Quick thunder of hoofs, a mingled crash of meeting, and across the centre of the lists writhed a turbulent blur of colour and flashing metal. Men unhorsed or unhelmed were vanquished; a dozen went hurtling from their saddles at the first crossing of spears. Squires and pages scuttled to succour them, braving the fury of flying hoofs; lances were shattered or cast aside, swords torn out and whirled amain. Argent bent Gules into a bow, strained its own formation, and broke into three fragments.
In a moment the contest was one of groups, crimson and white mixed and spinning, with riderless horses plunging around and between. Juhel lost the falcon surcoat, saw it again, lost it again, out he ran on to the dusty grass, heedless of Piers, heedless of solid uproar from the galleries and of a page in Hastain colours who reeled sobbing past him with hands pressed to his hip…
It was all very well in the romaunts, where you could read slowly and note how this lord overthrew that lord; out here great deeds were doing and you had no time to mark them.
There, that was Gaston de Volsberghe, beating Camors from his saddle. Conrad of Burias unhelmed a fair-haired Saulte; Lestembourg split Prince Thorismund's shield and sailed clean over the neck of his own stumbling charger. Beyond him was my lord himself, his falcon surcoat in shreds; three dinging blows he dealt his royal cousin, woefully crumpling the coronet of Neustria. Robin Barberghe drove manfully between – oh, joy, my lord bowled Robin sideways across the prince's saddlebow. Ah, black damnation, my lord, avoid the Castellan of Montenair…
But the grim castellan was not easily avoided. Aiming at Gaston de Volsberghe only, he sloped his green shield starred with silver lilies, downing a southern chevalier with one blow of his sword, and the Count of Ger with another. One – two – and Juhel squealed, bouncing forward at sight of his master's collapse. Safadin reared with loosened bridle; the count was over and hidden, plate that protected might also stifle – praise God, a yellow-coated squire had dashed straight into the mellay, followed by another and another.
A surge of strife encompassed Juhel; he nipped between two destriers whose riders both bore crimson, and flung himself at Safadin's head, his feet flying free as the great brute caracoled. Down thumped the iron foreshoes, and Juhel banged his ribs against the steel bards that hid the stallion's shoulder; but Safadin seemed to know him, or at least to know his colours, for in another moment he was towing the boy away.
Trying to appear as though it were he who led the ponderous charger, Juhel bolted for the barriers; a groom ran to meet and relieve him, and five minutes later he stood aghast at the door of the yellow pavilion.
Raoul of Ger was a motionless figure of steel, sitting inertly in a rough high-backed chair. As Juhel moved into the warm colourful gloom, Piers lifted the great helm from their master's shoulders. The count was very pale, but he blinked and smiled; a great weight rose from somewhere about Jehul's middle.
"No bones broken," murmured Raoul. "But I am glad of excuse to leave that game for to-day. Fulk's arm is heavy."
"Never saw I such shacks given and received," grunted Nino Chiostra, plying pincers on the stained and battered plate armour. "Piers, Juhel, my lord's bath, quickly."
"Sip this," growled John Doust, proffering a cup of red wine of Estragon. "By the scabbard of Michael Archangel, it eased me to see you set about the prince and topple Robin Barberghe out of saddle."
"Robin was my second man," claimed Raoul with blood returning to his cheeks. "I have paid my shot. Let them all batter each other senseless. So half a dozen are spared, the realm were no worse."
"Which half dozen?" asked kneeling Nino, grinning up into his friend's face/
"Ah, let me not commit myself," laughed the count, turning his laugh into a groan as the squire who was assisting Nino lifted the dented thigh piece from a bruised leg.
Juhel, busy amid brass cans and steam, was soothed by an access of self-importance. He had enlightened his lord concerning the great plot; he was the count's retainer, not the king's, and in the eyes of Juhel the count could do no wrong.
Mute and solemn and armed with a towel, he ushered his lord into the bath tent behind the pavilion, vaguely aware of cessation of uproar in the lists; but not until nearly twenty minutes had passed did Nino Chiostra part the curtains and show a face alive with tidings.
