by Damien Black
Craning her neck she peered beyond the gauntleted fist of the Markward standard, her eyes questing for the Lanrak banner. The field sloped a little, giving her some vantage. They had grouped themselves in standard formation at the other end of the green, a vanguard of fifty knights flanked by two battalions of twenty-five apiece.
Putting all their eggs in one basket, she reflected. She knew enough of battle tactics to spot a bold strategy. The uneven ground favoured the home team, which explained in part Sir Adso’s decision to field all his men: if the Markwards pushed through with extra momentum there would be two flanks ready to cover them. That said, holding no one in reserve and planning no ambushes amounted to a risky throw of the dice.
Noon approached. The sun crept up towards its zenith; a wash of gold painted the cobalt skies, with the odd dash of white cloud here and there. Gradually the awning filled up: castle retainers, older knights who had come to watch relatives compete, and wives and betrothed and paramours. Before long there were well over a hundred people present, sipping wine and eating sweetmeats and placing wagers. Beyond the section reserved for the nobility the commoners crowded, eagerly jostling one another to get a good view.
Adhelina felt herself start to relax. Tourneys were generally non-lethal, but there were always one or two deaths: perhaps Hengist would be among them. She sipped at her goblet of Armandy red and savoured the thought. Next to her Hettie still fidgeted, but she undeniably looked better than she had done in weeks. Slowly, her spirits started to rise.
Then the herald took to the stands and called for silence. At least he was sober today, Adhelina reflected wryly.
‘Ladies and noblemen… and the rest of you churls, welcome! Today marks the climax of this year’s Graufluss Bridge Tourney, we hope you’ve had a fine time! Now prepare to be thrilled one last time, as the Markwards take on the Lanraks! Two great houses, soon to be joined forever, shall pit their wits and skill against one another in the field!’
The herald stepped down and his colleague blew a series of notes on a silver clarion. A deathly silence descended across the field. Even the common folk knew better than to break with this custom. The silence hung in the air for a few moments more and then her father lowered his baton.
The note came, a single piercing sound to rend the silence.
With a roar spurs were joined to flanks as both vanguards couched and charged. Adhelina stood up to get a better view. The Markwards thundered towards the Lanraks, a hundred spines bristling towards one another as the two hosts drew nearer. Besides the Lanrak vanguard rode the two flanks, swords drawn, their blades glinting in the sunlight…
‘They’re going to try a pincer manoeuvre,’ said Adhelina. As if hearing her, the herald blew another succession of notes. The reserve began galloping towards the anticipated fray.
‘What’s Sir Urist playing at?’ muttered Adhelina. ‘They’re going to surround our boys – he should deploy Sir Ruttgur as well!’ From where they were it would be short work to ride down the hills. It would mean breaking cover and losing the element of surprise, but what was the point in keeping them back? The Lanraks had anticipated perfectly – sometimes the simplest strategies were the best.
She caught a flicker of movement to her left just as the vanguards met in the middle of the field. Three riders emerged from where a copse of trees overlooked a deep wooded dell. They were galloping hell for leather towards them.
Cries from some of the nobles under the awning turned her attention back to the melee. She had watched dozens of tourneys, and straight away she could tell something wasn’t right. Many knights on either side had been unhorsed. Too many on the Markward side were not getting up. Now the enemy flanks were closing, swords raised high to strike as the Lanraks completed their pincer movement…
Another toot on the clarion. The ambuscade began pelting down towards the melee, led by Sir Ruttgur. The Lanrak flanks had closed on the Markward vanguard. Swords slashing in the bright sun. Red splashes as some found chinks in armour.
‘Ye Almighty,’ cried Adhelina, clutching Hettie. ‘They’re using real weapons!’
As if on cue another bugle sounded. This one was coming from Graukolos.
‘That’s a warning from the castle!’ cried Adhelina. ‘We’re under attack. This is no melee, it’s an invasion!’
