Nineteen
That evening, Rohan went in search of Anamara, instead of leaving her to the privacy she seemed to desire. He found her sitting at her accustomed table, placed much lower than what her rank as one of the Dowager's ladies entitled her to. She wore a cloak over her dress, with the hood pulled up as if to hide her face.
"I have missed your company, lady," he said. He thought she turned pale. "Could it be that you are forbidden to speak to me?" he asked with a boldness he might not have risked before. But he had taken it for his motto, and so now he spoke his mind.
"No, not exactly," Anamara replied.
"Good. Then I may dare to ask for your favor to wear tomorrow."
"I—I had not thought of such a thing. Would this do?" From the depths of her cloak she pulled out a piece of slightly crumpled blue silk—the rose he had given her, back in the garden on a frosty morning.
He took it from her and held it to his nose. Yes, it smelled of her warm, sweet flesh. "I will wear it proudly, and later I will give you another. Dozens of them, if you like."
She opened her lips as if to speak, and then closed them again.
"Guard yourself," she half whispered a moment later.
He shook his hand a bit and the rose unfolded into a length that might serve as a scarf. "This will make a good token, one that the others will eye with wonder and amazement," he said. "And never fear, I will guard myself well and be your champion always, if you desire it."
She made no answer, only turned away and pulled the hood up closer over her face.
Nonplussed, nevertheless Rohan took her giving of the onetime silk rose as a good sign. Later, he would determine the cause of her shyness and, if he could, dispel it.
The day of the tourney, much anticipated, dawned bright, cold, and clear.
People's breath was frosty in the cold air, and the restless war-horses emitted steam from their nostrils. The pawing of their hooves on the frozen ground made a noise like the ring of steel against steel.
A great sheltered stand for spectators had been erected to one side of the tourney field, a flat plain outside the city walls, and the elaborately embroidered cloth of state put in place over the royal box. A set of stairs led from this to a platform only a little higher than the combat field. From this spot, the King himself, young Peres, would award the prizes. This day the
Dowager would be in his shadow, and Ashen and Gaurin would be seated with his mother, Rannore.
No, Rohan corrected himself. Only Ashen. Gaurin would be taking part in some of the events hastily planned for the nobles when it became clear that they would not be content merely to watch the striplings and the elders of the realm perform for their amusement. Thus it would be a Grand Tourney indeed. Gaurin had even sent for his favorite war-horse, a great bay stalh'on named Marigold.
Nordors, Rohan had learned, had a habit of calling their fierce steeds by mild, innocuous names—the braver the charger, the sweeter and more innocent the name.
Marigold was a very fearsome beast, indeed, and nobody but Gaurin could ride him. When he trotted, he lifted his forefeet high, proudly dancing along his path. When he galloped, he carried all before him from the sheer strength of his charge.
Rohan hoped to catch sight of Gaurin before his own planned downfall. He had to get himself out of the way so that he could spy out what was happening elsewhere. He knew that if he were occupied on the tourney field, any effort he might make was likely to come to naught.
The jousting was scheduled first, the young nobles going through their paces early. This would be followed by assorted exhibitions by senior nobles and set pairs of other, younger men, and then the seasoned warriors would take up the sport with jousts and set-pieces as well before the Grand Melee, open to all who cared to participate.
Rohan had drawn third place in the lists and would run his course against the winner of the first, whoever that might be. His plan was to make Ironfoot swerve at the last moment, so he could fall and be eliminated without glory, but without dishonor. Then he could go and mix with spectators or participants as he chose, rather than be caught up in repeated runs of the course against other young nobles until a champion had been decided.
He entered one of the tents set aside for the use of the junior nobles. These tents stood toward the back, but with flaps open, and it was easy to see what was happening. The stand was filling rapidly, made gay by the bright-colored gowns of the women and the glint of the jewels they wore. Many of the ladies had made bold to throw back the shoulders of the fur-lined cloaks they wore, basking in what sunshine there was, to show off their beauty and elegance.
Both of the Dowagers had already taken their places. Ysa smiled and nodded to the people, but Rannore seemed more thoughtful, even worried, as if King Peres might be in danger. Ashen took her hand and began to speak softly to her.
Cebastian called to Rohan from one of the trestle-tables and Rohan went over to sit with him.
"Take a cup of warmed wine," Cebastian said, offering the flagon, "and some bread. You shouldn't go out on an empty stomach."
"Thank you for your concern, my friend, but I have no appetite and I want to have a clear head. Perhaps later."
"What's your number?"
"Three."
"Ah. I'm well down on the list, so any light-headedness I feel will have departed long since."
"Good luck to you. May you come out well."
"And to you. Perhaps we'll meet in the lists after all."
Rohan acknowledged his friend's good wishes with a rueful nod of his head. Of course I could come out well in this if I decided to, he thought, but unmasking the Sorceress—or the Magician, the man or woman, whatever the person decided to be that day—was more important. The back of Rohan's neck tingled mercilessly, making him as nervous as if he were staking his entire future on one run with the blunted spears or perhaps facing an enemy of well-proven force and skill.
