Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01]

by The Fire Sword (v0. 9) (epub)

  A figure in golden armor rode out of the gates, followed by a dark tide of infantry with only a few mounted men among them. The man in gold had his helm under one arm, and his blond hair seemed to glitter faintly in the somber overcast. Even at this distance, Eleanor thought she had never seen a man so fair, for he laughed as he rode. He seemed more an elfin prince than a creature of Shadow, and she was not surprised that Gerard followed him. But the horse beneath him was skittish, as if the burden he bore was unwanted, and she could see it was dark with sweat despite the chill of the day.

  The foot soldiers flowed out in two arcs to surround the camp, and Eleanor watched as the Marshall arranged his men to confront this attack. It seemed to her that there was chaos all around her, and for a second she was undecided as to what her part, if any, should be. Then she returned to the wagon, got her staff, and started looking for Arthur, who had vanished in a flurry of orders a few minutes before.

  She found him waiting impatiently while an equerry saddled his horse, drumming on his helm with his black hand. She caught the free hand in her own, searched his face, and found him bright-eyed with battle fever. Eleanor touched his face with her fingertips. "I think you may safely let your dragon out for the occasion, my lord.”

  He went as still as a statue at her words. "I should be afraid, but I am not. ’Tis foolish to not fear death, but I do not. And the beast seems less terrible, somehow.”

  Eleanor remembered that Bera’s boon to Arthur had been that he would not be afraid of his mortality and found it a very chancy gift. "There is nothing to fear,” she replied, knowing that what she said was both truth and lie.

  Then he mounted, and a dozen men fell in behind him on their horses, including the newly arrived Giles de Repton. She gave the dark man a hard look, wondered if more was crooked about him than his nose, and decided he might bear watching.. He might not be Shadow-struck, but that did not eliminate the possibility that his motives were less than pure. She trudged through the snow in the wake of the horses as minor battle was engaged on the right flank.

  William had deployed bowmen on that portion of the camp, and they released a flight of arrows against the tide of Shadow folk. They struck but did not halt the onslaught. The wind was picking up a little, sending the arrows farther on their course.

  "Okay, Bridget. It is now time to do your stuff.” She felt a slight glow inside her, like a swallow of brandy, which she took for assent. Eleanor closed her eyes a second, visualized the essence of fire, then sent it flying from herself. It caught a shower of arrows as they arched from the yew bows, and they sparkled against the grim sky. For a moment, she was afraid she would incinerate them in midair, but they continued burning as they fell to earth. Where they found fleshy target, they exploded into flame, and the wave of Shadow folk became a death dance. They screamed and leapt and beat at their bodies while those untouched turned to retreat and found their way blocked by those behind.

  There was some confusion in the bowmen’s ranks as well, though several shouts of glee indicated that the sturdy yeomen were not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. A troop of sergeants trotted forward into the melee to hack off heads and arms, which dissuaded her from sending up any more fire immediately.

  She hurried after Arthur, regretting her lack of a horse but aware that she would be a clumsy rider in her current state. Besides, they were not racing forward, for the ground was irregular beneath the snow, and the horses were in danger of broken legs at any greater pace. Eleanor contrasted the reality with her impression of medieval warfare gathered from movies and found it a drab picture. Brown cloaks, gray sky, white snow, and the skeletal silhouettes of a few trees, with a dab of blue here and green there. Blood, she knew, would soon brighten the snow, but she found that no enhancement.

  The wind was getting stronger, pressing her cloak against her shoulders, and it had a bite to it. Eleanor suspected they would have an ice storm before too long. Fire and ice, she thought with a glance at the growing confusion on the right flank. I gave them an advantage, and they are making good use of it, but it is still murder.

  Eleanor came to a small rise, which gave her a slight vantage point. Arthur and the knights around him were perhaps two football fields ahead of her. The golden man sat on his horse as far beyond, apparently unconcerned with anything. The fire was spreading in the Shadow ranks on the right, and those on the left seemed to be milling around in confusion.

