There came a time during the battle when I had been so buffeted by fear and glee and fear and exhilaration and fear again that I wished only for it to end. How is a tourney decided, when weapons are blunt and armor is strong? One man leaves the field with a broken shinbone, another because his head is ringing like a bell with an iron clapper. A cataphract who yields skulks away and takes his armiger with him. After a while even the strongest man tires of lifting a sword, whether it be of wood or steel. Little by little, man by man, the battle wears out.
Or sometimes, when the king is watching (for he likes to know the stuff and substance of his army), he’ll blow his hunting horn and toss a metal cup upon the field, and the man who catches it gets to drink victory. I hadn’t known the king was there until his horn sounded and the cup went glinting and tumbling through the air. The Crux caught it easily, so it must have been aimed at him; but I couldn’t tell that one clan or the other had fairly won, being ignorant of the arts of Rift Warrior.
But the king is always right. When the tallies were made, the clan of Crux had more trophies and the best of the wager. Rift’s priestess filled the victory cup, and when the men of our clan had drained it dry, they galloped their horses around the tourney field, riding uphill toward the spectators as if they meant to run them down, then turning at the last moment and chasing downhill again, whooping all the while. The drudges scattered before their charge, and I ran with the rest, half laughing, half terrified. The Blood stayed unmoved under their awnings. I supposed they’d seen this many times before.
Before one of those shelters, I saw Sire Galan rein in his stallion so hard he set him back on his haunches. He swung his leg over the high pommel of the saddle and jumped down lightly, as if he were not wearing three-quarters of a hundredweight of plate and mail. He took off his helmet and bowed. That maiden of Ardor was standing under the canopy, of course, and her father with her. I was too far away to see her face, but I did see Sire Galan give her a sword he’d taken from a Lynx. He bowed to her, to her father, to her again—it put me in mind of the manor dovecote, how in spring the males puff up their feathers and strut and bob while the females go on pecking.
Fleetfoot saw me looking and started to tease, “Sire Pava has bet against him also, did you know? So Sire Galan is sure to win, because everyone knows Sire Pava and Luck don’t get along.”
I knew what he meant; there were many in the village still in the habit of calling me by my old name. I said, “Fleetfoot, boy, if you have anything to wager—and I know you don’t—I advise you to save your coin. Sire Galan presumes too much on his Luck. He may find she doesn’t favor him in this.“ Oh, I bragged, but I was the only one cut by my wit. I wished I had the power Sire Galan claimed for me of being his luck. I’d bring him this good fortune: that the maid send him away tonight with a no that could not be mistaken for a yes even by the most handsome, amorous, cocksure pricks-man in all the Marchfield.
Fleetfoot had heard of Sire Galan’s little wager, which meant that any day now the rumormongers would be making up songs about it and singing them in the market. Every wagging tongue added to Sire Galan’s danger. If the girl’s father found out, he’d likely challenge him to a duel—though for such a dishonorable wager, Sire Galan deserved to be set upon in the dark of night by varlets with staves and given a bad drubbing. If he won his bet, it would call for a mortal fight for certain. Maybe the clan Firsts would put a stop to it before a feud could start; or maybe they’d be the last to find out, along with the girl’s father, for who would want to spoil such a fine tale before it could be told?
After the horses were seen to, Sire Galan’s men crowded into the tent, even the foot soldiers. Sire Galan could not stop grinning as Spiller and Sire Rodela helped remove his armor. His curls were flattened to his head and dark with sweat, and on his cheeks I saw the impress of helmet straps and rivets of the visor. His men talked all at once, asking one another if they’d seen this act of bravery or that of cowardice. The close air smelled of sweat and horse and ale and damp.
Sire Galan asked me, “Did you see I struck off a man’s helmet with my lance?”
I said, “No, the charge was such a muddle. I saw your lance was broken, though.”
“I broke it on his head. I took half his ear off.”
Spiller spoke up. “I saw it, Sire. It’s a wonder he kept his seat.”
“I saw it too,” said Noggin.
And Sire Rodela said, “You should have aimed lower, then you could have knocked him from his horse.”
Sire Galan ignored him. “Did you see me drive a man off the field?“ Again, it was me he asked.
“I did. You took his sword as a trophy,” I said. “And where is it? I should like to see it.”
He took off his padded red shirt and sat on the cot so Spiller and Sire Rodela could pull off his leggings. I crossed my arms and asked again, though I knew the answer well enough. “Where’s the sword?”
Spiller sniggered and Sire Rodela smiled his crooked smile. The other men grew quiet.
Sire Galan stood up, naked. Iron plate stops a blade’s edge, but the force of a blow will still leave its mark. There were red weals all over his body. He would soon be piebald with bruises. Yet he didn’t seem to feel pain. He was drunk on the battle: his eyes shone, his voice was too loud, and his skin had a fine flush everywhere. I judged he would feel it tomorrow, when his blood stopped charging and his heart galloping.
He said to Spiller, “Fetch me my shirt and hose,” and then to me, almost on the same breath, “Why, I gave it away.” He smiled, but his brows were drawn together. “Did you think I’d forget my promise? I have a better trophy for you.”
