by Damien Black
She looked as unhappy as ever, Vaskrian reflected as he took his seat. At least her future husband seemed to be stinting on the wine for once, perhaps in anticipation of the joust. Taking in the Herzog’s awkward frame he doubted whether sobriety would make much difference. The blueblood might be rich and powerful, but when it came to tourneys he had first-round knockout written all over him.
When the eating was done (in no short time – these Vorstlendings loved to feast all right), the music stopped. A fat jester dressed in motley and bells with a big straw hat had just been entertaining the knights and ladies. Vaskrian didn’t understand a word of it, but judging by their laughter the fool was funny. To all except the Herzog, he noticed, who scowled throughout the whole performance.
Of Adelko and Horskram there was no sign. They’d gone burrowing around beneath the castle on Argolian business. The squire felt a chill thinking about it. Helping himself to more ale he downed another stoop.
The sun was sinking behind the castle as the knights stood one by one and declared their lady loves, or the lady whose favour they sought. One or two of the prettier damsels even had two suitors pledge their swords – but the Laws of Romance allowed for such. It was all part of a good tournament, a bit of pageantry before the real fighting started.
Then a handsome knight got up and walked into the middle of the tables. Walking directly up to where Adhelina was sitting, he knelt before her, announcing her name and laying his sword across the grass. Several gasps had gone up around the green: evidently this had not been expected. The herald, pausing only for a brief moment, declared his name: Sir Agravine.
Vaskrian’s eyes flicked towards the Herzog. Hengist was staring at the knight with a look that he presumably wished could kill. Next to him his steward, a flint-faced man with a cold demeanour, looked singularly unimpressed. The father of the bride didn’t look too happy either, although the squire noticed that his daughter didn’t seem surprised.
Vaskrian held his breath as she rose to her feet and walked around the table towards the young knight.
Reaching into the folds of her dress Adhelina produced a silk scarf she had prepared, and leaning down she fastened this around Sir Agravine’s arm.
‘Adhelina of Dulsinor accepts Sir Agravine, bachelor of Graukolos, as her favoured knight,’ she told the stunned assembly. ‘In accordance with the Laws of Romance, as stipulated by the Code of Chivalry.’
She shot her father a triumphant glance, before turning it towards Hengist, his seneschal Albercelsus, and his sisters Festilia and Griselle. Hengist’s lickspittles Reghar and Hangrit glared at her insolently, bibulous and loutish as ever. She barely spared them a look, they weren’t worth it. But she had eyes for the Herzog’s mother Lady Berta, who stared at her with undisguised hatred. Adhelina drank it in, savouring her spite like a draft of Armandy red.
The herald stammered out the declaration. ‘The Lady Markward accepts Sir Agravine, bachelor of Graukolos, as her tourney champion.’ No one applauded. Though not forbidden, what she had just done was highly irregular under the circumstances. And everyone there knew it.
Sir Agravine favoured Adhelina with a cool smile and one last bow before picking up his sword and turning to resume his place at table. Her father’s eyes bored into his back like spears. The young knight stood to lose his place at court for this, but she supposed love made men do foolish things.
No more knights rose to declare their paramours. Agravine had left his pledge till last, presumably for dramatic effect.
In this he was destined to be upstaged.
‘I am Sir Torgun of Vandheim, errant of Northalde and lately knight of the White Valravyn.’ He made the declamation in the high speech of Ancient Thalamy; its icy formality froze the returning chatter about the feast tables. Stepping into the rectangular space between them the Northlending knight walked directly up to Adhelina, never taking his eyes off her.
I barely know him, she thought. Surely he doesn’t mean to…
Kneeling before her and unsheathing his blade in one fluid motion, Sir Torgun declared for all to hear: ‘I would fain have your favour, Adhelina of Dulsinor. A second champion you shall have, if it please you.’
‘And a third.’
All eyes shifted again to the new speaker. Torgun’s face darkened as Sir Braxus stepped into the space. ‘Lady Markward, Sir Braxus of Gaellen, errant of Thraxia, seeks your favour in the coming joust.’ Advancing to stand beside his rival he took a knee and unsheathed his own blade. ‘My sword is yours, if Luviah wills it so.’
