Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar

by Frances Mason

  Arthur vaulted over the balustrade onto the sand below. “Wish me well, son?”

  “You’ll win. You always win.”

  “I…ah…well, yes. I suppose you’re right. Probably because you always wish me well, right?”

  “Until I’m big enough to beat you.”

  “I can’t wait for the day.”

  Richard smiled, and even deigned to play with the miniature knight.

  Sophie, with Eleanor and several ladies in waiting, was walking down by the barriers beyond where the mayor and aldermen and their wives had seated themselves, where the poorest commoners stood, and was chatting with an enthusiastic group of little girls. Already her arms were full of flowers, as girls and boys alike had struggled past adults to give her their gifts. She fondly touched one girl’s face and exclaimed her admiration for another’s best dress, then bowed solemnly before a third to be crowned with a daisy chain.

  “Sister, it seems you are to be the queen of young hearts.”

  “Aren’t they lovely?”

  “It is lovely to be loved,” Eleanor quipped, “though knives in the night do give a bodyguard some entertainment.”

  “You mustn’t corrupt Sophie with your cynicism, Eleanor,” Arthur said, though a slight smile flickered on his lips.

  Eleanor sighed. “No, Arthur, I mustn’t be selfish. I must leave life his own work.”

  “I am sorry. Forgive my forgetfulness. Your loss was regretted by all who love you.”

  “That much is certain. The number less so.” Her expression brightened. “But I mustn’t be gloomy. Self-pity is so tedious, and I do prefer to entertain. And I have much to be happy about. My son is now married, by all appearances happily. And we all know appearances can be reassuring.”

  Arthur raised his eyebrow, then let it fall, and Sophie reflected that if she raised an eyebrow at every one of Eleanor’s witticisms she would have a sore face before an hour had passed.

  “Yes,” Arthur said, “to princess Alyssia…of Relyan.”

  Eleanor looked back at the train of ladies in waiting. “Must you follow us like bad smells a beggar?” Suddenly, inexplicably, her expression was pained, “but we must be kinder to the poor,” she added softly, without irony, but instead with sincere sadness. The ladies withdrew to a more respectful distance, though Kat frowned at being addressed in such a way. The momentary cloud passed from Eleanor’s face, and she spoke quietly to Arthur. Sophie, still close, strained to hear.

  “You disapprove of the match.”

  “Two powerful, ambitious families united. Why would I disapprove?”

  “Why indeed,” Eleanor said with a wry smile, “don’t worry yourself, Arthur. We don’t plot to take your father’s throne.”

  “To your integrity I trust.”

  “But not to Augustyn’s?”

  He considered for a moment, then said, “I trust to his intelligence as much as his ambition. His father and grandfather were ambitious, and he’s like them, only more so, but he wouldn’t be foolish enough to plot for the crown.”

  “You’re right. Augustyn is not a fool.”

  “No,” Arthur looked at her askance, “even if he had any claim, Thedra could not be taken by force, and the Crown’s Yeomen are incorruptible, and formidable, professional soldiers. Even the monks of War would be hard pressed to stand against them. And the monks of War fight for Vrong Veld. If Amery had designs I would be more concerned. His grandfather was king, and with an army of Crimson Monks behind him he would be a formidable foe. That cult’s monks are as loyal to Amery’s house as the Yeomen are to the king, especially while Augustyn is Amery’s enemy and holds the Dark Arkon’s leash. Still, Augustyn is not without resources, both within and beyond Thedra. If he calculated that he could gain by treason, I wouldn’t trust his loyalty to outweigh his advantage.”

  “I doubt Augustyn covets the crown of Ropeua, and Amery, I think, is more given to fighting Augustyn than the king.”

  Arthur caught Eleanor’s meaning. “Let Augustyn trouble the kings of Vrongwe all he likes, and expend resources there that might otherwise do mischief here. Let him fight foreign kings and pirates and the crown will be pleased.”

  “Privateers, dear. They have letters of marque.”

  “There is always some king, petty or strong, who will issue letters of marque. There are few pirates between the north eastern strait and the western sea who don’t carry them.”

  She smiled. “I don’t deny it, nor that many dukes issue them also, always in the name of the crown, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said, returning her wry smile, “and with a buccaneer son roaming the archipelago you have to be careful about definitions.”

