“You harass my folk on the road, and charge a ransom for passage. You send spies and raiders into my frontier. And yet every effort you expend against me comes to naught. Why, then, would you persist in this feud?”
“You, Sir, touched my honor,” he said, angrily. “You spit in the face of the established order and invite abomination into the Riverlands. You are an up-jumped tradesman, a paper noble, and no knight worthy of the name!”
“Don’t forget that he kept you from adding Sevendor to your clutch of destitute domains,” Sigalan’s sister added, bravely. “And without Sevendor safely in pocket, you may not turn your attentions to other prey. “
“The brayings of the rustic nobility have little part in the greater matters of politics,” Sir Bromul said, condescendingly.
“Neither does plain truth, it seems,” she added haughtily, and sipped her cider.
“It is good you have found such . . . fast friends in the Riverlands, Sire Sigalan,” Sir Bromul continued obsequiously. “Baron Arathanial is a weighty name to have as a friend, but if you are not allegiance d . . . well, ‘tis but a name. When has he fought in the name of friendship? Or perhaps then the good Magelord will ride to your aide when next you are beset by bandits or raiders!” The thuggish threat was clear
“And how many lances will Sevendor bring to your aide?” howled one of the other knights in the retinue. “Less than a dozen, if we figure correctly, and the rest a peasant’s rabble!”
That touched my honor. I stood and surveyed Gimbal’s lackey, a thin young man with the worst mustache I’d ever seen clinging to his lip.
“A dozen lances? Sevendor needs but one. And while you’re counting noses and swords – neither of which I’d trust you to figure beyond a score without removing your trousers – you should concern yourself less with lances and more with bows.”
“Bows?” he asked, confused.
My lady wife saw her chance to get a dig in, in the name of national pride. “Aye, the famous Wilderland bows my peasant folk carry – they shoot half again as far as your Riverlands toys. They fly three-foot laminate arrows with a six-inch steel bodkin point . . . and they can go through armor like parchment within fifty feet. All our lads Boval used them against the wolves of the Mindens since they were old enough to walk.”
“Cowherds killing wolves are hardly warriors,” scoffed another West Flerian lord. “Against Riverlands knights—”
“. . . and every lad in Sevendor who survived the Siege of Boval Vale has loosed a thousand arrows into the throats of goblins who were screaming for their blood, day and night. Our youths have seen more blood spilled in a year than your dotards in their lives!”
She recited the gory history evenly. But she said it proudly, without hesitation, and with supreme confidence. She wasn’t the Lady of Sevendor, politely trading jibes with the nobility, she was Alya of Hawk’s Reach, daughter of the Minden vales, beating back the edge of the wilderness to reveal the steely warrior within. Seeing my saucy lady back this insolent knight up into the stands was a treat, and I loved her the more dearly for it.
Still, Gimbal’s lackey was not intimidated. “Bows,” he sneered, dismissively, “in the hands of peasants.
“And wands,” I countered, drawing one, “in the hands of knights magi. You wish to assail Sevendor in earnest? I invite you to try. And add this to your calculations: Allies? Few but loyal. Lances? We have enough. Arrows? We have a sufficiency. Magi? We have a plethora. And defiance in the face of injustice? Gentleman, Sevendor holds that in abundance,” I lectured, addressing the Warbird directly. “Continue this antipathy at your peril. It shall not profit West Fleria, or any of her allies or liegemen, to press this toward war.”
There. I’d said it. War. I watched Gimbal’s nostrils flare at the challenge, and he could no longer evade or prevaricate what he and his men were doing to our frontiers.
“War?” he asked, quietly. “You know little of war, Spellmonger. There is a difference between slaughtering goblins and facing a real warrior on a real battlefield. My family is known for their perseverance at the art, and for five generations we have enjoyed a reputation for bloodshed and victory – a legacy that you and your peasant wench may feel the weight of all too dearly!.”
I shrugged. “My family has a reputation for the best holiday breads in the Riverlands. That doesn’t make me a baker. And if I were you,” I said with an insulting guffaw, “I’d quit holding your family’s great gift of warfare up as an example until you have an heir who can manage to hold on to his fief.”
