Trouble Most Faire

by Jaden Terrell

  Robbi was grateful when Cara, in a royal blue French Renaissance gown, strolled over and tucked her arm into Guy’s. “I have something to give you,” she murmured, just loud enough for Robbi to hear. “For luck.”

  Cara hadn’t said much to Robbi since the reading, which was something of a blessing. The day after Trouble had shown her the article, Robbi had done a search for the unfortunate magician’s autopsy report. There was nothing enlightening there. The man had bled to death from a wound to the neck, but given the dangerous nature of what was known in the entertainment business as impalement arts, it was impossible to tell whether the wound had been delivered accidentally or on purpose.

  A little more digging, and Robbi found an ex-wife and a daughter, both of whom were eager to share their suspicions. Cara, they said, had been trying to worm her way into his affections—and his will—from the day they met. When he finally made it clear that his interest in her was purely professional, she’d killed him.

  “Before that, though,” his daughter said, “she did everything she could to make him dependent on her. He got food poisoning the week before he died. I’m pretty sure she gave him some bad juice, just so she could nurse him back to health.”

  Watching Cara adjust Guy’s studded gauntlets, Robbi thought of the sour look Cara had given her when she walked into Guy’s hospital room. It was no secret Cara still carried a torch for the dashing castle laird. Was Guy’s poisoning an attempt to win him back?

  But if that was the case, how did Laura’s death fit in?

  That’s enough, Robbi.

  She needed to focus.

  As she began a series of martial arts stretches, she saw Mal stride toward the field. He looked like he’d stepped out of an Arthurian novel, dark curls lifting in the breeze, that distracting dimple flashing as he fielded a greeting from a visitor. Then she saw Tuck trundling along behind him, snuffling at the ground as if someone might have already dropped a scrap of turkey.

  The valiant knight and his noble pig. Despite her pique at Mal, she stifled a giggle.

  I watch with interest as the three contestants draw lots to determine the order of combat. Mal and Guy are to fight first, with Robbi taking on the winner. Standing between them, she looks like a waif. If I hadn’t seen the infamous martial arts flip on the bridge, I would worry for her.

  There are already several hundred spectators, and the growing audience makes it difficult to keep watch on all the Rennies, all of whom are in the crowd, save for the two who are competing. Even Miller has foregone the opportunity to sell his pastries to the guests in favor of a front row seat. He sits alone on the risers, staring at the tourney field and dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. I feel a pang of pity for him, which I quickly quash. Just because he shares his wares with Tuck and me doesn’t mean he’s not a killer. Humans are complex.

  A recorded fanfare sounds, and Dale, in his full bardish garb, steps onto the podium at the far end of the field. Normally, Guy would do the introductions, but he’s on the sidelines, warming up with his blade.

  I call it a blade. In reality, although he’s done his best to make it look as real as possible, only the hilt is authentic. The rest is rattan covered in some sort of metallic tape and engraved with what appear to be Viking runes.

  The rules are simple. A strike to the leg, and the “wounded” combatant kneels. A strike to the arm, and it’s held behind the combatant’s back. Head, neck, and torso strikes are considered fatal.

  Sheriff Hammond is to serve as marshal, although I have my doubts as to his objectivity. The man is as bent as a nine-bob note. Fortunately, he’s only there to catch the most egregious fouls and omissions. Mostly, strikes are decided on the honor system. If it feels like a solid hit, one is honor-bound to acknowledge it.

  In the face of such large stakes, it seems a fragile system.

  Dale welcomes the visitors and explains the rules of the competition. He omits the part about the wager and the fate of the faire, instead weaving a tale about three rivals vying for the king’s favor. He casts Mal as a disgraced hero fighting to redeem his reputation, Guy as the rogue with a heart of gold, and Robbi as the only remaining offspring of a minor lord whose lands are in contention.

  The first contest begins. Mal and Guy clasp forearms, then square off. Mal holds a sword and shield, Guy a longsword and a smaller rattan blade, a main-gauche. As soon as Hammond gives the signal, Guy feints, then ducks with a jab to Mal’s left side. Mal dodges, and the blow just skims his armor. They square off again.

