Tournament Prize

by Ling, Maria

  "Suitable men," Madeline corrected. "Is he rich and willing to take her?"

  "Well, I don't yet know," Caroline admitted.

  "We ought to give him the opportunity to say so if he is," her father pointed out in a reasonable tone. "After all, the man's only just come to our notice."

  "Doesn't he travel about with a band of landless knights living only off tourneys?" Madeline scoffed. "What could such a man offer us in the way of wealth or patronage?"

  "I hear they do quite well," Charles said mildly. "If they don't have land, it's because they've not yet bought any significant estates."

  Caroline experienced a sudden misgiving. She didn't want to take to the road, leaving her family and the countryside she was used to, abandon the beloved landscape of fields and woods, venture beyond the ridges that marked the end of the known world to her.

  Here, in these comfortable and familiar rooms, she was always and entirely at home. It gashed her heart to think of leaving them forever.

  "Have they no plans at all to settle?" Madeline demanded.

  "I'm not certain," Charles said, frowning. "Matilda fights with the men, of course -- though she'll have to give that up when the children come."

  "She certainly will," Madeline said with feeling. "But what of this man... Alan, is it? We must enquire as to his standing."

  "We should ask him in person," Caroline said resolutely. "Can't we invite them all? A family party. You like Guillaume," she added by way of enticement to her father. But it was Madeline who flushed a little and said that would be entirely suitable.

  "I'll suggest they stay on for a day or two and take their meals with us," Charles said. "As you say, we'll make quite a party -- and with wives, too. That won't lead to idle talk or false hopes. In the meantime, my dears, Caroline had best look about her for other alternatives, should this man prove not to our liking or she not to his."

  Caroline bit down on a sharp reply. She had gained her point, and must be content with that.

  "You may place a small wager on his success," Madeline said with the air of one granting a royal prerogative.

  Caroline resolved to venture all. "I wish to give him my favour today."

  "That's going too far."

  "Come now," Charles said with an indulgent smile. "It is entirely within the bounds of decorum on these occasions. Let the girl do as she wishes. If nothing else, it will remind the other men of the prize to be won here."

  ***

  Alan stood still while the squire finished arranging every link of his armour. Which irked him, as always: for a man light of build, the weight and restriction of movement were a constant irritation. But he was used to it, after a fashion, and he'd rather be well protected against the blows of larger men. It kept him fit to fight on, in the next battle and the next, and since he made his living that way such considerations mattered.

  He longed, sometimes, for boyhood hours spent fighting in short padded jackets, free to duck and dive and roll and strike fast from unexpected directions. Not much scope for that now, it was all crash and whack and may the heaviest man win. Though clever tactics counted for something still, he should have used that yesterday against Guillaume, it was the only advantage he had.

  "Done," the squire said, smoothed the surcoat down and stood back to admire his handiwork. Alan cuffed him on the shoulder by way of thanks, then strode out into a brilliant morning. Sunshine rested fresh on hazy fields, and all the world smelled of damp earth and green things growing. You could take this for a spring day, borrowed from next year: a promise of new life after the deathly hush of deep winter.

  Though he'd be glad of the cold, when it came. With all the padding he carried under the armour, he was close to sweating already. And he reeked.

  Roland met him by the rails, and handed over a slip of fabric. "A lady sends you this. Don't ask me who, because I wasn't told."

  Alan studied the material, raised his head to watch the distant stands. Picked out the one figure he most longed to see there -- it must be her, central and a little raised up, set apart from the rest. Others with her, paired: father and mother, surely. Which means Caroline watched him, or he liked to imagine she did, dressed in a long tunic the same vivid shade of blue that he held in his hands.

  He'd gamble on it. Alan whistled for his page, who scurried up to find some strap or other to fasten the favour on.

  That knave de Rous rode past with full retinue, and dropped a hostile glare on Alan. Who grinned back, pleasantly conscious of being the bearer of Caroline's good wishes.

