by Damien Black
The Eorl cleared his throat and called for Baalric. ‘Play us a ditty there! The prize-giving is done, now it’s time to feast and make merry!’
‘Why didn’t you say something?’ Adhelina hissed as they sat down to eat.
‘I’m quite sure no words on my part were necessary,’ Wilhelm replied, nonchalantly breaking off a chunk of bread and popping it in his mouth. ‘All is going just as I had expected,’ he added, reaching for his goblet.
Adhelina did not need to ponder those words over long, for presently Torgun returned. He was carrying something in his hand. As he drew level with the tables she saw it was a mail gauntlet.
She felt her heart sink as the Northlending strode up to where Braxus was sitting. Baalric stopped playing as Torgun threw it down on his trencher.
‘I trust my meaning is plain enough,’ he said loudly. ‘I believe the challenge event takes place the day after tomorrow, and I would fain have satisfaction.’
Braxus rose, drew his dagger and drove it into the table.
‘Satisfaction you shall have, Torgun of Vandheim,’ he said coldly. If he felt any fear he gave no show of it. Torgun towered a head higher than him, his powerful frame dwarfing the Thraxian’s. And yet Adhelina had seen him best the Northlending that very day…
Torgun gave another curt bow before walking calmly to his place at table. The Eorl motioned for Baalric to play and ordered more wine. Adhelina looked at him with scorn.
‘You contrived this,’ she accused him.
‘Hardly,’ he sneered. ‘Those rakehell foreigners could be counted on to provide us with more sport. Once they’ve put each other in the infirmary I’ll only have to deal with that dolt Agravine.’
‘They are brave knights all three!’ Adhelina protested. ‘Far better men than the one you’ve chosen for me.’
Wilhelm turned towards her. His breath smelled of wine as he leaned in close. ‘Even now, you still don’t understand do you? I don’t give a fig what kind of man the Lord Storne is – as long as he is Lord Storne! You don’t get to marry for love, you are an Eorl’s daughter.’
‘And did you obey the same law when you married my mother?’ asked Adhelina.
Her father glared at her, but she wasn’t done yet.
‘I wonder did you love your darling daughter, or was it her mother’s image you saw? Perhaps that explains why you can’t bear to see me married to a man I actually care about. It’s your way of punishing me for not being her.’
The tirade was unfair, and she regretted it directly it exited her mouth. Her father said nothing, but stared at her with bulging eyes. He stayed like that, frozen, for a few moments. Then he turned and beckoned to a page boy.
‘My daughter has had over much fresh air and wine today,’ he said. ‘Send for an escort to take her back to the castle. Her lady-in-waiting shall also need one, to return to Lothag.’
The page scurried off to obey. Wilhelm sat back and drained another goblet.
Adhelina swept a restless glance across the feast she was being dismissed from. None of the men who had borne her favour looked happy. Torgun and Braxus sat a few pews away from each other, staring sullenly at their trenchers and making little talk. Agravine looked flushed from too much wine, and glowered at his rivals with resentment.
So much for living in a romance.
Vaskrian sat at table feeling heartsick. The squires’ fare was good and hearty, almost as appetising as the board reserved for the nobles uptable, but he had no stomach for it. Two men he admired more than anyone were at daggers drawn. In two days’ time one or both of them could be dead.
‘And all for a woman,’ he muttered, pushing gravy around his trencher aimlessly with a hunk of bread. The horse was an excuse, even he could see that. His master’s love rivalry with his hero had turned mutual dislike into hatred. He felt sure the Code of Chivalry would be better off without the Laws of Romance. Glancing across the green he caught Horskram’s eye. The dour adept scarcely looked more happy. For once, he suspected, they were in complete agreement.
‘There goes your bodyguard, Master Horskram,’ Vaskrian muttered, catching Adelko’s glance and sharing a frown with his friend.
‘Why so glum, lad?’
He turned to look at the speaker, who was addressing him in his own tongue. Vaskrian was sat at the higher end of the squires’ table, just next to the table reserved for errants and other poor knights. He recognised him immediately. Sir Wrackwulf, the black knight. This close he could see his nose was bent and broken. His mouth flashed a grin that showed several of his teeth were missing.