He found his gauntlet in the pile of armor and pulled from it a small orange bundle. I untied the knot. The cloth was a Lynx banner with a golden cat’s eye embroidered as a house crest. Inside its folds lay part of a man’s ear: pale, resilient, curved inward like a shell along one smooth edge, ragged and red on the other. There was mud in the hollows. I threw the banner and ear down on the bed and stepped back. The men crowded round to look at it, raising a clamor.
Sire Galan said, “I jumped down from my horse to get it. Did you see? I thought if I waited till after the tourney I’d never find it again.”
“I thought I was watching a brave man,” I said. “Now I see you’re a madman. How could you risk so much for a bit of flesh? I was sure you’d be trampled!”
“Hazard loves madmen, then, because Chance led me right to it. I looked down and saw it gleaming on the ground, and how could I deny her anything? Besides,” he said, grinning, “the flesh of an enemy is a powerful charm.” He lifted his arms so his white linen shirt could be pulled on over his head.
“He’s no enemy, whoever he is, unless you choose to make him so. Lynx and Crux fight for the same king, and you’d best remember it. I’ll keep the banner,” I told him, “but that—that you must return, or sacrifice to Rift, because I’ll not carry it and risk a haunting if he should die and be unwillingly tied to me.”
Sire Galan sat on the cot and picked up the piece of ear, flexing it between his fingers. He seemed thoughtful and a little amused. He looked up. “Well, I suppose if you don’t want it, I’ll give it back—tell him that though I couldn’t unhorse him, I at least un-eared him!”
His men laughed and repeated the jest, each to the other as if his neighbor might not have heard.
“And what shall I do with this banner?” I asked, under their noise. “Sew it to my dress and go parti-colored like a fool?”
“No,” said Sire Galan. “The only colors you will wear will be mine. Hang it before the tent. It will soon have many fellows.”
The feast given by the Lynx for the victors went on almost till the Sun rose. I lay in an empty tent listening to the hubbub from the neighboring camp. I couldn’t sleep for remembering. I saw again and again the warriors charging us on the hill, after the tourney. They were men I knew and yet, masked by their helmets, they were unknown to me, except for Sire Gala
n, who wore his own face in silver before him. And they were frightening enough.
But when we ran, we ran from the horses, not the men. The horses: sixteen hands high with hooves big as plates, and their heads masked too and these masks with horns where the forelock should be, and the sound thudding into us as they came closer, close as a thunderclap when lightning strikes your neighbor’s house.
We had bleated and scattered like sheep before a pack of wolves. It frightened me more now, remembering, and thinking how it would be to see such a charge in earnest, how I could never face it. How easily they could have run us down. I wondered if I would have heard, under the hoofbeats and the screams, the breath of a blade parting air, and the thought made my back itch from nape to buttocks. This was another thing I’d failed to consider when I followed a warrior to war. Somehow I’d always imagined the face of war turned away from me.
Still awake, I slipped into a dream. In this dream I stood my ground. I roared as they charged. This furor had wanted to get free of me all day, and yet the more I let it out, the more it resounded. I roared and roared, my belly an iron kettle full of echoes.
The horses feared me. They passed on either side and left me standing.
Such a wealth of rage. How could I spend it? When I was not dreaming, anger did not serve.
Sire Galan came back before the others. He sat down next to me on the bed and leaned to give me a kiss. His breath smelled of wine and about his clothes hung an air of smoke and sweat and even a whiff of the privy. When he straightened up, he flinched. Now he was stiff and sore. Now he felt the blows he’d taken that afternoon.
I got up and put on my dress and fetched the lamp burning by the entrance. He smiled at me, as he often did, as if it made him glad to look upon me. I would not show how it weakened me, turning my bones to wax and my bowels to tallow.
I untied the laces of his surcoat. It was stiff with embroidery: glossy holly leaves on a gold field, set here and there with onyx-eyed warblers feeding on clusters of garnet berries.
“You’re back early,” I said. My voice was hoarse, as if I truly had been shouting. I helped him pull the surcoat over his head. I could see it pained him to raise his arms.
“I’m back late, surely.”
“Are we to quibble over this? So late you’re early, then, for the Sun is about to show her face. And it’s clear as day you’re back before the others.”
He shrugged. “I grew weary of them and sought better company.” He caught one of my hands, busy at the fastenings of his shirt.
Oh, I was sure he had sought better company. Sure he’d left the feast long before this to pay his court to the maiden of Ardor, though how he could do that when she slept, no doubt, cheek by jowl with attendants and kin, I couldn’t imagine. I pulled my hand away.
He hadn’t won his wager yet. He wasn’t smug enough. Nor was he downcast. I guessed he’d seen her and taken some encouragement. I didn’t want the lees in the cup, what was left of the wine after he’d gone wooing elsewhere, no matter how he smiled at me.
“I’ll make you a tisane to ease the soreness,” I said, “and a poultice for your bruises.” I was forbidden to touch a man’s blood, but where the skin wasn’t broken, I could be of some help. The men’s healers scoffed at these herbal consolations, claiming a grown man had no use for them. They left them to greenwomen, and many a man was grateful to have a balm for his pains. Soothing is kin to healing, whatever the carnifices say.