  It would be a delight to sit the morning out with her, like an old man, and discuss matters of theology and high philosophy while other men smashed and whacked like blood-crazed loons. But that wasn't the life he'd chosen, and while youth and strength lasted he was determined to use them to the full.

  Which meant he must turn aside from the reading Caroline shared with him, and reach instead for the military wisdom of Vegetius.

  What serves me discomfits my enemy, Alan told himself, and made a surreptitious gesture at de Rous' back -- rude enough to draw a snort from Roland.

  "We'll pin him down by the farmhouse in the dell if we can," Roland said. "Plenty of stumps and fences around -- his retinue won't be able to come to his rescue any too quick. Out of sight of the stands, too."

  "Pity we're drawn for the same side," Alan said. He would relish open combat against that contemptible man, in full view of the crowds -- and of Caroline.

  Trumpets sounded. Time to ride. Alan mounted his horse, and rode with the others past the stands towards the stakes that marked the territory he was drawn to defend. Bowed low to Caroline as he passed her, gloried in the certainty that her vivid dress and the favour that trailed from his strap were cut from the same bolt of cloth, laughed aloud at her shining smile and frantic wave.

  Whispers flew through the assembled crowd, while glances darted to Caroline and to himself and back again. He must prove himself to her now, as he'd failed to do the day before.

  Alan settled deep into the saddle and breathed with a slow regular rhythm. That settled his nerves, which always danced on the eve of battle.

  Geoffrey, after exchanging remarks with Roland, drew up alongside Alan and leaned over to speak in a low tone. "We'll draw de Rous on to the far side of the wood. Once we're there, you wave that favour in his face and tell him you'll take the lady from under his nose. His pride will do the rest."

  "Who dreamed this up?"

  "Roland, of course."

  That was reassuring: Roland's plans usually proved sound. Even so, Alan experienced a sense of misgiving. "If there's trouble after, I'll carry it alone."

  "That's not how things work. We fight as a team."

  "All the same. It's not -- "

  "If you want to win at tourneys," Geoffrey said, "you need to drop the chivalry. It's all very pretty and goes down a treat with the ladies, but it doesn't get you the victor's prize."

  "I've done well enough," Alan replied, irritated. "Before I joined up with you lot."

  "That's why we agreed to take you on. But your real strength is jousting one on one, with all the rules in place. You can't play that game out on the field. Here, you need to look to yourself first of all. One against many or many on one, promises broken and bare backs knifed. That's how it is. You're not a squire any more, so give over listening to the minstrels and get the work done."

  Alan bit off a harsh reply. Because the man was right, damn him. "I'll admit I prefer to fight fair."

  "Just keep thinking about that kiss," Geoffrey said. "Unless you want my lord de Rous to have it. Dare say he'll make it more fervent than Guillaume's. And seek for more, maybe. I hear he's tempted to take a wife."

  Rage flared in Alan's chest. "I'll kill him before he touches her again."

  "Good. Then you'll follow the plan."

  Alan writhed. "Making the quarrel official could lead to trouble for -- "

  "Or I'll marry her," Geoffrey added. "It would solve my little En
glish problem."

  Alan drew breath for an angry retort, and then saw the absurdity of the threat. Geoffrey was devious, but never malicious. "You wouldn't take a woman against her will."

  "No," Geoffrey admitted. "But she may be amenable to a friendly arrangement. After all, with a wife as chaperone, I could invite ladies to stay with no risk to their reputation."

  Alan checked his horse, indifferent to the sudden oaths from the men behind him. "If you do that, look to your own safety."

  "I'm not the only rival you've got," Geoffrey pointed out. "There are plenty of men who could cut in ahead of you, one way or another. Do you want to take the risk of her choosing another man for her champion today?"

  Alan glanced back past the ranged knights, towards the stand. He could just make out a glimmer of brilliant blue.

  "Not on your life or theirs," he growled.

  "Then you know what to do." Geoffrey rode on ahead of him. Alan gave way to the curses and followed.

