by Chris Tookey
“No, it isn’t,” agreed Wyrd, “but what’s wrong with that?”
“Well, sir, there’s some as might think it’s a bit… effeminate.”
“What’s effeminate about it?”
“Well, sir, surely a good rider would have no need of them… oh, what are they called?” The centaur tried to recall.
“Stirrups,” said Morgana, who had entered the stables and been listening.
“Oh, sorry, my lady, I didn’t see you there,” said the blacksmith, blushing.
“That’s all right, my man,” said Morgana. “Now gallop off and make Sir Uther his stirrups.”
“Righto, my lady,” said Alaric, taking care to bow obsequiously before he trotted off.
“I gather congratulations are in order,” said Wyrd.
“Oh,” said Morgana, absent-mindedly. “Oh, yes.”
“How’s wedded bliss?”
“Fine,” said Morgana, in a voice that suggested the contrary. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thanks,” said Wyrd.
“So, you’re going in for the tournament?” asked Morgana.
“I’m going to give it a try,” said Wyrd.
“On that old nag?” she asked.
“Callisto’s faster than she looks,” said Wyrd. “And we’ve been through a lot together.”
“You haven’t a hope against Artorus,” said Morgana. “He’s a fantastic horseman. A tremendous fighter. Or so he tells me.”
Something in her voice still made Wyrd feel that she might be less than enthusiastic about some of her new husband’s other manly qualities.
“I know,” said Wyrd. “That’s why I thought I’d try out a bit of new technology.”
“You mean stirrups?” asked Morgana. “They’re not new. They’ve been around for centuries in the Steppes.”
“Did the Huns invent them?”
“I don’t think so,” said Morgana. “I think it was either the Avars or the Scythians. But you’re right. My mother discovered their uses when she was shacked up with my father. Apparently Attila was quite a whizz in the saddle.”
“I believe so,” said Wyrd. “In more ways than one.”
There was an awkward pause.
“So, you married Artorus,” said Wyrd.
“You know I did,” replied Morgana.
“Did you do it because of the prophecy?” asked Wyrd.
“Yes. No. Partly, I suppose,” said Morgana. “A girl has to look out for herself when she’s an orphan.”
She spat out the last word with a vehemence that made Wyrd flinch.
“Look, I’m sorry about your mother, but at the end she was no longer your mother. She was…” Wyrd searched for a tactful way to describe her.
“A monster?” asked Morgana, with a mirthless laugh. “Believe me, my mother could be a monster long before she officially became one.”
“She led a very… eventful life.”
“Yes,” said Morgana. “And you know something? I still don’t believe she ever told me the whole truth. I always felt there was something… I don’t know… missing. Something she was really ashamed of, you know?”
“You mean, apart from trying to murder her brother and hand over the Roman Empire to a sex-crazed Hun who enjoyed ravishing her on horseback?”
“Yes,” said Morgana, barely noticing the sarcasm in Wyrd’s voice. “I don’t think any of that bothered her in the least. There was always something else. Oh well, I doubt now if I’ll ever know.”
“Will you ever forgive me?” asked Wyrd.
“What for?” asked Morgana, sharply.
“For murdering your mother.”
“Oh, that,” said Morgana, off-handedly. “I was upset at the time, but I suppose you had to do it. If you hadn’t, by now the whole of Atlantis would have been overrun by werespiders.”
“Really?” asked Wyrd, with a sardonic grin. “I thought your husband was claiming credit for that.”
“Yes, well…” said Morgana, with a feline smile, “you and I know the truth, don’t we?”
She walked up to Wyrd and kissed him on the lips.
“If it weren’t for you, either my mother or those seven dwarves would have sucked me dry and thrown away the husk,” she breathed. “A girl doesn’t forget a thing like that.”
Her hand strayed down to his crotch and started to caress it.
“Hallo, hallo,” said Artorus, entering the stable on horseback. “What are you two up to?”
