Rhensibé was slain, the Fates warned us that the remaining acolytes would seek revenge, and they certainly did so. And now there is but one acolyte left. And so there seems to be nought for it but to do as the Fates have advised: stand ready, and be on guard.”
“On guard against what?” asked Avélaine, as she and Liaze and Céleste swept onto the balcony.
Valeray and Émile got to their feet, and Valeray said, “What else, my dear, but Hradian?”
“Oh, poo!” said Avélaine, making a moue. “Can’t we forget about the witch on this day?” She cast a wide gesture toward the arena. “I mean, it’s tourney day, a time for joy and not brooding.” She looked about the balcony and added, “And where are the bright chevaliers?”
“In the armory,” said Borel, as he and Alain stepped onto the terrace, Michelle on Borel’s arm, Camille on Alain’s.
“They choose their weaponry,” said Alain. He gave Saissa a kiss on the cheek, and then took up a plate for himself.
“You do not join them?” asked Émile.
“Non, Sieur Émile,” said Alain. “I’m afraid the Bear would take offense at someone thrusting a weapon at me.”
“The Bear?”
Alain smiled. “I’ll explain later.”
Émile then swung his gaze toward Borel, and the prince said, “Likewise my Wolves,” as if that told all.
“Our combat this day will be in archery,” said Alain.
“Do not forget échecs,” said Camille.
“Oh, indeed, in échecs too,” said Borel.
“And what about you, Sieur Émile?” asked Céleste. “You do not joust this day?”
Émile sighed and looked at Simone. “Their mother will not let me take a run at my own sons nor lift a weapon ’gainst them. But I, too, will take up bow and arrow and stand on the field and compete.”
“And you, Papa?” asked Michelle.
Valeray shook his head. “No warrior am I. Ah, but if you have a lock to pick . . .”
The balcony rang with laughter.
After breaking fast, they all strolled toward the arena, passing jesters and jugglers, minstrels and stilt-walkers, bards and fortune-tellers, hawkers and merchants purveying their wares. Booths of food-sellers tried to tempt them to partake of their fare, and various hucksters called out for good gentlemen and ladies to try their games: axe throwing, mad archery, toss the ball, and other such diversions.
“Why do they call it ‘mad archery’?” asked Simone, as they strolled by the bow-and-arrow booth.
“Ah. The arrows are bent and curved and crooked and the fletching twisted,” said Céleste. “The fun comes in watching their flight toward the many targets. Trying to strike the central bull’s eye and win a prize is quite challenging.”
“Are none of the shafts straight?” asked Émile.
“Straight as a sand viper,” said Borel, laughing.
On they went, pausing a moment before the puppet theater, where the crowd laughed as one of the puppets—a female with a skillet—beat upon a poor, hapless, masked burglar, driving him howling around the tiny stage. As the playlet ended, Borel dropped a coin or two into the passing hat. Then he and the family moved on.
And as they threaded among the throng, the citizens bowed and curtseyed in deference to the royalty, and the royalty acknowledged such with smiles and nods and hand gestures.
At last they reached the arena, and entered the central box. Horns sounded and Valeray and Saissa took the thrones, while the others took seats alongside or down a tier or two before the royal couple. Across the field and beyond a stout fence running the width of the rise, spectators bowed and curtseyed. When the king and queen were seated and the horns sounded again, the citizenry straightened and waited in anticipation.
A herald rode to the ground before the king’s box and saluted and said, “My lord?”
And Valeray replied, “Let the games begin.”
The herald blew a blast on his trump, and the crowd cheered.
After the caber toss—won by a giant of a man, a crofter from the fields in the Summerwood—the herald rode out and about the floor of the arena and cried out, “Mon Roi, ma Reine, et Membres de la Famille Royale, et Sieurs, Mesdames, et Hommes et Femmes et Enfants, I warn you the hammer throw can be quite dangerous, with an errant toss occasionally known to maim or kill an onlooker. So be prepared to flee should one come your way.”
Simone turned to Avélaine. “Is that true? Have people been maimed, even killed?”
“Oh, Maman, worry not, for the hammer throwers are very good.”
Simone frowned and huffed, “Well, someone”—she glanced at Valeray—“should provide high, loosely woven wicker walls along each side of the hammer-throw ring. That way, should the thrower lose control of the hammer, then it would simply strike one of the barriers and fall to the ground and not fly into the onlookers.”
“Ah, but wouldn’t that take some of the thrill out of the sport, Maman?”
“Better a safe wife than a grieving widow,” said Simone.
They watched as throws were made, and as each toss was hurled the crowd roared, Avélaine cheering alongside the men, with Simone frowning at this unseemly behavior of her daughter, even though Céleste and Liaze and Camille and Michelle were shouting just as lustily.
