The giant smiled grimly and looked up at Prince Celinor as if seeking his approval. The Prince nodded; he appeared satisfied.
So, Myrrima realized. King Anders’s boy was behind all of this. But did he demand to know whether Gaborn was the Earth King because he sought confirmation, or did he do so because he wanted to plant doubts in the minds of the peasants? If it was for the latter reason, he could not have chosen a better venue for this spectacle than here among the petty lords.
High Marshal Skalbairn sheathed his knife, then offered Sir Borenson his hand. He said, “Arise, then, Sir Borenson. I would see this boy king myself.”
In moments, the arena filled with young boys and minor nobles who rushed up to see the High Marshal, the man who had bested Sir Borenson. Some went to retrieve his lance, others to bring him his horse.
Borenson got up shakily, and no one came to offer him comfort or congratulate him on a good fight. Instead, he went to his cracked lance and knelt to untie Myrrima’s red scarf from it, the sign of her favor.
Myrrima climbed over a rail of the arena, found herself in the thick mud, looking for an easy path to her husband. She struggled through the deep mud, and when she reached Borenson, she found herself shaking, unsure of what she should say to him.
He’d gotten the scarf untied, and stood with his back to her, wrapping it around his own neck. He tried to tie it while wearing his gauntlets, but the thick leather and ring mail left him fumbling.
Myrrima went around to the front of him, tied the damned thing for him, and found that her own hands were trembling so badly that she was as clumsy as he was. She looked at his face. His hair was smeared with mud, and blood was thickening from a deep gouge above his right eye.
“You saw?” he asked.
Myrrima nodded wordlessly, finished tying the scarf. She could not see it anymore. Tears were filling her eyes.
“Damn you, I could be tying this around your corpse right now.”
Borenson laughed, a short nervous bark.
“Do you think so little of me that you didn’t even tell me?” She thought now that he must have fought here so that she wouldn’t see.
“I tried to find you,” Borenson explained. “But you weren’t at the King’s feast, and you weren’t at the royal games. No one had seen you since this morning. Sir Skalbairn called me to task, demanding battle before sundown. It was a matter of honor!”
Myrrima realized why no one had seen her. She’d been careful not to let anyone know that she’d gone to practice the bow. “You could have waited. Do you love me less than your own honor?”
She had not spoken to him before of love. Gaborn had arranged their marriage. In all, she’d not known Borenson for a week. Yet in spite of their short time together, she knew that she was in love. She wanted to hear Borenson admit the same.
“Of course not,” Borenson said. “But what is a life without honor? You could never grow fond of me if I were any less of a man.”
At that moment, Borenson looked over Myrrima’s shoulder, and Myrrima glanced back to see the object of his attention. It was Horsesister Connal, bringing Myrrima her bow and quiver. Myrrima had dropped them on the knoll outside the arena. Borenson smiled at the horsewoman.
“Milady,” Horsesister Connal said. “You dropped these.”
Myrrima took them in one hand.
“Erin Connal, well met!” Borenson said in greeting. “I hadn’t heard that you were in camp.”
“I’ve been here since yesterday,” Horsesister Connal said, “with nothing better to do than stare at that rotting reaver head you dragged in at dawn.”
“You two have met?” Myrrima asked.
“A couple of times,” Borenson said hesitantly. “Old King Orden was a friend of her mother’s, so he usually stopped at her palace when he rode through Fleeds.”
“Good to see you,” Erin said, ducking her head like a shy lady.
Myrrima didn’t like this. Didn’t like the idea that they knew each other, that Connal was attracted to her husband. She asked her husband bluntly. “Did you know that she wants to have your babies?”
Borenson snorted in surprise and his face turned red. “Well, of course she wants to have my children, what Horsewoman wouldn’t?” He spoke as if to a crowd of drinking companions. Then he faltered as if he realized that he’d spoken too soon, and added jokingly, “But, of course, we won’t sell her any of our precious offspring, will we, my pet?”