  Around the field, the dance goes on. A jab, a feint, a slash. Guy’s style is sharper, flashier. He wields his weapon like a showman, but the man is no charlatan. The audience oohs and aahs at his skill and artistry. Mal bides his time, his sword a tool in the hands of a master craftsman.

  They seem evenly matched, two men who know each other’s moves and strategies. Soon both are panting, drenched with sweat. Guy scores a hit to Mal’s shield arm. Mal drops the shield and puts the arm behind his back. The next hit goes to Mal; Guy loses his main-gauche. It moves quickly after that. Mal takes a leg hit, then another.

  Hammond asks him, “Do you yield?”

  Mal shakes his head. On both knees, one hand behind his back, he raises his weapon. When Guy comes in for the kill, Mal dives beneath Guy’s sword, swinging his own in a sideways arc. I can hear the “thwack!” from the sidelines as Mal connects with Guy’s leather backplate.

  Guy wheels, sword raised, and for a moment I think he’s going to charge. Then, with a disbelieving laugh, he drops to his knees and topples forward with a flourish. A showman to the last.

  Though he doesn’t look happy about it, Hammond calls the match in Mal’s favor. Then the two men help each other up and stagger to the sidelines for water. Cara is quick to bring a flask for Guy. Miss Scarlett, who must have arrived with Elinore, meets Mal with a concerned yip, while Tuck flops down on Mal’s right foot. Mal shakes his head with an indulgent smile and reaches for the water skin Elinore is holding out. Lucky for him, Tuck is still a small pig.

  I glance at Robbi, a little embarrassed that I’ve been too caught up in the match to keep her in my sights. She’s watching Mal intently, and I realize she’s taking his measure, sizing him up for weaknesses. Whatever he might have been to her before this, now he’s only an opponent.

  Mal took a grateful swig of water from the skin his sister offered, then waved off the protein bar she tried to press into his hand.

  Elinore frowned. “You need to keep your strength up.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Mal, don’t underestimate that girl. She may look like a lost kitten, but she isn’t going to fight like one.”

  “Believe me, I’m not underestimating her.”

  “No? Then just do me a favor.” She handed him a bar she’d made from almond butter, honey, and a variety of nuts. “Eat something anyway.”

  Round two. Mal seems somewhat refreshed by whatever Elinore gave him. Still, as he walks to the center of the field, his step is heavier than it was before. I hope this bodes well for Robbi. Of the three, she’s by far the least experienced at swordplay, but she’s been training hard this past week. Joanne has appointed herself Robbi’s personal trainer, and each day after Falcor was flown and fed, the two spent hours throwing axes, sparring with wooden swords, and skewering rings for the equitation phase of the competition.

  If I had fingers, I would cross them for her.

  Again, the combatants clasp forearms and square off to wait for the signal. When it comes, the audience shifts forward in their seats. There’s a David and Goliath feel in the air, and the excitement that dynamic generates mitigates a certain lack of drama in this match. Mal and Robbi are both thoughtful fighters, both armed with sword and shield. Neither has Guy’s sense of the theatrical.

  Robbi is quick, but quickness may not be enough. Despite her skills in hand-to-hand, she isn’t practiced in armed combat. The shield is both heavy and cumbersome, and a week of training can�
�t make up for Mal’s years of experience. Still, she gives it her best. She darts in, takes her shot. He blocks her easily, the power of his counter-blow rocking her back. Neither scores a hit. They separate, circling, strategizing.

  It’s a cautious fight, and I can see he doesn’t want to hurt her. Perhaps he’s handicapped by chivalry. Perhaps he simply doesn’t want to be the villain of this tale. Clearly, the audience is on her side.

  I can also see she’s tiring, unused to the weight of the armor, shield, and helm. My stomach goes a tad bit collywobbles, and I realize how much I hope she wins. I begin to pace the sidelines, tail lashing.

  Robbi steps back, gives herself a moment to gather her strength, then flings aside her shield and goes in at him hard and fast, a last-ditch effort, what they call in American football a Hail Mary.