"Some dunderheaded squire of Conjrad's has put the fat into the fire," said Nino, advancing to squat on the edge of the great tub. "The first I saw of it was Prince Thorismund, unhelmed, riding up to the king's balcony, waving his sword and shouting in a tidy rage. The king nods to the constable, the constable lifts his truncheon, the marshals spur and bellow, the trumpets blow as if to burst, and all hammer-and-anvil din goes tinkling down to silence. Conrad comes riding slowly up, and there on his shield, for all to see, is azure, a lion sejant argent."
"No baton sinister?" demanded Roal of Ger, hugging his knees amid floating aromatic herbs in the soapy water.
"Not a trace of it."
"But, by the Mass, go on."
For azure, a lion sejant argent was the royal device – King Rene's own, which only Thorismund might bear beside; and Thorismund himself must show in addition a label of cadency to mark him as heir.
"Well, I was too far off to hear, but they say the king was wroth with Conrad; and then and there they broke up the day's tourney. The prince sat with a face like doom – so much all men could see; and when the king bade heralds take the offending shield from Conrad there went up a growl from half those in the lists. And there was hissing in the crowd, and someone shouted 'he is more worthy of it than the other.' The pikemen tried to reach the shouter, but his companions thrust him away between their legs, and he escaped.
"Bur the king rose up and bade Conrad ask pardon, first of himself, then of his nephew. Conrad with no change of face complied, dropping on one knee this way and that; and his chamberlain stood forth and cried out how it happened. The shield itself was finished, said the chamberlain, save only for that all-important detail – as though men waste the silver paint where the baton crosses the lion's body! But it seemed Duke Conrad has to-day had three shields broken on his arm, three shields bearing his own boar's head; and in his haste a wretched squire, running to the duke's pavilion, caught up that other and bore it out to his master in the mellay."
"H'm. And the king accepted the excuse?"
"Yes, and Thorismund also. Thorismund got off his horse and went to Conrad, holding out his hand."
"Ay. He can be generous on occasion. And then?"
"Conrad bowed and clasped his hands behind him. And Thorismund went white with rage, and turned his back and stalked to his horse. And in the silence someone clapped – men say it was the Duchess of Camors. And Gaston de Volsberghe sprang to earth and strode to hold Conrad's bridle; and Alain de Montcarneau dismounted and picked up Conrad's sword and gave it back to him. But Thorismund rode away – and the Saultes and Olencourts wheeled mounts and followed him, yet only a dozen others went with them. Many more waited for Conrad. And there is rested – to the tune of such a gabbling from the balconies as you can well imagine. But now–"
"Now?"
"Now you are the chief whose sympathies are unknown and undeclared."
"Ay, since Alain holds with Conrad. I do not envy myself. Juhel, the towels. Piers, I will wear the gray velvet and the silver girdle garnished with opals. And Nino – touching that same royal shield – what do you think?"
The young comptroller crossed his legs and pulled absently at his straight brown nose.
"Why," he said after reflection, "I think that these full blooded war-faced heroes like my lord Duke of Burias cannot bottle up their deep lusts forever. I believe he kept that blazon in his tent without a thought of marring the dainty lion with any baton sinister. Even as you have sat brooding on your old romaunts; even as Camors dotes on his wine cup and Barberghe on his treasure chest, Thorismund on a comely maid, and I – God help me – on the light in a well-cut emerald; even so has Conrad dwelt upon his father's shield, the embl
em of the royalty he covets – poor fool that he is."
"In faith, Nino, I believe you may be right. That brawl beside the cathedral apse ten days ago – that marked an attempt to embroil Thorismund with the Saultes. It failed, although no crossbowman was found; and now, by this day's misadventure, Conrad stands in the king's displeasure."
"Small moment, if half the realm stand with and for him."
"No, that is true. Nino, I would we were less in the eyes of men. Here there will be stout parts to play; that is, we must lie and cheat, and presently, perhaps, slay those with whom we have hunted and sung and feasted. I had rather turn a rondel, and you, I warrant, had rather carve a gem. Long life to King Rene, I say, for when he goes we are all at each other's throats."
"Amen to that," said Nino Chiostra softly.
Juhel regarded the pair of them doubtfully. Could they really deride Conrad for desire of sovereignity, or really prefer their toys of leisure to riding armed through an admiring land?
Suddenly Nino Chiostra chuckled.