Her father had clearly realised the same thing. He was on his feet, drawing his dagger and bellowing orders. The Lanrak guards had drawn swords and cut down half the Markward men at arms before they could react. Albercelsus was up too, dagger in hand. He moved fast for a man of his years. The remainder of Wilhelm’s bodyguard formed a ring around him and Berthal while the Lanrak soldiers pressed them. Albercelsus fell back behind the soldiers – then his eyes caught Adhelina. A murderous look entered them as he stalked towards her.
From the castle battlements, Adelko watched as a company of knights came tearing across the countryside to the east. There had to be at least two hundred, the coiled wyvern of the Lanraks writhing on the winds before them. Small wonder his sixth sense had been jangling all morning: the new Stornelending arrivals evidently did not mean well.
He was still out of breath after their headlong dash up myriad flights of stairs from the private chapel to the curtain wall overlooking the river and camp beyond. Horskram had insisted that they spend their last day at Graukolos in prayers of thankfulness: clearly his mentor felt some need to atone for their sins in watching the tournament. Now fate had brought him another much worse conflict – watching Lanrak knights butcher their Markward rivals was a sickening spectacle. So much for the rules of chivalry and fair play.
‘What do we do now?’ he asked.
‘We leave right soon is what we do,’ said Horskram. ‘I’ll not tarry here a moment longer – our mission is more important than watching the continuation of Vorstlending politics by other means! We’ll just have to take our chances on the road without an escort.’
Brigmore strode up the walkway towards them. The captain of the guards looked worried and perplexed. Clearly he had not been expecting to be on active duty today. ‘We’ll be closing the gates in the next half hour, that’s enough time for the townsfolk to get up here if they want sanctuary,’ he said. ‘You have till that long to make your decision – you stay with us or take your chances abroad.’
‘We’ll take our chances, thank you,’ said Horskram, pushing past him. ‘Adelko, come along! Our trusty steeds await us in yon stables – good thing I asked you to prepare our saddlebags first thing this morning!’
Adelko hurried after him. He didn’t dare say anything about the others: Horskram had barely noticed them when they had broken from under cover of the trees just beyond the river. He could only hope that they succeeded in their rescue attempt before the rest of the Stornelendings arrived.
They made their way down narrow flights of stairs towards the ground level; men at arms and crossbowmen were scrambling for position across the gargantuan keep, busy ants in a hive of activity. Dashing through the gatehouse into the middle ward they passed soldiers and the odd household knight on duty emerging from the barracks and armoury. A throng of terrified craftsmen was pouring in through the second gatehouse, their stalls in the outer ward forgotten.
With some difficulty the two monks pushed past them, emerging into the ward and heading for the stables. Several trembling merchants were there too, mounting their horses hurriedly. Their forked beards waved almost comically as they hastened to beat a retreat.
Taking their steeds from the flustered ostler the monks mounted and rode out into the barbican, pausing only to refill their waterskins from the well in the outer ward tower. Emerging onto the crest of the hill they could see a swarm of commoners and townsfolk engulfing the trail leading from Merkstaed.
‘We’ll have to ride around them,’ said Horskram. ‘We can rejoin the road further south.’
They were just about to spur their horses down the hill when they heard another bugle blast from the walls. A few seconds later
they saw what had prompted it: another company of knights, riding from the south. These were on their side of the river, and heading towards Merkstaed.
‘They must have crossed the Graufluss further upstream,’ said Horskram, indulging in a string of impious obscenities. ‘We’ll have to ride cross country, make for the Glimmerholt! We can hide there and make our way south once night falls.’
Without another word they spurred their horses downhill. As they did Adelko mouthed a prayer for his erstwhile comrades, wondering if he would ever see them again.
Adhelina risked a glance around her. There was no sign of the incoming forces yet, but some of the Stornelending knights from the melee had broken off and were coming towards them. At least half of the Markward knights were down, dead, dying or wounded. She caught a glimpse of a broken lance buried point first in the sward, a silken scarf fluttering forlornly from its shaft… Then more Lanrak knights pulled into view, cutting off her vision. Panicked commoners were running in all directions. The Lanraks rode some of them down as they swept across the field towards the awning.
