“Oh,” Pocket said pleasantly, looking into the sack and trusting to kindness. “Apple cakes. I only have three left, but maybe if we split them in half, there will be enough.” He reached in and pulled a cake out and tried his best to split it in two equal parts, holding them out to the tall boy. He waited with his hands outstretched and the smile on his face, but the boy just stared down at him with loathing.
“I’m not going to eat anything you touched with your filthy gurg fingers.” He kicked his foot across Pocket’s hands. The cake halves fell on the ground and the pale boy stamped them into the mud, grinning all the while. Pocket watched and tried to hold back his tears. Moragh made those and they were his favorite, better than anything these boys had tasted.
“Why did you do that?” Pocket asked and stood up, his mouth full of spit, thick from the effort of not crying.
“You stole them cakes!” said the grinning one.
Pocket bristled and tried to respond, but choked on anger and bottled tears. He tried to step forward, to defend himself, call them all liars, but he was rooted in place, paralyzed by fear and persecution.
The sickly one scooped a wad of mud into his hand and slapped Pocket hard across the face. He reeled and almost fell over, but the grinning one shoved him the other way, while the handsome one cheered them on. The tall boy grabbed for the sack and tried to pull it from Pocket’s hands, but he held tight. His hair was grabbed from behind and jerked hard, bending him backward, something pressing into his back, unyielding. It felt as if his spine would break. Pocket cried out in pain but would not let go of the sack. The jeers continued from the handsome boy, calling insults at Pocket and encouraging his friends. Pocket’s face was covered in mud, forced upward by the unseen hand pulling his hair, a fist or knee grinding into his backbone. He had offered them the cakes, he was kind to them! Why could they not have left him alone? What had he done to them? He hated them! Hated them for their cruelty, for ruining one of Moragh’s cakes and he would not let them take the others! They could snap him in two, but he was going to keep the sack!
The handsome boy’s jeering ceased and Pocket felt the pain in his back lessen, then he was released. Everything was quiet and still. He wiped the mud from his face and looked up. The boys were still there, the short one with the thick eyebrows behind him. He must have been the one who grabbed him. But they were paying him no mind, just standing nervously, tight lipped and staring. Pocket followed their gaze.
“Boys that look for trouble often find it,” Sir Corc said, his voice low. “And sometimes that trouble is more than they can handle.” He stood glaring at the boys, his eyes piercing. The knight’s broad shoulders and thick arms were covered in brown feathers, one hand resting on the pommel of the longsword at his side. “Get you gone.”
They ran.
Pocket felt even more ashamed than when he tripped in the Great Hall. He wiped at the mud on his face and looked away. He was surprised to find the sack still in his hand.
“It was just a game,” Pocket said, eyes downward.
Sir Corc was silent for a moment. “To them it was.”
It was true and the weight of that truth pushed the tears free. “Why do they hate me?”
“They are too young to hate,” the knight answered. “They borrow the feelings of their elders.”
“Like the Mumbler,” Pocket said and kicked at the dirt.
“Master Bannoch,” Sir Corc corrected.
“Master Bannoch,” Pocket repeated. “But he does hate me. You didn’t say he doesn’t.”
“I do not speak for Bannoch,” Sir Corc said and Pocket felt a rising panic.
“I’m allowed to be here!” he said quickly. “I do not have chores today and the tourney is open to all!”
“It is,” Sir Corc nodded. “Moragh told me I would find you here.”
Pocket breathed a little easier and finally had the courage to look up. Sir Corc was unarmored, dressed in a long, grey woolen tunic, belted at the waist.
“Would you like an apple cake?” Pocket asked him.
Sir Corc approached and leaned against the low wall, shaking his head. “I would not take that which you fought so hard to keep.”
“I don’t mind sharing with you,” Pocket said. “And I offered to those boys, but they…” He broke off. He did not know what to say about them.
“They are cowards,” Sir Corc said flatly.
“They were not afraid of me,” Pocket said sadly. “They ran because you were here. I was scared of them even before they tried to take the cakes.”
“You were generous and courteous. And stood your ground, five to one. That is bravery worthy of a knight.”
