"No, Alric. They're still preparing. It looks to be a good turnout today."
"Who do we favour?" asked the young prince.
"Keep an eye on young Jack, Alric. I think he might surprise you."
"Why is that, Uncle?"
"Take a look," he said, pointing. "See that older man down there, the one with the neatly trimmed grey beard? Do you know who that is?"
Alric stood to get a better view. "Can't say that I do. Is he someone important?"
Edwin smiled, "That's Ned Hathaway. He was the champion of Weldwyn years ago. He's come out of retirement to help Jack Marlowe."
"Marlowe, I know that name," pondered Alric.
"So you should, he's the son of the Viscount of Aynsbury.
"Aynsbury, that's where Father purchased my horse."
"Yes, the Viscount is quite proud of his stables. His breeding stock is said to be the best in the kingdom."
"I'm surprised," said Alric, "that the viscount allows his son to joust. Isn't it dangerous?"
Edwin chuckled, "Young Jack has always been headstrong. He'll do whatever he wants, and his father will simply have to put up with it; he's the only son, you see. Besides, I think secretly, the viscount is proud of his boy."
"They're mounting," interrupted Alric, the excitement raising his voice.
* * *
Lord Jack Marlowe hoisted himself into the saddle with ease, then held out his hand, waiting, while a servant rushed up with his helm. The young cavalier looked around the assembled crowd, spotting a group of women sitting near the lists. Jack was a good looking man, and he knew it. The cocky warrior smiled at the ladies as he placed his helm upon his head, the crowd cheering him on. Seizing his lance, he expertly guided his horse to one end of the lists.
His opponent, an imposing man, clad in a red surcoat, waited restlessly at the other end, his horse pawing at the ground. The two combatants nodded at each other, and then the man in red lowered his visor and set his lance. With a yell from the official, the horses began their trot toward the inevitable clash of steel. They quickly picked up speed, the trotting soon replaced by the thunder of galloping, and the crowd's yells grew in intensity as they approached each other.
There was a collective holding of breath at the moment of impact. The younger cavalier had placed his lance to perfection, catching his rival squarely on the chest. His opponent flew backwards, hurtling from his saddle, crashing into the ground below. Jack galloped on, only slowing his horse's pace as he arrived at the opposite end. He manoeuvred his mount into the turn, then looked back at his foe, removing his helmet to gain a better view. The red cavalier lay still, a group of men rushing towards him. Alric, noticing the local Life Mage running to assist, wondered how it felt, being struck from a horse. A moment later the mage began incanting and, much to everyone's relief, the man in red waved his arm to indicate he was fine.
"Outstanding," exclaimed Edwin. "Did you see how Jack twisted in the saddle, just before impact?"
Alric had been too excited to notice, but feigned acknowledgement, "Yes. Is that rare?"
"Rare?" uttered his uncle. "I'll say it's rare. I've never seen its like. If his timing had been off, he'd have been skewered."
"How did that help?" asked Alric, eager to learn.
"Well, you see, Alric, by twisting as he did, he angled his shield to deflect his opponent's blow."
"Couldn't he have just moved his shield?"
"Shifting his body put more weight into the deflection. It was a masterstroke! The man must be a lunatic to try that. Let's go down and meet him, shall we?"
"Now? What about the next joust?"
"Oh, we have plenty of time. When they call the healer in, there's always a break. They'll want to make sure he's all right before they continue."
"Very well, Uncle, lead on."
The two of them made their way out from the box, which was slightly raised at the centre of the tournament field. Edwin led them onto the grass, and as they strolled toward Lord Jack, Alric spotted the man waving to the young women. He had ridden over to the seats and was leaning from his saddle as a lady gave him her kerchief.
"I see he has supporters," remarked Edwin.
"Supporters?"
"Yes, people who admire him. It's half the reason they joust, I think."
As they drew closer, Edwin called out, "Lord Jack?"