Adhelina returned her eyes to Albercelsus as he advanced. She felt her courage fail her. No weapon, she needed a weapon dammit…
In a flash the steward was on her. He raised his dagger to strike. With an instinct born of desperation she grasped his wrist. He was old, giving her a chance to grapple with him, but she had no inkling of how to fight. Suddenly she was on her back, her life flashing before her eyes as the seneschal wrenched his arm free and raised the dagger again…
A flash of movement behind him and Albercelsus fell forwards, landing in a heap beside her. Blood trickled through his thinning grey hair. Looking up again she saw Hettie, clutching the chair she had been sitting on in trembling hands. Albercelsus groaned and struggled to pick himself up, scrabbling for his blade. Hettie’s face was a mask of fury as she raised the chair again, bringing it crashing down on his outstretched arm. He howled as it snapped audibly. Hettie raised the chair to strike again…
Thundering hooves all around. Armoured knights were carving a swathe through the nobles, cutting down greybeards, women, youths. Screams and blood and fear filled the air.
A shadow fell across Adhelina. She looked up, expecting to see the Angel of Death in the form of a man on horseback.
What she saw was Anupe.
The Harijan was mounted on a swift courser, a bloodied falchion in her hand. Next to her a charger reared and whinnied and a knight writhed on the ground, screaming and clutching a spurting fingerless hand.
‘Get up behind me!’ cried the Harijan. ‘Get up now if you want to live!’
Adhelina hesitated. ‘What about Hettie?’ she cried.
‘We’ve got her,’ said a familiar voice behind her. It was Sir Braxus. Next to him Sir Torgun was holding off three Stornelending knights single handed. A flash of silver and red. Make that two Stornelending knights.
Two more knights were hurtling towards them. Without a second thought Adhelina scrambled up behind Anupe. The two Lanraks were on them as the Harijan wheeled her horse back around towards the copse. Ducking a sword swipe from the first knight she lashed out at the second, opening up his calf from knee to ankle below his hauberk before he could attack. He screamed and dropped his blade as a gout of red erupted from his leg. In a flash she brought the point of her falchion back towards the first knight, ramming it into his mouth. He could barely muster a cry as he tilted backwards in the saddle, choking on his own blood.
Adhelina took advantage of the brief respite to look behind her. Hettie was in the saddle behind Braxus. Torgun had despatched his last knight. But that wasn’t what caught her eye as Anupe kicked their horse into a gallop. What she saw would remain fixed in her mind forever, and her life would never be the same again.
The spectacle receded as they thundered away, but it was no less horrible for all that. The Lanrak guards had cut down the remainder of the Markward men at arms. Berthal lay on the ground groaning, blood forming growing pools across his brocade robes of office. They had her father surrounded. Roaring like an angry bear he came at one of them, stabbing him in the face while using a chair to barge another to the floor. But half a dozen men was too many even for Wilhelm. She saw their swords rise and fall… The Eorl of Graukolos fell, blood spurting from many wounds.
Adhelina gave vent to a scream of anguish as they hacked her father to pieces.
As if mocking her plaintive cry, the green hills to the east of the fields were suddenly covered in a ripple of shining silver. As the Lanrak host poured down towards the dwindling Markward knights, cutting down fleeing civilians high born and low, Adhelina realised with a grim certainty that she would finally have her freedom.
For by the time the Lanraks were finished with their treachery, the house of Markward would not exist.
PART THREE
CHAPTER I
The Warrior-King’s Passing
‘He will not live out the year.’ The chirurgeon’s words fell like a tombstone across the silence of the antechamber. Despite the sun streaming through the high-arched windows, Princess Hjala felt cold.
