Heirs at War (The Marmoros Trilogy Book 2)

by Peter Kenson

  “Yes, it’s just on the other side of the market.”

  The market was still very busy and they had to weave their way through the crowds, thronging the stalls. The wine and beer sellers were obviously doing a roaring trade and more than a few people were a little unsteady on their feet. They had stopped to look at a stall selling some scented candles when a group of drunken youths crashed into Seb’s back, sending him staggering forward. Angrily he turned around to confront them but stopped short when he saw who it was. He quickly put his arms around the girls and tried to usher them away but it was too late.

  Oscar’s face creased in a frown of concentration for a second before recognition forced its way through the alcoholic haze.

  “You,” he said. “I knew I’d run into you again one day.”

  “Leave us alone, Cortes,” Seb replied. “Go home and sleep it off.”

  With a snarl of rage, Oscar grabbed Seb’s shoulder and spun him around. “And who’s this with you? Why it’s Scarface. I’m surprised you still bother with her, now she’s damaged goods…”

  He broke off and doubled over as Seb’s fist crashed into his midriff.

  “You’ll pay for that,” he growled as he straightened up. “And when I’ve finished with you, I think I’ll cut her other cheek. Just so that they match.”

  “You won’t ever lay a hand on her again, Cortes. I promise you that. You are nothing but a loud, foul-mouthed bully. You may impress your drunken friends here but you don’t impress me.”

  There was a scattering of applause from the surrounding crowd at that. Oscar sneered at them before launching himself at Seb, who ducked under a swinging haymaker to plant another solid blow in the stomach. Furious now, Oscar rushed forward again only to stop with a howl of pain as Seb flattened his nose against his face. There was more applause and a few cheers this time, as Seb hooked a foot behind the bigger man’s knee and shoved him in the chest to put him flat on his back.

  “You’ve broken my nose,” he said, getting to his feet with blood pouring down the front of his very expensive doublet.

  “That’s enough now, Cortes,” Seb said. “You’ve had a thrashing and it’s over. Go home.”

  “I’ll say when it’s over,” Oscar shouted. “I see you’re still wearing your toy sword. Get it out and let’s finish this now.”

  “Oh no. I’m not stupid enough to make the same mistake twice.” Seb unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to Teresa. “Look after this for me, my darling. Then I won’t be tempted to run him through.”

  “Be careful, Seb,” she whispered.

  “You’re a coward,” Oscar yelled. “A snivelling, yellow-bellied coward.”

  “You can call me all the names you like, Cortes. You’re the one with the flat face and the fashionable burgundy coloured doublet.”

  There was laughter from the onlookers as Seb turned back to the girls. “Let’s go now,” he urged as the crowd parted to let them through.

  Suddenly the laughter changed to cries of alarm and a shout of “Look out”.

  Seb whirled around to see Oscar charging at him with his sword above his head. Instinctively he flung himself forward, feet first, under the swinging sword. Both feet connected with Oscar’s leading knee which snapped with a satisfying crack as the sword whistled past his left ear and bounced off the cobble stones.

  Seb was just getting to his feet when the sergeant of the watch and one of his constables, pushed their way through the crowd. The sergeant looked at Oscar writhing in agony on the floor and the sword lying beside him.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Whose sword is that?”

  “It’s his,” Seb said, pointing at Oscar. “He attacked me.”

  “And where’s your sword?” he asked suspiciously.

  “It’s here, sergeant,” Teresa said, holding it out. “It hasn’t been drawn.”

  “Sergeant, I demand that you arrest that man,” Oscar sobbed still rolling on the ground. “He attacked me and broke my nose and now I think he’s broken my leg.”

  “Is this true?” the sergeant asked Seb.

  “It’s true that I punched him,” Seb admitted. “He insulted my fiancée. But the damage to his leg was after he attacked me with his sword drawn.”

  “Did anybody else witness this attack?”