Pocket could not keep the smile from his face. “Who will you fight in the tourney today? One of the squires who won the melee is very skilled, but you could best him. Do you think you will fight Bronze Wattle or the Dread Cockerel? Do you need help with your armor? I know how it all goes on. I studied the suits in the old armory. When is your first fight?”
Sir Corc looked off towards the tourney field, his comb moving slightly in the cold wind. “I will not be entering,” he said at last.
Pocket gaped at him. That could not be right. Why would he not want to fight? Surely he was not afraid! Even if there were no songs sung about him or tales told of his deeds, he was courageous and skilled and true.
“You must,” Pocket managed feebly. “I will cheer for you. It is the sword of Coalspur, surely…”
Sir Corc shook his head. “I do not need a tourney to tell me I am not worthy of that blade. Come, I shall escort you back to the combat grounds.”
As they set off, Pocket worried over what Sir Corc had said, but try as he might he could not bring himself to understand. Sir Corc was one of the greatest knights in the Order. Or was he? It suddenly occurred to Pocket that he knew very little about him, beyond the fact that he was the knight that brought him to the Roost as a babe. He quested often in Airlann, the Source Isle of Magic, across the narrow sea to the west, but what he did there Pocket did not know. He never heard tell of Sir Corc performing feats of arms, slaying beasts or rescuing villagers. Some of the other knights in the Order were living legends, but Sir Corc was not famed for any particular victory or defeated foe. He was simply Sir Corc the Constant. Could he be craven? Pocket could not believe that. Sir Corc looked cross and Pocket worried he had offended him.
“I must return to the castle,” Sir Corc declared abruptly, “You will not want to miss the tourney.” With that, the knight walked away.
Pocket stood for a while quite puzzled. Noon drew closer and it was true, he did not want to miss the tourney.
The human clansmen turned out in far greater numbers for the knights than they had for the squires and Pocket found it difficult to find an open spot to watch. There were two separate combat grounds for the knights and they would both hold bouts simultaneously. The final victors from the two fields would become the champions that would fight for the prize, but there was no way of knowing who would fight where, so Pocket found the best view he could and trusted to luck that his chosen field would host the knights he most wanted to see.
Again, he was disappointed.
The first match he saw was between Sir Pyle Strummer and one of the squires from the melee. Pocket grimaced. It would have been better if the squire was the flamboyant staff wielder Flyn, whom Pocket wanted to see again, but it was not. This squire looked small and awkward in full armor, the breastplate engulfing him. He held the blunted tourney sword with a shaking hand, his face all but hidden behind his shield. Sir Pyle was not a great favorite of Pocket’s, but next to his opponent he might as well have been the Grand Master himself. The whole sorry display lasted all of half a minute, before the squire was on his back, talons kicking in the air. Sir Pyle was to continue on, the squire was eliminated from the contest.
Pocket heard cheering from the other tourney ground and hopped up and down, desperately trying to see what heroic match he was missing, but the gather
ed mass of spectators foiled his efforts. Crestfallen, he turned back to his chosen field.
The wrong field.
The field that was now hosting Sir Kortigern Hatch and Sir Pikard the Lucky. Sir Hatch was a large knight and young, but he acted as the Order’s standard bearer, eschewing the questing life for the humble, yet honorable duty. By contrast, Sir Pikard was getting long in years and might have served as one of the Knights Sergeant had he not stubbornly refused to leave the Errantry life behind. The fight lasted longer than the first, but Sir Pikard’s title did not prove true and he was forced to yield when his tourney sword snapped in two.
Pocket looked again in the direction of the other fights and scowled when he saw the pale boy who had attacked him sitting atop a man’s shoulders. The boy’s face was full of wonder and awe, a broad smile on his face as he watched some glorious duel from his high vantage; a duel hidden from Pocket’s view by distance and a teeming mass of legs and backsides.