‘I am sorry, Your Highness,’ the chirurgeon went on, ‘But the Sweating Sickness is a grievous malady even unto the young. For one so advanced in years as His Majesty…’ The greybeard’s voice trailed off. He looked increasingly anxious. Hjala understood why. Placing a hand on his bony shoulder she did her best to reassure him.
‘Have no fear, Yurik,’ she said in a subdued voice. ‘I know you’ve done all you can. It’s just after everything we’ve been through this year, I had not expected… this.’
Yurik nodded kindly. ‘Rest assured we will do everything we can to ease his passing. For now it’s best to let him rest.’
The chirurgeon was already bowing and retreating as he spoke. Hjala let him go and walked over to stare out of a window at the sun-strafed streets of Strongholm and dappled surf of the Strang Estuary beyond. Her home city was normally a beautiful sight at this time of year, but now all she felt was sorrow. Soon she would have a beloved father to add to the watery ghosts of her drowned children.
She was not long alone with her thoughts. A couple of minutes later the door opened and Lord Ulnor entered, his cane clacking on the flagstones.
She did not turn from the window as he drew level with her.
‘Well?’ was all he said.
‘The sickness is in full bloom,’ she replied, still staring out of the window. ‘My father shall not see another spring, if the chirurgeon is to be believed.’
‘I am right sad to hear it,’ said Ulnor. ‘His Majesty’s passing shall be a grief to all the nation.’
She did not doubt the sincerity of the seneschal’s words. Lord Ulnor was loyal to a fault. But behind the sincere condolences there was another angle. There always was with men of power.
The steward allowed a few moments of respectable silence to pass before he confirmed her apprehension.
‘Price Thorsvald has returned,’ he said. ‘He reports growing numbers of freesailors and seacarls on the Wyvern, plundering ships. It’s only a matter of time before they raid the mainland – ’
‘Must we talk of this now?’ She could not keep the irritation out of her voice.
‘Yes, we must,’ replied the seneschal implacably. ‘Your brother the Sealord’s warnings are not to be ignored – something is stirring in the Frozen Principalities, that much is clear.’
‘I will see Prince Thorsvald directly,’ said Hjala. ‘I am sure I will hear his tidings in person then.’
‘Your Highness, the realm is in jeopardy,’ persisted Ulnor. ‘We’ve barely pacified the southern provinces, the new jarls we’ve instated already have their hands full finishing off outlaws from Thule’s levy and putting down uprisings from disinherited younger sons – ’
‘I know that,’ snapped Hjala. ‘I was there when we planned the campaign to put down the Young Pretender, in case you’ve forgotten.’
She didn’t care for the steward�
�s patronising tone, loyal as he was. But then she was only a woman, she reflected with bitter irony, how could she be expected to keep such complex affairs of state in her head?
‘What’s your point anyway?’ she asked. ‘You might as well out with it now, if it can’t wait.’ She already knew what it was, but wanted to see how Ulnor went about raising it. You could tell a lot about a person’s agenda by the way they broached things. Years at court had taught her that much.
‘If what you have just told me is true, that means the King is officially incapacitated – from today,’ said Ulnor. ‘No man in the final stages of the Sweating Sickness can be relied upon to discharge his office of state. Under Northlending law that means we have a fortnight from today to name a regent, to rule in His Majesty’s stead until he passes or recovers. During that time I am acting regent. We must convene a royal council to discuss the matter and confirm the nominee as soon as possible.’
For the first time, Hjala turned to look at him. The seneschal’s frosty eyes gave little away as ever, though she could fathom him well enough.
‘The nominee?’ she said sharply. ‘Or candidates perhaps… For surely you don’t mean…’
Ulnor did not blink as he said: ‘He is the rightful heir to the throne, Your Highness.’
Yes, that was Ulnor. Loyal to a fault.
‘Lord Ulnor, even at the best of times, my brother is hardly yet fit for rule. He is brash, impetuous, why even in this most recent war he showed himself to be – ’
‘Your Highness, he is the heir,’ repeated Ulnor, more sternly now.