Bayrd spared a quick glance for that other part of the camp where the red and white banners of clan ar’Diskan fluttered in the morning breeze and his many retainers and body servants surrounded Lord Serej, assisting him to dress and arm. That made Bayrd smile grimly to himself, because while such behaviour was typical of Serej, it was more usual to see even high-clan kailinin-eir putting on their own harness. No matter how careful and dedicated a man’s servants might be, the only person who needed to be really, totally sure that a battle armour had been fitted properly was the man inside it. It was entirely possible that Serej-eir might believe that superior rank granted superiority in all things, even the handling of weapons; but Bayrd remembered that sword-cut from last night, and while there had been weight, it had lacked any true focus of power. A woodsman with an axe could have struck better.
He tucked his shirt into his breeches and stamped into his boots, secured all the laces and buckles, then began sorting out all the various parts of his own armour from its storage box before climbing into it, securing each piece to the next with all the care of one who knows how much he might need its protection later. The combat leathers went on first, padding against the abrasion of the light mail-shirt that followed; then leather leggings plated with discs of black steel; sleeves and a coif, both of mail over more leather, even though for the present he could leave his helmet off and allow the coif to hang loose behind his head; the tsalaer cuirass itself, black scales laced in blue and white; and finally the plates of metal for shoulders and arms.
Bayrd performed a deep knee-bend, lunged with one leg and then the other, squatted, stood again, bent over and to either side, raised one arm and then both together, and after all that adjusted a strap here, a leather thong there, and did it all again. Only when he was satisfied that he was flexible enough not just to move at all while encased in sixty pounds of metal, but to do so effectively, did he lock the buckles shut and tuck the trailing ends of laces out of harm’s way. Once the weapon-belt with its three scabbards was buckled around his waist, he was as ready to fight as he could ever be. Whether he would be ready to appear as one of the principals in a formal duel took rather more thought.
Bayrd gave some consideration to whether or not he should wear a Colour-Robe or even one of the ar’Talvlyn crest-coats, because although he had heard about formal duels, read about them, and been instructed in their etiquette by his father, he had never actually witnessed one. There were certain honours and respects paid from one duellist to the other, and one such token of regard was the wearing of family crests or Colours. However…
Given how boorish and ill-mannered Serej ar’Diskan had been last night, he suspected that no such honour would be paid to him, and the thought of matching slight for slight was a tempting one. But then again, as a man suspected of ambition – however false that might be – prudence as well as common courtesy dictated that he observe all the niceties. With that in mind, Bayrd decided on the same elyu-dlas that he had worn the previous day when speaking to Albanak-arluth. If it had been good enough for the Overlord, then it would be good enough for Lord Serej.
At least, it had been then.
He shook it out, and looked at the once-handsome garment in despair. Yesterday had been bad enough, but when he had wadded it up to make his pillow last night, he had not expected he would be needing it for a formal appearance first thing in the morning. All he could do was to sprinkle it with water and make sure that most of the worst wrinkles seemed to be running in more or less the same direction, then pull it on over his armour before it dried. To make up for the creases, he put his crest-coat over the top of all, squared up all the visible hems in a hopeful sort of way, and – trying not to think what messages of intent such an array was giving out – decided the ensemble would have to do.
When he looked about him, the faces of his relatives had become suddenly less eager than their voices had been suggesting; because they knew what he wanted. The principal in a duel was accompanied by at least one Companion, the allied or neutral witness who carried his banner and whose presence – officially at least – ensured fairness and honourable behaviour from his own as well as from the other side. Bayrd sighed. He had been expecting too much, too soon. They were more than happy that he should restore his own reputation, and increase that of clan ar’Talvlyn, by putting his life at hazard, but none of them wanted to become directly connected with his actions by acting as his banner-bearer.
Well, no matter; the blue and white clan Colours were on his long robe, and the halathan crest of a spread-winged eagle was embroidered in silver at shoulders and collar of the coat. If he went to meet Serej without supporters, flags or banners, there was every chance that instead of disrespect it might suggest a laudable modesty.
Then Marc ar’Dru arrived, in a hurry and slight disarray, wearing half-armour with his own crest-coat over it, and Bayrd realized that he might have a formal Companion after all. He didn’t care overmuch for the younger man’s carefree grin: it was very much the grin of someone who knew that whatever happened during the course of the day’s events, by virtue of being from an independent family he wasn’t really going to be involved. Bayrd objected to his expression of bright-eyed eagerness as well, even though Marc was probably more keen just to see the duel than to see anyone actually killed.
No matter that the Albans had been mercenaries in Kalitzak or Droselan service; their service had been peaceful for too long – or not long enough. Fighting, at least in single combat, still had an aura of romance about it: something from the old tales. As if there was anything romantic at all about two men who when all was said and done should have known better, trying to hack each other apart with lengths of sharpened steel.
He wondered sometimes where thoughts like that one came from, because they were most definitely unAlban and inappropriate to any kailin who was still, however lowly, by blood and descent a member of the warrior class. At least, Serej ar’Diskan would probably say so – and possibly others as well. Bayrd didn’t care. Maybe he did think too much, as everyone seemed to claim he did. He didn’t care about that, either. He was liked well enough in spite of it, or maybe because of it, and he saw no reason to change in an attempt to gain more widespread approval.