The young cavalier turned from the ladies to see his approaching visitors. A smile of recognition erupted on his face, and he bowed in respect.
"Your Highness, Lord Edwin."
"An impressive display," remarked Edwin. "I take it you've been keeping that in reserve?"
"Indeed," Jack replied. "I have a few tricks I'm saving."
"A risky tactic, I should say," Edwin stated.
"The rewards make the risk worthwhile," Jack replied, casting his eyes at the beauties nearby. "Tell me, Your Highness, what did you think?" he asked, now looking towards Alric.
"I think you're mad, Jack. You could have been killed."
The cavalier smiled at the comment, "Mad Jack, I like it. Suits me, don't you think?" Once again he glanced at the young ladies, who smiled in delight.
"Well," continued Edwin, "I shouldn't like to keep you from your duties, Jack."
"That's awfully kind of you, Lord Edwin," Jack replied. "I would hate to disappoint my supporters."
"Come along, Alric," Edwin prompted, "the other competitors are lining up. We need to get back to our seats."
They began making their way back to the Royal Box. "What do you make of it, Alric," his uncle asked.
"I've always wanted to joust," he replied. "I'd be a cavalier myself, if I could."
Edwin laughed, "Your father would never allow it. You're a royal, how would it look to have you speared in a tournament?"
"I know, I know, but I can dream, can't I?"
Edwin tussled his hair, "That's the spirit, Alric, never say die."
"Never say what?"
"Die, Alric. Never say die. It's an old expression, your father used to say it a lot when we were young. It means never give up, keep the hope alive."
"Of course, I knew that."
They sat back down in their box, waiting for the next round to begin.
"You seem distracted lately, Alric. Is something bothering you?"
Alric kept staring at the cavaliers gathering below as he answered, "Just the usual. I don't know my place. I'm not the heir, and I'm not the spare. I'm just... well, I don't know what I am."
"You're still young Alric, give it some time. You'll figure it out."
"I suppose so, Uncle."
"Tell you what," Edwin continued, "after the tourney, I'll take you down to the stables. We can talk to the competitors, maybe invite them back to the Palace for a drink."
"We can do that?"
"Of course we can, you're a prince, aren't you? Might as well have some fun with it."
Alric smiled, it was true. He might not have any real responsibilities, but he damn well had coins, so he might as well take advantage of it.
* * *
It turned out that cavaliers can't resist free ale, and so a number of them had taken the young prince up on his invitation. Alric was enthralled by their stories, though he suspected many of them were made up; there were far too many battles mentioned, at least to his mind. If all the stories were true, the kingdom would still be at war, even now! Once the alcohol was flowing freely, the conversation turned to another type of conquest; that of women and Alric felt out of his depth. It was his uncle who finally came to his rescue.
Alric sat on a chair, nursing a tankard of ale as the cavaliers regaled each other with tales of their accomplishments, ignoring the young prince. Each boast was louder and more ribald, in a quest to outdo their peers. Edwin rose from his chair, coming to stand over Alric, his shadow blocking what was left of the late afternoon sun which peered through the window.
"Heard enough?" he asked.
Alric looked up, his uncle appearing t
o his mind like some overpowering ancient hero. "I think so, Uncle," he replied, his voice slurring slightly.
"I think you've had enough of this," Edwin said, removing the tankard from the young prince's hand. "We should get you out of here."
"What about the cavaliers?" asked Alric.
"Let them be, they've earned it. I'll have them chased out later." Alric made to stand and found his legs were having difficulty working. "Easy there, now," urged Edwin, "take your time. There's no hurry."
His uncle, taking his arm to steady him, led Alric from the room, the noise of the champions of Weldwyn dying in the background as they made their way through the Palace.
"I think," said Alric, stopping suddenly, "that I might have to be sick."
Edwin's eyes opened wide, "Let's get you seated, and I'll arrange a bowl of some sort. We can't have you vomiting all over the Palace now, can we? What would your mother say?"
