The squires’ melee was still hours off and only a few servants were to be seen, making the final preparations to the fields by removing stones, shoveling cow droppings, spreading rushes and wood chips over the muddier patches in the grass and roping off the area designated for spectators. Pocket did not want to have his view blocked by the throng of mac Gabráin’s clan folk that were likely to attend the contest. Everyone would be taller, so Pocket stayed close by the tourney field, ready to claim a spot at the front, watching for when the crowds began to gather. He found a rock to sit on, up off the wet ground and settled in to wait, hoping it would not rain.
Pocket found it odd that the feast following Coalspur’s funeral was a boisterous spectacle compared to the tourney that was to come. The Great Hall had been packed with long tables and benches, each filled to bursting with noisy feasters. All of the knights and squires had been there, shoulder to shoulder with mac Gabráin’s clansmen and even the more important of the Roost’s servants, the Mumbler among them. Lackcomb and the Knights Sergeant had a table to themselves. Áedán mac Gabráin sat with them, gravy in his fiery beard. Pocket wished he had been selected to refill their cups, but the Mumbler had him serving the squires at the far end of the Hall. Cocky and boisterous, they all had a great thirst and Pocket was kept busy, his arms aching with the weight of the flagon, but he cast an eye at the Grand Master’s table whenever he was spared the slightest moment.
Sir Corc sat with the other Knights Errant, not drinking too much nor eating too little. Sir Corc the Constant, his brothers called him. Pocket had not yet had a chance to speak with the knight since his return for the funeral, but he dared not approach him during the feast lest the Mumbler see his dallying. Sir Corc only looked his way once, along with the rest of the Hall, when Pocket tripped on the outstretched leg of a squire and fell hard to the floor, smashing the empty flagon. He felt shamed as he picked himself and the broken pieces off the floor, all eyes on him, the Mumbler staring hardest of all. Seconds later, the feast resumed and the eyes turned back to their drink and company, but Pocket saw Sir Corc’s face, turned over one shoulder, linger a little longer before turning back to his food.
When the feast was ended Pocket was sore and weary to the bones, wanting nothing so much as his little bed and Napper’s furry company, but before he made it out of the Great Hall, the Mumbler called him over, babbling in his low incomprehensible voice. Pocket did not need to understand the words to know he was being chastised. The Mumbler hated waste and a broken flagon was a waste. Pocket had been a waste of time ever since he was put into the Mumbler’s service, and the one thing the man hated wasting most was time. As punishment for breaking the flagon he was to help clear the Great Hall. And on it went, Pocket not hearing a word of it. The Mumbler was not cruel by nature and never struck him, but his disapproval was a living thing. Nothing would satisfy the man, leastways nothing Pocket ever did.
He kept himself well away from the Mumbler’s notice over the following two days, so that he had a good chance of going to the tourney without some useless chore getting in the way. In truth, Pocket knew he would not have missed the tourney for anything and would simply have neglected any assigned task. Whatever punishment the Mumbler cooked up would be worth suffering to see the knights compete for Coalspur’s sword. During his years at the castle, Pocket had watched the squires train for endless hours, drilling in quarterstaff, sword, spear and mace. But a true combat between knights, sworn and spurred, was something he never dreamed would happen. Unlike the funeral, the tourney was open to all whose duties did not prevent them from attending. Pocket was out of the castle and down the mile or more to the field not long after the sun came up on the appointed day.
And now he waited.
He might have dozed on his rock, but it was too cold for sleep, so he sat and tried not to look at his bag of cakes. An eternity passed before the squires came marching down from the castle, all fifty of them, not a one passing up the chance to win glory for himself. Pocket stood when he caught sight of them on the road from the Roost. He took up a place right behind the rope and it was not long before a sizable crowd of humans from the neighboring villages packed in behind him and all around. He was jostled and pressed, but held firm to his spot, clutching the rope with both hands, the scratchy fibers rubbing against his chin.