‘Stygnos I shall invoke on your behalf, my lady!’ declaimed Torgun, not wishing to be outdone on piety.
‘May Virtus grant me fortitude in the lists in your service!’ responded Braxus.
‘And may Ushira smile on you both,’ said Adhelina, trying to sound gracious as she did her best to placate them.
But her mind was awhirl. Sir Agravine she had expected. This she had not. Catching the young knight’s impassive stare she recalled his words to her earlier: A lady like you should have many suitors.
And then her choice was clear. After all, why not? There was nothing forbidding it. Favouring her father and the Lanraks with a smug glance she turned back to address the two kneeling knights.
‘Lady Adhelina of Dulsinor accepts both champions, and consents to give them her favour,’ she said. ‘Three bold knights shall fight for her honour!’
‘You have no favours to bestow on them.’
It was Albercelsus who spoke, silencing the uncertain applause. His voice was cold and measured. Adhelina felt the tension rise another notch.
‘A lady may give whatever token of her favour she pleases,’ she replied. Beckoning to a squire for a dagger she cut off two strands of her strawberry hair, giving one to each knight. Clearing his throat the herald declared them both her champions.
Her father got to his feet. ‘That’s enough chivalry for one evening,’ he said, his voice ominous like distant thunder. ‘More wine and song, I say! Let us drink to the coming contest!’
The assembled nobles followed suit, some with obvious relief, although judging by the hubbub that started up Adhelina guessed she had given them plenty to gossip about. Her two new champions had returned to their seats. They were sat together in the section for foreign visitors, though they pointedly ignored one another. Not far from them a burly knight with a bushy black beard chuckled to himself and slurped on his stoop.
Adhelina returned to her own seat. Her father did not look at her as he growled: ‘Well, I suppose you’re very pleased with yourself. Enjoy your last bit of freedom while you can – you won’t get another opportunity to make mischief.’
She chose not to dignify that with a response. Besides, she was beyond caring about what her father thought. Flicking a sidelong glance at Hengist and Albercelsus she half expected them to say something, but both men were staring into the middle distance, tight-lipped. Her future husband fiddled with his goblet but did not drink.
Horskram stood by the window, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly as the Eorl relayed the unwelcome news.
‘You and your blasted knights errant, Horskram,’ Wilhelm finished. ‘I give you the freedom of my castle to conduct your investigations, and this is how you repay me! As if my fool of a daughter hadn’t caused me enough trouble as it is!’
The adept turned from contemplating the torchlit courtyard below and walked back to the low walnut table. He didn’t usually drink much, but he felt he needed one now. Picking up his cup he took a deep long draught. He and Adelko had arrived back at the castle well after sunset. His limbs were stiff and sore.
‘Well at least you won’t have to punish Sir Agravine,’ said Horskram dryly. ‘Now you’ve got two of the best knights in the Free Kingdoms lining up to chastise him in the lists.’
Wilhelm made a disgusted noise before draining his own cup. ‘The Code forbids me from chastising him myself,’ he said, looking moodily around his solar. ‘But that won’t stop me giving him hi
s marching orders when the tournament’s over. She’ll have three errants suiting her by next Rest-day!’
‘Assuming they’re all still alive by then,’ said Horskram, seating himself opposite the Eorl. ‘There’s a challenge event after the joust… I sense the hand of Zolthoth and Invidia at work, dividing ally against ally.’ He made the sign. His sixth sense was jangling unpleasantly. This tournament would bring trouble, he knew that much.
The Stonefist snorted into his cup. ‘I thought it was good old Luviah at play – oh the things brave knights will do for love! Well, they’ll have no joy of my daughter – whatever else they might be thinking. I’ll not have this alliance wrecked for the blasted Code of Chivalry! I should never have indulged her unnatural passion for those bloody books!’
‘At least your daughter is alive,’ Horskram reminded him.
‘Aye – thanks to you!’
‘And the very same knights who now compete for her favour… the ways of the Unseen are strange, are they not?’