  She considered them, wondering if a fireball in their midst would be a good idea, when a shout and the crunch of hooved feet on snow caught her attention. The hefty bulk of the Marshall on his enormous horse appeared leading a bunch of knights, bearing down on the left. Eleanor turned away from that carnage, for the Shadow people seemed to have little power to flee. Battles, she thought, were not exciting. They were ugly and confusing. And the Shadow folk, while they had greater numbers, were very slow to respond.

  Eleanor sensed something was missing; some element or component of a battle was not there. It came to her that it was a very quiet encounter, for the Shadow people made no cries, except those who were on fire, and William’s men seemed to pursue their objective in a kind of grim silence. The snow muffled sounds as well, so she had the sense of watching a silent movie. She found that eerie and exhausting.

  She hurried to catch up with Arthur and the men around him, following in the track left by the horses. When she was perhaps three hundred feet away, he reached the golden knight, and she could hear them shouting at one another. The golden man tossed his head back in laughter, looking splendid. He seemed every inch a prince, and Arthur a shabby peasant.

  With a flash of gold, the man clapped his helm on, pulled his sword out, and urged his reluctant steed forward. Arthur, already helmed, drew out the fire sword. She felt it slide from the sheath like a man withdrawing, all passion spent, and knew that the sword was no longer in her charge, that it was Arthur’s now, his Ex-calibur. She sensed Orphiana shudder slightly beneath her feet and knew she was correct. Doyle had died because of it; Baird had died wanting it. Now it was beyond her power forever, and she was relieved. She would untangle the mystery of what had happened some other time.

  His blade flamed, and the dark, heavy clouds seemed to boil above him. The golden knight hesitated a second,

  then urged his horse forward. The men around Arthur turned to engage the dark riders of the gold man’s entourage, all but Giles de Repton, who crowded close behind Arthur’s mount. Eleanor found that odd, though she reminded herself she knew little of medieval warfare.

  The two men circled each other, the horse’s hooves making a dark mess of the snow. There was a jingle of mail and harness, equine snorts, and the wail of the wind but little else. Eleanor moved closer, aware that she was in some jeopardy from the mounted men around her, but determined to get as close as she safely could to the young king. There was a clang of metal meeting metal as various knights got down to serious combat, but she had eyes only for Arthur and Giles de Repton.

  His maneuvers, she decided, were hampering Arthur’s movements. She darted under the nose of a horse, felt a swish of metal behind her, and looked up to see a Shadow rider above her. Eleanor thrust her staff into the horse’s sternum, then slammed it into the rider’s arm as he came down with another blow. There was a wild scream, though from rider or steed she was not sure, since they were both engulfed in a burst of white light.

  Without pausing to examine her handiwork further, she moved across the churned-up snow to grasp de Rep-ton’s bridle. He jerked at the reins, bringing the horse’s head back, but Eleanor’s weight was too great. She could feel him glaring at her. He leaned forward to pull her hand away.

  "You are getting in Arthur’s way.”

  "And you are in mine, bitch. Let go.”

  "I think not.” She released her hold with a whisper of mind to the horse as his sword whistled down to cut off her hand. It met air as the horse started capering like a Lippazaner. Giles swore loudly and tried to get control, yanking
at the reins until bright blood flecked the horse’s mouth, and it screamed in protest.

  Eleanor turned around to see that Arthur and his foe were finally coming to blows. The golden knight had a shield and a shorter sword than Arthur, and she admired his skill as he deflected the fire sword. It sheared off a chunk of the shield and lopped off one ear of the horse in the sweep. That steed decided it had had quite enough, reared, and dumped the unprepared knight into the mushy snow.

  As the gold knight struggled to his feet, Arthur dismounted, slapped his horse on the rump, and sent it out of the way. The light of the fire sword glittered on the knight’s armor and cast red reflections in the dirty snow.

  A slight movement behind her made her spin around and trip back onto the snow. Giles de Repton’s sword met nothing as it passed the place where she had been. Eleanor rolled out of the way of another blow, sat up, and swung her staff like a baseball bat as he raised his arms to strike again. The head caught him on the side of the chest with a loud crack. His face was hidden beneath the helm, but his body registered surprise. There was a popping noise, like a lightbulb burning out, and he sank back into the snow. Eleanor got to her feet and looked down at him. A slight mist rose and fell above his mouth, so she knew he was not dead. Hastily, she removed his sword and small belt knife and tossed them away.