The squires split into two equal groups and gathered on opposite sides of the field. Most bore mace and shield, but a fair number carried only their iron tipped quarterstaffs. The heads of the maces were smooth and round, covered in leather with neither flanges nor spikes, but they looked heavy and stout enough to drop an ox if swung with enough force. The squires wore their traditional skullcaps and quilted jerkins over hauberks of studded leather. Over this light protection each group wore colored surcoats, one side wore black, the other green. The two groups milled around, some joking at one another, others stood silent and focused. Pocket wondered if any of them were afraid. He would be. But knights, even would-be knights, were not small, like he was.
They were bold, courageous and trained at arms, eager to win their spurs and Coalspur’s sword. Pocket could never win that sword, but he was here and would see who did. He smiled and looked about to see if anyone shared his enthusiasm, but no one met his eye.
Soon, Grand Master Lackcomb and four of the Knights Sergeant took their places on the platform. They were dressed simply in wool tunics, lacking the armor and finery displayed at the funeral, but they were armed as ever. Yewly the Salted and Mallander Smokebeak wore swords, Worm Chewer bore a monstrous maul on his shoulder and the Old Goose leaned on his spear. The Grand Master carried his heavy pole axe, but of Coalspur’s sword there was no sign. There were no stools or benches, not even a chair for the Grand Master, so Lackcomb and his officers stood just like the crowd on the ground. Lackcomb spent a moment surveying the field and the two teams of squires, his dead eye sweeping over them and then he nodded to the Old Goose. The aged coburn stepped forward, his head and neck devoid of feathers, his comb shrunken and blackened; the effects of a horrible burn suffered during a siege, Pocket knew. In commanding tones he addressed the squires, announcing the conditions of the melee.
Twenty-five per side and only the last four standing would go on to the knight’s tourney. Lack of consciousness or a declaration of yield removes a combatant from the contest. Killing blows, thrown weapons, dishonorable attacks to the back and the use of spurs to injure were all prohibited. The squires listened intently and with respect, but Pocket had little doubt they had been told all this before, likely more than once. The Old Goose wished them all skill in battle and the courage to fight with honor.
The squires formed up and Pocket felt a tightening in his gut. The squires in green aligned in a block, five ranks of five, while their opponents, the black surcoats, formed a tight wedge. At the head of the wedge was a large squire, brandishing a mace in each hand. Pocket did not know many of the squires by name, but he knew Gulver. Thick of neck and shoulder with feathers of a brown so deep they were almost black; he was big even by coburn standards, towering above the others behind him. He smashed his maces together and waited for the signal.
There were only thirty yards of ground between the groups and the damp air between seemed to grow heavy, stiffening as the squires prepared to charge. The sudden horn blast made Pocket jump and a terrifying screech split his ears as the two sides rushed at one another. For a moment it seemed neither group was gaining ground, their legs pumping in place, their talons scrabbling ineffectually in the mud and then they collided. Gulver, at the tip of the black wedge, smashed into the front rank of the green squires and went flying over when his opponent ducked, slamming a shield into his chest and heaving him into the air. The force of his own charge carried Gulver over and he landed hard in the mud behind the last rank of green surcoats, but he was up in an instant bellowing a challenge. Two of the green squires peeled off the back rank and engaged him, their quarterstaffs whirling. The black wedge had failed to penetrate th
e block of the greens and broke upon it like a wave. The black surcoats fanned out, attempting to surround their enemies and then all was chaos.
Pocket lost the individuals and saw only the mob, weapons rising and falling, the harsh sounds of wood and metal striking together. The mud was thrown in angry gouts between the fighters, covering them in thick grime, making it difficult to tell green cloth from black. Pocket heard cries of pain and triumph, calls of “Yield!” sprang from the din and the battle played out in vicious scenes that jumped from the teeming mass of pressure and violence. Pocket saw one squire take a mace blow to the face, his beak spraying blood and then he went down, lost from view and the attention of his attacker. Two squires fought back to back against a dozen or more, pivoting endlessly around to fend off the crushing numbers and then they were gone, lost in the press.