  ***

  Those without came on in a well-ordered mass. They appeared at first as a dark cloud that brooded over the ridge. Caroline stared at it, until she began to see within it the minute figures of horses and men.

  Those within, having concluded their parade past her stand, gathered in the field beyond and formed a thick line that stretched from wood to stream. In the formal challenge of the tournament, they were to defend the village that clustered in the dell by the manor house, while those without sought to conquer it.

  Not that they would be such terrible conquerors, either. The second banquet had been dull but not dreadful, and had concluded without incident.

  She still wanted the defenders to win.

  "Our wager stands at ten marks," Leofe said from beside her.

  Caroline laughed. "Easy money for me."

  She could see him clearly, a taut and upright figure, sleek even in armour, with her own favour dangling from one shoulder-strap. Alan de la Falaise, whose mere glimpse or mention thrilled her, though she'd never known him at all before two days ago.

  "I begin to understand the appeal of tournaments," she said. "So much to see and experience, so many interesting people to meet."

  "I found it daunting at first," Leofe confessed. "But then, I was new to the whole thing -- I had never known anything like it -- and of course the language was difficult to learn. Also I was not welcome everywhere. But Roland protected me. He always does."

  "He seems very kind," Caroline allowed.

  "Oh, he is." Leofe proceeded to list all of Roland's admirable qualities, while Caroline said little of note.

  The two parties issued formal challenge through intermediaries. After a dramatic pause, the charge began. Thunder grew as the horses gathered speed, and echoed from the ridge where the cloud descended. Caroline held her breath, then winced as a mighty crash announced that the two sides had made contact, and the real fighting had begun.

  She tried to follow Alan's movements, but with so many horsemen wheeling and charging she soon grew confused. Dust rose and billowed and made all things fade to an indifferent brown. Clumps of battling men broke aside from the rest to pursue each their own private engagements. Soon the entire valley was filled with dust and dirt and clashes and yells. Caroline struggled to gain a sense of which side looked to be victorious. Too early to tell, she guessed, because the crowds of men and horses drifted this way and that, crossed and recrossed the torn ground, sped in little groups hither and thither looking for advantage, or escape, or a new chance to launch into the fray.

  And then she saw him. Foremost among a small band of horsemen whose colours were a dimmed version of those she recalled, the blue of surcoat and favour barely distinguishable. Caught against the dark wall of the wood, penned in by a much larger group, less dusty and more recognisable as the retinue of de Rous.

  "They're not fighting, are they?" she asked Leofe. "I thought they were supposed to be on the same side."

  Leofe shaded her eyes. "It looks as if they're conferring. Perhaps they're planning to set an ambush in that wood."

  "Is that allowed?" Caroline asked, horrified.

  "Oh, yes. It's quite the done thing. Inventive, you know. Roland's very fond of it as a tactic, especially on broken terrain."

  "I see," Caroline said vaguely. If anyone was about to be ambushed, she wagered it was not those without. Her heart went out to Alan -- she longed to warn him not to trust that lord. Because she could see, all too well, how easy it would be to persuade his little party into hiding within that wood, and then withdraw to let the force that massed on the hillside above storm down and in and bring them all down.

  She wished she could call out, loud enough to be heard clear across the fields to where that little band now disappeared into the trees. But she couldn't, he was much too distant, and in any case she must trust his knowledge of such matters. He wasn't a fool, and treachery must be one of the risks of this game.

  So she held her breath, and watched, and prayed, and lost awareness of all things else.

  ***

  Well, Alan thought with relief, they were dry of foot if not yet home. The plan had worked so far. His prominence at the head of their group had drawn de Rous towards them.

  They had withdrawn into the copse, as arranged. Now they rode between the trees, while the scent of dying leaves hung around them. Alan breathed in the crisp air, and struggled against the temptation to whistle.

  It wasn't the first time he'd set up an ambush, even though this particular one was a ruse, and he'd been on the receiving end of them too. Granted that he carried fewer years than his companions, Alan wasn't a novice on the tourney field any more. He was well aware of the underhanded stratagems men often used to win.