  Seeing that the excitement was obviously over, the crowd was already starting to thin out as another constable pushed his way through. At the mention of witnesses, the remaining few bystanders suddenly remembered some urgent business elsewhere and began to hurry away. Oscar’s drinking companions mysteriously vanished into the crowd as well, leaving only Teresa and Isabella, both of whom stepped forward.

  “We saw what happened, Sergeant,” they said together.

  The sergeant looked at Teresa. “You’re Master Angelo’s daughter, aren’t you? As you’re standing there with the young gentleman’s sword in your hand, does that make you his fiancée who he claims was insulted?”

  “I am and I was.”

  “Yes well I’m sorry, miss but that hardly makes you an independent witness, does it?”

  He turned his attention to Isabella. “And you are?”

  “My name is Isabella, Marchioness of Santa Monastral and I witnessed the whole disgraceful incident. It happened exactly as Seb told you.”

  “Thank you, my lady. Can you tell me who struck the first blow?”

  “Well,” she replied hesitantly. “It was Seb but he was defending his fiancée’s honour.”

  “I see.” The sergeant turned towards Seb. “I know him,” he said, indicating Oscar. “And I know his reputation. But I recognise you too. You tangled with him once before, didn’t you? Tumbled him into the river, as I recall. He stank something rotten.”

  “He still does,” Seb replied with a grin.

  “That’s as may be,” the sergeant grinned back. “But I’m going to have to take the pair of you before the Count this time.”

  “Is that really necessary, Sergeant?” Isabella asked.

  “I’m afraid it is, my lady. This is the second time these two have been brawling on the streets of the city. The young gentleman will get a fair hearing from Count Leonid, particularly if you speak for him, but this brawling has got to stop and it’s up to the Count to decide how to deal with it. I’d advise you to go and tell Master Angelo what’s happened and I’ll send for Master Cortes. The Count will want both families represented at the hearing.”

  “I’m sorry, Teresa,” Seb called out, as the sergeant took him firmly by the arm.

  “You two find a stretcher,” the sergeant told the constables. “Bring that piece of trash to the palace and then send a runner to fetch Master Cortes. And I suppose you’d better find a surgeon to look at that leg.”

  ***

  The palace of Count Leonid was much smaller than the royal palace at Marmoros and was clearly built for defence. Situated on the east side of the market square, the only access was across the river that meandered slowly through the centre of the city. The strengthened gates on the far side of the river led into a series of terraced gardens surrounding a small hillock that raised the palace above the level of the other houses.

  The actual entrance to the house was guarded by fortified towers that rose above the main structure to provide a field of fire in all directions. Between the towers was an archway leading into a courtyard with a strong, inner defensive wall. Emplacements on this wall and on the inside of the outer wall turned the courtyard into a potential killing zone for enemies who forced their way through the gates.

  Beyond the inner wall, a smaller courtyard provided a waiting area for the main reception rooms and here the families gathered to await the audience with the Count. Most of the other leading families were also represented as news of the fight spread, and the waiting crowd polarised into two groups: the larger one surrounding Angelo and the other around Cortes.

  When the seneschal opened the double doors to a
dmit them, there was an initial surge forward which halted in confusion as neither group wished to enter side by side with the other but neither would defer to let the other enter first. Eventually the seneschal tapped his staff on the floor and pointed to Cortes who made a mocking bow in Angelo’s direction before leading the way into the audience chamber.

  The only chair in the room was raised on a dais and occupied by the somewhat portly form of Count Leonid. When all had entered, the Count signalled the sergeant who opened a side door and led in the protagonists. Seb walked in alongside the sergeant with his head held high and bowed to the Count. Oscar, however, had to be helped in by the two constables, one on either side. He limped to the centre of the room and made an obviously painful semblance of an obeisance.

  They had made some attempt to clean him up but the damage to his face was clearly visible. They had also given him a cane to support himself but the two constables stayed by his side in case he collapsed. At the sight of his son, Antonio Cortes stepped forward to protest.