  "Perfectly shocking,” she muttered as she got to her feet again and turned to observe the rest of the combat. "At least I had time not to kill the bastard.” She gave her staff a kind of pat.

  Arthur had hacked the other’s shield into a jagged rondel of scorched metal, and as she watched, the gold knight cast it aside and crouched slightly. Arthur caught the golden helm a glancing blow that sheared one side away and singed the yellow hair beneath. The knight gave a bellow and charged madly forward, catching Arthur’s forearm with the edge of his sword. Blood darkened the sleeve as Arthur rammed his shoulder into the knight’s chest with a grunt. They both sprawled onto the snow for a second, the knight springing up a moment before the young king.

  Arthur brought his sword up quickly enough to deflect a blow as Eleanor lifted her hands to bring a quick end to the combat. No! The whisper in her mind was like a blow. He must fight his own battle now, child. She lowered her arms, swallowed in a suddenly dry throat, and watched them stumble on the uneven footing. The gold man was very quick, and he danced around Arthur just out of sword’s reach now, as if to tire his opponent.

  The young king seemed to pause, as if drawing a deep breath. The gold man sprang forward, and the flaming sword parried as if it were guiding itself. Eleanor once again had the impression of time slowing, as she had in Arthur’s fight with Baird, and she watched the fiery blade descend, slicing through flesh and bone. The gold man’s shield arm parted from his body as the arc of Arthur’s weapon continued into the mailed chest. Blood gouted onto the mushy snow as the knight crumbled onto one knee, then folded into a heap.

  A wild sound rose above the whipping wind. Eleanor turned toward it and saw there were many small figures moving along the top of the city wall. They were cheering and casting bundles down from the wall. It took her a moment to realize that the objects were people. The good folk of York were doing some rough and ready housecleaning. She felt sick as she watched. Swallowing a bile-bitter mouthful, she turned back to bind up Arthur’s arm.

  The Shadow people seemed to have lost what little power they had with the death of the golden knight, and William’s men moved among them like grim executioners. The Marshall himself rode up after a few minutes and swung off his horse.

  "My lord. You are hurt.”

  "Not badly. My lady here can take care of it.” "Good.” His keen gray eyes swept the field. "What?” He pointed a large finger at de Repton’s unconscious form. "How did that little rat get in here?”

  "He rode in just before the battle,” Eleanor answered, "and we did not have time to tell you. Why?” "He is King John’s man.”

  York was a warren of crooked streets, and Eleanor found herself looking for the lovely gothic spires of the minster, so much a part of her memory of that ancient city. Where it should stand was the fire-blackened remnant of a Romanesque church. The narrow streets were full of half-starved people shouting, laughing and weeping, waving and leaping about, rushing up to touch Arthur’s muddy boot or pat his horse. Eleanor, perched awkwardly on the broad back of a destrier, watched their pleasure with a jaundiced eye, trusting no one after Repton’s planned treachery. The stone walls echoed with the cry of "The King has returned,” and she wondered if they thought he was the legendary Arthur. Then she reflected that if she had not known him and had seen him with the fire sword aflame, as he must have appeared to them from the walls of the city, she would have thought him a hero out of legend.

  The keep was filthy, but several purposeful burghurs quickly organized a cleanup crew. They carried refuse into the courtyard where a bonfire consumed the stuff. By nightfall, the stone floors were washed clean of muck, the fireplaces cleaned and burning brightly. The place smelled of soap, damp stone, burning wood, and sweaty people. Over that was the scent of cooking meat and bitter ale. Eleanor ate and drank without tasting, at a banquet that seemed to appear in the hall by magic. She noticed that the Marshall seemed to hover near the young king and knew he shared her fear of an assassin in the merrymakers.

  She was tired but wide-awake with a sense of some task unfinished. Come to me, came a mental whisper. Eleanor glanced around, then saw a small door on one side of the hall. She got up and left the table and pushed it open. A faint rotting smell met her nose as she peered into the darkened chamber.