  “Oh, you’re quite right. ‘Pirate’ is such an undignified title, even for the younger son of a duke. I suspect he would rather still be searching for that lost city of gold in the jungles of the far south.” She smiled lightly, with a mother’s indulgence for a mischievous little son, then added, “Though Alyssia’s beauty has captivated him for the moment. How quickly they grow up.”

  He nodded, clearly thinking of his own son. “There’s no doubting the many uses for letters of marque. Your son’s good name, the good of the kingdom.”

  “One does always wonder whose good is best served when ‘the kingdom’ is invoked?”

  “Even by the crown prince?”

  “Especially by the crown prince.”

  “Perhaps the privateers of the eastern strait have uses for many.”

  “Yes,” she fixed Arthur with her penetrating gaze, “for Amery with Vrongwe against Augustyn, for Augustyn against Vrongwe and Amery, for the peace of the capital while the dukes are at war. One could almost suspect there was a planning intelligence behind it, and an agreement between our king and Vrongwe’s, to ‘the kingdom’s’ advantage.”

  “You’re too cynical, Eleanor,” he said, his eyes twinkling with humour, “what is useful is not always planned.”

  She gave him a penetrating look. “I hope Navrelese ships will not be ‘accidentally’ targeted by these privateers of Vrongwe.”

  “If Navrelese ships confine themselves to trade they are unlikely to suffer more because of your son’s marriage alliance. Of course, if your ships spend more time in the waters of the strait, dangerously tipping the balance in that complex conflict, the pirates, I mean privateers, there will make whatever choices are to their own advantage, no doubt.”

  “No doubt,” she said dryly.

  “And Navre is more interested in its own extending sphere of influence in the south, anyway.”

  “It is a wealthy region, and the civilization of Kemet is sophisticated and ancient, even if they have lost much of their former greatness, and forget most of the knowledge with which they once ruled the world.”

  “It’s good that you understand the true interests of your house so well.”

  She laughed then, lightly, with all the charm that made clear it was not only her beauty men had once fought over. “Let it not be said that the future of the kingdom is not bright.”

  He inclined his head slightly. “Let it not be said that Thedra ever doubts the house of Navre.” He turned at a clanking sound. “Hello, what’s this?”

  Sophie followed Arthur’s eyes. Amery, duke Vrong Veld, and Augustyn, duke Relyan, approached the centre of the field, together leading a richly caparisoned great white destrier on which seemed to sit a slouching knight, arrayed in clanking, burnished armour, of steel plated with gold, that burned brightly in the morning sun. The king’s herald rushed up to them, bowing and talking rapidly, his face an uncertain, even confused, combination of pride in his station and careful obsequiousness before the two powerful nobles. They spoke to him, pointing to the horse and empty armour. The herald nodded to the two dukes, and turned to the king with a questioning look. The king nodded. The herald stepped forward.

  The crowd fell silent as the herald spoke, his clear voice reaching the furthest edges of the crowd. “The great dukes of the realm,
Vrong Veld and Relyan, in amity and agreement, with liberality suited to their nobility, and humility owed by loyal vassals to the crown, offer, with the lord his majesty’s blessing, this rich prize, of steed and armour, to whoever wins this day.”

  “What are those two up to?” Arthur muttered.

  “Making peace?” Sophie suggested, though her tone implied question rather than statement.

  “What, those two? The god of war himself would sooner sue for peace than Amery and Augustyn.”

  He scrutinised Eleanor’s face, though she seemed as surprised as he. “You accomplish much in little time.”

  “Don’t look at me, Arthur. I haven’t even had enough time to settle in at the palace, and I do like to be comfortable before I begin my nefarious plots.”

  He studied her carefully for a few more moments, then shrugged. “Whatever they’re up to, it’s a fine steed, and fine armour.”

  “So, you want it?” Sophie asked teasingly.

  He grinned. “I want to win it. Wish me luck, sister.”

  “May the gods smile on you, brother.”

  “Something less pious, perhaps.”

  She smiled. Though neither was entirely irreligious, each despised at least one of the major cults for its influence over the king or queen. “May boring priests and priestesses, monks and nuns, fall out of the saddle sooner than you.”

