'Thank you Annabelle,' said Lady Garamont, and the girl curtseyed in response before making her exit.
Lady Calisse stared at Lutheure frankly for a moment, her face immaculate and pale.
She w as a handsome w oman, despite her years. 'Drink your remedy,' she said finally.
Lutheure sighed, eyeing the goblet filled with the stinking concoction with distaste and resignation. Under the stern, watchful gaze of his wife, he lifted it, staring at the sw irling cluster of bark, herbs, and the Lady knew what else, w ithin the muddy, stinking concoction. His wife raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow, and Lutheure sighed. He raised the goblet to his lips and gulped down a mouthful of the foul brew .
He choked it dow n, his eyes watering.
'She is a good servant, that one,' said Lady Calisse, rising from her plush seat.
'Aye, a fine gift she was,' said Lutheure. The girl had entered his service the previous summer, a gift from one of his vassals, the ageing Lord Carlemont.
'If you w ill not rest, just promise me that you w ill do nothing to exert yourself today,'
said Lady Calisse.
'For you, anything, my love,' said Lutheure, closing his eyes in contentment as his w ife began to toy w ith his hair.
'Thank you,' she said, and planted a kiss upon his sunken cheek.
Goblet in hand, Lutheure got up from the table and moved to the w indow. The last six months had seen a dramatic change in the castellan. Though he w as still tall and broad shouldered, the sickness had robbed him of his muscle. His barrel chest had been reduced to a frail cage of ribs, and his arms and legs, once so strong from years of riding, sword practice and war, were wasted and thin.
It w as in his face, however, that the most dramatic transformation had taken place. It w as as if he had aged tw o decades in the space of two seasons. Last summer his face had been strong, broad and noble, and, though he was in his middling years, he had radiated a pow erful aura of strength, virility and command. Now his face was pale, and his eyes flashed with a feverish light. His fair hair was streaked with silver, as w as the long moustache that hung dow n past gaunt cheeks. His cheeks were sunken, his cheekbones protruding sharply, and his eyes were set deep in hollow sockets.
He knew how he looked, but steadfastly refused to accept his deteriorating health. To please his w ife, he had allowed himself to be poked, prodded and bled by a stuttering chirurgeon w ith a strange penchant for leeches, after the rotund priestess of Shallya had throw n up her hands, unable to determine the cause of the sickness. The chirurgeon had consulted with the castle's apothecary, and, together, they had concocted the foul remedy that he w as to drink twice daily, morning and night.
Nevertheless, his health continued to decline, much to the grief of his family and his loyal knights.
Lutheure stared out through the tall, north facing, arched window, revelling in the feeling of warmth as the sun touched his lined skin. For a moment, he felt like his old self, but a hacking cough suddenly rose in his chest, and he w inced as he clutched his chest, the pain fierce. His wife's cool hands took the goblet from him lest he spill it, and she looked up at him w ith eyes full of concern.
'I'm fine,' he w heezed, giving her a w eak smile.
The doors to the private dining chamber w ere slammed open, and Lutheure turned to see his sons enter the room, the tall, smiling Bertelis in the lead.
'Breakfast!' declared the young, sandy-haired knight, sending servants scuttling out of the room.
Lady Calisse moved across the room, her long flowing dress trailing behind her.
'My son,' she said w armly. She drew him down to her height and kissed him on each cheek. Calard stood somew hat stiffly behind.
'Mother,' said Bertelis, before extricating himself from her grasp and moving to his father. He dropped to one knee before the lord of Garamont, bow ing his head low.
Lutheure smiled w armly at his son, who w as the spitting image of himself, some tw enty-five years earlier, and lifted him to his feet, a hand on each of his thickly armoured shoulders.
Calard bow ed to Lady Calisse, w ho studiously ignored him, and the young knight moved to his father. He too low ered himself to one knee, and bow ed his head.
Lutheure slapped Bertelis on the shoulder, sending him tow ards the table as servants entered bearing fresh bread and w ine. Lutheure turned to regard his firstborn son and heir, his eyes hardening.
'Did you find them?' he asked.