  Her body’s light pierced the gloom, and she could just make out the shape of a long table at the far end. Her foot slipped on something round and fat, a candle hacked in half. The decaying carcasses of several rats lay in a heap upon the chest of a body in the torn remnants of an alb, one hand still raised in benediction. The glittering eyes of another rodent glared at her, then it scurried away into the shadows.

  An uneasy townsman came into the doorway, and she jumped and gave a squeak when he cleared his throat. "So, that is what happened to poor bishop Geoffrey. Still, I suppose it is best to die in a chapel, if yur a priest. Those bastards! They pissed in here. You can smell it. I wonder what happened to the statue of the

  Virgin. ’Twas stone, so they could not burn it. Ach. This was a lovely place once.” He spoke in the long, slow accents of the north, swaying slightly over his tankard.

  "Go get me servants with buckets and brooms,” she ordered.

  "Now, milady—”

  "This is a desecration of a holy place. I want it cleaned now!”

  He sobered a little, considered the matter, and nodded. "Yur right. It should be clean for All Saints’, though unless you have a priest in your train, there is none alive to bless the place, ’less you count that creature we found hiding in the linen press.” He referred to Gerard, now languishing in a dungeon. Then he turned and walked off.

  Eleanor picked her way carefully among the refuse, finding that the combined odors of old incense and urine grew stronger as she moved toward the altar. She wrinkled her nose and looked behind the long altar. The statue lay on its back, staring blankly at the ceiling, a sweet smile curving from a serene face. One graceful hand rested on the chest, the other uplifted, palm outward. There were a few chips out of the folds of the cloak painted blue and edged with gilt, but otherwise she was undamaged.

  Knowing it was just a figure, Eleanor yet felt herself in the presence of the Lady. She took a deep breath and knelt down beside it. The calm face shifted, and Bridget looked up at her, bright-eyed and merry.

  "You have done well, daughter.”

  "I tried.” The words were bitter on her tongue, because Baird’s death still troubled her mind, that and the terrible winter it had released. "Now what?”

  "So hard-eyed and unforgiving. So cold and abrupt.” "Perhaps. I don’t recall you being exactly loquacious back in February yourself. Go here, go th
ere. Do this, do that. So I did, and Doyle is dead and Baird is dead and I’m a little—”

  "I know. I even understand. But remember that it was their choice, particularly Baird’s.”

  "If you hadn’t given me that damn sword—”

  "Ifs are for weaklings.” The words were sharp. "Be quiet and listen. You will take the Heir to London.”

  "Yes.”

  "Now, when the time comes, remember this. The harp makes and the pipes unmake. I will keep my eye upon you, though you hardly need me, and I forgive your unwonted affection for my reclusive sister.” The shining face turned back to dull stone.

  "Damn you for an unrepentant, meddling, cryptic Irishwoman, Bridget of Hibernia.” Eleanor thought she heard a faint chuckle among the stones, but a clatter of footfalls and buckets interrupted her.

  "Milady?”

  "I’m here.” Eleanor stood up behind the altar and saw several kerchiefed women with brooms and mops and buckets of soapy water. "I found the statue.”

  "Good, good.”

  Two men carrying a stretcher came in and removed the corpse of the dead bishop while the servants began cleaning up the mess. Someone started a plain chant in a very broad Yorkshire accent, and Eleanor smiled as she recalled the snatches of bawdy song that had wafted through the hall earlier in the day. It gave a rhythm to the work and, tired as she was, Eleanor felt refreshed by the energy of the servants. They had cleaned the hall out of need; this task they undertook with a joy that spoke of their affection for the Virgin. They attacked the stones at the base of the altar with stiff brushes and enthusiasm, sending a rather dull-witted boy back to the kitchen for water again and again, until the chamber smelled of only soap and hardworking humans.

  Eleanor did not depart until the altar was cleansed, a white linen cloth spread on it, and the statue set up on it by two sweating manservants. The women paused, leaning on their brooms and mops, rising from their scrubbing brushes with soaking knees, and a smile seemed to spread from face to face. A kind of sigh echoed. Lips moved in subvocalized prayer as the benevolent gaze of the statue seemed to fill the room.