Rumors began circulating through the crowd that Bronze Wattle had just defeated Banyon Deaf Crower in the opposite field and the White Noble was made to yield by one of the squires! Pocket listened with growing apprehension. He was missing it! All the best fights were happening without him! He lived with the knights, he knew of them and their deeds. These unwashed humans were just here for the sport with no notion of what they were witnessing. It was unfair! Pocket thought about pushing his way out of this crowd and finding a way to get close to the other field where the true feats of the day were being performed. But what if he could not get through? What if the people barred his way or accused him of picking pockets as they had done before? He would lose his only spot and not see anything at all and the day would be ruined.
A hearty cheer mixed with laughter went up from the people around him and Pocket turned back to his chosen tourney ground. A smile broke his face. Maybe this was not such a bad place to be after all.
The Mad Capon was the fattest thing Pocket had seen, coburn or otherwise. He waddled out onto the field, his bulbous body encased in armor designed to encompass his prodigious girth. Like many of the knights, he wore no helm to show off his comb, but his pudgy face and fat neck made his eyes and beak seem ridiculously small. Even the tail feathers sprouting from the slit in the back of his straining mail skirt appeared tiny next to his broad haunches. Despite his globular physique, the Mad Capon was said to be a deadly fighter and was feared by many of the other knights. After all, any coburn that would castrate himself to ensure his vow of celibacy was daunted by neither pain nor fear. The fat knight bore a flail and shield, the blunt head of the weapon already swinging lazily around on the end of its chain.
Pocket’s heart leapt when he saw Stoward Thom enter the field. One of the Knights Sergeant against one of the most colorful and famous of the Knights Errant! This was going to be grand! Stoward Thom was short and compact, but still quite strong. He bore shield and tourney sword, his armor well used and well cared for. He wore a mail coif over his head, covering his comb and he saluted his opponent with a smile.
“This could get brutal, Capon,” Stoward Thom said lightly.
The Mad Capon chuckled, his belly bouncing under his armor. “It was always so under your tutelage, sir.” He charged the older knight.
Pocket was taken aback by how fast the Mad Capon moved. He fought wildly, the flail swinging in all directions with reckless abandon. Stoward Thom was quick as well, dodging where he could, interposing his shield where he could not. The head of the flail hammered down and around and down again. Pocket could feel the impacts in his teeth and the crowd instinctively stepped back from the ropes. Stoward Thom could do nothing but defend himself as the fat knight’s onslaught pressed him backward. One clever swing snaked the chain around the older knight’s shield, the head of the flail slamming into his shoulder. Stoward Thom grunted, but his spaulder took the brunt of the blow as metal rang on metal and still the Mad Capon came on. Stoward Thom had not yet made a single attack and Pocket winced as another blow from the flail whipped into his breastplate. Surely he would yield soon! If this kept up there would be naught but jelly inside the Knight Sergeant’s armor. Maybe the Mad Capon would feast on that jelly after the fight was done, but, as Pocket watched, it seemed to him that the Mad Capon was tiring. His blows came less sudden, striking true less often and he was certainly slowing, his ponderous body moving more to its nature.
And then it was over, as quick as it had begun.
The flail came across and the sword met it in the air, the chain wrapping around the blade. The Mad Capon jerked hard and the sword was wrenched from Stoward Thom’s grip. The move left the fat knight open and Stoward Thom did not hesitate. He bull rushed, his shield a battering ram and the Mad Capon fell in an avalanche of flesh and armor, landing in a heavy heap. Stoward Thom pinned the Capon’s weapon arm to the ground with a talon, bashing him in his small face with the edge of his shield, again and again. It took eight squires to carry the fat knight from the field.
Things got much better after that.
Knights fell and victors were named and Pocket felt his luck change, witnessing skill at arms he once only envisioned in his imagination. In a furious battle, Poorly Well disarmed Blood Yolk only to have his own axe snatched from his grasp and used to defeat him. Pitch Feather and Sir Adelard the Pure agreed to fight without weapons in a strange, yet fascinating match where Pitch Feather emerged the victor, but Sir Adelard was so soiled from the mud he looked as black as his opponent. Pocket never saw Bronze Wattle, who battled in the opposite field, but news traveled quickly between the crowds and word was the famous knight was winning every match with honor. The lineup of knights in Pocket’s field was not without renown.