I have bound myself to boldness and daring, he said to himself. So, bold and daring must I be. To calm his nerves, he concentrated on fastening the blue scarf to his helm. He couldn't get it to stay. The brush of herbs and grasses, given him so long before by Gran-dam Zaz, seemed too slippery to hold the silk.
He needed a piece of string or a thin strip of leather. He took the silver amulet with the design of crashing waves from around his neck. The silk cord it hung from would do extremely well. Quickly he wrapped the cord around the scarf and tied it to the tuft. This time, all snugged into place as if designed for the purpose, though, to his mild surprise, the amulet seemed of its own accord to tuck itself out of view. No matter how he tried to arrange it so the trinket showed, within a matter of moments it was hidden again.
A blare of trumpets announced the arrival of the King and his retinue, and so
Rohan gave up the fruitless effort. He must be content that his lady's favor showed. Another blare of trumpets signaled that the Grand Tourney had, officially, begun.
As he nudged Ironfoot into a heavy trot toward the frail fence dividing the course the combatants must run, the amulet rang softly against his helmet, calming him. He accepted one of the blunted spears and hefted it as he moved to one side, awaiting his turn.
The first participants were Gidon of Bilth opposite Nikolos of Grattenbor. An unfortunate pairing, seeing that there was currently bad blood between their overlords, Gattor and Royance. With keen interest, he watched Gidon unseat
Nikolos neatly, sending him tumbling onto the frozen ground. Nikolos got up, signaling that he was unhurt, and the crowd cheered. Then he turned to Gidon and said, his words carrying clearly in the frigid air, "We will meet later."
"I look forward to it," Gidon returned. He danced his horse back to the starting place, exchanging his used lance for a fresh one, and Rohan moved into position.
This was good, he thought. Gidon is my friend. Also, he is much better at the lance than I, and I need not even attempt to persuade Ironfoot to swerve out of the course. He saluted Gidon, and the crowd app
lauded as the other young man returned the salute.
At the signal, both urged their mounts into a heavy gallop. Rohan remembered thinking how good was Gidon's seat and how steady his lance, when the unthinkable occurred.
Instead of his forcing Ironfoot into a false step, it was Gidon's steed diat stumbled slightly on a bit of icy clod churned up by the previous run. Under ordinary circumstances, that would not have been enough to affect Gidon's attack and Rohan could still have maneuvered himself into dropping the tip of his lance just enough to miss, but Ironfoot took that moment to put on an extra burst of speed. Rohan's weapon took Gidon squarely in the center of his breastplate and sent him sprawling. The crowd roared its approval.
"Well run, comrade!" Gidon said as he got to his feet. "Good luck for the next course!"
Somewhat chagrined by his unexpected victory, Rohan turned Ironfoot back toward the starting place. A squire took the lance, examined it for signs of weakness, and handed him another. He looked up to discover that this time he was facing
Jabez of Mimon, who was, if possible, even worse at this event than he.
Well, he thought, gritting his teeth, if I could unseat Gidon, then certainly another such miracle is possible. Even if I have to do it all myself.
This time he succeeded in pulling Ironfoot's off rein, making him leave the path that was already being beaten on either side of the fence just enough so that his spear missed and Jabez's caught him on the shoulder. Over he went, with a crash that jarred him from top to toe even though he was expecting it and thought himself prepared. He clambered to his feet as the crowd shouted its approval once more. Ironfoot was already trotting off, as if disgusted, and a page caught him to lead him back to the stable and give him a rubdown and a well-deserved bag of grain. There was some laughter from the stands, as if at a joke, and he hoped that his subterfuge had gone undetected by the onlookers.
Whether or not, he never learned. He had scarcely gotten back to the tent when a cry of pleasure went up from the spectator stand. He looked back to discover the
Magician, wearing his robes decorated in magical symbols. He had appeared in a cloud of blue smoke and ice crystals that floated down to the ground, like snow.
He produced a bouquet of flowers from nowhere and began tossing the blossoms to the ladies above. They squealed with delight as they vied for the flowers. Rohan walked back toward the line of tents set up for the participants, trying to catch a glimpse of Anamara in the crowd, but if she was there, she remained hidden from his sight.
Behind him, Reges of Lerkland prepared to run his course against Jabez. A thunder of hooves, a clash of metal, and the crowd shouted in delight as Jabez in turn became acquainted with the hardness of the tourney ground. Then the tone of the cries changed. Rohan turned, curious, only to discover that Jabez had not gotten to his feet. The tent set aside for the physicians was, he realized, going to see some duty today.
He lingered until Jabez had been carried past, limp and white-faced. To his relief, Jabez's injury seemed to be minor—perhaps only a sprain or a joint out of place—for there was no blood and no further outcry from the viewing stands.
Rohan made a note to himself to go and check on Jabez later, when he was allowed to see him.