And they laughed as one of the garishly clad and painted jesters ran onto the field and took up the hammer and swung it about and tossed it no farther than a half stride. Jumping up and down in seeming anger, he took it up again and swung it ’round and appeared to drop it onto his foot, and he howled and hopped about, holding the injured extremity, while pointing at it and bawling. And then he fell to the ground, and two more gaudy jesters rushed out with a litter, and laid it alongside the “injured” one and rolled him in between the poles. And when they took it up to bear him away, it seems that it wasn’t really a litter at all, but merely two poles. And as they trundled off, the jester on the ground looked up and abo
ut and then leapt to his feet and ran after the others, shouting, while the crowd howled in glee.
“Oh, isn’t this just splendid, Maman?” asked Avélaine.
Maman, laughing and trying to catch her breath, turned to her daughter and nodded, completely unable to speak.
The hammer throw was followed by the discus, and then the running events, and they were followed by a show of horsemanship, with the animals dancing and prancing and sidling and turning to the oohs and ahhs of the appreciative crowd.
After that display, men on horseback and bearing light lances ran races where they speared small rings from atop willowy wands stuck in the ground. The swiftest one with the most rings would be declared the winner. Rider after rider vied, and time was kept by water draining through a hole in a bucket and through a funnel and into a measuring cup. As each rider started, a judge pulled a plug, and the water began to pour. When the rider rang a bell at the end of the course, the cup was whisked from under the spout and the amount noted—the less liquid the faster the run. The plug was replaced and the bucket refilled and the measuring cup once again set under, and the next rider made his try.
Halfway through the event, the jester entered the contest, and before he finished his single ride, the cup overflowed and the judges replaced it with a pail, and the container above had to be refilled. Amid hoots and laughter and jeers of the crowd, as the water continued to run, the jester yelled, “Oh, oh, help, help, my bucket runneth over!” This brought the other two jesters running onto the field and, amid many pratfalls, they took the rings from the willow wands and, dropping them and retrieving them several times, they at last placed them on the mounted jester’s lance, who then rode back in gleeful triumph, to discover he hadn’t rung the gong. He galloped back to the bell and swung his lance at it, only to miss and fall off his horse, and the animal promptly ran away, with the three jesters shouting and chasing after.
As soon as the whooping crowd settled, again the serious contestants vied for the victory. In the end a young lad of no more than eleven summers was declared champion of that event.
When the archery contest came about, many a man took up the challenge, including Émile and Borel and Alain, and they were joined by Luc and Roél and Blaise and Laurent. In the competition as well, stood Céleste and Liaze and Michelle and Saissa.
Long did the contest last, for there were many vying, yet the number remaining dwindled and dwindled, until at last there were but four: Borel and Luc and Céleste and a man from a place called the Wyldwood—Regar by name, tall and lithe and uncommonly handsome, and many thought he might be one of the Fey, perhaps even an Elf.
Back moved the targets and back, and still none was a clear winner. But finally the range was such that Céleste and her smaller bow, with a pull not equal to those of the three men, at last fell out of the competition.
And now it was Luc and Borel and Regar, and the judges moved the targets one more time, the range now uncommonly distant, and the onlookers gasped at the skill involved. Arrows flew to strike the small central circle afar, yet in the end Borel prevailed by nought but a single shaft. And the crowd roared its approval.
“Well played,” said Regar, running a hand through his yellow hair. “I had not been bested erenow.”
“Who knows?” said Borel. “Were we to have another go, it could readily be you or Luc who would be the champion crowned; and forget not Céleste, for she could just as easily have won as well.”
“Oui,” said Luc. “Last summer it was I who prevailed, and the summer before it was she.”
“Then let us gather her up and share a glass of wine,” said Regar.
“Non, Regar, not for me, but surely you and Borel and Céleste can do so,” said Luc. “I must excuse myself, for I will need all my wits and skill in the knightly competition to come.”
“You are a chevalier, then?”
“Oui. And three contests remain: dueling with épées, the mêlée, and jousting. And I am opposed by three brothers—Roél, Blaise, and Laurent—boon companions and worthy knights all.”
The tips of the épées were slathered with red ochre, and the contest begun, and whenever a hit was made, the judges looked at the mark and decided whether or no it was a fatal strike, a major wound, or a minor one. A fatal blow would of course end the match; otherwise points decided the victor, with an opponent’s own points being reduced if he had suffered a major wound.
The final match came down to Blaise and Luc, and in the end both had suffered a major wound, but Luc then struck Blaise with a second major, and thus was awarded the contest.
Next came the mêlée, and for the first time, amid the chnkk! and thdd! of padded weapons, Laurent was the champion.