'We did, my lord,' said Calard, rising to his feet and standing to attention, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. 'They resisted, and two were killed before order w as restored. The remainder are being led here for trial.'
Lutheure nodded his head, and turned aw ay from his dark-haired son. Calard bow ed again, and moved to join his brother at the table. Lutheure took his seat at the head of the table. His w ife sat opposite him, doting on Bertelis, who w as digging into the food w ith gusto.
Calard took his place opposite his brother, and broke a loaf in tw o. More food was brought in, game birds and venison, delivered by the pretty serving girl, Annabelle.
She blushed as Bertelis gave her a solicitous w ink. The young knight's eyes followed the retreating figure of the girl as he sipped from his wine goblet, and Lutheure chuckled. Another serving girl deflowered by the lad, he thought.
'How are you faring this day, my lord?' asked Calard stiffly.
'I am w ell,' he replied, barely registering the question. 'Bertelis,' he said, smiling at his other son, 'Gunthar tells me that you could be the best he has ever taught, if you dedicated yourself more to your training. You are missing too many of his classes.'
Bertelis sighed. 'I would make more of an effort to attend the old man's classes if he could make them more interesting father,' he said.
'Old man,' scoffed Lutheure. 'Watch your tongue, Gunthar is not much older than I am.'
'Calard is more suited to his classes than I, anyway,' said Bertelis. 'He has a mind like a sponge. He learns much faster than I, and is far more dedicated.'
'I have to train hard. I have not your natural talent,' said Calard humbly.
'Nonsense. You are clearly the better swordsman, though I am certainly far superior in the saddle,' said Bertelis, flashing a smile at his brother.
'And it is in the saddle where a knight is rightly judged,' said Lutheure.
THAT NIGHT, AS the castle slept, Calard dreamt. He had fallen asleep quickly, his body exhausted after spending much of the day in the saddle, practising his jousting technique under the watchful gaze of the w eapon master, Gunthar. Time and again, he had kicked Gringolet into a gallop and struck the stationary training target, bracing himself for the impact as his lance-tip made contact. The heavy wooden target w ould teeter and fall to the ground only against the finest of knocks, w hereupon peasant servants would scramble to right it, ready for his next pass.
For hour after hour he had charged the heavy target, until his shoulder and arm w ere bruised a dark purple from the lance. Over and over, he heard his father's w ords as he slept.
And it is in the saddle where a knight is rightly judged.
In his dream, he w as astride his powerful destrier once more, charging the practice target. He struck his lance against it, but it w as as unyielding as stone, and his arm w as jarred as his lance shattered against it. He turned his steed, another lance having appeared in his hands, and charged again. As he closed on the wooden target, he saw it change shape, turning into a tow ering dark figure with massive horns curling from its shadowy head.
He struck a mighty blow , but again it w as like striking stone, and his lance splintered and broke. The monstrous dark creature turned tow ards him, and he threw the broken lance to the ground in desperation, drawing his sword. As his hands closed on the hilt, however, his blade changed into a hissing serpent that turned and struck tow ards his face, fangs bared in its overextended mouth.
He felt the prick of its teeth against his cheek and cried out, pulling his head aw ay
sharply. Instantly, the snake was gone, and there w as nothing in his hand but his sw ord.
His surroundings had changed again, and a child walked through the mist that now surrounded him.
'Who goes there?' he shouted, his voice muffled by the sudden fog.
He gasped as he made out the face of the child. He had not dreamt of his sister for many years, though she w as often in his thoughts. As dark-haired as him, they had been inseparable as children, and it was as a child that she appeared to him now, for that is how he remembered her, before she was taken.
His tw in looked at him w ith deep, soulful eyes that spoke of mysteries and secrets.
She looked at him sadly, and he w anted to go to comfort her, but then she turned aw ay. She began to fade, and he found that he could see through her body, as if she w ere as insubstantial as a spirit. He cried out, but in an instant she was gone, sw allowed by the mist. He tried to follow her, kicking Gringolet forwards, and they plunged blindly into the fog. He found his way barred by branches and tw igs that snagged at him, scratching his face, and he hacked wildly at them w ith his sword.