Another pair, muddied and bloodied, rolled on the ground, not four yards from where Pocket stood. They beat at each other with fist and elbow, shoulder and head, as they struggled in the muck. One wrestled atop the other and his fist closed around the haft of a discarded mace, its head broken off. As the heavy wooden handle was raised to strike, the squire on the bottom cried, “Yield!” his hands flung up in pleading defense. Heedless, the other struck downward. There was a sickening crack and the defeated squire lay still. The victor stood and was casting about for another foe when Worm Chewer knocked him to the ground. The Knight Sergeant stood over the squire, cursing him for a dishonorable coward. He raised the huge wooden maul high over his head and the squire begged for mercy. Pocket prepared to look away, his eyes half closed, waiting for the heavy weapon to drop. Worm Chewer froze and slowly lowered the maul.
“You have mercy, bantam!” Pocket heard him snap, using the demeaning name for squires. “I give it to you, as a true knight should! As you should have done! Now get your brother to the leech and see he does not die! Go!” The old knight kicked at the squire until he gathered up the foe he had bludgeoned and fled the field. Worm Chewer ducked under the rope and stalked back to the platform, reaching into the pouch at his belt to fill his beak with a fresh wad of the pink crawlers that gave him his name.
Pocket turned back to the rest of the field and found the melee had shrunk to only a few fighters. Nearby, he watched a squire with a quarterstaff hook the end of his weapon behind the lip of his opponent’s shield, flinging it away before spinning to deliver a solid strike to the gut with the other end, laughing all the while. His winded opponent went down, holding up a hand in defeat, unable to speak. The staff wielder helped him to his feet and clapped him on the back as he hobbled from the field.
At the center of the field, the huge squire Gulver was still standing, only he had lost one of his maces. His latest opponent was pinned under his talon, unconscious. Three others were harassing a single warrior at the far end, his shield taking a good deal of the punishment, but the blows rained down and he yielded quickly. The trio turned and stalked back to the center of the field. Gulver nodded to them and they formed up behind him. Those four and the laughing squire where all that remained. The four wore black. Small patches of green showed through the mud on the garb of the loner. The crowd was silent, watching. Pocket held his breath.
“Best to yield now, Flyn!” one from the trio called out. “We got you four to one and Gulver counts for three all to himself!”
The laugher, the one called Flyn, did not respond. He wiped some mud off his staff and peeled his skullcap from his head, shaking his comb free. Without warning he bolted forward like an arrow, straight toward the four. Gulver braced himself, his mace held low and ready. Flyn did not break stride, closing the distance swiftly, vaulting sideways as the hulking squire swung the mace in a vicious arc toward the ground. Flyn was in the air, the mace passing harmlessly under, and landed next to Gulver, delivering a hard strike to the brute just above the hip. The staff never stopped moving, the iron tip coming around to land solidly on Gulver’s wrist, disarming him and then sweeping like a broom at his feet, spilling him over facedown. Flyn landed a final blow to the back of Gulver’s skull before he hit the ground, where he landed hard and did not rise. The trio never moved.
“And I count for ten.” Flyn laughed and turned his back, walking from the field.
“Four remain!” the Old Goose declared from the platform. “Four for the knights’ tourney!”
Pocket let his breath rush out and cheered with the rest of the crowd, remaining at the rope long after the others dispersed. He watched the squires muster on the other side of the field, those that could still stand talking amongst themselves and congratulating the four victors. Flyn’s display was impressive, but none of the squires stood a chance in the knights’ tourney. They were good fighters and well trained, but not yet admitted into the proud ranks of the Order. The Knights of the Valiant Spur were fearsome, every one tried and tested in the harsh wilds of the world. Many of them had fought giants in Middangeard and emerged victorious. The Dread Cockerel often quested in Outborders, Blood Yolk slew a half dozen baobhan sith single handedly. In his day, Yewly the Salted killed a kraken and the Grand Master himself used to hunt Unwound in Airlann. It was noble of Coalspur to grant the squires a chance for glory with his final request, but what could these young struts do against such seasoned warriors?
