Through a Dark Mist

by Marsha Canham

  Men and women alike watched the remainder of the matches with one eye on the jousting fields and one eye on the far end of the enclosure. When the last pair clashed, tumbled from their saddles, and prolonged their battle on the ground with swords and mace, the spectators grew so incensed by the delay they pelted the combatants with orange peels, figs, and (from the commoners) clods of dung. Hastened into accidentally slitting the throat of his rival, the winning knight limped from the field and promptly broke his sword over the head of a bystander he considered too vocal during the fray.

  Hardly anyone noticed this minor drama as a tense hush gripped the crowd. Pennants snapping in the breeze and the sound of a hammer reinforcing a broken length of the palisade were heard as clearly as if the arena were empty of human life. One by one, little murmurs broke the silence, fortified by anxious whispers and frantic wagering. A cheer went up from the crowded hillside as the flap of the black silk pavilion was lifted aside; a corresponding uproar rose from the bowers as red-faced squires cleared a path for the challenger.

  At first glance, the Scourge of Mirebeau was well named and no less ominous in appearance than his fiery-eyed steed. Garbed head to toe in black, he drew gasps from all sectors, for even his armour had been tempered a gleaming ebony by some sorcerer’s hand. His breastplate, vambrace, and gorget had been hammered with breathtaking precision to mould around the massive musculature of chest and shoulders; his chausses seemed to bulge with the power in his thighs. The visor on his helm was already lowered, sparing the more faint-hearted beauties the necessity of swooning and possibly missing a moment of the excitement.

  He was assisted into the saddle of his destrier by two nervous squires and a terrified groomsman. Not a morsel of food was chewed nor a mouthful of ale supped while the black knight took up his weapons: a steel lance twenty feet long and tapered to a deadly spearhead at one end, and a huge black bat-wing of a shield emblazoned with the snarling figurehead of a wolf wrought in gold.

  On his command, the destrier paced forward, mane and tail streaming white against the uncompromising black. The fount of dark plumes on Mirebeau’s helm danced up and down with each prancing step as the ranks of the spectators melted back, their hands sweaty, their mouths lax with awe. He completed his progress around the field in total silence, breaking only once from a stately gait to pause before the dais and tip his lance in a mocking salute to the regent. Formalities observed, he then steered his horse back to the end of the palisades to await the appearance of his opponent.

  A second murmur, like a swarm of bees passing over a meadow, buzzed through the crowd, surging into a rousing tribute as Lord Wardieu, Baron de Gournay stepped out of his tent into the bright wash of sunlight. The hearts of the women fluttered wildly within their breasts as he lifted a mailed gauntlet in salute. His armour shone like the purest silver, his raiment was blue enough to rival the colour of the skies. Bareheaded, his hair shone gold against the bronzed glory of his tanned complexion, and a swoon or two could not be avoided as he raised the hood of his mail coif and accepted the polished steel helm from his squire.

  With a casual glance toward the waiting black knight, he mounted his destrier—an enormous beast, as white and fierce as the driven snow—and took his own weapons to hand. By the time he had completed his progress, the voices of those who had been the most raucous and scornful throughout the long afternoon were struck dumb.

  En masse, the crowd leaned forward as the herald, dressed in a parti-coloured tunic and plumed cap, proclaimed the nature of this, the final contest of the day.

  “In the king’s name,” he declared solemnly, “a test of skill between Lord Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, and Lord Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay. The winner of this bout—”

  “The winner of this bout,” shouted Prince John from the dais, “will be decided by God’s mercy. The fight will be to the death. The participants have waived the limit of three passes, as well as any and all restrictions pertaining to weaponry and tactics. Any foul is hereby declared fair; any rule may thus be broken.”

  The guests, momentarily too stunned to react, glanced from one end of the list to the other. From his seat on the dais, Friar felt a disturbing prickle of apprehension chill his flesh. A quick glance around the borders of the field—surely the only pair of eyes not glued to the combatants—confirmed his earlier suspicion that all was not what it should be. There were far too many of De Gournay’s guards present, and now, acting on some unseen signal, they were pressing forward, forming a solid wall of steel and bullhide around the field. Here and there a familiar face, paled by indecision, looked to Friar for guidance, but he could only warn them against any rash action with a slight shake of his head.