Wilhelm harrumphed. ‘And speaking of which… how did your travails speed, or do I even want to know?’
Horskram sighed and sat back, trying to ease the tension in his muscles. ‘Truth to tell, there is little more that we can say. Andragorix was not the mastermind, of that I am now certain. I thought at first it might have been a parting gambit, a way of throwing us off the scent just to spite us, but no – we really are dealing with another sorcerer, and one far better versed in Demonology.’
‘I thought Andragorix was supposed to be the deadliest demonologist of our age?’
‘Not quite – there is another, reputedly far more powerful, though he reportedly keeps to himself and lives in Sassania. But it’s possible someone else has acquired the power to conjure greater demons… I must get to Rima and consult Hannequin, see what he has learned.’
‘Well you aren’t leaving just yet – I forbid you from departing my hall, not until you take your blasted foreign knights with you!’
Horskram favoured him with a dark glance over the brim of his cup. Technically the Eorl was well within his rights, though his behaviour seemed churlish.
‘There will be no need for such ordinances,’ he said.
Wilhelm looked apologetic. ‘I just don’t want any lovelorn romantic knights hanging around Graukolos, I’m sure you understand. My daughter is hard enough to control as it is!’
‘No, in any case I may well still need their help,’ sighed Horskram. ‘I presume Upper and Lower Thulia are as restive as ever? When was the last time they weren’t at war with one another?’
‘When Upper Thulia was at war with me,’ said the Eorl ruefully, refilling his cup.
‘That’s what I thought… I’ll wait a few days in the hope that I have some kind of bodyguard left intact by the time your tourney is over. After all we’ve been through, I don’t need to take any more risks travelling without protection.’
‘Ach, Horskram, you didn’t think I’d fail to repay you for rescuing my daughter did you?’ said Wilhelm, trying to sound affable. ‘Once the tournament is over I’ll send a company of knights to take you as far as Westenlund. I suppose I owe those blasted errants of yours that much at least!’
‘I’m sure they’ll be lining up to thank you,’ said Horskram sarcastically.
He drained his cup. It had been a long day. Yet for all their labours they still had no idea who they were hunting.
CHAPTER XII
When Brave Knights Tilt
Adelko wandered through the maze of tents, feeling slightly bewildered. Being at a tournament was the sort of thing he used to dream about back in Narvik. Only now, after everything he had been through, a tourney seemed almost mundane; he felt more relieved than excited, though the riot of colours afforded by the banners and pennons was certainly pleasing to the eye. Likewise the smell of charring meat as the squires prepared hearty breakfasts for the competing knights was not unpleasant. The sound of troubadours mingling with the whickering of horses completed the welcome assault on his senses. It took his mind off more troubling matters.
At last he spotted the coat of arms he was looking for. Making his way over to Sir Braxus’ pavilion he saw Vaskrian struggling with a roasted joint of meat, trying with his one good hand to get it off the spit and on to a platter for carving. His master was running through a series of manoeuvres, his sword swishing through the air as he danced in time to its flashing blade. He moved swiftly despite his hauberk.
‘Adelko!’ called Vaskrian, seeing him approach. ‘Just in the nick of time! Be a good chap and help me.’
The novice did so, secretly hoping he would get a slice of beef and some crusty bread and cheese for his efforts. He had risen just before dawn and left the castle before Horskram could awake and forbid him from attending the joust.
‘Here we go,’ said Vaskrian after they had prepared breakfast. ‘Some mild ale to wash it down – nothing too strong cos the guvnor’s got a big day ahead of him.’
Adelko glanced sidelong at Sir Braxus as he munched on his breakfast. The Thraxian did not appear to be in good cheer. A distant look was in his eyes, but there was yearning and anger behind them – Adelko’s sixth sense told him what his own eyes could not. He felt an all too familiar tingling at the back of his mind.
No good would come of this tourney. A spectacle he had dreamed of seeing his entire childhood, and now it was here it filled him with foreboding.
But then wasn’t that just the sum of things in a life of adventuring?