“That’s interesting, my lady,” said Wyrd, in an unnaturally loud voice, before turning to the prince. “The princess was just giving me some tips on the use of stirrups.”
“Stirrups?” said Artorus, laughing. “Stirrups are for girls. You’re not thinking of using them in the tournament, are you?”
“Why not?” asked Wyrd.
“I don’t know,” replied Artorus, screwing up his face in order to think. “Isn’t there a rule against using them?”
“Not that I know of,” said Wyrd.
“Hmm,” said Artorus. “You do realise that everyone will laugh at you?”
“Perhaps,” said Wyrd.
“I mean stirrups aren’t… manly,” said Artorus.
“The Huns think they are,” said Wyrd, “as did the Empress Honoria.”
“Attila the Hun swore by them,” said Morgana.
“Yes, but we’re not barbarians here, are we?” scoffed Artorus, getting off his horse.
“I am,” said Morgana, going to him and putting an arm around his waist. “Well, half a barbarian.”
“Yes. And that fits very nicely with the prophecy, but we’re going to bring our children up in the Roman tradition, aren’t we?” said the prince.
“If you say so,” replied Morgana, sweetly.
“What’s that scent you’re wearing?” asked Artorus. “It’s very…”
His right hand dropped to his wife’s breast.
“Please, Artorus,” she giggled. “Not here.”
“Oh, all right, then,” said Artorus crossly, withdrawing his hand.
Wyrd wondered how Morgana had explained on her wedding night why she was no longer a virgin. Some kind of accident, presumably. He must have been staring at Morgana for too long because her voice broke into his reverie.
“Well, Sir Uther, I’m pleased to see you’re looking so much better,” she said, formally. “I hope you get beyond the first round of the tournament.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” replied Wyrd cheerily. “But at least my new stirrups should give the crowd a bit of comic relief.”
***
The day of the tournament dawned bright, cheerful and extremely colourful. The area just outside the castle gates had been decorated with flags and banners for the occasion. There were wooden lists for jousting, roped off from the spectators, and a circular area nearby for single combat. Wyrd decided to reserve his strength for the final event, called Triple Combat, in which the top eight knights competed first in jousting on horseback, then in armoured combat and finally in non-armoured combat.
Under normal circumstances, the eight knights involved would qualify by winning one of the earlier events; but Princess Melisande insisted that Wyrd be given special entry into the competition because of his ailments. She walked up to him while he was tending to Callisto and checking the lengths of his stirrups.
“Thank you, my lady,” said Wyrd, bowing. “I don’t think they’d have let me enter the Triple Combat if it hadn’t have been for you.”
“Indeed they would not,” said Melisande, handing him an embroidered handkerchief. “Here, you must wear my favour during the contest.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Wyrd, taking it and tucking it into his belt. “You do me great honour.”
Just then, Wenda walked up, with a wooden pail.
She looked grimy but proud of herself.
“I’ve managed to find some water,” she said. “Shall I give it to Callisto?”
“Thanks,” said Wyrd. “What would I do without you?”
He tried to ignore the fact that Wenda and Melisande were gazing at each other with scarcely disguised distrust. The princess chose this moment to adjust the neck of his jerkin.
“Make sure you don’t disgrace me,” said Melisande, running a finger down his chest before pausing, with her mouth open. “What are those things dangling from your saddle?”
“They’re called stirrups, my lady,” said Wyrd.
“You’re not using them in the tournament, are you?” she said, shocked.
“I thought I’d try them in the jousting,” said Wyrd. “You know, for stability.”
“Is that allowed?”
“I’ve looked in the rules and there’s nothing against it,” said Wyrd.
The princess looked unimpressed and took a step away from him.
“You can have your favour back, if you like,” said Wyrd.
“If you don’t mind,” said Melisande.
“Not at all,” said Wyrd, offering it back to her. “I wouldn’t wish to cause you any embarrassment.”
“Oh no, look, keep it,” said the princess, with an imperious wave. “I haven’t anyone else I want to give it to.”