He sat down rather heavily onto a bench seat that was in the hallway.
"I'll be fine," he said, "I just need some water."
His uncle disappeared down the hallway, a concerned look on his face. Alric sat back, resting his head against the wall, willing the ale to remain undisturbed in his stomach. He heard a door open, and then the familiar voice of his oldest brother, Alstan.
"He left early this morning, Father. I doubt he'll show his face around here anymore. There's nothing left for him in Weldwyn."
His father's voice, deeper but similar to his son's, boomed out, "About time. I can't stand people who work against their sovereign; it's the worse crime imaginable, in my opinion. You must remember that Alstan, for one day you'll be king."
"Yes, Father," the elder brother replied. "Do you think he'll cause any further problems?"
"I've made it quite plain in the capital that no one is to support his plan to rebel against the King of Merceria. We can't afford a war right now."
"Should we be taking precautions?" Alstan asked.
"I've sent word to the cities on the border. They'll keep an eye out for him. Hopefully, he'll skulk back under whatever rock he crawled out from and never be heard from again."
"So," muttered Alric, "the usurper has left. I suppose it'll be back to boring again. Pity, I was looking forward to a little excitement, not much happens around here these days."
He thought back to the joust and saw himself mounted on a large black horse. He was Alric the jouster, champion of all the cavaliers! A hand shook him awake, and he opened his eyes to see the face of his father looming over him.
"Alric? Are you all right?"
"Yes, Father," he stammered out, surprised at the interruption.
"Then get yourself to bed, boy. The last thing we need is a drunken prince passed out in the hallway."
Alric slowly rose to his feet and stood, wobbling, as he straightened his tunic. "Yes, Father," he said and staggered down the hall.
"And there," remarked Alstan, "goes the future of Weldwyn."
Three
The Traitor
Spring 960 MC
Alric's cavaliers, as they soon came to be known, had been a welcome diversion for the young prince, but now he had grown bored of them. It became apparent that they had little respect for him, but a great deal of respect for his coins, and so he simply stopped hosting them. This had the secondary effect of allowing him to awake each morning refreshed, rather than hung over.
It was a dreary morning this day, with dark clouds threatening rain. A portend, perhaps? He shrugged off the thought; the Gods didn't send portends, they merely watched things unfold. Mankind was far too fickle by itself to demand the direct attention of the Gods. He had decided to wander downstairs and get something to eat, but as he began descending the staircase, he heard rapid footsteps and turned to see Alstan hurrying behind him. His elder brother rushed past, ignoring him, his face decorated with a look of concern.
"Alstan?" he called out, but his brother kept going.
This must be something exciting, he thought, and so he followed along behind. Down the hallway Alstan ran, his younger brother desperately trying to catch up, his stride not quite up to that of his taller brother. Alric rounded the corner to see him enter their father's study, and rushed forward, grabbing the door before it could fully shut. He opened the door slightly, peering inside to see his brother, along with his mother, father, and uncle Edwin. Alstan was talking in a rush while everyone listened to him intently. Alric slipped into the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
"We've just received news, Father. I'm afraid it's bad," Alstan began.
"Spit it out, son," the king urged.
"I have just received word from Falford. Lord Garig has convinced the baron to support his plan."
There was a collective gasp in the room, and the king looked to the queen. "This is bad," Queen Igraine said, "if troops from Weldwyn cross into Merceria, it will be war."
"We must put a stop to it as quickly as possible," said Edwin. "We have to act before it's too late."
The king absorbed the details. "It's likely already too late. By the time we send troops to Falford, they'll have crossed the border."
"What shall we do?" asked the queen.
"We must do what we can," announced the king. "What are our options, Edwin?"
The slightly younger man pursed his lips in thought before speaking, "We must arrest the baron immediately, of course. We have to take action to show we don't support this."
"What if he's crossed the border with his troops?" asked Alstan. "Do we go after him?"