Myrrima smiled with tight lips, hardly placated.
7
THE HIGH MARSHAL
Borenson turned aside, wishing he could run from his wife. He dared not ask her what she was doing with a bow, or why she was in the company of Erin Connal.
Fortunately, he had to clear his gear from the field for the next challengers, so he went to his horse, led his mount and the women toward the High Marshal.
The High Marshal was deep in whispered conversation with the Prince. But of course Borenson had two endowments of hearing and caught the tail of it. “Tell your father he can keep his damned money,” the High Marshal whispered. “I’ll not winter my armies in Crowthen if this boy is the Earth King. I’ll send them where needed.”
“Of course, of course,” Celinor said in almost a pleading tone. Then he looked up and saw Borenson coming.
Borenson smiled and called across the short distance, “Prince Celinor, Sir Skalbairn, may I present my wife.”
The High Marshal nodded in greeting, and Prince Celinor merely let his gaze sweep appreciatively from Myrrima’s head to her feet.
“I’ll get my horse,” Celinor said, turning aside. As he passed, Borenson smelled the stench of alcohol strong on him. Celinor headed through the throng at the north end of the field.
“What was that all about?” Borenson asked the High Marshal, looking up into the big man’s face. Skalbairn lumbered above him like a bear. “What is this about wintering in Crowthen?”
The High Marshal studied Borenson, as if gauging just how much to tell him. Obviously, what he had to say was not anything King Anders of South Crowthen would want spoken in public. But the High Marshal was a tough man, and he seemed not to care what effect the truth might have. “Word reached me in Beldinook of Raj Ahten’s attack here about four days ago. But King Anders’s messengers, who begged that I bring the Righteous Horde of the Knight Equitable to South Crowthen, carried the word. And they brought money to pay for our travel. There’s too much money by half. It smelled of a bribe to me.”
“He wants to bribe the Knights Equitable?”
“I could understand Anders’s distress,” the High Marshal continued. “What king wouldn’t want the Knights Equitable camped in their realm with Raj Ahten’s armies moving about. Indeed, it seemed a logical move. Instead, we drove Raj Ahten into the mountains and I ordered my men to hound him.
“But when I reached Crowthen last night, I found that Anders still wants my armies to stay in Crowthen, ignoring the greater threat to Mystarria. His son just pressed me to hold to their bargain, at least for now.”
“What will you do?”
“Anders will be furious. I’m sending back his gold—at least most of it.”
“Anders sounds craven,” Borenson said.
At that, the High Marshal’s black eyes glittered dangerously. “Don’t underestimate him. I fear he’s worse than a coward.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wants my troops, and he wants them badly. A coward would want them for protection. But as I rode to Crowthen, I was thinking, what if he is not afraid of Raj Ahten? What if he really fears the Earth King?”
“Gaborn?” Borenson said in astonishment, for he could not imagine that Anders would fear the lad.
“I got proof of it at the border. King Anders had troops stationed at the road, and he’s forbade any peasants and even merchants from entering Heredon. His troops proclaim Gaborn a fraud and say that it is a waste of men’s time to come see him, and harmful to Anders’s interests.”
�
��If Anders had no interest in learning the truth himself,” Borenson said, “that would be one thing. But to forbid his people from coming? That’s evil.”
“Look at it from his point of view,” Skalbairn said. “There has not been an Earth King in over two thousand years. In Erden Geboren’s day, he was honored as the one and only true king of all Rofehavan. But since then, lesser men have been called kings, and the lands have been divided and squabbled over.
“What will happen to Anders if the people rise up and offer to serve House Orden? Will he be relegated to the status of a petty lord? Or will he be asked to bow and scrape the knee like some common peasant?
“You and the commoners may think it is a fine thing to have an Earth King, but mark my words: if Anders could kill the boy now, he’d do so. And he’s not the only lord in Rofehavan who will feel that way.”
“Damn,” Borenson whispered. He glanced back. Myrrima and the horsewoman were close enough to have heard everything the High Marshal had said.