“That wasn’t very gracious of her,” said Wenda, after the princess had gone.
“You think not?” asked Wyrd.
“I know not,” said Wenda. “And why did she want to give you her favour?”
“I don’t know,” said Wyrd. “For old times’ sake, maybe?”
“Hmm,” said Wenda, doubtfully.
Wyrd had never mastered falconry, and Prince Artorus made a point of possessing all the finest birds in Atlantis. So, it was no surprise when Artorus won first prize in both falconry events. His only competition came from Fingolfin, an elven count from Lyonesse who seemed satisfied with two second prizes, and Oakin Pitbellows, an elderly dwarf from Cornubia whose challenge came to an end when his horned owl collided with the castle wall and, stunned, slid slowly down it.
The tilting competition was won easily by Prince Artorus, as was the sword-fighting.
“The prince seems to be doing very well,” said Wenda to Wyrd. “Do you really think you have a chance in the Triple Combat?”
“My only hope is that he’ll be too knackered from winning everything else,” said Wyrd.
“A bit of a shrinking violet, isn’t he?” remarked Wenda.
The prince had removed his tunic and was allowing an elf-maiden to feel the firmness of his biceps, unaware that Princess Morgana was watching him with an expression of unalloyed disgust. Not for the first time, Wyrd wondered if all was going well between the young, married couple.
“Well, he does see himself as the future ruler of all Albion,” said Wyrd.
“Don’t you?” asked Wenda.
“I suppose so,” replied Wyrd. “If the prophecy is true.”
“Couldn’t it mean someone else entirely?” asked Wenda.
“I can’t see how,” said Wyrd. “I mean, his name is Artorus. He and Morgana are uniting the bloodlines of Atlantis and the Hun. And if anyone is going to bring about the end of the ancient races, Artorus will. You should have seen him killing all those Puca, and the Harpies.”
“I expect you’re right,” said Wenda doubtfully. “But there must be other Artoruses around.”
“Atleast two I know of,” replied Wyrd. “They’re the surviving sons of King Vitalinus: Catigern Artorus and Paschent Artorus.”
“It seems to me that Vitalinus’s sons are the ones your friend Merlin is backing,” said Wenda. “Why else would he spend so much time at Vitalinus’s court?”
“Yes, but they don’t have Atlantean blood,” said Wyrd. “Or Hunnish blood, as far as I know.”
“So, maybe the prophecy is wrong,” said Wenda. “I certainly hope so. I don’t fancy our Artorus at all as the ruler of all Albion.”
“Me neither,” confessed Wyrd. “And from the way his wife is looking at him right now, I think she’s starting to have doubts.”
“I see what you mean!” laughed Wenda, watching Morgana glare as Artorus preened himself in front of the elf-maidens. “He really is a pillock, isn’t he? Give him hell!”
She kissed him on the cheek. Wyrd was surprised to find himself blushing.
“Wenda,” he said, “would you mind if I wore your favour?”
Wenda studied him seriously.
“Wyrd, that’s really sweet,” she said, “but I don’t have a favour.”
“Haven’t you something I could use as one?”
She fumbled in her pocket and brought out a grubby handkerchief.
“That’ll do!” said Wyrd.
“No it won’t,” laughed Wenda. “It’s revolting! I’ve been using it to mop up in the kitchen!”
She put it to her nose.
“It smells awful!”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Wyrd, grabbing it from her. “It’s symbolic.”
“Symbolic of how horrid and smelly I am!” said Wenda.
Wyrd tucked it into his belt, on the opposite side from the delicate favour given to him by Princess Melisande.
“I don’t care,” he said. “The important thing is that it’ll remind me that I’m fighting for you.”
And now it was Wenda’s turn to blush.
***
The first round of Triple Combat went fortuitously well for Wyrd. His opponent, Sir Ector, had to retire hurt from injuries received in the previous round, when he had fallen off his horse and hit himself on the head. This let Wyrd straight through to the round of four and left him with only Fingolfin, the elven count from Lyonesse, to defeat before the final.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Wyrd, encountering the elf.