‘An old wound, but a defining one!’ he chuckled, seeing the squire staring at his ugly features. ‘Took a mace in the face at the Tower Castle Tourney in Lundheim. First and last time I ever entered a melee without a great helm!’
‘You jousted well at the tournament,’ said Vaskrian, not knowing what else to say.
The burly knight raised his tankard and took a hearty slug. ‘Not well enough to carry the day, but you can’t win ‘em all, eh?’
‘One day I hope I’ll win a tourney,’ said Vaskrian, then let his voice trail off. That was the old Vaskrian, full of hopes and ambition. Why fool himself now?
‘You don’t look so sure of yourself,’ said Wrackwulf, spearing a shred of venison with his dagger. ‘Your master couches an excellent lance, a tad unusual but he gets the job done!’
‘He’ll need to fight even better on foot and no mistake,’ said Vaskrian. ‘Sir Torgun is the best swordsman… well, in Northalde at least. Probably the Free Kingdoms.’
‘Hmm, I know him well enough,’ said Wrackwulf. ‘Bested me at Saltcaste, and Linden the following year. Doubt if he remembers. Sir Torgun’s victories are not easily counted.’
‘So you’ve travelled amongst my countrymen, then?’
‘Travelled the whole of the Free Kingdoms,’ said Wrackwulf, in between mouthfuls. ‘Been playing the tourney circuit since I won my spurs. I usually do better in the melee – I won Linden ten years ago, but that’ll be before your time. I also won the Crescent Bridge Tourney in Rima.’
‘Really? They have the best of the best there don’t they? I heard Sir Azelin won it five times in a row!’
‘Aye, he did… I won after he went off on crusade. Best thing that ever happened to my career that. Reus be praised but piety’s a wonderful thing!’
The jovial knight drained his tankard. Vaskrian had to smile. Sir Wrackwulf was flippant and impious, but clearly a good man to drink with.
And by Reus did he need a drink.
‘I suppose you’ll be headed to Linden next then?’ he asked. ‘Seeing as outlanders can’t compete in the melee here this year?’
Wrackwulf frowned. ‘Aye, I’ll have to break my nag to make the entry quota on time,’ he said. ‘Fie on this blasted wedding, politics is never good for tourneys!’
‘You’ve a tenday by my reckoning,’ said Vaskrian, feeling a sudden pang of homesickness. ‘Though don’t expect to find the castle as you left it.’ He told Wrackwulf of the civil war.
‘Aye, I’d heard as much,’ said the Vorstlending. ‘Well you’ve seen a fair bit of action by the sounds of it – and that’s only judging by the parts you’ve told me!’
The knight grinned, his eyes twinkling over his bushy black beard.
‘You’re… perceptive,’ said Vaskrian lamely.
‘An errant has to be, if he expects to live long in the wilderness,’ replied Wrackwulf. ‘A Northlending turns up at Graukolos squiring for a Thraxian in the company of the finest knight the White Valravyn can boast… well, there’s a tale there to be sure! Not to mention the two Argolians and those strange burns you bear.’
Vaskrian touched his congealed cheek self-consciously. At least the ale did a good job of dulling the pain.
‘Ach, forgive me lad,’ said Wrackwulf. ‘No harm intended, no offence meant! Your business is your own – all I’m after is a drinking companion for tonight.’
That caught Vaskrian off gu
ard. ‘But… why me? I’m just a squire. You’ve all these knights…’
‘What this lot?’ said Wrackwulf, motioning towards the other errants sat about the board. ‘I’ve known these old sworders for years! You never get anything more interesting out of them than what tourneys they’ve fought in, what tavern wenches they’ve bedded, and where they’ll be off to next! That’s why I make an effort to learn languages besides Decorlangue – you meet so many more interesting people!’
‘But… I thought knights aren’t supposed to mix with squires and common folk,’ said Vaskrian.
Wrackwulf snorted. ‘Landless, lordless knights like us don’t get treated much better,’ he said. ‘They aren’t too bad here, but you should see what they’re like in Pangonia.’
Vaskrian’s heart sank. Their next destination. The last thing he needed now was the prospect of more snobbery.
