'I don't like him,' declared Bertelis when they were out of earshot. 'The people of the Empire must be w eak indeed if their nobles dress in the manner of merchants and carry peasant w eapons to w ar.'
'Perhaps,' said Calard noncommittally. 'I w ould like to speak to him more though,' he added after a moment of silence. His brother raised an eyebrow .
'Why?' he asked.
Calard shrugged.
'To learn of his lands, their customs, their way of doing things. It interests me.'
Bertelis snorted, shaking his head.
The rains had increased in intensity, turning the trail into a quagmire of clinging mud. Water ran uncomfortably dow n the inside of Calard's armour. The horses plodded on through the w orsening weather until a halt w as finally called. The knights sat astride their horses in silence as peasants scrambled through the mud to erect their tents and get cooking fires burning.
Sitting beneath a canvas aw ning, Calard and Bertelis w atched as the rains redoubled in strength, and it w as not long before booming peals of thunder echoed across the heavens, making the picketed horses whinny in fear. A table had been set up before the pair of young knights, and upon it were scattered the remains of their meal.
Calard fingered his goblet thoughtfully, watching the peasants scurrying back and forth through the dow npour on errands and duties.
Lightning flashed across the sky in a stunning display, followed seconds later by thunderous crashes that resounded across the bleak landscape. Bertelis wore a sour expression on his noble face as he watched the rain come dow n. He w as gnawing on a bone, and hurled it out into the dow npour in frustration at being held up.
Calard w atched dispassionately as a pair of peasants scrambled through the mud tow ards the discarded bone. One of them w as hunchbacked, and had a pronounced limp, w hile the other was smaller and weasel-like.
'A gold crow n says the small one gets it,' said Bertelis.
'You're on,' replied Calard. The hunchback w as closer, but he stumbled, and fell heavily in the mud as he closed on the prize. Bertelis laughed in victory as the smaller peasant sw ooped in and grabbed the scrap of food, and he held out his hand to receive his gold crown from his brother.
'Wait,' said Calard, as the hunchback picked himself up off the ground and dived on the smaller figure, tackling him into the mud. Bertelis guffawed and yelled encouragement as the pair rolled over and over in the mud, fighting for possession of the food scrap. He threw his hands up into the air in disappointment, as the hunchback rolled on top of the smaller figure and began pounding his fists into its face. At last, he stepped aw ay from the body, picking up his prize.
'You there! Peasant!' shouted Bertelis, standing up. The hunchback froze. 'Yes, you!'
Bertelis hollered over the downpour, 'Come here!'
The hunchback glanced around furtively, shoving his prize into a deep pocket on his tunic. For a moment, it looked like he w as going to run, but he clearly thought better of it, and began to approach the knights errant.
He limped heavily tow ards them, pulling his hood down low over his face. Behind him, the beaten figure of his rival pushed itself groggily to its feet and staggered off though the rain. With shock, Calard realised that it w as a w oman, and he shook his head in disbelief.
The hunchback stopped just outside the canvas aw ning that protected the knights, standing in the rain, his head low.
'Yes, my lord?' said the man humbly.
'Take off your hood,' ordered Bertelis. Somew hat reluctantly, the man did so. He was an ugly brute, thought Calard, thick jaw ed and caked in mud, and his lowered eyes w ere uneven.
'You just lost me a gold crow n, peasant,' said Bertelis imperiously. The man glanced up fearfully at the young knight tow ering above him, before his gaze flicked down to the ground once more.
'I'm sorry, lord,' he mumbled, clearly having no idea what was going on.
'Well, w hat are you going to do about it?'
'Um,' stuttered the man, shifting his weight nervously. 'I... ah.'
Calard narrow ed his eyes as he looked at the man. There was something familiar about him, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
'I'll tell you w hat you can do. My brother and I are in need of entertainment, and you certainly have the look of a clown about you. Dance.'
The man blanched, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly. He threw a glance tow ards Calard, w ho was still regarding him closely, and quickly turned his gaze aw ay.
'I... I don't know how, my lord,' he stammered.
'Well, just give it a try, hmm? Dance for us.'