Then Marc ar’Dru bowed, lower than was strictly proper, so that a kailin concerned with good form might have taken exception, and though he gave no outward sign of how he felt, inwardly Bayrd shook his head. He was only four years older than Marc, but there were occasions when it seemed much more. This was one of them. Instead of the neat braid at the back of his head which custom dictated he should have worn, the younger man’s fair hair was caught back in a long plume floating loose in the early-morning breeze around his tanned, handsome young face. So that was what Mevn had meant about the new fashion. With that, and the black armour and the crest-coat over it, her brother appeared romantic and dramatic enough for any number of stories.
And Bayrd considered privately that the plume would have looked better clamped to the top of his helmet.
“Are you ready?”
Bayrd stared at the younger man, amazed that anyone could sound so much like they felt. Light of Heaven, how can anyone be so bright so early in the morning? Especially this morning…?
“Ready enough.”
“Then shall we…?”
Marc’s cheerful voice trailed off at the expression on Bayrd’s face. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he said gently. “Your manners, perhaps?”
Marc blushed bright red, and his hand flew to his mouth in embarrassment. This was a more formal occasion than most, and required among other things a more formal greeting than the one he had just given Bayrd. “Er…” This time when he bowed low from the waist it was proper Third Obeisance, which perhaps paid compliment to Bayrd’s age and military seniority but was still more than a kailin of equal status was entitled to. At least it served to cancel out his earlier clumsiness. “Forgive me – I, uh, I…”
He cleared his throat and tr
ied again. “Bayrd-an, kailin-ilauan ar’Talvlyn, I, Mareckh kailin-ilauan ar’Dru, whom you in past days have been pleased to name as friend, would hold it both honour and privilege to stand by your side and be your Companion and your banner-bearer in this present matter between yourself and Serej-eir ar’Diskan, ilauem-arluth and Lord of clan ar’Diskan.”
An honour for whom? thought Bayrd, but he kept the thought to himself. “It is good for any man at contest to have a Companion to stand by his side in such a matter,” he said, “and better when that Companion is a friend and not just a retainer of his House.” He bowed slightly. “Honoured by this, I accept you. Be honoured by this: take up my banner, and be my Companion at arms.”
Then he strode off without waiting for Marc, who for lack of anything more personal to Bayrd, grabbed for the nearest ar’Talvlyn clan banner and hurried to catch up.
* * * *
The custom of duelling had a long history in Alba – wherever The Land of Alba happened to be at the time. It meant that internecine disputes among the clans could be settled, if it was agreed in advance that the outcome would be accepted as settlement, by two individuals fighting rather than two clans – or two halves of the nation, if it came to that. In the earliest days, that fighting might not end in death or even in the spilling of blood, since it might have been established in advance that demonstrably superior skill was also a demonstration of superior rights in whatever disagreement had prompted the argument in the first place.
It was all very civilized and courteous, and of course like all basically simple civilized activities, it began to attract interference. Rules and regulations began to govern its conduct, and customs and traditions extending supposedly back into the dim haze of long ago might actually have originated five years before as a good idea from some clan-lord with too much wine on board. Before many years had passed, the austerity of judicial combat had become surrounded with the glamorous – and dangerous – mystique of honour.
Once, for a man to have fought in a duel was enough; then it was necessary for him to have won; then, to have killed his opponent. That killing led to blood-feud as often as not, and eventually the formal duel became just one more source of the kin-strife it had been intended to replace.
Bayrd did not intend to observe all of the conventions, only those that worked to his advantage. As the challenged, it was his privilege to meet the challenger at whatever time he felt inclined, so long as it was between dawn and sunset of the appointed day. Nor was there any requirement to duel only with swords: it could be swords indeed, singly or as a pair with the shortsword, as Bayrd had demonstrated to Serej only last night. But it could also be axes, or maces, or even lance and bow on horseback, and there were cherished records in some clans of such combats having taken place, to the credit of whichever ancestor had been involved.
When they reached the part of the fortified camp marked by their red and white flags as clan ar’Diskan territory, Serej was eating breakfast and ostentatiously ignoring their approach. Bayrd was not especially surprised; he knew the strategies well enough by now. This was a standard tactic, though it was usually employed by the challenged as a means of delaying and unsettling the challenger. In that case, nothing could be done but wait; in this, with rights and traditions in his favour, Bayrd could insist. But he felt sure that Serej was banking on a low-clan warrior not daring to interrupt the Clan-Lord ar’Diskan on his own ground and before his own people.
Serej, Bayrd concluded, had made yet another mistake.
The delay was intended deliberately, of course. But whether it was a duellist’s ploy or just another insult, he was not prepared to stand around while the clan-lord broke his fast, digested the meal and possibly had a little nap afterwards before finally deciding that it was time his injured honour should be avenged.