  “And on their silly heads.” He grinned at his sister, nodded seriously to Eleanor, a question still in his look, then strode toward the far end of the jousting yard, disappearing into a pavilion as large as a house and decorated with the royal coat of arms.

  The day progressed much as Sophie expected, with Arthur, in his white painted armour and tabard emblazoned with triple mountain lions rampant, unhorsing many knights and always keeping his seat. The only surprise was the entry of an unknown knight, in armour painted black. He was as large a man as Arthur and he wore no tabard, though the herald announced him “Sir Strange”. He also unhorsed many knights, and kept his seat. As the day progressed it was clear that the white knight and the black knight must meet to decide the event, for none could stand against the prince or this Sir Strange. The field was whittled down by these two to the greatest knights in the kingdom. Sir Eorg broke three lances against the shield of Sir Delm, then Sir Delm unhorsed Sir Eorg. Manuth Riverby and Kilmar Stronghelm unhorsed each other in the same charge, the crowd amazed as both knights fell to earth, their horses galloping on to the ends of the yards. Bathror Horsetamer struck a glancing blow off Reogar Kingsman’s shield which was deflected onto his helmet and turned it round. Reogar kept his seat but slumped forward. His squire rushed up to him. A hush spread through the crowd. He must be dead, his neck broken. His squire pulled him down with the aid of two pages and they carefully removed the helmet. His face still faced forward and he opened his dazed eyes. He stood up, remounted his horse. Bathror rode up and the two knights conversed, then grasped each other’s forearms. The crowd roared their approval. Reogar put the helm back on backwards and raised his arms for the laughing crowd.

  Many other great knights rode and fought, triumphed or fell. But whatever the skills and strength of the knights, none could stand against the white knight or the black knight. Finally only these two remained.

  They took their places at the ends of the tilting yard. The crowd were amazed by the skill of both, but they would only be satisfied by one result. Arthur was loved by the people, so they chanted for the white. The black knight seemed unperturbed. His mighty steed pawed the earth. The squires brought the knights their lances. Only now did Sophie notice the colourful handkerchief the black knight carried in his gauntlet. Perhaps he had only just put it there.

  “He’s fighting for a lady,” she said to Eleanor, “look.”

  “I think you’re right, dear. I didn’t notice. My eyes aren’t what they once were.”

  Amelia gushed enthusiastically. “Do you think that’s why he wears no tabard? His loyalty is to his lady. How romantic!”

  Sophie said, “I think you must be right, Amelia.”

  “You really must find a knight to fight for you,” Eleanor suggested to Sophie, “have him start a little war or two. Nothing is better for a young lady’s vanity.”

  Sophie gave Eleanor a disapproving look. “I wouldn’t have a war fought for me.”

  “Nonsense, dear! There’s nothing quite like a bit of masculine stupidity to give us ladies a sense of our superiority. And we must feel superior. Without that, what would we have in this world?”

  “If you insist on teasing me, I’ll pretend I don’t love you.”

  “Oh, no, please! Don’t do things by half. You must truly hate me. Only then will I be satisfied. Love can be so tiresome. Hate is so much easier. And so much more fun. Hate me with a passion. Then I’ll know I can still provoke passion in someone.”

  Sophie rested her head on Eleanor’s shoulder, knowing that nothing made clearer Eleanor’s love than her teasing. “You and Arthur were quite serious before.”

  “I thought I did my best to be as little serious as possible.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t really do anything to hurt you.”

  “Oh, you heard that?”

  Sophie nodded.

  “Well, I must learn to whisper more quietly. Plots are such delicate buds, they must remain hidden if they are to bloom.”

  “He wouldn’t send ships against yours, or plot with the king of Vrongwe to send pirates after your ships.”

  Eleanor threw the princess an ironic look, but couldn’t hold it long against her innocent, affectionate gaze. “Your brother will do whatever he thinks is best for the crown. I would respect him much less if he would do anything else. Though you live in the court you see little of its machinations, and perhaps understand less. No, no, don’t think I try to insult you, Sophie. I too was young once, and the romances, the parades, the knights in painted armour at magnificent tournaments, these things preoccupied me more than boring politics.”