The bleachers had been set up on the edge of the camp just next to the feasting area. Before them the lists had been measured out, their boundaries marked by ribbons tied to posts bearing standards depicting the gauntleted fist of Markward. Beyond that a much larger area was demarcated for the melee, the main event of the tournament.
The Lanraks and Markwards had taken their seats in the bleachers together with their retinues. Behind them the waters of the Graufluss made sparkling ripples of light as they caught the sun; across the river loomed the cyclopean stones of the castle.
Drinking in the vista Adelko felt himself relax slightly, and something akin to excitement began to creep in around his feeling of foreboding. The Warlock’s Crown suddenly seemed far away, and his old sense of adventure began to return. Perhaps he was misreading his sixth sense. He hoped so.
A herald dressed in the Markward livery stepped onto a podium at the edge of the lists and raised his arms for silence. A gaggling crowd of common folk had gathered on the other side to watch the spectacle, their clamouring punctuated by the sound of hawkers selling meat on sticks, ale, honey cakes and fruit. Rare treats for the peasant folk: gazing on them from the quarter reserved for knights and their squires, Adelko recalled his own childhood before Ulfang. The plains of Vorstlund were fertile, its climate kind: that probably meant its yeomen got to eat such things several times a year. In this they were luckier than most of their kind.
‘Ladies and noblemen, welcome!’ cried the herald in a stentorian voice. ‘And what a fine day for jousting it is! Haven’t we got a treat in store for you…’
The herald spoke slowly enough for Adelko to follow his Vorstlending, but he wouldn’t be needing it to follow a tourney with Vaskrian around.
‘So I’ll tell you what you need to know,’ said the squire enthusiastically. ‘A hundred knights have entered from Dulsinor and Stornelund each, plus another fifty-six places reserved for outlanders. So that’ll be eight rounds of knockout altogether. You get three tilts in each round, if no one’s been unhorsed by then the combatants have to dismount and fight it out hand to hand…’
Adelko smiled ruefully as his friend went on in a fever of excitement. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t rather have listened to the herald, but it was good to see the squire more like his old self.
The novice watched with mixed feelings as the jousting got under way. It certainly wasn’t as horrendous as a full-blown war, but not all the bouts were bloodless affairs. The Marionite monks from Lothag m
onastery had set up their own tent for chirurgery, and their assistants were soon busy fielding injured knights from the lists on stretchers. There was even one fatality: a hapless bachelor from the Herzog’s retinue broke his neck in a fall.
‘It happens,’ said Vaskrian with a shrug as Adelko looked on aghast. ‘To be honest that blueblood had no place being in the lists, sitting a horse like that. His saddle wasn’t on high enough, left himself wide open to getting hit in the chest.’ The squire shook his head, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
‘Don’t worry, his family can claim a weregeld,’ Vaskrian continued, seeing the crestfallen look on Adelko’s face. ‘That usually means the winner gives them back his opponent’s horse and armour free of charge, instead of keeping or selling them. Settles the debt. That’s why he won’t be happy about killing his man – see, we’ve got rules to discourage knights from getting carried away. We’re not barbarians, you know.’
‘Erm, right, I see. No of course not…’
‘I see Vaskrian is explaining the wonderful fairness of chivalrous sporting events,’ said Horskram dryly, surprising Adelko both with his sudden appearance and by the fact that he was holding a cup of wine.
‘Master Horskram, I didn’t think – ’
‘I’d enjoy the fun of the fair?’ his mentor finished for him. ‘On the contrary Adelko, I used to participate in tourneys – pray allow an old man to reminisce over his lost youth once in a while.’
The adept took a sip from his cup. Adelko could never tell if he was joking on such occasions. At least he wasn’t dragging him away – although having just witnessed another death he wondered if that would have been such a bad thing after all.
It was approaching mid-afternoon by the time the first round was over. They had witnessed more than a hundred jousts, though most of them had been over quite quickly. Only a handful had resulted in hand-to-hand combat. That had got the crowd really excited, though Adelko could barely watch; it reminded him of the war in Northalde. At least there weren’t any more deaths thanks to blunted weapons, though one knight had his arm broken with an audible crack.