  “Further,” the regent continued in his most pompous manner, “it has also come to our attention that this is no mere challenge of valour and skill, but a pitting of one man’s honour against another. And since a knight’s name and honour are those things which he should value most above all else, it has been agreed by both parties that the winner shall take all: trophies of armour and gear, as well as lands, titles, and such wealth as both men have acquired through purchase or battle during their lifetimes. Before God and His witnesses, is it so agreed?”

  A flurry of shocked gasps was marked by a general, swirling collapse of delicate figures in the Bower of Beauty.

  “I will abide by God’s decision,” the Wolf said promptly.

  “Or die by it,” the Dragon declared, and reached up to drop his slitted visor into place.

  The herald, an astonished bystander to this point, looked from one end of the lists to the other as the two knights readied themselves for the final confrontation. He started to raise a hand to signal the trumpeters, but reconsidered the gesture as being too flamboyant. He opened his mouth to call the challengers to horse, but since they were already mounted and armed, he thrust his tongue to the side of his cheek and kept his silence. In the end, he slinked back into the lee of the dais and left it up to Prince John to loose the combatants.

  The Dragon adjusted the weight and balance of the long, wickedly barbed steel lance he carried, and a keen eye among the spectators launched a fresh volley of wagering. The Dragon couched the twenty-foot shaft of deadly steel on his right side, directly in line with the approach of the opposing rider. The black knight, it was observed with a cry of amazement, favoured the left, making it necessary to angle the lance over the front of his saddle. A wrong step by his charger, a swerve or a veer at the last moment and the tip of the lance would stray wildly off the course.

  The Wolf, seemingly unconcerned over the flurry of new speculation swelling in the bowers, affected a last-minute adjustment to the fit of his mail gauntlets. His armour, like the Dragon’s, consisted of many plates of steel linked together over a quilted leather surcoat. This, in turn, was worn over a full hauberk of chain mail, and in combination, was like carrying the additional weight of a slender man on his body. His shoulders were covered by metal spaudlers, his arms were sheathed in a jointed vambrace. Hammered and molded cuisses, poleyns, and greaves shielded his thighs, knees, and lower legs, but even though the armour would deflect most of the potential damage of a combatant’s blow, there was nothing but flesh and muscle to absorb the horrendous shock of impact. Massive bruising could cripple a man at shoulder, elbow, or knee even through the layers of link, hide, and steel, and if an opponent became aware of the weakness, he could strike again and again at the vulnerable point until his adversary fell.

  Both knights waited, planned, calculated. Their chargers were still as statues, their armour and silk trappings glinting in the sunlight.

  Prince John stood, the golden arrow raised above his head for all to see. With his black eyes narrowed against the glare of the lowering sun, and his face reflecting avaricious delight, he brought his arm arcing swiftly downward, giving the command for the two destriers to spring into action.

  In a matter of a few heartbeats, the two beasts had thundered to the midway point of the
lists, their riders leaning forward, intent upon the approaching threat. The unblunted tips of the two lances lifted at precisely the same moment and converged into a single line of unbroken steel for a split second before a tremendous crash and scream of metal sent the horses buckling and the riders staggering to maintain their balance.

  The crowd held its breath, then released it in a long, low groan as men and horses separated and galloped to the end of the lists unscathed. Both tossed away broken or splintered lances and called for new ones. Wheeling their destriers around, they set themselves for a second pass, and this time it was the Dragon who reached the halfway marker first, his lance a notch higher and bolder in its objective to strike for the blackened visor.

  The Wolf had to think and react quickly as he saw the flash of steel fill his limited field of sight. He raised his own lance at the last possible moment and hooked it to the inside edge of De Gournay’s, locking the two shafts together, and creating a fiery shower of sparks from the searing friction. The Dragon had no choice but to release his grip on the lance, or risk having his arm torn away at the shoulder.