"Ten thousand little fleeting devils!" he cried. "Let them beware of you, Raoul! The man who only fights to finish and go to sleep is often the wickedest fighter of all."
"Ay," observed John Doust, thrusting his fair hair and pink countenance round the canvas door flap. "Ay, it is well said as I say it: Trust in God and mount your archers. But if you aim to finish a campaign with men taken from towns and farms, send knaves among them who will point to your enemies and say: Those misbegotten hell-spewn mandrakes hinder us from going home."
"But what if some captain equally wise abide in the tents of wickedness?" demanded Nino Chiostra with a grin.
John Doust ruminated.
"Then it comes back to God and the archers," he decided. "But I will not be snared in subtleties. The only right side is the side I am on! Are we for Thorismund or Conrad?"
The Count of Ger rose, naked to the waist, and flung a wet tower at his war captain's head.
"Nay, I am all discretion," rumbled the Englishman, brushing the missile aside. "Truly a bath tent is no place for such confidences. Juhel has grown coney's ears, and Piers squints with impatience."
"At fourteen one is very ready to take sides," said Nino.
John Doust regarded his friend askance.
"Graybeards of twenty-two," he grieved, "find it, alas, far otherwise. But Raoul is so quiet that you may hear the flap of vultures' wings. Let Conrad – or Thorismund – now take heed. By the harrowing of hell, I am like to be sorry for Thorismund – or Conrad. And after all, we fight for peace to follow."
"Out upon you, inveterate war dog," cried Nino. "You would fight for peace until no living thing remained in all the land."
"Ay," said Raoul of Ger. "And then might real peace begin."
* * * *
Morning at Hautarroy. A cooing of doves, and the harsh cry of a peacock. Framed in the tall unshuttered window, and broken by the pink stone balusters of the balcony, a sweep of trim lawn, frosted with dew that sparkled in early sunlight. Beyond, a dark rigidity of cedars; in one corner the wavering flash of a fountain, in another the ordered blaze of gillyflowers and lilies.
This was the palace of the old archbishop, where now the Count of Ger stayed as a guest. The tourney was a week past; the king was already reconciled to his son, and Thorismund had left the city to seek his own castle overlooking Hastain – ostensibly in a huff at Conrad's regaining of favour, but actually by advice from leaders of his party; for Raoul of Ger had made his choice, although remaining outwardly aloof from either faction.
The aged prelate was no politician; Thorismund's and Conrad's men alike could seek the Count of Ger without remark. Juhel grew used to announcing those who eyed each other askance in his master's antechamber, and this morning he marched demurely upstairs to receive food for excitement.
"What is it, Juhel?" asked the count, turning in his carven chair beside the sunny window.
"My lord, a Franconian merchant waits below – Master Dietrich Halbern, with a casket of leather goods."
"Halbern? Oh, ay, Duke Conrad spoke of him. Bring him here, Juhel!"
"My lord?"
"One moment. Very shortly I expect a visit from the Sieur Gaston de Volsberghe. When the merchant is gone, and when I am well engaged with the Sieur Gaston, come you to me and say that a squire of the Duke of Saulte waits at the postern. Just that and nothing more. At the postern, remember. And now bring hither that Franconian leather seller."
Dietrich Halbern was very tall, but he stooped and leaned on a great staff that was shod with iron and topped with a grinning lion's head in beaten copper. His long gown was of good green cloth, unseasonably trimmed with fur; his little fur cap was turned up with red silk and adorned with a leaden image of Saint Christopher, patron of travellers. His sand-brown eagle's face was clean-shaven, and dark hair fell thickly upon his thrown-back tawny hood. And if Dietrich Halbern's appearance jarred somewhat with his modest manner, his voice held reassurance for mild folk who traded with him; he spoke slowly and gently, burring his hesitant words with Franconian manner.
His wares were dagger sheaths and purses, belts and pouches and wallets, of stamped and coloured leather. A scent of musk enveloped them; Juhel stood dutifully by the door, sniffing silently at the perfume, until the count waved him away.
Ten minutes later he was in the room again, very conscious of Gaston de Volsberghe towering over him. The famous commander had gray in his auburn hair; his hazel-coloured eyes were bland, his thick lips smiled graciously above his great chin, his mighty blue-clad figure topped even that of Dietrich Halbern – but that was perhaps because of the merchant's stoop.