“And who might you be?” drawled the elf.
“I’m your opponent in the semi-final,” replied Wyrd. “Uther. Sir Uther.”
“Really?” asked Fingolfin. The name clearly meant nothing to him. “I haven’t seen you in any of the previous contests.”
“I haven’t been in them.”
“And yet they allowed you to enter the Triple Combat which is meant for knights of the highest quality?” said the elf, with barely veiled contempt.
“I don’t know how I slipped through the selection procedure,” said Wyrd lightly. “Luck, I suppose.”
“Let’s just see how lucky you think you are by the time I’ve finished with you,” said the elven count. “Shall we?”
The rules of Triple Combat were simple. The object of the first tilting round was to score points on horseback with a blunted, or ‘courtesy’, lance. A blow to the opponent’s torso was worth one point. Two points were awarded for striking your adversary on the helmet. Three points were gained if you knocked your opponent off his horse. If both men knocked each other off, the result was declared a tie. The second round could consist of any number of tilts, and it ended whenever one of the knights had scored a four-point advantage over the other.
Wyrd knew that his jousting technique was rudimentary and that his one hope of winning the competition lay in surviving the tilting round with as few points against him as possible. He could see that Fingolfin was perfectly balanced in the saddle. Not even a blow to his torso in the previous round had been able to stop him unhorsing his opponent, whereupon the elf had finished him off in the next round with a well-aimed blow to the head.
As Wyrd prepared to mount his horse, he found Sir Ector standing nearby, twirling his handlebar moustache.
“That elf doesn’t take any prisoners, does he?” muttered Wyrd.
“Damn fine competitor,” agreed Sir Ector. “You up against him? Hard luck!”
“Got any ideas of how to stop him?” inquired Wyrd.
Sir Ector thought for a moment.
“Haven’t a clue,” he said. “My advice is, if he knocks you off your horse, stay down. That way, you may not get seriously hurt.”
Sir Ector’s defeatist advice ran through Wyrd’s brain as he mounted Callisto, pulled on his visor and prepared to face the elven count at the other end of the lists. Fingolfin’s fine banners and flamboyant green tabard contrasted with his own, much tattier outfit: essentially a jerkin with a chest protector, plus a battered helmet. Wyrd mounted his horse and trotted to his end of the lists, aware of a ripple of conversation as he passed by the crowd.
“What are those dangling things?”
“Why’s he got his feet in them?”
“Doesn’t he know how to ride?”
“What do they call them?”
“Stirrups?”
“What is he? A damsel in distress?”
Wyrd was aware that the crowd could see that his face was pink with embarrassment but knew it would be bad form to close his visor too early. As he trotted with Callisto, he felt the stirrups give him a balance and security he’d never previously experienced in the saddle. He just wished he’d had more time to practise with them.
As he lined up for the first tilt, he took a look at the elven count, who stared back at him with a disdain that made Wyrd want to beat him all the more.
“Are you ready?” called King Otto.
Wyrd lowered his visor.
“Set!” cried the King.
Wyrd took a deep breath.
“Tilt!”
The two men galloped towards each other with a ferocity that made Wenda cover her face with her hands. There was a mighty crash, and when she looked up both men were still on their horses but at the other end of the lists.
“Who won?” she asked.
“Neither of them did,” said Mrs Scraggs, who had appeared beside her. “They both hit each other on the body. That’s one point each. They’ll have to have another tilt.”
Wyrd knew that without his stirrups he would have been knocked out of the saddle; and surviving the first tilt gave him some measure of confidence. The second time they charged, Wyrd saw that Fingolfin was aiming for his head. This left the count open to a thrust to his body, but that would score only one point. Right up to the final moment, Wyrd was uncertain whether to aim for the elf’s head or his body. In the event, the decision was made for him.