‘Well I’ll drink with you gladly,’ he said, keen to do something to raise his spirits. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to hear the parts of my story that I didn’t tell.’ The drink was starting to loosen his tongue.
The knight refilled both their tankards and winked at him. ‘Well, some of it at least – if you can manage.’
Vaskrian paused. He knew Horskram was particular about secrecy. Having said that, Wrackwulf was good company, and the ale was flowing freely…
Even if he left out half of it, that still left him plenty of tales to tell.
Away from the din of the night-time revel, Sir Torgun sat alone before his pavilion, idly running a whetstone up and down his sword. He had soon lost interest in the feast after Adhelina was sent away.
Adhelina. Just the thought of her name brought a tightness to his gut. The burns on his chest had not fully healed, but next to the inner pain he now bore they were nothing.
Hadn’t he loved a girl called Hjala once? Or had he ever loved her at all? It was impossible to tell. He had heard that some men and women were capable of loving more than one paramour, in different ways, but Torgun felt sure he wasn’t among them.
Adhelina. He wished he could be with her now, back at the castle, holding her in his arms, protecting her…
She clearly loathed the man she must marry. No wonder. Hengist was an oaf, a drunken churl who barely knew how to sit a horse. But Torgun came from a high house himself, and understood all too well the duties that entailed. He also knew the effect politicking and intrigue had on a man’s honour. He could challenge the Thraxian, a man of high birth but far from home on errantry: challenge Hengist and he would depute another knight to fight in his place. And another after that, and another.
‘Win or lose she’ll be wed to that cur,’ he snarled at his blade. Driving it into the turf Torgun raised his eyes to the uncaring heavens. ‘O Luviah, thou hast speared my heart,’ he cried bitterly.
For the truth was bitter. The Eorl of Graukolos would bid them leave once the tourney was done; no man in his position could afford to have three swains on his doorstep and risk wrecking a political alliance so valuable. Even Torgun understood that. His older brother Toros would do the same thing – because he had to as a lord of men.
And Wilhelm Stonefist was a lord of men.
‘At least I’ll get Hilmir back, Ezekiel willing,’ he muttered to himself. But even as he said the words, he knew the ostensible reason for their pending duel was only half the story. His Farovian meant a lot to him and the Thraxian had behaved churlishly, but really Adhelina was the cause. He longed to see himself triumphant before her eyes, just as Braxus had been.
Then a horrible thought came to him. Was he bitter about losing?
Getting to his feet he began pacing frantically around his sword. No, that kind of sentiment went against everything he stood for! Surely he could accept one defeat after all the victories he had savoured?
But why did it have to be in front of her? Why couldn’t he have lost any other joust? Why had the Unseen chosen here and now to test him? He knew the answer directly he had asked the question. This was the test.
Falling to his knees, he grasped the hilt of his sword and mouthed a prayer to Virtus.
Plucking his lyre delicately, Braxus had little trouble sounding convincing as he sang The Ballad of Lancelyn and Isoud. An old favourite throughout the Free Kingdoms, it celebrated the great knight’s love for the queen he could never wed. Troubadours and loremasters told that Isoud had been married off to the corrupt and cowardly King Markus of Thalamy, which had nearly driven Lancelyn mad.
It was a feeling Braxus was coming painfully to know: being in love with someone unobtainable was enough to drive a man to distraction. Especially when she was to be wed to a man just like King Markus.
And he was in love. He felt surer of that with every passing moment that pained him due to her absence. Adhelina of Dulsinor, at once so sweet and so bitter to him. He could not get her out of his mind.
‘Do you know any more songs by Guillarme de Leon?’ asked one knight. ‘It has been an age since I was in my homeland, and I yearn for its songs!’
He was a young errant from Pangonia, less haughty and more affable than most of his countrymen. Braxus could not recall his name; he’d had a few stoops of wine.
‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘How about Guillarme’s Lay of the Spider Queen…’
The knight clapped enthusiastically as he broke into the staccato tune, which told the story of the eponymous villainess’s demonic servants that troubled Sir Malagaunce of Triste before he slew her.