A hush fell over the people when the Dread Cockerel strode into view. Pocket saw him at the funeral, but only from a distance and in dim torchlight. In the light of day, the knight looked out of place, unwelcomed and unwanted. He was tall and rangy, with a sinister, smoke-like grace to his movements. Coburn resemble nothing so much as monstrous roosters, but there was something of the hawk in this one. His armor was the color of soot, unadorned, scarred and ugly; the mail around his legs was made of blackened rings. His feathers were a dirty grey, flecked with white and black, the long, usually vibrant tail feathers completely lacking in color. On his head was a leather coif, similar to the skullcaps worn by the squires, only this one was studded with metal and long in the back, falling around the knight’s shoulders. The Dread Cockerel’s deadly skill with a longsword was almost legendary, but for the tourney he wielded a cruel looking cudgel with an oaken handle and a head of iron. He did not carry a shield.
Pocket watched with horrible fascination as he laid his opponents low, one by one. Sir Kortigern Hatch and Sir Pyle Strummer acquitted themselves valiantly, but in the end they fell before the inexhaustible prowess of the grim knight. Neither of them left the field under their own power. Pitch Feather was no match for him, nor was Blood Yolk’s fury enough to win through. Not even Stoward Thom emerged victorious and he staggered from the field coughing up blood. The Dread Cockerel was indomitable and he alone stood when the matches were completed. And so it would end as Pocket knew it must. The only way this day could end and the outcome was certain. Pocket listened. The other field was silent. Bronze Wattle must have won his last match as well and now he would face the Dread Cockerel.
The final duel was to take place on the same large field as the squire’s melee and Pocket made his way over with the rest of the crowd where they mingled with the spectators from the other combat ground. Pocket shoved his way through, heedless of the curses and got right up to the front. Grand Master Lackcomb and the Knights Sergeant had once again taken up their position on the platform. Pocket saw Banyon Deaf Crower amongst them, looking none the worse after his bout with Bronze Wattle. Stoward Thom was not on the platform, hopefully recovering from the injuries suffered at the hands of his unstoppable foe. That would now be remedied, for the Dread Cockerel’s next opponent was not old, nor
a squire, nor fat. He was the greatest knight of the Order.
The crowd settled and the Old Goose stepped forward. “It has been a day worthy of the knight it honors! Both our remaining champions have refused a period of respite and so the tourney will proceed directly!” A roar went up from the crowd and the Old Goose stepped back. The cheers died as the Dread Cockerel took the field, but Pocket could feel the anticipation growing as the people waited for the next champion to emerge. He felt he would burst as the nervous energy and the whispers grew around him. And then he was there, walking proudly and the voices exploded. Pocket threw his small voice into the tumult.
“Bronze Wattle!” he cried, but his cheer was drowned out, lost in the maelstrom of deeper, larger exclamations.
“Flyn!” the crowd cried. “Flyn! Squire Flyn!”
Pocket lurched. The coburn coming onto the field was slight, his walk a swagger. He wore neither plate nor mail and carried only a quarterstaff. It was the laughing squire from the melee! Pocket looked around at the humans to his right and left, his mouth agape.
“That little cock’s good and buggered,” he heard one man say. “The grey one’s a right monster.”
“Nah,” another man replied. “That Flyn is something. We seen him all day. Quick as lightning!”
“He’ll have to be,” said the first man. “If he plans on staying alive.”
“Well, he knocked that one with the shiny helmet on his back sure enough.”
Pocket whirled on the man. “Bronze Wattle!? He beat Bronze Wattle!?”
The man looked at him dubiously and put a hand on his coin purse. “Aye, he did and many others besides.”
Pocket turned back around and watched as the Old Goose walked onto the field carrying a tourney sword, breastplate and shield. He went directly to Flyn, holding the armaments out. Pocket could not hear their words but it was obvious the Old Goose wanted the squire to use them and Flyn was refusing. The Dread Cockerel was a terror and this cocky scoundrel was going to fight him with nothing but a stick and some leather armor.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 12