  “I prefer my gardens.”

  “We all have or weaknesses. But you are a royal princess. You must notice more…”

  “I did eavesdrop your whispering with Arthur.”

  “I mean you must understand more. Arthur and I are not enemies, but neither submits to the other’s will. We respect and understand each other, and through that understanding, of power and its games, we find a peace, perhaps after a little bit of war, which is satisfying to both.”

  “Is the little bit of war necessary?”

  “Certainly. If we don’t challenge each other, we won’t understand each other’s position or powers. It’s much like marriage. A good marriage has many battles. But as long as wife and husband don’t destroy each other, we come to find each other and understand each other. Perhaps even to accept each other’s faults because we see our own so clearly. There is nothing quite like a fight to make clear to you that you’re as stupid as he is.”

  “So fighting takes away your ability to feel superior.”

  “You mustn’t quote my wit back at me, dear. I’ll never win an argument if I have to fight myself.”

  Arthur and the black knight had begun their charge. They met before the royal stand, each lance shattering on the other’s shield, sending a shower of splinters over the spectators. They returned to their respective ends and each took up another lance. The second charge produced the same result. And the third. On the fourth Arthur’s shield was pierced, but the lance glanced off his solid armour, though it scratched away the paint where it struck. The lance was wrenched from the black knight’s grasp and Arthur trailed it to the end of the tilting yard, where he shook it free and threw his shield to the ground, before returning to his own end. There was a delay as a new shield was brought from his pavilion.

  Sophie turned to address Katherine. “This black knight is very good. I’ve never seen anyone best Arthur before.”

  Katherine looked stern, “Neither have I, Sophie. And I hope I never do.”

  “At least th
e black knight fights for love.”

  A smile flickered across Katherine’s face, as if she wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or not with love. “Yes, I believe he does.”

  “I wonder who his lady is.”

  “Perhaps there is more than one,” Eleanor offered.

  Katherine blanched, before noticing Eleanor’s clear eyed observation.

  “Oh, no,” Sophie said, “he only has one token.”

  “And since when does a man need more than one token to dissatisfy many ladies,” Eleanor said, still watching Katherine carefully.

  Katherine steadily held Eleanor’s gaze, and her voice was sharp as she said, “And perhaps one lady can seek many tokens. I hear this is fashionable in the south.”

  “Many things are fashionable in the south, dear, and there is much to be said for fashion.” But she relented, “I am, myself, no longer young enough to concern myself overmuch with such fashions, and whatever I might say, my own marriage was little unpleasant enough for me to value committed love.”

  Katherine visibly relaxed. “Love is a difficult journey.”

  “But there are wonderful sights along the way.”

  Katherine smiled, a soft, melancholy smile. “Yes,” she almost whispered.

  The prince had strapped on his new shield and was taking his lance. The lances this round were heavier, since no advantage would otherwise be found. His destrier reared and kicked the air, then the two knights were charging toward each other. As they closed they lowered their lances, then locked their lances into their rests. Their steeds began in a canter, rising to a gallop, and before they reached the centre they were charging at full speed, foam flying from the bit, sweat soaking through caparisons from their flanks, as determined as the knights that sat astride them, locked firmly in place by high saddles that only the most crushing blows could lift them from. The crowd held their collective breath, as the hooves beat a path to the fateful meeting. The kite shields were pressed tightly to the sides, the lances crossing from outer side toward their goal, the visors concealed all but the eyes and the old knights who watched knew, and told their ladies, that the sweat would be obscuring the vision of the men and the heat would be like a furnace within, and every muscle would be strained, and concentration focussed on one coordinated task, to strike with the full force of the charging horse and powerfully muscled man, the man doing all he could with technique to deliver a force beyond his own making against his opponent. Then they struck. This time only one lance shattered. The black knight’s lance pierced the prince’s shield and struck his breastplate at precisely the point where a hollow allowed purchase. And the prince was lifted half out of his seat, sat for a moment, that seemed frozen for an hour, on the horse’s tail before falling. If his feet had been caught in the stirrups he would have been dragged, but his feet had come free. He rolled back and there was a sickening crunch as his head struck the ground and bent forward to his chest. And he lay motionless on the sand. No man or woman or child stirred in the crowd.