The knights applauded when he had finished. ‘Guillarme’s evocation of that era is impressive given that King Vasirius died more than half a hundred years before he was born,’ said one of them. It was Sir Wrackwulf of Bringenheim, the lordless knight Vaskrian had befriended during the feast.
He’s no fool, this one, thought Braxus. Best to keep him close.
‘Aye, ‘tis often the way,’ he smiled, taking a cup of wine from a serving wench. ‘The poets that tell the tales live long after the heroes they sing of! I hear it’s much the same with scripture.’
Horskram frowned at that. ‘I would not have you speak so lightly of the Holy Book,’ he said.
‘Why do you linger here then, to trouble us worldly men of the sword?’ Braxus shot back. ‘Can’t you leave us in peace to carouse? Keeping an eye on your novice, I suppose!’
The adept harrumphed as he quaffed his wine. For a man who rarely drank he held it well enough. ‘That is exactly what I am doing,’ he conceded, prompting a blush from Adelko.
‘No need Master Horskram,’ he slurred. ‘I’m fine.’
A few laughs showed what the assembled company thought of that statement.
There were a good few dozen of them left, scattered about the green in two or three groups of drinkers. Most of the knights serving the Lanraks and Markwards had retired to the castle, gone to seek pleasure in Merkstaed, or decided on an early night ahead of the melee preparations. The outlanders including the tourney regulars had remained at the feasting tables to drink and sing the night away.
Ordinarily Braxus would have felt elated, and had an eye for the wenches who remained to serve them. But as it was he had a feeling of trepidation.
What had he just done?
Just thrown away your advantage, he thought, answering his own question as he idly fingered an instrumental piece. You’ll get thrashed and she’ll see it all.
But what did it matter in any case? Assuming he lived they would be on their way soon, off with Horskram to Rima. After that he would take ship home, to whatever pitiful state Thraxia was in. He could only hope his father had held out against the highlanders, that the King of the Northlendings would remain good to his word and send help…
He knew that was unlikely. Freidheim was a man of honour, but he was also a king. He had to put his own realm first.
Braxus felt his spirits sink lower with every dirge-like note. A hopeless quest and a hopeless romance, his inheritance hanging by a thread and his father’s disappointment to look forward to �
�� what was the point of living?
Another knight, a scarred veteran from Thalamy, strode up and nudged him none too gently in the shoulder.
‘Play something more cheerful, for Reus’ sake! It feels like we’re at a bloody funeral!’
Braxus glared at the grizzled errant and considered challenging him. Then he thought better of it. He’d need all his strength for his duel with Torgun.
‘Alright, dammit,’ he muttered, before breaking into Maegellin’s Five Fine Horses.
For the third time that afternoon, Horskram thumped his fist down on the table and swore.
‘I said the third person singular present subjunctive!’ he yelled. ‘How in the Known World do you expect to fare in Pangonia if you speak their tongue like an illiterate peasant?’
‘I speak it well enough to get by, don’t I?’ Adelko sniped. There was a time when he wouldn’t have dared answer his mentor back. But with the heightening of his sixth sense came strange new emotions that he struggled to control. Or maybe it was just part of growing up: he had just turned fifteen summers after all.
Horskram glared at him. ‘It would help if you hadn’t spent half the night carousing,’ he said gruffly. ‘I should never have indulged you, but after the horrors of our journey…’
‘Most of the nobles speak Decorlangue anyway,’ Adelko persisted. ‘I’ll be alright.’
‘And you may find yourself conversing with those less well-born,’ Horskram countered. ‘Fail to master its native tongue, and a foreign country will always remain a closed book, Adelko.’
He sighed and took a sip of his cows milk. Adelko followed suit reluctantly. It didn’t taste the same as the goats milk he’d been raised on. Besides that his stomach felt queasy. Perhaps Horskram was right about overdoing it on the wine and ale.
Gazing longingly out of the castle window at the sunlit fields below he asked: ‘Will we even be staying that long in Rima?’
‘For my part, I don’t know,’ said Horskram. ‘It all depends on what Hannequin determines our next course of action to be. As for you, I have involved you enough in this business as it is. It’s high time you resumed your studies.’