  Her sword comes up beneath his shield and she tags him once above the knee. Elinore cries out, and at the sound, Mal’s shoulders straighten. He goes to one knee, but before Robbi can land a second blow, Mal’s blade meets hers with a force that drives her sword up and leaves her torso open. He follows with a thrust to the midsection that knocks the wind out of her and drops her to knees.

  It takes her a moment to remember to die.

  Ignoring Mal’s proffered hand, Robbi pushed herself to her feet and made her way unsteadily toward the sidelines, pulling off her helmet. She hadn’t expected to win this one, so she was surprised at the depth of her disappointment. Had she not wanted to lose, or had she simply not wanted to lose to Mal?

  Joanne met her halfway. “Are you all right?” She reached for Robbi’s helm and traded it for a water bottle dripping with condensation.

  Robbi downed half of it, then pressed the bottle to her forehead. It cooled her skin and made her feel mostly human again. “Aside from acute embarrassment and a bad case of hat head?”

  “You handled yourself well out there,” Joanne said. “I plead the Fifth about the hat head.”

  Robbi polished off the water, then tried to fluff her damp hair with her fingers. “At least that’s over. If I can win the next two, we won’t have to go to throwing axes.”

  “Then that’s what you need to do,” Joanne said. “Because I’ve seen you throw an axe.”

  Trouble was waiting for her on the sidelines. He rubbed against her legs as if commiserating. “It’s okay, big guy,” she said, though she didn’t think she sounded completely convincing. She bent to stroke his head. “We’ll get ’em this time.”

  While Dale and Sheriff Hammond set up the archery targets, Robbi peeled out of her armor and dropped it in the grass. Without it, she felt a hundred pounds lighter, like a helium balloon. She tipped back her head and raised her arms, appreciating the cooling effect of sweat evaporating in the breeze.

  “You gave me quite a fight.” Mal’s voice made her jump. “Sorry if I hurt you.”

  Quickly, she lowered her arms. “Did you say the same to Guy?”

  He laid her shield beside her armor. “I did not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I wasn’t sorry.”

  A burst of static erupted from the podium. Then Dale’s voice came through the speakers, announcing the next stage of the competition. Three competitors. Three targets. Three arrows each.

  Robbi glanced toward the barn, where Joanne was emerging with her bow and quiver, then looked back at Mal. “Should I say break a leg, or is that just for theater?”

  Mal made a sweeping motion, taking in the crowd, the vendors, the banners rippling in the breeze. “It’s theater for them,” he said. “I guess that counts.”

  The archery portion of the competition goes quickly. The three competitors line up a little more than two hundred feet in front of the targets, Robbi on the right, Mal on the left, Guy in the center.

  Something cold and wet nudges my haunch, and I leap to one side, hissing. It’s only Tuck’s nose. Annoyed, I bat at it with my paws, and the silly knobhead plops back onto his haunches with a startled grunt. I give a low growl to let him know he’s lucky I didn’t use my claws.

  Mal goes first. He takes his time and gets off three good shots. The first one hits just inside the yellow bullseye. The other two both touch the center x, which Robbi says is called the spider.

  Guy steps up next. His arrows make a tight triangle, each one touching a leg of the x. He grins. It’s a better cluster than Mal’s.

  Robbi’s turn. She pulls an arrow from her quiver and nocks it. It’s a work of art, a gorgeous handmade arrow carved from Norway pine and fletched with turkey feathers, then lovingly oiled and sanded to a silky finish. She draws the bow and anchors the string, index finger at the corner of her mouth, top finger under her cheekbone, thumb under the jaw.

  The arrow flies straight and true, striking between two legs of the x. Her second thuds into the center of the spider. She takes a breath and lines up her third shot. I watch it sail toward the target. It splits the second arrow with a crack and drives it through the center of the paper target in a feat of skill known in the archery world as a Robin Hood.

  I’m so excited that before I can stop myself, I let out a chirp and dig my claws into the nearest leg. Joanne gives a little screech and, embarrassed, I disengage before she can shake me off. I sit with my back to her, pretending to groom myself.

  When I look up again, Guy is staring at the split arrow in shock and dismay. Mal’s jaw is set, a picture of determination.