The squires made their way back to the castle, some limping, others carried. The captains of the Order had long since departed. The knights’ tourney would not commence until noon, so Pocket was again left to wait. There were more people about now and some of the villagers had come with pushcarts and wagons, forming a small market to tempt the tourney goers with food and trinkets, clothing, tools and charms. He wandered through with the rest of the crowd, wishing he had coin or goods to trade. He would get a knife or a thick, warm shirt or maybe something for Moragh if he could do ought but dream. The sellers kept casting dark looks his way and guarded their goods closely when he passed by, so Pocket decided to leave the little market before too long.
Remembering his apple cakes, Pocket found a quiet place by a low stack stone wall that bordered the field well away from the suspicious eyes of the villagers. He untied the string around the bag, pressing his face into the opening to smell the sweet, bready aroma, before reaching in and selecting a cake. The dough was cold now, but still soft and sweet, the apples sharp and delicious. He munched happily, feeling instantly warmer and wondered what the rest of the day would bring.
Bronze Wattle would win the tourney, of that he was certain. He was the bravest of the Knights Errant, his deeds already lauded in song and tale. The Dread Cockerel was the deadliest sword, but some whispered he was a merciless killer, lacking in honor. Surely the blade of one as valorous as Coalspur would not be won by such a knight. Both Stoward Thom and Banyon Deaf Crower of the Knights Sergeant were said to be competing as well, which would explain their absence on the platform during the squires’ melee. Those old war birds were still formidable and would likely give the younger knights a beating, but Pocket doubted they would walk away with their former Master’s sword. Of course, if Lackcomb himself fought none stood a chance. Not since Mulrooster had a Grand Master been so deadly and so feared, but Pocket did not think he would fight today. Any knight who challenged the Grand Master to single combat and bested him was granted leadership of the Order. A tourney fight might not hold with the tradition, but if Lackcomb were beaten, his days would henceforth be plagued with challengers.
Pocket’s musings were interrupted when he saw a group of human boys coming towards him. He tensed and waited. Why now? He was just eating, not bothering anyone. He had spent most of his life alone, wishing for company, for friends, but he learned long ago he was not meant to have such things. If these five boys were coming to ask him to join a game or share a jest, then the hope of lonely years would come joyfully true. But that was not what they were coming over to do, and Pocket knew it.
“Lookit here,” said the tallest boy when they got close. “What you doin’ now?” The question was directe
d at Pocket, but it was the boy’s companions who responded with sneers and side glances at one another.
“I am waiting for the knights’ tourney,” Pocket told them with a smile, hoping it would shield him. “Are you going to watch, too?”
They ignored his question. “He’s that changeling’s get,” said the sickly boy with cruel eyes. “The gurg what lives up in the bird’s castle.”
“That true?” asked the tall boy. “You a skinchanger?”
“My mother was human,” Pocket said, struggling to keep his forced smile. “I do live in the castle. I have a cat.”
“He’s a mutt,” said the pale, grinning one. “All that hair on him, look. He’s half dog.”
They all laughed. “Must be,” the tall leader leaned in. “That why you’re so hairy, gurg boy? Was the gruagach a dog when he rut with your mum?”
Pocket did not answer. They would not have heard him if he did, with their laughing. His responses were meaningless. These boys had chosen this course and nothing he said now would make any difference. It was only a matter of how far they might take it and that uncertainty did not ease his mind, but he sat and waited, keeping his eyes wide, his face open, acting as if he did not understand, hoping they would tire and go away. A foolish hope.
“So you come to watch the cocks fight?” said the handsome boy with the sandy hair. “See the sport?”
“It is not sport,” Pocket said. “It is an honorable trial to find who is worthy of the sword of Coalspur, so that the legacy of his valor may live on and bring justice to the world.”
They did not laugh, just stared at him stupidly, their eyes narrowing.
“What you got in the sack?” asked the shortest one with the thick eyebrows.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 11