  Furious and cursing, he rode to the end of the list and screamed for a new weapon. He spurred his horse back into the cloud of hot dust boiling between the palisades, his rage launching him like a bolt of blue and silver thunder, back into the fray. His lance struck a solid blow to the Wolf’s shoulder, gouging through the links of his spaudler and ripping away a goodly chunk of leather and cotton padding from the surcoat below. On their next pass, he aimed for the same spot but missed by several inches, the barbed end of his lance careening wildly off the Wolf’s angled shield.

  On each successive pass the crowd cheered louder. Each crash of horseflesh, steel, and raw power sent ribbons of silk waving madly over heads and pale, trembling hands clutching over hearts. The Wolf warded off devastating blows to his chest and shoulders; the Dragon shook off crushing thrusts to ribs, shoulders, and thighs. Neither rode as straight or as steady as they had during the first run, but neither showed signs of conceding. They were tiring, however, and weakening. Even their horses were taking longer strides to turn and recoup for the next charge.

  Three … five … seven passes! Unbelievable! The crowd was on its feet, stunned by the display of courage and strength.

  The horses converged again, their mouths flecked with foam and blood, their eyes round and wild with fighting madness. When the clash came, the lances locked again and the knights were driven together, neither one willing to give ground, not even when the animals beneath them reared and thrashed and pounded the dividing palisade into a heap of split kindling. Shields hammered into one another and the two knights abandoned their saddles, eager to bring the fight to closer contact.

  Into the choking dust and flying debris was added the deadly glitter of longswords. Within a grinding maelstrom of screaming, pawing horses, their blades hacked and slashed at vulnerable areas of back, neck, shoulder, arm, and thigh. Links were shattered and rivets torn apart; plates of armour were dented, loosened and sliced away by the fury of killing thrusts. Splashes of sweat and blood began to spatter the ground; a thigh was sliced, an arm cut, shields were thrown away and swords gripped in both hands as an end drew inevitably nearer.

  The Dragon took a staggering blow to the side of his helm and felt himself reel sideways into a shifting mass of horseflesh. The Wolf pursued and was on him in the next instant, throwing the full brunt of his weight into the effort needed to bring his adversary to the ground. With the roar of the crowd’s bloodlust in his ears, he succeeded. He heard the Dragon’s breath wrenched from his lungs on a curse of agony as the two landed solidly on the torn earth, then a further curse of outraged disbelief as the Wolf drove the point of his sword into the narrow gap between the Dragon’s helm and gorget.

  His chest heaving and his lungs scalded from lack of air, the Wolf exerted enough pressure on his sword to convince his brother to freeze where he lay. His wounds stung and his muscles screamed in pain; the scarred flesh of his shoulder, back, and ribs demanded vengeance, swift and sure. Etienne’s visor had been jolted loose in the fall, and the wild, pale blue eyes that stared up at him in disbelieving terror were the same cold blue eyes that had once stared down in triumph at the broken and bleeding body he had left to rot in the desert sun.

  “Why?” Lucien demanded. “Just tell me why you did it, Etienne!”

  The Dragon’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “Forgive me, Lucien. I beg you, forgive me.”

  “What? What did you say?”

  The Dragon gasped, braced for death. “Forgive me. The truth is … I am relieved to finally be free of the guilt I have carried with me all these years. Carried it, hated it, loathed the envy and jealousy that drove me to commit such a heinous act. You were my brother, Lucien, and I killed you. I do not blame you for doing this—”

  “Blame me?” the Wolf snarled. “Blame me? I will die a happy man knowing you do not blame me, you soulless bastard!”

  The sword moved forward and Etienne sucked a last breath through his teeth. Their eyes were locked together, blue merging with gray, gray with blue until each became a part of the other. Memories, unbidden and unwanted, struck with the swiftness of a second blade—memories of a lifetime ago, of happy times and shared laughter. For one unsettling moment, the Wolf suffered an image of the two of them practicing at a quintain, their youthful arms barely strong enough to lift a lance let alone aim it at the centre of the fixed target.