I turned and went to sit down without addressing him again. It was only then that I heard someone yelling “Fair Peace! No, milord, you have sword the Oath!”, and I turned to see Gimbal’s men physically restraining him, holding his hand away from his peace-knotted sword hilt. They dragged him away quickly, before the fairwardens took notice of the commotion.
“Pray ignore them,” Sire Sigalan counseled me quietly as he poured me a glass of the sweet mountain wine his people made. “Gimbal is searching for a stronger cause to stir up trouble, he has been for years. In all his machinations he never suspected he’d have a strong foe suddenly on an unguarded border. My Lady Alya, were you . . . serious about your bowmen?” he asked skeptically.
“The Bovali are good archers, well-used to sniping at wolves, goblins, stray gringoths, and other common pests of the Mindens,” she answered. “And their range is not in doubt. I have seen a wolf slain across four hundred yards of valley meadow.”
“And Sire Gimbal has done little enough to make them feel welcome in the Riverlands,” Sir Roncil added. “Should you ask my folk to march on West Fleria. you’d have to limit the volunteers.”
“You aren’t worried about a war with West Fleria?” he asked, surprised.
“Of more concern is the war with Sheruel the Dead God,” I pointed out. “He is a gaping wound in my chest; Gimbal is an annoying rock in my boot.”
That seemed to satisfy my new friend, and we spent the next hour or so bantering gaily while we watched the jousting and drank. All too soon, I felt a contact mind-to-mind. It was Tyndal, who had wandered off during the squire’s tournament, thankfully. I could just imagine what he would have added to the tense discussion.
Yeah?
Master, I was wondering if you wanted to place a wager before the bout, he asked. Festaran and I are going to, and Banamor already did. I know you did well yesterday – would you like to bet on Cei’s opponent this time? He teased.
Put fifty ounces of gold on Sir Cei to win first prize, I ordered him. Wait – have they given fresh odds?
I waited a moment while he checked. Aye, master. Believe it or not, they are up from yesterday. Twenty-eight to one he places first, eleven to one he places second. Sir Mavoxigon is the favorite.
Not as good as yesterday, but still a healthy return. Put a hundred ounces of gold on Cei. To win.
Master!?
Do it, I ordered. Send someone for my seal, if you need to, but coinbrother Abros should remember me from yesterday. I put wagering and other inconsequential matters out of mind, and studied the list as the first of the three bouts began between Sir Mavoxigon and Sir Jinsalan.
While not the expected end to the tournament, the two were well-respected professionals who had met on the northern circuit more than once, according to Lady Sarsha. They conducted themselves as such, despite the small fortune at stake – at this stage of the competition they had already covered their costs, so the ultimate victory, while coveted, was not essential.
After far too much fanfare, the two gentlemen broke a lance apiece against each other’s shields, whirled prettily to the applause of the crowd, and returned to their side. As he passed, however, Sir Mavoxigon tarried a moment in front of us, no doubt seeing the crude Sevendor banner dangling from our canopy.
“My lord,” he called respectfully. “I see you sponsor Sir Cei of Boval.”
“Sir Cei of Sevendor,” I corrected, “but I have that honor.”
&nb
sp; The warrior considered. “If I could beg the boon of your opinion, my lord, do you know him as a man to make rash statements, or prone to hyperbole?”
“I have never seen Sir Cei speak ought but truthfully,” I assured him.
“I have known him since I was a girl, and if he has spoken any untrue word he has not the knowledge of it,” added Alya, who was more than half drunk.
Sir Mavoxigon considered again, and then saluted smartly. “My thanks for your polite response, gentlefolk,” he said, smoothly. “Pray enjoy they combat.”
He spurred his bay destrier into position and had a fresh lance handed to him by an attendant. After testing it to his satisfaction he slapped down his faceguard and proceeded to drive Sir Jinsalan off of his horse by shattering a lance on the left side of his helmet. Regardless of the outcome, Sir Mavoxigon had secured second place with that strike. Sir Jinsalan had secured a rapidly-spreading bruise, even through his formerly pretty helmet.
But Tyndal had not been mistaken – the bay’s rear left shoe was loose.