He heard a roar, a deep rumbling bestial sound that filled his ears and made his head spin w ith its power. Then something struck him solidly across the chest, and he w as throw n from the saddle. He hit the ground hard, and came aw ake instantly, his heart pounding, and his bedclothes saturated w ith sweat.
CALARD GRITTED HIS teeth as he attacked, his blade swinging in hard tow ards his opponent's head. It w as parried with ease, as he had expected, and he swiftly w hipped a second attack low er, into the body. His blade w as knocked aside, and he took the return blow on his shield. His riposte was quick and strong as he saw an opening, forcing the weapon master back a step.
'Good,' said Gunthar, putting up his sword. The ageing knight's skill w ith blade and lance w as unparalleled in all of Garamont, indeed, in all of eastern Bastonne.
The w eapon master w as armoured in simple, old-fashioned, functional armour. It w as battered and dull w ith age, though it was meticulously cared for, and was as strong as it had ever been. Still, it looked ancient to Calard's eyes, a relic from a time long past. Fashion changed quickly in Bretonnia, and he and his brother w ore gleaming fluted armour in the modern fashion.
'Now you,' said Gunthar, nodding his head towards Bertelis, who w as reclining on a nearby bench. Bertelis lifted himself languidly to his feet, a bored look on his face, and drew his own blade.
The sandy-haired youth rolled his armoured shoulders, and advanced on the weapon master, w ho stood w aiting for him. Calard moved to the side to w atch.
The training session was taking place on one of the many terraces on the north face of the Garamont keep. It w as ringed in low shrubs, and the sun w as shining on them w eakly.
He had spoken the truth the previous morning. Bertelis was more talented than him, as he w as in most of their physical contests. He w as taller and swifter, and he had a relaxed suppleness to his movements that Calard w ould never be able to emulate.
Gunthar and Bertelis raised their blades up to the sky in honour to the Lady, the protective goddess of Bretonnia. Then they bent their arms, bringing their swords dow n before their faces, and kissed the flats of the blades. Then, in one swift movement, they sliced the air before them, completing their salute, and took up a ready stance.
Calard w atched w ith open admiration as his brother began to trade blow s w ith Gunthar, his every movement balanced, poised and controlled. If he applied himself fully, Calard w as of no doubt that Bertelis w ould become one of the finest swordsmen in Bastonne. He himself was good w ith the blade, better than Bertelis, but he had to w ork hard at it, and he found it both galling and irritating that his brother took to it w ith so little effort.
Nevertheless, as he watched his brother and the weapons master begin to spar, he could see that his brother's technique had room for improvement. He relied on his natural ability too much, and though this alone made him superior to most, he w ould be undone against a more talented opponent, and he would certainly lose against a knight of similar ability who had a more rigorous attitude to his training.
Bertelis sliced left and right with powerful swift blows, but Gunthar turned them aside w ith barely any effort. Getting frustrated, Bertelis began to attack more w ildly, putting more strength than necessary into his attacks. He feinted high and w hipped his sw ord down to strike low, but his effort w as deftly turned aside, and he found himself with the weapon master's blade at his throat.
Bertelis threw his sword dow n in frustration and disgust.
'I'm not getting anyw here with this,' he said. 'Give me a horse and a lance any day. I am just more suited to them!'
'No, you are not,' said Gunthar evenly. 'You are as gifted a sw ordsman as I have seen.
How many hours have you spent practising your jousting technique this past w eek?'
Bertelis shrugged in response.
'Take a guess,' said Gunthar. 'Maybe tw o hours a day?'
'And w ith the sword?'
'You know the answer,' said Bertelis.
'I do,' agreed Gunthar. 'An hour, perhaps, over the last w eek.'
'A knight's place is in the saddle! Why must I practise fighting on foot like a peasant?
I do not plan on trudging through the mud to w ar like a commoner.'
'A knight does not alw ays have the luxury of choosing the circumstances he fights in.
What happens if your horse is slain beneath you?'
Bertelis rolled his eyes in response. 'I'll get a new horse!' he shot back, making Calard smirk.