  “My lord, this is intolerable. My son has been the victim of a vicious and unprovoked assault. He should not be forced to stand through this trial while his attacker is punished.”

  “This is a hearing not a trial, Master Antonio. The facts are yet to be determined so do not attempt to prejudice the outcome. But I agree that your son appears in no fit state to stand on his own. A chair will be brought for him.”

  The seneschal snapped his fingers and a servant scurried away, to return with a chair for Oscar to seat himself.

  “Now then, Sergeant. Perhaps we could start with you.”

  “Yes, my lord. I was called to a disturbance in the market square this afternoon, my lord. When I arrived, both of the young gentlemen were on the ground. The one, who I recognised as Master Oscar Cortes, was rolling around in agony, clutching his knee. The other young gentleman was just getting to his feet.”

  “And does he have a name?” the Count said, looking at Seb.

  “His name is Sebastien Waterson, my lord.”

  Seb winced at the use of his full name but kept his mouth firmly closed.

  “We also found this lying on the ground beside Master Cortes,” the sergeant went on, producing Oscar’s sword. “It has been identified as belonging to Master Cortes.”

  “I see. And Master Waterson’s sword?”

  “He wasn’t wearing it, my lord. It was sheathed and being held for him by his fiancée, Master Angelo’s daughter.”

  “Was it indeed? Did you determine who started this particular fracas?”

  “It was Master Waterson who threw the first punch, my lord. He claims he was defending his fiancée’s honour but it was Master Cortes who drew his sword and attacked an unarmed man.”

  “That’s a lie,” Antonio Cortes shouted. “My son would never have done that.”

  “Are you accusing the sergeant of lying, Master Antonio?” the Count enquired coldly.

  “Ah no, my lord. Not lying but misinformed. He was not actually present during the fight to see for himself.”

  “Then let us hear the witnesses, Master Antonio so that we can determine the truth of the matter. Who actually witnessed this event?”

  “I did, my lord,” Isabella said, stepping forward.

  “Your name, madam?”

  “My name is Isabella, Marchioness of Santa Monastral.”

  “My apologies, my lady. I don’t think we have met.”

  “I have only recently arrived in your city, my lord. I am staying with Master Angelo and I was with Master Waterson and Mistress Teresa when we were assaulted by this drunken lout,” she said indicating Oscar.

  Antonio Cortes stepped forward again but hastily shut his mouth at a warning glance from the Count.

  “Please tell us what happened, my lady.”

  “We were standing at one of the market stalls when a group of youths who were slightly the worse for drink, barged into us. This one,” she pointed at Oscar again, “then insulted Mistress Teresa in the most offensive way. He called her ‘Scarface’, a reference I believe to a mark on her face which he inflicted himself last year. He then referred to her as ‘damaged goods’ and expressed surprise that Seb, Master Waterson, still associated with her.”

  There were gasps of horror from the assembly as she was speaking.

  “At this, Master Waterson punched him and a fist fight ensued which ended with that lout flat on his back with a broken nose.”

  “What happened next?” Count Leonid prompted.

  “That one, that Master Cortes invited Seb to draw his sword and finish the fight. Seb declined, unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to Teresa so that, in his own words, ‘he would not be tempted to run him through’. We were trying to leave the scene when Cortes drew his sword and ran at us. It was at that point that he appeared to trip over something and fell on his knee.”

  “You will forgive me, my lady, if I doubt the accuracy of your last statement but I get the general picture.

  “Master Waterson, step forward. Tell me in your own words why you were not wearing your sword.”

  “I was attacked by this bully last year, my lord, and I was provoked into drawing my sword first. It was a mistake I was determined not to make twice.”

  “This was the incident which resulted in the mark on Mistress Teresa’s face?”

  “It was, my lord.”

  “And Mistress Teresa is your fiancée?”

  “It has not been formally agreed yet, my lord, but…”

  “It has been formally agreed, my lord,” Angelo called out.

  Seb looked at him gratefully and Teresa gave her father a hug.

  “What is your rank, Master Waterson? What position do you hold?”