“He is going to be a tough one for Sir Cei to master,” murmured Sire Sigalan, scratching his patchy chin thoughtfully. “Jinsalan will be the easier contest, particularly after that last blow.” Indeed, the young knight had to send for a new helm, and called quarter to refresh himself and collect his wits.
Sir Cei was led to Sir Mavoxigan’s spot on his charger, his plain armor and unsophisticated arms painted across his broad rawhide-faced shield seemed almost glaringly common among the colorful pageantry of the event. If he felt distracted by the banners and shouting and colors, it did not show in Sir Cei’s eyes. They were fixed at the far end of the list, where Sir Jinsalan was remounting and rearming.
That first tilt was wild, as Jinsalan’s big chestnut destrier seemed reluctant . . . while Sir Cei’s charger eagerly thundered down the field. Sir Cei’s simple barrel-helmet slid forward, challenging the lance . . . his huge war shield, he held nearly flat against him, canted ever-so-slightly. His beefy paw gripped the lance as if it grew from his palm, and the blunted tip never seemed to waver at all once he couched it, without the aid of a rest. Sir Cei was resolution in human form, galloping against the knight of Stoves like a thunderbolt.
Sir Jinsalan panicked, at the last second, throwing his courtesy shield too wide, actually deflecting Sir Cei’s well-thrust lance up into his own faceplate . . . where it caught. There was an exaggerated explosion of wood upon steel, and while the blow did not send the knight fully into the dirt, as it had Sir Ewen the day before, it did leave him dragging by one stirrup from his destrier along the list field in a most undignified manner.
Sir Jinsalan (or his uncle, if you wanted to be technical) yielded the bout to Sir Cei and graciously accepted third place . . . which was enough, I hoped, to at least buy him a new helmet. That was the second he’d ruined in a day.
Sir Cei looked surprised at the victory, but was still feeling his blood run high as Sir Mavoxigan was led into place as his next challenger. Sir Mavoxigan waited until Sir Cei was grasping the lance when he signaled the herald with a reversed lance: he ceded the entire match.
Sir Cei looked around in surprise and stunned disbelief as the crowd went wild, and the heralds made the appropriate marks on the display board indicating his victory. Grooms led his horse to the center of the lists in front of the reviewing stand, to claim his lauds. Baron Arathanial waited there with several of his guests, including the beaming Lady Estret of Cargwenyn. Sir Cei removed his unscratched helmet and managed a very decent salute with his lance as his charger’s mane was decorated with a wreath of roses.
The Baron came forth, pronounced the results to the cheering crowd, beaming broadly – this had been the most dramatic contest at the lists in recent history. He congratulated my knight, presented him with the gold-painted rod that betokened his victory, and then presented him with his new bride.
Sir Cei did himself no dishonor when he deftly flung a surprised – and delighted – Lady Estret into the saddle in front of him, and then tore around the list field, waving to the screaming and cheering crowds of all of Sendaria.
“What was all that about wondering if Sir Cei was a man of his word?” Alya asked me in between cheers and a few happy tears.
“That? Oh, remember when I told you I’d send an emissary to each camp to suggest Sir Cei would be willing to negotiate with the victor for the hand of Lady Estret, should he not prevail?”
“Yes? Did you bribe them, then?” she asked in disbelief.
“That would have been dishonorable.” I chided. “Unworthy of a magelord and a member of the chivalry. No, I had each of our messengers report to Sir Cei’s opponents that he wasn’t so much intent to purchase the hand of Lady Estret, as much as . . . fight to the death for it.”
“What?” she shrieked.
“I just figured it would be cheaper,” I reasoned. “I figured Sir Jinsalan wouldn’t know what a sharp blade is, as good at the joust as he might be. The idea of Sir Cei coming after him with a naked sword and anger in his eyes would make him soil himself. When he heard that Sir Cei was actually having his sword sharpened, and three fresh war lances delivered to the list field, I’d wager he nearly did.”
“But what about Sir Mavoxigon?” she asked, puzzled. “He doesn’t look the type to back down so easily from a fight.”