I busied myself with the herbs and a brazier and coals, setting water to heat. Sire Galan lay back on the bed with a slight groan, his hose unstrung and an arm over his eyes. I wished I had some dampwick such as I’d tried on Sire Pava—not that it had worked—something like it then. That I’d like to see, that would satisfy me, if he tried his ram against her walls and couldn’t batter them down! He’d never breach her then, though her gate be the thickness of a hymen and she as willing as she could be. As willing as I was. As I had been.
By the time the water was hot, Sire Galan was asleep with his jaw hanging open. I was glad of it. I laid warm cloths smeared with a paste of wine, lard, and woundwort on his chest and arms, and still he lay unmoving (though perhaps his breathing grew shallower). I pulled off his hose, revealing a great bruise on his right shin—and at that he did bestir himself. First he smiled, then he uncovered his eyes, then he raised himself on one elbow and said to come lie beside him. But I’d already guessed he was awake, for his prick had stirred before him.
I told him to sit up so I could lay a poultice on his back. He feigned a groan and said, “I cannot sit unless you help me to it,” and held out his hand like a child. He was grinning.
I turned my back on him and went to brew the heal-all. I could have laughed, or spat on him, or gone to him—and at the same time too, anger and desire being so compounded together. Instead I squatted by the brazier and watched crumbled leaves and shreds of willow bark color the water brown in the wake of the spoon. When I looked at him again, he was no longer smiling.
I brought over the wooden cup, saying, “This will help with your pains. Have a care, it’s hot.”
He was still propped on his elbow. I stood there with my hand outstretched, and he wouldn’t take the cup. He said, “I think you know a better remedy than this. Or have you already eased some other man this evening, used up all your healing?”
His voice was light, as if he were amused, but I heard something else. He was vexed with me now. How quickly he became jealous, when I was the one with cause.
“Ah, no. You’re the first to require any help of me. So take it,” I said. “It’s nothing much, but it will soothe.”
“I still say you know a better remedy.”
“You’re cross tonight. Everything I say, you gainsay.”
“Well, then, don’t cross me.” With that, he reached for the cup, and grasped my fingers with it. The hot tisane sloshed over my hand and I jerked away. He let the cup drop. It rolled toward my feet.
“Now you’ve wasted it,” I said. My throat was so tight it squeezed my voice small. “It would have helped you sleep. Everyone knows sleep is the best healer.”
He sat up on the cot, slowly, stiffly. I met his eyes. I expected to see him angry. But he looked at me straight; he sought me where I hid. This look was like a touch, and it sent a tremor through me. He said, “Firethorn, how can I sleep if you won’t lie beside me?”
I might have lost my resolve then and gone to him but for his men returning to the tent from the feast, late but not too late. They arrived stinking, as if they had bathed in ale, stumbling, and singing an old tune with new-minted words having to do with a certain ear.
Sire Rodela was in worse case than Sire Galan, for his armor was inferior. He was bruised everywhere and had a cut on his thigh he had not tended. Spiller poured wine over the wound and tied a rag around it: I poulticed Sire Rodela’s bruises (how his hair climbed his back—over his shoulders, down his nape, up from the crack of his buttocks!). He sat quietly under these ministrations, for he was drowned in drink. By then the Sun was truly up. Spiller and I went to fetch water and Sire Galan fell asleep. He slept soundly enough without me, after all.
That was the first night Sire Galan and I had not lain together since we met.
“I suppose you think you did well yesterday,” said the Crux to his men as they dined at midday. “You boasted well, it’s true. One would have thought you’d won a battle, not a mere tourney of courtesy. But you did not do well.”
The cataphracts and the priests dined out of doors while the armigers served them. The drizzle had relented at last, though the wind still blew flocks of dirty clouds from west to east and teased at the cloth spread over the table. The air had a chill in it. I was sitting on the ground before Sire Galan’s tent, next to Spiller, picking gristle from my teeth. Spiller had found us a mutton shank to go with our pease pottage, but the ewe must have been older than I was.
The Crux did not raise his voice. His men quieted to listen. “If the weapons
had been real and unbated,” he said, “Lebrel would be dead and Alcoba would be dead and his armiger with him.” I could swear the cat-aphracts stopped chewing, they were so taken aback by his words. Sire Guasca sat with his mouth hanging open. “And Pava would be a prisoner—but he should be dead. He should have died of chagrin, for surrendering without a blow in his own defense.”
Sire Erial laughed at this and the Crux rounded on him.
“As for you, Erial, if your sword was as quick as your tongue, you might have done more with it than stick a little jack who came running out to help his master. I don’t believe you landed another blow yesterday. But you dodged them well, and for that I praise you.”
Sire Erial flushed red and it was Sire Pava’s turn to sneer. Spiller snickered and I struck him hard in the shoulder with my fist and whispered, “You’ve no cause to laugh. I saw you dodging about too yesterday. You were about as much use as a barren cony!” Spiller gave me a cockeyed smile, but if he thought I was just chaffing, he was mistaken. He’d proved a rank coward. I was sure I’d have done better.
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