But before the bull could turn his body, Just had jumped again, this time onto the back and, as the bull bucked madly beneath him, turned his attention to hanging on to one horn and disentangling a ribbon from the other. Just was soon dis-lodged, flung down to the ground, but he displayed another ribbon in his waving hand, rolled over, and just managed to get to his feet as the bull charged at him.
A tremendous noise broke out from the crowd as it clapped, shouted, and flung a veritable ocean of bright blooms into the ring. Just was now running lightly around the arena, pursued by the bull.
He paused, as if in deliberation, turned gradually on his heel, and seemed surprised to see the bull almost upon him.
Now Just jumped again, but a horn caught his coat and ripped it, sending him off balance. One hand came down on the bull's back, and he vaulted to the ground but fell badly and rolled as the bull charged.
Just scrambled away, still in control of himself but unable to rise. The bull's head dipped, a horn lashed at the body.
Droplets of blood sparkled in the sunlight, and the crowd moaned with a mixture of pity and bloodlust.
"Father!" Yisselda's hand gripped Count Brass's arm.
"He'll be killed. Help him!"
Count Brass shook his head, although his body had moved involuntarily toward the ring. "It is his own affair. It is what he risks."
Just's body was now tossed high into the air, arms and legs loose like a rag doll's. Into the ring came the mounted guardians with long lances to goad the bull away from his victim.
But the bull refused to move, standing over Just's still body as a predatory cat might stand over the body of its prey.
Count Brass leaped over the side of the ring almost before he realized what he was doing. He ran forward in his armor of brass, ran at the bull like a metal giant.
The riders pulled their horses aside as Count Brass flung his body at the bull's head, grasping the horns in his great hands.
Veins stood out on his ruddy face as he pushed the bull gradually back.
Then the head moved, and Count Brass's feet left the ground, but his hands kept their grip and he shifted his weight to one side, bearing the bull's head back so that gradually it seemed to bow.
There was silence everywhere. From the box, Yisselda, Bowgentle, and von Villach leaned forward, their faces pale.
All in the amphitheater were tense as Count Brass slowly exerted his strength.
Cornerouge's knees shook. He snorted and bellowed and his body bucked. But Count Brass, shaking with the effort of holding the horns, did not relent. His mustache and hair seemed to bristle, the muscles on his neck bulged and turned red, but gradually the bull weakened, and then slowly it fell to its knees.
Men ran forward to drag the wounded Just from the ring, but still the crowd was silent.
Then, with a great wrench, Count Brass flung Cornerouge over on his side.
The bull lay still, acknowledging its master, acknowledging that it was without question beaten.
Count Brass stepped back and the bull did not move, simply looked up at him through glazed, puzzled eyes, its tail shifting slightly in the dust, its huge chest rising and falling.
Now the cheering began.
Now the cheering rose in volume so that it seemed the whole world would hear it.
Now the crowd rose to its feet and hailed their Lord Guardian with unprecedented acclaim as Mahtan Just staggered forward clutching at his wound and gripped Count Brass's arm for a moment in gratitude.
And in the box Yisselda wept with pride and relief, and unabashed, Bowgentle wiped tears from his own eyes. Only von Villach did not weep, but his head nodded in grim approval of his master's feat.
Count Brass walked back toward the box, smiling up at his daughter and his friends. He gripped the wall and hauled himself back to his place. He laughed with rich enjoyment and waved at the crowd as they cheered him.
Then he raised his hand and addressed them as the cheering died.
"Do not give me the ovation - give it to Mahtan Just. He won the trophies. See" - he opened his palms and displayed them-"I have nothing!" There was laughter. "Let the festival continue." Count Brass sat down.
Bowgentle had recovered his composure. He leaned toward Count Brass. "So, my friend, do you still say you prefer to remain uninvolved in the struggle of others?"
Count Brass smiled at him. "You are indefatigable, Bowgentle. This surely, was a local affair, was it not?"
"If your dreams of a united continent are still with you then the affairs of Europe are local affairs." Bowgentle stroked his chin. "Are they not?"
Count Brass's expression became serious for an instant.