“No,” I agreed – Sir Mavoxigon was a professional jouster, but he was also an honest warrior with significant holdings west of Sendaria. “He wouldn’t back down from a fight. But he wouldn’t look for a fight he didn’t have to, or couldn’t win.
“He had a firm grip on second place, and he weighed the price of a chance at injury in a second-string fair tournament at the beginning of the season against the value of assuring second place, a whole skin, and an early start toward the next tourney. It was a good business decision,” I pointed out. “He made double what he paid to enter, plus token ransoms, and he did all right in the wagering, if I judge him properly.
“So what was all that . . . ?”
“Oh, he had certainly heard about the rumor I made sure he’d heard, that Sir Cei would challenge the victor to a mortal duel. That’s what he was thinking about when he asked if Sir Cei was a man prone to wild exaggeration. I earnestly said ‘no’ – and so did you,” I reminded her.
“But I thought . . . I thought he was talking about negotiating for Lady Estret!” she said, finally understanding, “and he thought I was talking about Sir Cei threatening to go on an impassioned rampage! So when we said yes . . . we were telling him that he was willing to fight even while I thought we were telling him we were willing to deal!”
“It was cheaper,” I reminded her. “And I made a killing in wagering. Enough for a handsome gift to the bride and groom – just look at them!“ I said, cheering as they made their second lap around the list, spring flowers falling around them from the crowd. “That’s the happiest I’ve ever seen Sir Cei!” With his future wife sitting side-saddle in front of him, he only looked bigger and more imposing on his charger, but that goofy grin softened the effect.
“You . . . are . . . the most devious man I’ve ever met, Minalan the Spellmonger!” my lady wife accused. “First you remake Sevendor. Then you reconstitute my people. And now you have found a mate for our stalwart knight! Oh, just look how happy they are!” she squealed as they galloped by on their third lap of the lists. The baby joined her just to be part of the excitement.
“Yes, look at him smile . . .” I nodded, unable to contain my own. “He won his bride and his fief and now he’s going to be a proper lord in a proper marriage. The poor bastard doesn’t have a clue what’s about to happen to him. . .”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Alliance Over Cargwenyn
Sir Cei and Lady Estret did not wed that day, of course, but with the Baron’s permission and blessing that evening they solemnly appeared before a priestess of Ishi, the Goddess of Love, and plighted their troth, binding the agreement with wine, honey, and brea
d as tradition demanded. Alya and I both witnessed, as did Sagal, Tyndal, and Sir Festaran. There were tears and smiles in abundance to feed the goddess’ demand for tribute.
They set a date for late autumn, after the harvest, and I suggested that if they scheduled it to coincide with the beginning of my magical fair, I would be happy to pay the bill for the festivity. They eagerly agreed, and pledged to meld their affairs together enough to begin the legal process of Sir Cei, Castellan of Sevendor becoming Sire Cei, Lord of Cargwenyn domain in his own right.
I wasn’t worried about him running off with his bride and founding his own dynasty – he knew better than I did how expensive that was, and he had all the amenities of founding a dynasty in Sevendor, without the expense. And as a lord of his own estate, he was about to understand the importance of those expenses. Especially a troubled little estate like Cargwenyn.
Lady Estret’s estate was a single manor with attached hamlet, surrounded by three hundred-fifty acres of rough and rocky hill country that was good for little other than hunting, pasture, timber, wildflowers and bees. Cargwenyn domain had two streams and a pond, sixty acres of marginal grain fields under cultivation, twenty acres of meadow, a few small pastures, four small isolated stands of timber, and the only sanctified shrine to Noapis, the goddess of bees and honey, in three counties.
Cargwenyn hamlet had less than fifty souls within, I learned. The manor house was slightly more grand than a prosperous peasant’s home, and had no protective wall, just a high hedge and shallow dike. Two aging retainers were all that stood between Lady Estret and cooking for herself.
Her daughter from her first marriage – little Lady Faresa, a darling little girl with the biggest brown eyes and the waviest dark hair was only four years old and away from home for the first time. Faresa instantly adopted baby Minalyan as her favorite toy. Darishi didn’t even seem to mind the “help” when the squealing little girl stopped by our encampment after the ceremony with her beaming mother.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 57