For his part, Bayrd had eaten nothing, merely rinsing his mouth out with a swirl of tepid water. He had to wound, and only wound, making it grave enough to put Serej out of the fight but not so severe that the man might die of it. At the same time he had make it quite plain to any observers that the wounding was no accident. but gentlemanly restraint in the face of excessive provocation. To do all that, he would need to be as light on his feet as possible. Not fed, and most especially, not drunk. It was an annoyance.
Life could have been so much simpler if he had really intended mayhem, for then he could have sat quietly, sipping at his beaker of water and counting the number of times Serej ar’Diskan filled and emptied his great wine-cup. Just watching and waiting, while the clan-lord slowed his reflexes and thickened his brain with more of the copious draughts of wine that did him principal duty as breakfast. That would have been an admirable choice even now, except that it was difficult for either side to fight safely when one or the other had been drinking. Never mind the damage it would do to Serej, an accidental stumble onto the point of his blade could do Bayrd’s reputation as much harm as any deliberate long swing at the clan-lord’s neck.
He sighed, and waved Marc forward.
“My lord ar’Diskan,” said Marc ar’Dru formally, “you have given challenge, and heard it accepted before impartial witnesses.” They were ar’Talvlyns and his relatives, so that was not entirely true; but given their attitude towards Bayrd, it was true enough. “He whom you challenged has come freely to this place. Is it your wish that this fight should continue?”
Ar’Diskan looked up from his platter of smoked meat and fresh-baked griddle bread, chewed thoughtfully, spat out a fragment of something and took a long drink of wine before troubling to reply. “Ah, the upstart and his fashionable friend. Or should that be, more than friend?”
Marc’s mouth fell open and even Bayrd, working hard at keeping himself on a tight leash, allowed himself a small blink of surprise. Was this clan-lord so confident of his rank and status that he could insult and possibly end by challenging every younger kailin in the entire Alban camp?
Then he looked at Serej’s face and realized with a clarity he had not felt before how very mean and nasty the man’s eyes were. He had the look of someone who hated well, liked few or seldom, and loved not at all. Small wonder that jab of his last night had gone home so deeply. What sort of life did this man’s household have? His wife, his children, or his servants. He was an unpleasant creature, probably better dead – but that would be a duty reserved for someone else.
“So you want to fight now?” ar’Diskan said, and to show his lack of interest in the reply, selected another toasted sausage with the point of his eating-knife and ripped off a chunk with big, square teeth.
“I would not keep you from your breakfast, my lord,” said Bayrd, “except that I would like to get back to my own.”
“Where you are going—” Serej began to say, but Bayrd silenced him with a quick sweeping gesture of one open hand that was more dignified than anything the other man had done so far.
“My lord, I know the threats already. Can we dispense with them just this once?”
“I would not have thought you quite so eager to go out into the dark, ar’Talvlyn.”
“I am eager to be done with this nonsense.”
“So then…” Serej pulled the remains of the sausage from his knife and flung it to a dog. That casual waste – and the animal itself – told Bayrd something more about where Lord ar’Diskan saw himself in relation to everyone else. The half-sausage, no matter how small, was a part of their limited supplies, not just for clan ar’Diskan but for everyone – and it had just been wasted. More, the dog was a pet, a small, yappy, curly thing; a hunting-hound would have been more forgivable, since they at least worked for their food. But this…
Perhaps something of the way he thought showed in his face, but ar’Diskan leered unpleasantly at him. “You prefer cats, I suppose,” he said. It was true enough, but the implications of the tone of voice in which he said it meant that there was no need to elaborate any further.
Bayrd did not waste his breath. Instead he backed off just far enough to be out of rang
e of any unpleasant surprises before he bowed to the clan-lord, then set off with Marc to attend to the final preparations for the duel. Such things as pulling up his mail and leather coif, making it snug around his face and over his chin before lacing it shut; putting on his helmet and securing that; fitting the warmask in place over cheeks and chin. And finally, walking with Marc at his side to the expanse of flat sand that the receding tide had newly exposed.
As challenged, he had choice of ground as well as of everything else, and he would have been reluctant to fight over any terrain that ar’Diskan selected. The man was enough without honour towards those he regarded as inferior that Bayrd could easily have suspected him of digging and concealing spike-lined pits.
Marc drove the ar’Talvlyn banner into the sand, stepped back, took Bayrd’s crest-coat and Colour-Robe and then, with a small bow of courtesy to the blade, accepted the sheathed taiken as well. There was nothing special about Bayrd’s longsword, neither history nor name; that was the prerogative of higher clans, or older swords. But it was a weapon for fighting against kailinin of any rank, and thus worthy of their respect at all times.
The three weapons each had their separate functions: the taiken for attack in battle, the taipan shortsword for defence of honour, person and home – and the tsepan dirk for dying. It was for a fallen friend, or even enemy, still alive but shattered beyond the aid of any surgeon. But mostly, marked as it was on the pommel-cap with its owner’s crest, it was for the man who carried it, so that there would always be a way to hand to ease his pain, and yet no blame for his dying could attach to the merciful hand which gave him this final gift.
Greylady Page 8