"Perhaps . . ." he began, but then shook his head and laughed. "Oh, insidious Bowgentle, you still manage to confound me from time to time!"
But later, when they left the box and made their way back to the castle, Count Brass was frowning.
As Count Brass and his retinue rode into the castle courtyard, a man-at-arms ran forward, his pointing arm indicating an ornate carriage and a group of black, plumed stallions with saddles of unfamiliar workmanship, which the grooms were at that moment removing.
"Sire," the man-at-arms breathed, "there have come visitors to our castle while you were at the arena. Noble visitors, though I know not if you'll welcome them."
Count Brass looked hard at the carriage. It was of beaten metal, of dark gold, steel, and copper, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, silver, and onyx. It was fashioned to resemble the body of a grotesque beast, with its legs extending into claws, which clutched the wheel shafts. Its head was reptilian, with ruby eyes, hollowed out from above to form a seat for the coach-man. On the doors was an elaborate coat of arms displaying many quarterings in which were strange-looking animals weapons, and symbols of an obscure but disturbing nature.
Count Brass recognized the design of the carriage and the coat of arms. The first was the workmanship of the mad smiths of Granbretan; the second was the coat of arms of one of that nation's most powerful and infamous nobles.
"It is Baron Meliadus of Kroiden," Count Brass said as he dismounted. "What business could bring such a great lord to our little rural province?" He spoke with some irony, but he seemed disturbed. He glanced at Bowgentle as the philosopher poet came and stood beside him.
"We will treat him courteously, Bowgentle," said the Count warningly. "We will show him all Castle Brass's hospitality.
We have no quarrel with the Lords of Granbretan."
"Not at this moment, perhaps," said Bowgentle, speaking with evident restraint.
With Yisselda and von Villach behind them, Count Brass and Bowgentle ascended the steps and entered the hall, where they found Baron Meliadus waiting for them alone.
The Baron was almost as tall as Count Brass. He was dressed all in gleaming black and dark blue. Even his jeweled animal mask, which covered the whole of his head like a helmet, was of some strange black metal with deep blue sapphires for eyes. The mask was cast in the form of a snarling wolf, with needle-sharp teeth in the open jaws. Standing in the shadows of the hall, his black cloak covering much of his black armor, Baron Meliadus might have been one of the mythical beast-gods that were still worshipped in the lands beyond the Middle Sea. As they entered, he reached up with black-gauntleted hands and removed the mask, revealing a white, heavy face with a well-trimmed black beard and mustache. His hair, too, was black and thick, and his eyes were a pale, strange blue. The Baron was apparently unarmed, perhaps as an indication that he came in peace. He bowed low and spoke in a deep, musical voice.
"Greetings, famous Count Brass, and forgive this sudden intrusion. I sent messengers ahead, but they arrived too late to reach you before you left. I am the Baron Meliadus of Kroiden, Grand Constable of the Order of the Wolf, First Chieftain of the Armies under our great King-Emperor, Huon. ..."
Count Brass inclined his head. "I know of your great deeds, Baron Meliadus, and recognized your arms on your carriage. Be welcome. The Castle Brass
is yours for as long as you wish to stay. Our fare is simple, I fear, in comparison with the richness I have heard may be sampled at the board of even the lowliest citizen of that mighty Empire of Granbretan, but that, too, is yours."
Baron Meliadus smiled. "Your courtliness and hospitality put those of Granbretan to shame, mighty hero. I thank you."
Count Brass introduced his daughter, and the Baron advanced to bow low and kiss her hand, evidently impressed by her beauty. To Bowgentle he was courteous, showing familiarity with the poet-philosopher's writings, but in reply Bowgentle's voice shook with the effort of remaining polite. With von Villach, Baron Meliadus reminded him of several famous battles in which the old warrior had distinguished himself, and von Villach was visibly pleased.
For all the fine manners and elaborately embellished state-ments, there was a certain tension in the hall. Bowgentle was the first to make his excuses, and shortly afterward Yisselda and von Villach discreetly left to let Baron Meliadus discuss whatever business had brought him to Castle Brass. Baron Meliadus's eyes lingered just a little while on the girl as she passed out of the hall.