"No!" decreed the king. "Under no circumstances do you cross the border."
"I agree," said the queen, "it would only make the matter worse. If we cross the border to follow, it might be construed as a full-scale invasion."
"Send me," implored Alstan. "I can leave within the hour. I'll arrest the baron. Perhaps, if we're fast enough, we can get there before they march; it takes time to assemble an army."
"Very well," the king agreed, "leave as quickly as you can. Take a company of horse. I'll issue a warrant for his arrest immediately."
"Let me go with him," piped up Alric. "I can help."
The king turned in surprise at the sound of his youngest son's voice but recovered quickly. "Very well, Alric, go with your brother, but remember my words, gentlemen; under no circumstances are you to cross the border."
Alstan turned and quickly left, with Alric following along behind.
The door closed and the queen looked to her husband, her face full of understanding. "You think it's too late, don't you?"
"I do," he replied. "We received word today, but the message likely took five or six days to get to us. It'll take just as long for Alstan to get there. The army has marched, I am sure of it."
"Then Malin help us," the queen avowed, "for the future of the kingdom is now in jeopardy."
The ride to Falford was long and arduous, and by the time the rooftops of the city came into view, Alric was sore. He considered himself an excellent horseman, but five full days in the saddle had left him with aching legs, and a backside that begged for release from the saddle.
The city looked so peaceful from this point of view as the contingent rode down the hill toward the river valley wherein lay the town. No guards accosted them, and Alric's fear that the city had risen in revolt were soon put to rest. They entered the cobblestone streets, making their way to the baron's estate; a large house set back from the river. To their amazement, they were welcomed; a groom taking their horses, seemingly unaware of any impending emergency. Could they have been wrong? They were escorted inside, where a servant offered them food and drink. The baron, they were told, was indisposed but would be with them shortly.
"What do you make of it, Alstan?"
His elder brother looked about the finely appointed room, before speaking, "It looks pretty normal here."
"Could the reports have been wrong?"
"No," Alstan said defensively, "it's from a trusted source."
&nbs
p; "So what do we do?"
"Don't offer any information. We'll talk to him first, then arrest him once we confirm some details. Just follow my lead."
"Very well," Alric agreed.
Shortly after the door opened, the Baron of Falford stepped through. Lord Hartly Babbington was a middle-aged fellow, with a rosy complexion and a healthy appetite. His robust frame was tightly squeezed into a well-made surcoat, while jewels adorned his fingers.
"Your Highnesses," he began, "I'm sorry I wasn't here to welcome you, but your visit was most unexpected, and I was otherwise engaged. I trust you've been looked after?"
"We have," replied Alstan. "Thank you. Your servants have been most gracious."
"Excellent," their host said, moving toward a chair. "Pray sit, and tell me the purpose of your visit."
"We have heard," said Alstan, taking a seat on a comfortable looking armchair, "that an army was raised to invade Merceria."
If they were hoping to see surprise on the baron's face, they were very disappointed. "That's true," he said, simply. "What of it?"
"Only the king can order troops across the border. It's an act of war!"
"My dear prince," the baron replied, "calm yourself. I assure you that no Weldwyn troops have entered Merceria."
"But troops did march?"
"Yes, certainly," the baron said, smiling.
To Alric's mind, the nobleman was playing a devious game of some sort.
"Can you explain how that can be true?" Alstan said at last. "Did troops enter Merceria from Weldwyn or not?"
The baron paused to take a sip of wine. "Yes, Your Highness, troops did cross the border, but they were not from Weldwyn. They were mercenaries."
"Mercenaries?" Alric blurted out. "Where would mercenaries come from?"
"Perhaps the term 'mercenaries' gives the wrong idea," stated the baron. "Let's instead call them volunteers."
Now it was Alstan's turn to speak out, "You let troops cross into Merceria without royal approval. You've committed treason!"
Heart of the Crown Page 2