"Ohe, Sieur Gaston," called the count, rising to take the other's hand. "You are most welcome. I beg you will be seated; I entreat your indulgence while I choose a gift or two from Master Halbern's store."
"My business can well wait," said Gaston simply, lodging his trim bulk on a window seat; and again Juhel by the door, while the merchant took up his slow persuasive murmur.
"Eh, my lord count, this is best Austrasian stuff; I have seen none like it save at the emperor's court. The emperor himself, God save him, has hunted with such a sheath at such a girdle. See, it is very daintily sewn, yet very firmly weighted with lead at the tip, that you shall not reach for steel and find it tilted out and lost a mile behind you. Look now, at this my dagger; I house it, so. See, it slides sweetly as a priest's had to a flagon – and to draw it, flick, flash, I am stoutly defended. And the purse to match, so handy, so mightily secure; there is linked steel behind the straps – no thief may sever that in a crowd, nay, not if he work with a razor…"
Raoul of Ger paid little heed to the burred patter; but pulled and fingered the wares buying at length a purse and a belt and a fine saddlebag with a pattern of gilded roses. Gaston de Volsberghe seemed struck by the outward contrast between the slim count and giant tradesman; the latter he observed with more than ordinary attention, and when Dietrich Halbern snapped the catches of his little trunk the Sieur Gaston arrested him.
"Merchant, where have we met before?"
One flickering glance of bright blue eyes, and the Franconian's heavy eyelids were again discreetly lowered. Holding the casket by its straps with one hand, Master Dietrich bowed, and gestured with the other before picking up his cap and staff.
"My lord, it might be in many places. Harenheim, Harksburg, Brelstein, Bartsch – every year I am in each city. But also I wander far and far, seeing many and many noble blazons; into Lonbardy and up again to Innsburck, ay, and across the Avignon. Perhaps at the Emperor's court itself?"
Gaston did not reply for a moment. it was absurd that a noble should remember a merchant and not be remembered again. Raoul of Ger spared the pair a second's amused wonder before he motioned to Juhel to show the Franconian out.
"Plague me, Ger–" boomed the Sieur Gaston, as the door closed behind Juhel; plainly the Volsberghe was puzzled, and Juhel, glancing up at the eagle face as he held a curtain aside,
saw a deepening of the laughter wrinkles beside the heavy eyelids. Master Dietrich Halbern seemed to have had his little joke; he regarded Juhel aslant with a frosty good humour.
"Give you good day, my pippin," he growled, in a voice almost devoid of accent; then he disappeared in the bustle of the courtyard, and Juhel promptly forgot him and his musk and his lion-headed staff. For now arose the peculiar duty laid upon Juhel by his lord, demanding a smooth tongue and a steady eye.
The count and the Sieur Gaston were not in the chamber when after a quarter hour he returned to it. through a window he saw the pair pacing up and down a reach of lawn where none could come unseen upon them. Ger barely came to the Volsberghe's shoulder; he had his thumbs hooked in his belt, which to Juhel bespoke a certain depth of meditation.
The boy marched soberly downstairs again and out into the morning sunlight. Passing beneath the windows of the wing allotted to the count's retainers, he heard Nino Chiostra carolling a verse of the song about the six demoiselles;
"Then by the dreadful Midnight Sword,
Carim-cara, cara-carim,
Lucrezia's skin she must afford
Without Lucrezia's whining word,
Carim, cara carissma."
Juhel frowned; he knew all about that midnight sword. Master Nino probably used the first six trisyllabic names that came into his head; two of them being his versions of Helen and Lucrece, the classical allusions were inevitable. But Juhel could never forget the black Tarquinian wrong in his own family history; later he wondered if his faint anger had power to run before him over the dewy grass.
The ill-assorted couple paused to wait his approach. It was hard to keep chin up and confront the questioning glance of two such famous men, even though one were his own beloved master.
Juhel linked hands behind him and bowed, scared of the impatient Volsberghe stare.
"My – my lord Count, a squire of the Duke of Saulte waits at the postern."
Joris of the Rock [The Neustrian Cycle, Book II] (Forgotten Fantasy Library) Page 20