Wine and refreshments were brought, and the two men settled themselves in heavy, carved armchairs.
Baron Meliadus looked over the brim of his wine cup at Count Brass. "You are a man of the world, my lord," he said.
"Indeed, you are that in every sense. So you will appreciate that my visit is fostered by more than an urge to enjoy the sights of this pretty province."
Count Brass smiled a little, liking the Baron for his frank-ness. "Quite so," he agreed, "though for my part, it is an honor to meet so famous a peer of the great King Huon."
"That feeling is shared by myself toward you," Baron Meliadus replied. "You are without doubt the most famous hero in Europe, perhaps the most famous in her history. It is almost alarming to find you are made of flesh, after all, and not metal." He laughed, and Count Brass joined in the laughter.
"I've had my share of luck," Count Brass said. "And fate has been kind to me in seeming to collaborate my judgment.
Who is to say whether the age we live in is good for me, or I am good for that age?"
"Your philosophy rivals that of your friend Sir Bowgentle,"
said Baron Meliadus, "and supports what I have heard of your wisdom and judgment. We in Granbretan pride ourselves on our own abilities in that direction, but we could learn from you, I believe."
"I have only details," Count Brass told him, "but you have the talent to see the general scheme." He tried to guess from Meliadus's face what the man was leading toward, but the face remained bland.
"It is the details we need," Baron Meliadus said, "if our general ambitions are to be realized as swiftly as we should like."
Now Count Brass understood why Baron Meliadus was here, but he did not reveal that; he only looked a little puzzled and politely poured more wine for his guest.
"We have a destiny to rule all Europe," Baron Meliadus said.
"That seems to be your destiny," Count Brass agreed. "And I support, in principle, such an ambition."
"I am glad, Count Brass. We are often misrepresented, and our enemies are many, spreading calumnies across the globe, it sometimes seems."
"I am not interested in the truth or falsehood of those rumors," Count Brass told him. "It is only your general activities I believe in."
"You would not, then, oppose the spread of our Empire?"
Baron Meliadus looked at him carefully.
"Only," Count Brass smiled, "in particular. In the particular case of this land I protect, the Kamarg."
"You would welcome, then, the security of a treaty of peace between us?"
"I see no need for one. I have the security of my towers."
"Hmmm . . ." Baron Meliadus glanced at the floor.
"Is that why you came, my lord Baron? To propose a peace treaty? To propose an alliance, even?"
"Of sorts," nodded the Baron. "An alliance of sorts."
"I would not oppose or support you in most senses," Count Brass told him. "I would oppose you only if you attacked my lands. I support you only in my attitude that a unifying force is needed in Europe at this time."
Baron Meliadus thought for a moment before speaking.
"And if that unification were threatened?" he said at length.
Count Brass laughed. "I do not believe it can be. There is none powerful enough to withstand Granbretan now."
Baron Meliadus pursed his lips. "You are right in believing that. Our list of victories becomes almost a bore to us. But the more we conquer, the thinner we spread our forces. If we knew the Courts of Europe as well, for instance, as yourself, we should know better who to trust and who to distrust and thus be able to concentrate our attention on the weaknesses.
We have the Grand Duke Ziminon as our governor in Normandia, for instance." Baron Meliadus looked carefully at Count Brass. "Would you say we are wise in our choice? He sought the throne of Normandia when his cousin Jewelard possessed it. Is he content with the throne on our terms ?"
"Ziminon, eh?" Count Brass smiled. " I helped defeat him at Rouen."
"I know. But what is your opinion of him?"
Count Brass's smile grew broader as Baron Meliadus's manner became more intense. Now he knew exactly what Granbretan wanted of him. "He is an excellent horseman and has a fascination for women," he said.
"That does not help us know the extent to which we may trust him." Almost impatiently, the Baron put his wine cup on the table.
"True," Count Brass agreed. He looked up at the large wall clock that hung over the fireplace. Its golden hands showed eleven o'clock. Its huge pendulum swung slowly back and forth, casting a flickering shadow on the wall. It began to strike. "We go to our beds early in Castle Brass," the Count said casually. "We live the lives of country folk, I am afraid."