'Oh, leave him alone,' said Calard.
'No, brother,' replied Bertelis. 'I would have him dance for us. Well, come on then!
Dance!'
The hunchback began to hop from foot to foot, and Bertelis howled in laughter, clapping his hands. Apparently encouraged by this, the man began to hop more energetically from foot to foot, and began to lift his arms up and dow n.
'That's the w ay! You've got it now !' laughed Bertelis, and Calard found himself snorting in pitying amusement. The w retched peasant grinned stupidly, and turned an ungainly pirouette on the spot, w hich was greeted with more laughter. Calard w as w ell used to the tortures his brother inflicted on the lowborn at every opportunity, but he had to admit that the sight of this w retched creature capering in the pouring rain w as funny. A rat poked its black furred head out of the peasant's tunic, w hich elicited further laughter from the brothers.
Tears streaming from his eyes, Bertelis w aved for the peasant to stop, his body still shuddering with amusement. He picked up another discarded bone from his plate, and held it out to the peasant. The man eagerly reached for it, his crooked eyes lighting up, but Bertelis retracted it just before the peasant could close his grubby hand on it. He extended it once more, again pulling it back just before the peasant could grasp it. The peasant grinned stupidly at Bertelis's jest, and the third time the young knight offered it and retracted it, he slapped his leg and laughed out loud.
Finally, Bertelis hurled the bone aw ay from him. The man followed its arc carefully, but did not chase after it immediately.
'Well, go,' said Bertelis finally.
'Thank you, young lord,' said the man, turning away from them. The stupid grin dropped from his face, replaced with a scow l of anger and humiliation, and he loped tow ards the discarded tidbit, shouting and w aving his arms as other peasants moved tow ards it.
Still chuckling Bertelis watched him go.
'Did you recognise that man from somew here?' asked Calard, still troubled that he could not place the man.
'Who, the hunchback? I don't know . Maybe. They all look the same to me.' Calard grunted and pushed the thought from his mind.
'How far is it to Bordeleaux?' asked Bertelis.
'Five days' ride, Gunthar says,' replied Calard.
'We had better pray to the Lady that the battle is not over before w e get there,' said Bertelis. A flutter of concern passed through Calard at the thought.
That night, with the rain lashing down on the tent he shared with his brother, Calard lit fourteen candles, each one representing one of the Dukedoms of Bretonnia. He carefully unfolded the hinged wooden triptych that served as his shrine to the Lady.
Humbly, he touched his fingertips to the centre of his forehead, his lips and his heart in turn, before kneeling.
The central, arched panel held a portrait of the Lady painted in oils and protected w ith thick lacquer. It w as a delicate image that seemed to glow from within, showing the Lady holding her holy, golden grail before her.
In the left-hand panel was a finely detailed painting of Gilles the Uniter, the founder of Bretonnia. He knelt humbly w ith his head bow ed, his famous dragon-skin cloak throw n over his shoulders. Gilles had slain the malevolent great w yrm, Smearghus, w hen he was little more than a boy, and had cut the cloak from its flesh. The revered artefact hung in the duke of Bastonne's castle, and every year thousands of knights made t
he pilgrimage to stand beneath it in awe.
The right-hand panel showed the fabled Green Knight, the unearthly guardian of Bretonnia's sacred places. Pictured as a fey spirit of aw esome power and majesty, the Green Knight wore ancient armour, and w as surrounded by coiling mist and ivy.
It w as the central image, that of the Lady of Lake, that Calard focused on. Her deep eyes that the unknow n artist had captured so skilfully, full of motherly love, but also w ith profound strength and mystery, captivated him, and he stared longingly at the golden chalice clasped in her delicate hands.
To be visited by the image of the Lady, and to sup from the grail w as the ultimate aim of every knight of Bretonnia, and only the most determined, pure and w orthy knights w ould ever achieve this goal. It w as said that only the truly pure of heart survived drinking from this hallowed chalice, and any that had even the smallest hint of corruption or flaw w ould be instantly killed. Calard longed for the day when he would be able to take up the quest and go out into the w orld in search of the Lady. She w ould only appear to one w ho had travelled far, embarking on a great journey, and w ho had fought against all manner of beast and injustice. Such an event w as many years off, and Calard sighed in impatience, longing for that time w hen he attained the honour and glory needed to take up the questing vow .