By this time it was midafternoon, and the knights retired to their tents to prepare for the jousting.
And a small girl bearing a bouquet of wildflowers wandered through the hustle and bustle of the grounds, as she made her way toward the arena. Finally, reaching her goal, she scanned the guests until she espied the one she sought. Then she turned and traipsed away.
On Camille’s shoulder, Scruff suddenly perked up, and he grabbed a tress of Camille’s golden hair and repeatedly tugged.
“What is it, Scruff? What do you see?”
Scruff chirped excitedly.
Avélaine looked at the wee bird and then at Camille. “What is he doing?”
Looking about to see that no one was nigh, the small girl set aside her flowers, and reached up to her neck and took out a vial. “Remember, my love,” she muttered, “you need to cast a glamour to disguise the dress.” Then she drank down the contents and tossed the vial aside.
“Scruff only does this when he senses a peril of some sort,” said Camille.
“What peril?” asked Avélaine, looking about.
Camille’s own gaze sought the cause. “I do not know.”
“Should we tell the king?”
“Oui.”
There sounded a soft step at the entry to Luc’s tent. Luc turned about to see Liaze. “Come to wish me luck?”
“Oui, beloved, I do, and yet I come for another reason as well.”
“Another reason?” He reached for her, and she came into his arms willingly. “And what might that be?” he whispered.
She gave a low throaty laugh, but then turned serious. “The amulet, the key. I wouldn’t wish it to take damage in the joust. It is too important. Let me wear it as your favor, just as you wear mine.”
“It’s never been damaged before,” said Luc.
“Nevertheless, my love.”
“If you insist,” said Luc, and he released her and lifted the chain over his head. “Here, I give this to you willingly.”
She took the talisman and looped it about her own neck.
From the arena sounded the trumpets; ’twas the signal for the knights to assemble.
“ ’Tis the call to arms,” said Luc.
“Good fortune, my love,” said she.
Luc turned to the table and took up his gauntlets. “Victory this time might be more difficult, for the three brothers have been—” He looked back, but she was gone.
“What do you think it is he senses?” asked Valeray.
“I know not,” said Camille.
Of a sudden Scruff took to wing, and he arrowed toward the dawnwise end of the arena, and in that same moment a crow flew up just beyond. Swiftly did the sparrow fly, but swifter was the crow, and it soon outdistanced the wee bird.
“Ah, ’twas a crow,” said Valeray, relaxing back into his chair.
Camille frowned, but said nought.
In that moment and amid a fanfare of trumpets, the four knights on their magnificent steeds entered the arena—two from the duskwise end, two from the one dawnwise—and a great roar rose up from the crowd.
“Oh, isn’t my Roél quite splendid?” said Céleste, looking leftward, duskwise.
“As is my Luc,” said Liaze, taking her seat and looking rightward instead.
8
Disaster
Disgruntled and chirping querulously, Scruff returned to Camille’s shoulder, the wee bird agitated to a degree she had not seen since a time seasons past when she and the bird had found themselves on an island infested by Redcap Goblins and monstrous Trolls.
“My lord,” said Camille to Valeray, “I think Scruff would not be this disturbed were that a mere crow.”
“Think you it was a Changeling?”
“I know not, my lord, but whatever it was, it upset Scruff mightily.”
A second flourish of trumpets sounded, and Camille turned to see Luc, Roél, Blaise, and Laurent rein up before the royal box. Still troubled, she sat in deference to the formalities.
Colorful were the knights: a blue surcoat graced Luc, and he bore a blue shield with a red rose emblem thereon, both colors marking his demesne, but his black horse—Deadly Nightshade—was caparisoned in scarlet, to represent the Autumnwood; Roél and his pale grey horse were garbed in light green to mark the Springwood, and Roél bore a like-hued green shield embellished with a pale cherry blossom; Laurent wore a white surcoat, and his white horse was draped in white as well, and he bore a dark shield marked with a white snow crystal, and he represented the Winterwood; finally, Blaise was garbed in yellow, as was his dark grey steed, and his yellow shield bore the emblem of an oak leaf, representing the Summerwood.
“My lord, my lady,” said Luc, and he dipped his lance in salute, as did the other three chevaliers.
The king and queen both inclined their heads in acknowledgement, and Valeray said, “Knights, you honor us with your combat. Take your positions, ride with pride and nobility, and may the best man”—Valeray grinned—“or perhaps the luckiest, prevail on this day.”
Raising their lances, they wheeled their steeds and rode to opposite ends of the field: Luc and Laurent to the dawnwise end; Roél and Blaise, duskwise.
And the crowd cheered lustily, various voices therein calling out white, or gold, or green, or blue.
Once Upon a Dreadful Time Page 7