  Such as de Rous's current attempt to put Alan's band in harm's way, by withdrawing behind the wood and letting them risk challenge from the force that massed up the hill on the other side.

  More fool him. Because Alan could see what de Rous did not, that those men had their eyes on the much larger and finer retinue that was setting the trap. For pride, many men would attempt to snare the likes of Roland and Guillaume -- and for malice, Matilda. But for money, few would choose them over such rich pickings as lay beyond. Even the baron de Niege, no ascetic himself. Alan had heard good things about his men's skill at battle, but never met them in combat before.

  "We could let the de Niege force take him," Alan ventured. Outright still betrayal stuck in his craw. But for his small band to refrain from intervening in a battle between two powerful retinues was merely common sense.

  "Where's the fun in that?" Guillaume asked without bothering to turn.

  "We're drawn for the same side," Alan argued, grappling with his baser inclinations. "I don't say I like it, but we've given our word to stand his friend for today."

  That earned him one of Guillaume's coarsest oaths, and a glare from Matilda that stung.

  "I suppose you want us to do de Rous a favour by capturing that army over there instead," she sneered.

  "That's a thought."It might even hurt him worse, Alan reflected. Embarrass him in front of everyone -- including Caroline.

  "We could do it, at that," Roland mused. "They'll go after the pretty coats. We fall on them in the back and hack out de Niege in person before they know we're coming. Got to be worth a try."

  "They already know we're here," Geoffrey objected. "No element of surprise if we attack."

  "We're a small force caught between two large ones," Alan said. "They'll expect us to do the sensible thing and take refuge here while they fight it out. Not charge into the thick of it and aim straight for the baron himself."

  A pause followed, as each knight pondered.

  "We'll give it a tilt," Roland concluded. "And who's to say we won't mistakenly catch the wrong man?"

  Alan quelled a snicker. "I wouldn't dream of it. But if he's accidentally unhorsed, that's no grief to me."

  "That can be arranged," Guillaume offered with a growl. Matilda reached across to pat
his shoulder.

  "Well then," Alan said. "To arms!"

  ***

  Caroline breathed out. The men on the hillside weren't attacking the wood after all. They circled it now, ready to meet de Rous in force. How she cheered at the thought -- inwardly, in secret, where no one could hear and criticise -- though she hoped Alan and his friends would not be harmed by such a victory.

  The lord's force, seeing that the ruse hadn't worked, came on. The two sides clashed, fought hard against the dark backdrop of the wood. Caroline hoped Alan would stay there, safe in hiding, and not risk himself to defend such an unworthy ally.

  Her hope proved vain. There he was, sped out from the darkness in a sudden glimmer of blue, and set on the men of the attacking force. His friends followed him, fighting hard, drove their foes back and into the grip of de Rous's retinue. Who brought them down, one by one, though many of their own fell too. Caroline gave up wishing for victory on either side, she simply hoped they'd all come through it unscathed.

  "Good heavens," Leofe exclaimed. "They're getting the better of it. Look!"

  Caroline stared at the writhing mass, tried to distinguish which colours predominated among those still on horseback. Then the fighting slowed, and stilled, and the men spread out into a new formation.

  "De Niege is suing for mercy," Leofe said. "They'll ransom him now and either send him within as a captive or else let him fight on. Either is possible. Victor's decision, usually."

  "I see," Caroline said, and squinted to see the one figure that interested her, who had vanished now behind the wall of other men.

  ***

  Alan grinned. It wasn't every day he personally delivered the blow that brought a wealthy baron to ground. The men all waited for his word now: the unhorsed baron de Niege formally on one knee in the dirt, while both retinues maintained an expectant silence. The baron's call for clemency had deprived them of the right to continue the battle.

  A ruthless man would pack the whole of de Niege's retinue off to the pen for captives, from where they could strike no blow for those without. But despite Geoffrey's best efforts, Alan had never succeeded in developing that quality.