Pushing such thoughts from his mind, he focused on the image of the Lady before him. She w ore a garland of flowers and ivy around her head, and her long hair flowed freely around her. She was the very epitome of noble beauty and chastity.
In a soft, humble voice, he prayed firstly for the king, Louen Leoncouer, the Lionhearted, that he may reign long and true. Then he prayed for the health of his father, and for his sister, Anara, long lost, asking that the Lady look over her w herever she might be. He prayed for his brother Bertelis, that he might gain much honour and renow n in the battles to come, and that he w ould live a long, fulfilling life. Lastly, he prayed for himself, though he felt a tw inge of guilt to pray for selfish means. Still, he pushed these thoughts aside, and prayed fervently.
'Lady of Chivalry let the battles in Bordeleaux be glorious and noble, and let the forces of the king prove victorious against the evil that defiles your realm. Lend me strength, Lady, and let my faith in you be the armour of my soul. Let me prove my honour before all on the field of battle, and let me return to Garamont victorious.
Lady of the Fair Isle, I sw ear it, I shall not rest until I have proven myself worthy in your eyes,' said Calard, taking a deep breath before he continued. 'And I shall not rest until I have proven myself w orthy in the eyes of my father.'
In the darkness, Bertelis lay aw ake in the darkness, listening to his brother's solemn and puritanical w ords.
At last, the fourteen candles were snuffed out, and the tent was plunged into darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE
CALARD RODE AT the head of the column of knights snaking across the verdant landscape, savouring the feeling of the sun on his back. It had seemed that the entire host had been galvanised by the same concern that plagued Calard: that they w ould arrive in Bordeleaux too late to make a meaningful contribution in the war against the greenskins, and so the nobles had pushed on with renewed vigour. They aw oke before daw n, peasants quickly striking the tents, and the entire force was moving before the first rays of the sun speared over the horizon from the east.
They pushed on at a formidable pace, eating up the miles as they crossed farmland, keeping the forest of Chalons always within eyesight to the south, following the curve of the great expanse of trees. They passed through countless peasant villages and by a dozen fortified stately homes and castles, and, at last, the plains of southern Bastonne rose into the undulating hills of Bordeleaux.
They maintained their relentless pace into the night, leaving the footslogging men-at-arms and the rabble of bow men commoners far behind, before camp w as made. The colourful tents of the nobles w ere hastily erected by yeomen, and the knights' horses w ere brushed dow n, fed and w atered. It was long after midnight, after all but a handful of nobles had eaten their fill and retired for the night, when the peasant soldiers arrived in camp. They collapsed to the ground exhausted, choosing to cluster together under filthy blankets rather than expend the energy needed to erect the crude mass aw nings that served as their shelters.
They kept up the mile-eating pace for five days. The rains had passed, but the days remained dull and grey. Miserable, cold peasants in the fields leant on their hoes, w iping hands across their brow s as they watched the parade of knights pass. Some of them w aved, but not a single knight so much as acknow ledged their existence. Only the taciturn Empire noble, Dieter, gave the workers a response, nodding curtly to them as they stared at him in curiosity.
'What crops are being tended?' Dieter asked, gesturing to the endless rows of tall, gangly plants, his voice clipped and heavily accented. Stakes connected with twine had been driven into the ground along the perfectly straight lines of cultivated plants to keep them upright, and fruit hung in dense bunches from the spindly limbs.
Calard laughed out loud, looking at the Empire envoy to see if he was making some joke that did not translate. Seeing nothing that would suggest humour in the man's serious face, he shook his head slightly at Dieter's ignorance. He seemed so learned in some areas, but, in others, his lack of knowledge was astounding.
'This area is renowned throughout the Old World for its vineyards,' said Calard.
'These are grape vines you see stretched out before you.'