“My mother says that if ever an Earth King were to rise in our day, he would come out of House Orden,” Horsewoman Connal said. “She’s asked me to verify whether Gaborn is the Earth King, and if he is, to offer the clans to back him up.”
“As will I,” the High Marshal said, “if he is the Earth King.”
“He is,” Myrrima said forcefully. “Ten thousand men at Longmot saw the ghost of Erden Geboren crown him. And I myself have heard Gaborn shout his commands into my mind.”
“I met him this morning,” Erin told Skalbairn, “and learned the truth of it. I’ll be backing him.”
“Yet King Anders ridicules the tale of his coronation as the babbling of a spooked army,” High Marshal Skalbairn objected. “He points out that the Earth Warden Binnesman was present, and that the old wizard may have had a hand in some fakery.”
“That’s a vile thing to say,” Myrrima objected.
“Yet Anders may believe it is true,” Skalbairn said. “He points out that his own line is every bit as true as Orden’s, and that the Earth King could as easily come from his own loins.”
“He would name Prince Celinor the Earth King?” Horsesister Connal said. “Celinor the sot? I’ve heard too many sad tales about him.”
“Of course not,” the High Marshal whispered. “Why should Anders bother to put his son forward, when he so loves himself?”
Borenson laughed scornfully.
“I think,” the High Marshal said, “that his son is no more than a pawn. The boy has come ostensibly to pledge his sword into the King’s Guard, like some petty lord’s son. But he talks more like a spy, on his father’s errand. Just listen to him when he returns!”
“So, tell me,” Borenson asked the High Marshal. “If the Earth King summoned your men to battle, how many could you bring?”
The High Marshal grunted, and his flinty eyes flickered. “If we brought everyone? Our numbers are down. The Righteous Horde numbers some thousand mounted cavalry, and another eight thousand archers, six thousand lancers, five hundred artillery men, and of course another fifty thousand squires and camp followers.”
In giving these numbers, the High Marshal did not bother to mention the quality of his troops. His thousand cavalry were worth more than any ten thousand mounted by any other lord, while many of his “archers” were seasoned assassins who often went into dangerous territory to ambush whole armies.
“Shhh …” Myrrima whispered.
Prince Celinor led his mount near, while his Days followed a few paces behind. Though his was a force horse, the beast had drooping ears and looked as if it would need a good meal in the king’s stables after riding a hundred and fifty miles since daybreak.
Prince Celinor smiled innocently. “Shall we go?” he asked. Borenson began to lead them all through the throng. The streets were crowded this evening, with peasants from the camps all going from one table or tournament to another. Celinor weaved through the crowd deftly, but with rubbery legs. He seemed pretty far into his cups.
No one spoke, leaving Prince Celinor to fill the clumsy silence, which he accomplished quite handily by babbling, “I find all of this incredible. I mean, I knew Gaborn. I went with him to the House of Understanding, but I did not speak to him much. I seldom saw him. He did not spend much time in the alehouses—”
Horsewoman Connal said, “And of course we couldn’t expect you to truly befriend someone who doesn’t spend all his spare time in alehouses.”
Celinor ignored the jibe. “I meant that he was an odd lad. Since he studied in the Room of Faces and in the Room of the Heart, he did not study arms or tactics. So of course I did not know him well.”
“Perhaps you speak poorly of him because you are jealous,” Connal said.
“Jealous?” Celinor asked. “I could never be the Earth King. And I mean no disrespect toward Orden. But when I was a child, I sometimes dreamed that an Earth King would be born in my lifetime. And I always imagined someone bigger than me, and older—someone with a look of profound wisdom dripping from his brow, with the strength of a whole army bulging in his chest, someone of legendary stature. But what do I get? Gaborn Val Orden!”
Myrrima had to wonder at Prince Celinor’s words. The young man sounded innocent enough, like a carefree lad just babbling. But was it innocent babble? Everything he said seemed calculated to engender doubt in others.