'What if the battle takes place upon a muddy mire, and your lord orders you to fight on foot?'
'Then my lord w ould be a damn fool for choosing such a ridiculous battlefield!'
snapped Bertelis.
Gunthar stared at the young man w ith cold, humourless, grey eyes. His moustache tw itched in irritation.
'Pick up your sw ord,' he ordered, his voice cold.
'I am done w ith training today,' said Bertelis arrogantly.
'You are done w ith your training when I say you are done,' grow led the grizzled veteran.
'I w ill not be ordered around like a servant,' said Bertelis haughtily.
'In my training area, I am lord and master,' said Gunthar. 'You may be the son of my lord castellan, but here you are nothing more than an arrogant, undisciplined child.
Pick up your sw ord.'
'I w ill not be spoken to like that,' said Bertelis hotly, snatching up his blade once more.
'What are you going to do about it?' asked the w eapon master. Calard saw Bertelis's face darken.
With a snarl, Bertelis attacked, his blade a blur through the air. The clash of steel on steel rang out, and the pair moved around each other, blades flashing. They parried and blocked each other's attacks, and Bertelis let his anger flow down his arm, pow ering each blow . He was clearly stronger than the ageing weapon master, and each of his blow s was fuelled with rage, driving the older man back.
Bertelis overextended on one of his attacks, too eager to land a blow on the older knight, and he found himself off-balance. Gunthar stepped in close, slamming his shield into the taller youth. The young knight reeled backw ards, losing his footing on the flagstones, and fell w ith a crash to the ground.
Gunthar sheathed his sword, and with a smile, offered his hand to Bertelis. With a dark look, Bertelis took the proffered hand, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.
'Why did I w in?' asked the w eapon master.
'You are more skilled,' Bertelis replied.
'Yes, I am, but that is not w hy I w on.'
'You made him angry,' said Calard. Gunthar nodded.
'Exactly. I deliberately baited you, to explain this lesson.'
'I don't understand,' said Bertelis.
'He made you angry,' said Calard. 'Your anger gave you strength, but it also made your attacks more w ild, less controlled.'
'A knight must alw ays be in
control of his actions,' said the weapon master. 'Once controlled, anger can be used to your benefit. It w ill give you strength, as Calard rightly points out, but if that anger is controlled, you do not lose your focus.'
Bertelis glowered, still angry. Gunthar smiled in response, and slapped the young knight on the shoulder.
'It is not easy,' he said, his voice softening. 'It comes w ith age, and with practice. I w as young too once, as impetuous and quick to anger as you.'
Bertelis grinned impishly, his foul mood evaporating.
'I find it hard to imagine that you w ere ever a young man,' he said. Gunthar snorted.
'Now you are trying to make me angry. It's not going to w ork.'
'Are you never angry then, Gunthar?'
'Of course I am, but I keep that anger controlled. I do not let it control me. Enough, today's lesson is over. Now get aw ay w ith you both.'
They heard a sudden blaring of horns, and Calard's head shot up. He exchanged a look w ith Bertelis, and the pair were off and moving as one, racing from the training terrace, their armour clanking.
Gunthar chuckled, watching them go. On the cusp of manhood, they appeared so like the boys he had grow n to love as his ow n at that moment, racing through the castle as they had done w hen they were children, terrorising the servants and disrupting the serene calm. The smile faded from his face.
They w ould not have the luxury of being boys for long and they w ould have far harsher lessons to learn than he could teach.
CALARD AND BERTELIS burst into their father's audience chamber, slamming the door w ide open before them. Folcard, the household's fierce chamberlain, shot a look of dark reproach in their direction, and they instantly composed themselves.
Standing tall and regal, they walked with stately calm to join him in awaiting the lord castellan.
Calard bristled w ith impatience. The grand double doors that w ere the main entrance into the audience chamber w ere sealed. The portal w as guarded by a pair of men-at-arms, w ho stood motionless with their long pole arms crossed in front of the massive doors. They w ould not open until the lord of Garamont w as seated in his tall throne carved of dark w ood.
Warhammer - Knight Errant Page 3