'Ah!' said Dieter, w agging a finger in the air in pleasure and excitement, as if he had uncovered some great hidden knowledge. 'This is where your w ine is made!'
'Well, it is where the grapes that make w ine is cultivated, yes,' said Calard, amused at the usually reserved man's obvious excitement. 'Do you not have vineyards within the Empire?'
'Oh yes, some, but not in Reikland.'
Calard frow ned. 'So, w hat do you drink?'
'Beer, predominantly, strong, full flavoured and invigorating. Some of the w ealthy drink w ine, but it is not common.'
'In Bretonnia, even the lowliest peasant drinks wine,' said Calard proudly, 'and none more so than those of Bordeleaux, hence the expression, ''the sober man of Bordeleaux' .'
Dieter frow ned. 'I do not understand,' he said.
'If something is unusual, or unexpected, it is said to be as rare as the sober man of Bordeleaux.'
Dieter repeated the phrase quietly, committing it to memory as if it w ere of great import.
'It's a jest,' prompted Calard. 'In Bordeleaux, there is such an abundance of readily accessible and cheap w ine that the inhabitants are jokingly regarded to be constantly inebriated.'
'Yes, I understand the humour. It is most amusing,' said Dieter seriously. Calard rolled his eyes as the Imperial envoy turned away. If all the people of the Empire were as humourless as Dieter, it must be a grim place indeed.
There was a shout of alarm, and Calard turned in the direction that some of the knights w ere pointing, seeing wafts of dark smoke rising into the sky in the distance.
'It's probably just peasants burning off refuse,' said a knight, but there w as little conviction in his voice.
'Men are riding towards us,' said Dieter suddenly. His accent made his pronunciation amusing to the ears of the Bretonnians, and Bertelis, riding just behind the pair, sniggered.
'Zey are peasant scouts,' said Bertelis, imitating Dieter's accent. Calard smirked, and flicked a sidelong glance at the Imperial noble. His face was impassive. If he realised that he w as being made fun of, he made no acknowledgement of the fact.
Four outriders rode tow ards the column of knights, crude spears in their hands.
They rode draught horses more generally used to pull hoes and wagons. It was a rare honour for any peasant to be allow ed to ride a horse, and a great sign of status among the unruly commoners, though the heavy steeds were utterly outshone by the noble w arhorses ridden by the nobility.
Gunth
ar pulled his steed up alongside Calard, and addressed the dirty peasants as they drew their horses to a halt alongside the column.
'What new s, yeoman?'
The leader of the motley horsemen, a stinking man w ith a vicious scar running across his face, nodded his head in deference to Gunthar. He wore a tabard of iron-studded leather over his body, and, bizarrely, had a dead pigeon strapped to his steel-rimmed helmet. His luncheon meal, most probably, thought Calard in disgust.
'A village, m'lord, under attack up ahead.'
'Under attack? Greenskins?' asked Gunthar curtly.
'Aye, m'lord.'
Calard and Bertelis exchanged excited glances.
'How far?' cut in Calard eagerly.
'Not far, m'lord, maybe five miles? Up yonder, in the dip past that hill,' said the scarred yeoman, gesturing w ith his spear tow ards a rise up ahead.
Calard and Bertelis instantly kicked their steeds forward, though they wheeled them sharply around w hen they realised that the other knights were not following their lead.
'Well, w hat are you w aiting for?' asked Bertelis.
'Have some patience, young lord,' said Gunthar darkly. 'It is foolish indeed to rush off to battle w ithout knowing first what one faces.'
'What one faces?' asked Bertelis. 'The peasant said it himself: greenskins.'
'But how many, and from w hich direction? These are questions that a knight must ask before he charges off to battle.'
Calard huffed in impatience. His steed, sensing its rider's excitement, was snorting and stamping its hooves as it turned on the spot.
'Ah, the lads are just eager to w het their blades,' said the deep booming voice of the Baron of Montcadas as he rode to the front of the column. 'I can't say I blame them, either,' he added. 'The last week has been a drain on my patience.' Calard gave the broad shouldered knight a grin.
Warhammer - Knight Errant Page 6