He made his way back to the tent, hoping to join Cebastian for the warmed wine and bread, but the other young man had already left to prepare for his turn in the lists. By this time, platters of meat and a dish of pears had been added to the fare available so Rohan helped himself. While he ate, he divested himself of the heavy breastplate, unnecessary now that he had been eliminated in the jousting. Carefully, he untied the blue silk scarf—it had brought him almost the luck he had hoped for, he thought wryly—and tucked it into his sleeve. The amulet on its silken cord he slipped back over his neck and under his shirt, where it rested, cold at first and then warming, against his skin.
Reges, who had not unarmed, watched him as he pulled on a warm, fur-lined doublet over his chain mail. "Through already?" he said.
"I decided not to enter the exhibition," Rohan replied. He helped himself to meat, piling it on a round of bread and spoke around a good mouthful. "And you?
I take it you were eliminated as well."
"I was, but not before I had put Jovan in the dust." Reges smiled with grim satisfaction. "And Vinod. It took Steuart to unhorse me."
"Steuart is the best of us all with the lance," Rohan said. "It is no disgrace to lose to him. We all knew he would win this prize."
Reges shrugged. "Anything could happen. Jovan said he was looking forward to the exhibition."
Rohan leaned forward. "Look you," he said seriously. "Mend the bad blood between you. It does neither of you any honor to maintain your quarrel, when Rendel lies in the very shadow of danger."
"I see no such shadow," Reges scoffed. "You think that because we are having unseasonably cold weather this means we are all in fear of our lives?"
Rohan understood, all too clearly, how the edge of danger could go off for young men who, unlike himself, had not grown up with the reality of what it meant to flee from the peril of the North. His grandfather, Snolli, had filled him with tales and Gaurin also had his stories to tell, none of them comforting or boding well for the future once the Great Foulness and its minions had fully awakened and begun to march. "The cold is only the smallest part of it," Rohan said. "Why do you think the Dowager summoned her levy of the young nobles of the realm, if not for us to serve as the spear-point of her army?"
Reges shrugged. "I don't know. And I suppose I don't really care, either."
"You should care," Rohan said. "But I daresay you won't."
He got up, suddenly unwilling to continue the conversation. "I'm going to see how Jabez is faring."
"Give him my regards," Reges said, but his tone was indifferent.
Up in the viewing stand, Ashen had caught her breath when Rohan was unhorsed.
But, as he leaped up again, obviously unhurt, she let it out in a relieved sigh.
"It is difficult, watching a child—or one who is very like your child—go into danger," said Rannore.
"Indeed it is," Ashen said. "One's husband also."
"I had nearly forgotten. Gaurin will be fighting in the joust, will he not?"
"He is to go against Harous. They are the only ones who could give each other a good match. Later, he will be in the Grand Melee against any and all comers. I know I shouldn't worry, but I do."
The Lady Marcala, wife to Harous in everything but the legal ceremony, occupied the seat next to the Old Dowager, chatting with her, and if she shared any of
Ashen's concern, she didn't show it by word or action.
"Gaurin will be all right," Rannore said. "Harous also. The rules of the tourney forbid any serious conflicts, and there will be heralds stationed to enforce it, should tempers rise." The Young Dowager reached out for Ashen's hand, and the two women's fingers interlocked.
"I envy you, Ashen," Rannore said. "There is nothing for me here, though I am doomed to remain at Court unwed and unwedd-able. You have your husband, your child, a quiet life after the turmoil of your time at Court. If you choose, you can settle down into quiet tranquility."
Ashen turned and stared at her friend. "There is nothing in my life to envy, I assure you. Daily I worry about what awaits us, just over the horizon to the
North. When the attack comes—and it surely will come—Gaurin will be in the forefront of the men fighting. It is his nature. And, as far as I know, I will have to stay behind, going mad with worry. I cannot think of a way in which I could help."
Rannore returned Ashen's steady gaze. "And yet, I think there may yet be something for you, if not for me. Your foster mother was the Wysen-wyf of the
Bog. She is known to be a very powerful woman. More powerful even—" Rannore leaned closer and her voice dropped so she could not be overheard—"than Ysa herself, though my mother-in-law would never countenance such a thought being expressed aloud."
"Yes," Ash
en said. "Zazar possesses much Power. But that is Zazar, and I am not she."
"And yet, I sense in you something that just awaits the time and circumstance.
Yes, my dear friend, I believe that you will have your part to play, eventually."
Ysa leaned forward from where she sat on the other side of King Peres, so she could see the two younger women. "Telling secrets?" she said sweetly. Behind her, Marcala laughed behind her hand.
"No, Madame," Rannore said. "Merely speaking of women's matters that other people need not hear."
"Well, look you to mind your manners. We are all on exhibition here. Even the—"
Ysa halted and Ashen knew, instinctively, that she had bitten back the words
Bog-Princess. "Even our dear kinswoman from the Oakenkeep."
Andre Norton - Oak, Yew, Ash & Rowan 2 - Knight Or Knave Page 25