He rose from his chair. "I will have a servant show you to your chambers. Your men have been placed in rooms adjoining the main suite."
A faint shadow clouded Baron Meliadus's face. "Count Brass - we know of your skill in politics, your (Wisdom, your comprehensive knowledge of all the weaknesses and the strengths of the European courts. We wish to make use of that knowledge. In return, we offer riches, power, security...."
"I have all I need of the first two and am assured of the third," Count Brass replied gently as he pulled a bellrope. "You will forgive me if I claim tiredness and a desire to sleep. I have had an exerting afternoon."
"Listen to reason, my lord Count, I beg you." Baron Meliadus was making an effort to appear in good temper.
"I hope you will stay with us for some time, Baron, and be able to tell us all the news."
A servant entered.
"Please show our guest to his chambers," Count Brass told the servant. He bowed to the Baron. "Good night, Baron Meliadus. I look forward to seeing you when we break our fast at eight o'clock."
When the Baron had left the hall following the servant, Count Brass let some of his amusement show on his face. It was pleasing to know that Granbretan sought his help, but he had no intention of giving it. He hoped he could resist the Baron's requests politely, for he had no wish to be on bad terms with the Dark Empire. Besides, he quite liked Baron Meliadus. They seemed to share certain qualities in common.
Chapter Four - THE FIGHT AT CASTLE BRASS
BARON MELIADUS remained at Castle Brass for a week.
After the first night, he succeeded in recovering his composure and never again betrayed any sign of impatience with Count Brass for his persistent refusal to listen to the inducements and requirements of Granbretan.
Perhaps it was not only his mission that kept the Baron at Castle Brass, for it was plain that he gave Yisselda much of his attention. With her, in particular, he appeared agreeable and courteous to such an extent that it was plain that Yisselda, unfamiliar with the sophisticated ways of the grand courts, was not unattracted to him.
Count Brass seemed oblivious of this. One morning as they walked in the u
pper terraces of the castle garden, Bowgentle spoke to his friend.
"Baron Meliadus seems not only interested in seducing you for the cause of Granbretan," he said. "He has another kind of seduction in mind, if I'm not mistaken."
"Eh?" Count Brass turned from his contemplation of the vines on the terrace below. "What else is he after?"
"Your daughter," Bowgentle answered softly.
"Oh, come now, Bowgentle," laughed the Count. "You see malice and evil intention in the man's every action. He is a gentleman, a noble. And besides, he wants something from me. He would not let that ambition be jeopardized by a flir-tation. I think you do Baron Meliadus an injustice. I've grown rather to like him."
"Then it is high time you involved yourself in politics again, my lord," said Bowgentle with some fire, but all the time speaking softly, "for it would seem your judgment is not as sharp as it was!"
Count Brass shrugged. "Be that as it may, I think you are becoming a nervous old woman, my friend. Baron Meliadus has behaved with decorum since his arrival. Admittedly, I think he wastes his time here and wish he would decide to leave soon, but if he has intentions toward my daughter I have seen no sign of it. He might wish to marry her, certainly, in order to make a blood tie between myself and Granbretan, but Yisselda would not consent to the idea, and neither would I."
"What if Yisselda loved Baron Meliadus and he felt passion for her?"
"How could she love Baron Meliadus?"
"She sees few men as handsome and sophisticated in Kamarg."
"Hmm," grunted the Count dismissively. "If she loved the Baron, she'd tell me, wouldn't she? I'll believe your tale when I hear it confirmed from Yisselda's lips!"
Bowgentle wondered to himself if the Count's refusal to see the truth were sponsored by a secret wish to know nothing at all of the character of those who ruled Granbretan or it was simply a father's common inability to see in his child what was perfectly evident to others. Bowgentle decided to keep a careful eye on both Baron Meliadus and Yisselda in future. He could not believe that the Count's judgment was correct in the case of the man who had caused the Massacre of Liege, who had given the order for the Sack of Sahbruck, and whose perverse appetites were the horror of every whispering scullion from North Cape to Tunis. As he had said, the Count had lived too long in the country, breathing the clean rural air. Now he could not recognize the stink of corruption even when he smelled it.
Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull Page 3