“Gaborn serves his people,” Borenson told Celinor. “He serves them more truly than anyone I’ve ever met. Perhaps that is why the Earth has chosen Gaborn, made him our supreme defender.”
“Perhaps,” Celinor said. He smiled in a cold, superior way, and inclined his head to the side as if in thought.
When Borenson reached the Great Hall, with Prince Celinor, High Marshal Skalbairn, and Horsewoman Connal in tow, dozens of lords and barons were busily feasting around tables that circled the room. At the center of the tables, minstrels sat on cushions and played softly, while serving children scurried back and forth between the kitchen and buttery, bringing food and drink as it was wanted, then clearing the tables.
At the far end of the Great Hall, Gaborn smiled and stood in greeting as Borenson entered the doorway, with the others crowding behind him.
Gaborn called “Sir Borenson, Lady Borenson, Prince Celinor, and Lady Connal, welcome. Let the servants bring you chairs and plates.” Then he looked up at the High Marshal and asked, “And who do we have here?”
The minstrels left off at playing their lutes, tambours, and drums. Gaborn stared hard at Skalbairn.
“Your Highness, may I present High Marshal Skalbairn, Master of the Knights Equitable.”
Borenson expected Skalbairn to nod curtly and study Gaborn from afar. Instead, the High Marshal acted without hesitation. He said gruffly, “Milord, some claim that you are the Earth King. Is it true?”
The question astonished Borenson, for he’d thought the man convinced. But he realized belatedly that the High Marshal had only been convinced that Borenson believed Gaborn to be the Earth King.
“I am,” Gaborn said.
The High Marshall said, “It is said that Erden Geboren looked into the hearts of men and named some to be his protectors. If you have that power, then I beg you, look into my heart and choose me, for I would serve the Earth King with my life. I bring with me the Righteous Horde of the Knights Equitable, thousands of warriors who fight beside me.”
He drew his sword and stepped forward to the King’s table, then knelt and drove the blade into the floor, resting his hands upon the hilt.
Borenson immediately felt embarrassed. This was not an honor that one demanded of the Earth King in public. But Gaborn did not seem taken aback by the High Marshal’s blunt manners.
Around the King’s tables, lords began to murmur in astonishment. Some questioned the man’s upbringing, but the High Marshal was a renowned warrior, one of the greatest in all Rofehavan, and they knew he could bring tens of thousands of warriors to swell the Earth King’s armies. This would be a great boon. So no one
dared to criticize openly.
Moreover, no High Marshal had ever offered to swear fealty to a king.
Until now.
Gaborn leaned forward across the table, placing his hands on either side of his silver platter, and looked down steadily into the High Marshal’s eyes for a long moment.
High Marshal Skalbairn stared back with eyes as black as obsidian.
Gaborn’s face went slack, as it did when he performed the Choosing. He gazed deeply into the High Marshal’s eyes and raised his left arm to the square, as if to perform the ceremony.
Then he dropped his hand and stared in shock, trembling.
“Get out!” Gaborn said, his face going pale. “Get out, you foul … thing! Get out of my castle. Get away from my lands!”
Shocked, Borenson recalled the people Gaborn had Chosen this past week: paupers and fools and old women who couldn’t bear a dagger in their own defense, much less a sword.
Now one of the greatest warriors of the age knelt before him, and Gaborn wanted to cast the man away!
The High Marshal smiled in secret triumph. “Why, my lord?” he asked casually. “Why would you send me away?”
“Must I speak it?” Gaborn asked. “I see your guilt written in your heart. Must I speak it, to your eternal shame?”
“Please do,” the High Marshal answered. “Name my sin, and I will know that you are the Earth King.”
“No, I will not speak it,” Gaborn raged, as if the very notion sickened him. “There are women present, and we are feasting. I’ll not speak of it now—or ever. But I refuse your service. Begone.”
“Only the true Earth King would know that I am unworthy to live,” the High Marshal said, “and only a true gentleman would refuse to name my sin. My offer still stands. I give myself into your service.”
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