  “I am an officer in the royal guard of King Jeren of Marmoros, my lord. I have been offered the post of Captain of the Guard on my return.”

  “My congratulations, Master Waterson, both on your offer of position and on your forthcoming nuptials.

  “Master Cortes, do you wish to add anything to this version of events?”

  “If I may speak for my son, my lord,” Antonio Cortes said. “He may have spoken a little unkindly while in his cups, my lord, but it was not ill-intentioned. And he has received a brutal beating for a relatively minor indiscretion. The surgeon tells me he may never walk again without a stick. I demand compensation for the harsh treatment he has received at the hands of this professional soldier.”

  “This is outrageous, my lord,” Angelo spoke up. “My daughter has been grievously insulted and my future son-in-law has been unjustly arraigned for protecting her honour. I demand compensation from the House of Cortes.”

  “So, we now have the position where two of the leading merchant houses are demanding compensation from each other. What am I to do? I will not have this sort of feud in my city, gentlemen. I want a solution that will end it now, once and for all. Do either of you have a proposal?”

  Neither merchant spoke and the silence dragged on for a full minute.

  “Very well. Normally in matters like this where honour is involved, I would propose a trial by combat to settle the issue. However, in this case I fear that matters may have already gone too far for that to be a solution. What do you say, Masters?”

  Antonio Cortes shook his head. “My son may have been crippled for life, my lord. While the death of this soldier would satisfy my family’s honour, I would still require compensation for the injuries he has inflicted.”

  “And you, Master Angelo?”

  “My daughter has already been scarred for life by that lout. While his death would remove a blight on life in this city, there can never be peace between our two houses.”

  “It would seem then that I have no option but to increase the stakes. If your two houses cannot peacefully coexist in my city then one of you will have to go. The trial by combat will still take place but the business of the losing house, properties, warehoused goods and all other assets
within the city walls, will transfer to the victor. The losing house will leave this city for ever.”

  There was an outburst of astonished conversation which swelled in volume until the seneschal tapped his staff smartly against the floor.

  “Well Masters,” Count Leonid leaned forward in his chair, “are you sure you cannot reach a settlement?”

  “I am sure, my lord,” Antonio said. “I accept the terms of the challenge.”

  Angelo looked across at Seb and nodded slowly. “I will also accept the terms of the challenge, my lord.”

  “Very well then. The trial by combat will take place in the outer courtyard, two weeks from today.”

  “My lord,” Antonio called out. “As my son will not have recovered from his injuries sufficiently to take the field himself, I wish to nominate a champion to fight on his behalf.”

  “You have that right, Master Antonio. Who is your champion?”

  “Don Enrique Rodriguez, my lord.”

  The murmurs of surprise grew again as Angelo turned pale. “I protest, my lord. That man is a professional duellist. Such a contest would be unfair.”

  “And your future son-in-law is a professional soldier,” Antonio sneered. “Or is he only brave when facing intoxicated boys. If he is too scared to face a real man in combat, then I believe the stakes will be forfeit.”

  “He will fight,” a voice called out from the back of the hall. All heads turned to see who had spoken and the crowd parted to let Sergio Ramirez through. He nodded to Angelo as he went to stand next to Seb. He bowed to the Count and then turned to glare at Antonio, who was beginning to look a little uneasy at this point.

  “Master Waterson will fight your champion, Cortes, and he will win. He will take the field and I will stand as his second.”

  Chapter 14 – Ystradis & Sorinto

  Anise and Chaqi lay prone behind some broken rocks at the very top of the hill and watched the activity in the valley below. The main body of men were still making their way up the track with the gravsleds carrying the drilling equipment. The gravsled platforms were designed to easily move very heavy loads as their lack of contact with the ground meant that there was no surface resistance. However, because their ground clearance was low, they worked best on surfaces that were relatively flat. Even at a distance, they could hear some colourful swearing as the troops tried to manoeuvre the unwieldy platforms over the least broken ground.