  “You were my brother and I loved you!” the Wolf cried. “I would have shared it all willingly with you!”

  “All but the name, Lucien,” the Dragon whispered. “Mine would always have been bastard.”

  The Wolf’s fists trembled, but they could not push the blade of his sword the extra fraction of an inch needed to thrust steel and chain and windpipe into a crush of bloodied tissue and bone. A curse, given on a roar of anguish, saw him lift the sword away and heave it across the shattered wall of the list, a bright, cartwheeling glitter of pitted steel and hollow revenge.

  “Before God, I cannot kill you,” he said hoarsely. “I cannot forgive you, but I cannot kill you either. It will be enough to have the truth come out at last.”

  Etienne raised himself on his elbow, then onto his knees. His one hand massaged the bruised flesh of his throat, his other shuffled through the dust beside him and grasped the hilt of his sword. Drawing on every last ounce of avarice and hatred he possessed, the Dragon brought the sword up over his head, and, with the Wolf already turned to walk away, he brought the heavy blade down solidly across the base of Lucien’s skull.

  The Wolf pitched forward, his senses erupting in a blinding sheet of pain. His body went completely numb and would not respond to any command, not even when he felt the presence of Etienne looming over him.

  “I did not think you could kill a man who begged your forgiveness” he sneered, “regardless of his crime. Coward! Weakling! You do not belong here anymore. Bloodmoor is mine, and I will not share it with a ghost, however noble he might be.”

  He lowered the point of his sword, resting the tip just over the steel lip of the Wolf’s visor. A brief thrust, a surge of sweet vengeance and it would be over … but too quick! Too quick, Etienne told himself. There was still the promise he made Servanne de Briscourt to repay her deceit and treachery. It would please him to see them die together. To hear their screams. To feel their blood run hot and slick over his hands.

  A thrill, carnally delicious in intensity, swept through Etienne and he straightened, raising his voice with the triumph of a conqueror.

  “Guards! Seize this man! He is a coward and murderer and has come to Bloodmoor under false pretenses!”

  “False pretenses?” Prince John was quick to leap to his feet and feign outrage over De Gournay’s actions. “What manner of false pretenses could justify the arrest of Sir Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer?”

  “This man”—the Dragon pointed a contemptuous finger at the dazed, semiconscious knig
ht at his feet—“has committed crimes against the crown—crimes which include the ambush and murder of honest men, and the kidnapping of my own bride. All in the name of the Black Wolf of Lincoln?’

  A roar of disbelief swept through the spectators, rumbling down to an angry murmur as the Dragon again held up his hand for silence.

  “Further, there is proof he intended harm not only to myself, but to you, my liege!” The piercing blue eyes sought out the prince and demanded corroboration. “I have reason to believe he was sent to England to raise his hand against the very crown itself!”

  John gasped, finding it difficult not to applaud the Dragon’s performance. “You say you have proof of these charges, Lord Wardieu—where is it?”

  “It begins here.” With a boldly dramatic flourish, the Dragon leaned over and removed the Wolf’s black helm. The crowd gasped, their shock hanging in the air as they recognized the obvious deceit verified by the unscarred, unblemished face that was angled roughly toward them for inspection.

  When the silence threatened to linger too long, Nicolaa de la Haye jumped to her feet beside Prince John. She had to lean on the rail for support, for she was experiencing the same erotic throes of pleasure she could see glazing Etienne’s features. Her limbs trembled and her belly spasmed. The gratification shivered down her thighs as she raised her fist and incited the crowd to join her screams of: “Treason! Dog! Arrest him!”

  Prince John was given no choice but to nod his head in complete agreement. “Arrest him. We shall get to the bottom of this treachery … one way or another.”

  The wall of guards surged forward and swarmed over the fallen knight. Still reeling from the blow to his head, the Wolf was dragged from the enclosure and taken away in chains to the castle donjon.