  This puts the tally at one match for Robbi, one for Mal. If Guy wins equitation, it will be a three-way tie, and they’ll pull out the throwing axes. Otherwise, either Robbi or Mal takes it all.

  While the archers pull their arrows from the targets, and Joanne goes inside the barn to prepare the horses for the next phase of the competition, Dale announces an hour-long break. The crowd divides, some converging on the food wagons, others heading for the lavatories, which I’ve heard the British sometimes call the House of Lords. I find that smashing, so much better than the vulgar “loo” or “toilet.”

  In all the chaos, it will be impossible to keep track of all the Rennies. As I glance around for a likely target, Guy disengages from Cara and strolls toward the far side of the field with Sheriff Hammond. My decision is made.

  I follow them, and Tuck follows me. If I were human, I would worry about arousing their suspicion, but I know they won’t think twice about our presence. Humans always underestimate animals.

  I know Guy has mucked everything up, but I feel more than a little sorry for him. No matter how this ends, someone is going to be hurt. It’s my job to make sure it isn’t Robbi.

  While the riders saddled and bridled their horses, Joanne and Dale set up the ring-jousting course. It consisted of a series of poles of varying heights, each with a two-inch ring loosely attached to the top. Each rider had eight seconds to run the course, spearing each ring with a foam and cardboard lance. The one with the most rings would win the round. In the event of a tie, there would be a second run, with the size of the rings decreased by a quarter inch. A rider who finished outside the eight-second limit would be disqualified.

  Robbi half-listened as Dale explained the rules to the audience. The rest of her mind focused on the ride ahead. Joanne had lent Robbi her Friesian, Freyja, and in some ways, it was a good match. The black mare was as close to bombproof as a horse could be, with the perfect blend of common sense and spirit. From a size perspective, it was a different matter. The first day Robbi rode her, she felt like a toddler on a mechanical bull. She couldn’t grip with her legs. She couldn’t give the right aids. All she could do was perch on top and hang on.

  She and Joanne had spent the entire next day driving to every tack shop and farm supply store in the area before they found a second-hand saddle large enough for Freyja with a small enough seat for Robbi. Riding the big mare was still a challenge, but Robbi thought she’d learned to compensate. And she had a good eye, an archer’s eye. She thought she had a chance.

  Guy rode first, his horse a pale dun Lusitano he ca
lled Galileo. He stroked the gelding’s neck and murmured something in its ear. Then he lowered his lance and urged the horse into a gallop. At the end of the course, he held up his lance and rode a lap around the field, flirting with the audience, wowing the crowd. He’d captured every ring.

  Mal rode next. Robbi had pegged Guy as the man to beat, but Mal rode like he was half centaur, his Andalusian stallion responding to cues Robbi couldn’t even see. At the end of the ride, he shifted his weight backward, and the horse pulled to a stop as Mal held up his lance. Another perfect score.

  “Okay, girl.” Robbi reached down and rubbed the mare’s sleek neck. This had to be a perfect ride. “Let’s show them how it’s done.” She lowered the lance, and the mare surged forward. One ring. She dipped the lance to scoop up a ring from a lower pole, then tipped it up to snatch a higher one. Four rings…then five. The rings, which had seemed so small before, had grown huge in her focus, and at the end of the ride, she too had made a perfect run.

  Round two, another tie. Round three, the rings were half an inch smaller. Robbi and the two men exchanged glances, looked at the tips of their lances. Sooner or later, one of them was going to miss.

  Guy started forward, lance down, riding hard, feet pressing in the stirrups. A moment later, he lurched to one side and, with a startled shout, tumbled off the horse. He cried out again as he hit the ground, one leg bent at an impossible angle.

  Galileo jogged to a stop, one stirrup leather ragged and empty.

  A startled buzz ran through the audience. Then, as Cara flew across the field, one hand holding up the skirt of her gown, a voice came from the back of the crowd. “I’m a doctor. Let me through!”

  While the sheriff tries to maintain order, a woman’s voice cries out from inside the barn. Robbi has gone to secure Guy’s horse, so Mal is closest. I streak across the field, arriving at the barn just behind him. Somewhere behind me, I hear Tuck wheezing as he tries and fails to keep up.