Once In a Blue Moon (53 page)

Raven bowed. The King turned to the Seneschal.

“What . . . was I going to say? Yes. Shut down the Tourney. No more events, no more competitors. Send the people home. Who knows who else might be hiding in these crowds . . . I don’t want anyone in the Castle who doesn’t belong there.”

“Yes, Sire,” said the Seneschal. “But there is still the matter of the day’s champions, invited in for the celebration banquet. A matter of long and noble tradition. Am I to cancel that too?”

“No,” said Richard immediately. “Let them in. They have earned that honour.”

“As you wish,” said the King. “Though we haven’t had much luck with banquets recently.” He smiled at the Prince. “You did well, son. Very brave. I couldn’t be more proud of you.”

He took Richard’s hand and shook it firmly. There was a low murmur of approval from the watching crowd, who didn’t want to intrude on the moment. Catherine came forward, still surrounded by her guards. She went straight to Richard and held both his hands in hers, while the King nodded solemnly. And then the crowd just couldn’t stand it any longer; they exploded with joy, cheering and shouting and hammering their hands together till they ached.

•   •   •

A
nd so the champions of the Grand Tourney attended the banquet in their honour, set once more in the Great Hall. Only this time there were far fewer tables, and the much smaller group of people seemed almost intimidated by the huge space surrounding them. After everything that had happened, most of the people who would ordinarily have turned up to honour and laud the day’s champions, and bask in their reflected glory, had decided to stay at home. Prince Richard and Princess Catherine sat at the high table, without the King. His latest effort had exhausted him. The champions sat around two long tables, packed close together. They chattered loudly, complimenting one another and affecting not to notice that they had been abandoned by the very people they’d struggled so hard to entertain. There should have been toasts, and celebrations all round, compliments and laughter . . . but since there weren’t, they all just talked that little bit more loudly.

No one spoke about the assassination attempt. But a lot of people glanced at the Prince and Princess when they thought no one was looking. No one actually said anything, but many of the champions thought their thunder had been stolen.

Hawk and his family had commandeered one end of one table for themselves, with Chappie curled up underneath. He wasn’t officially invited, but he wasn’t the sort of dog you could keep out. Everyone was impressed, and more than a little surprised, at how Jack had brought the Prince back from the very edge of death. He smiled and nodded for a while, and then gave them all a hard stare.

“God works through me in whatever I do. Whether it’s protecting the innocent, or punishing the guilty. Beating up Forest brigands, or laying on hands. I don’t get to take the credit.”

“Are you holy?” Mercy said bluntly.

“Not . . . as such,” Jack said carefully. “Even when I was still the Walking Man, I don’t think you could have called me that. I always saw myself as just a man, doing a job. Because somebody had to.”

“Have you always been able to heal people?” said Raven.

“Yes,” said Jack. “Just wasn’t much call for it, usually, in my line of work. Another good reason why I gave up being the Walking Man.”

“Seems to me it hasn’t given up on you,” said Hawk. “You still have all the powers that go with the title.”

Jack stirred uneasily in his chair. “I am a monk now. A man of peace. I will not kill again.”

“How did it feel when you saved the Prince’s life?” said Gillian.

Jack smiled properly for the first time. “Like I was finally doing what I was meant to do.”

“I can’t believe they tried to kill the Princess so openly,” said Fisher. “Somebody really wants a war.”

“I want some of those meatballs,” growled Chappie from down by her feet. “If you’re not going to finish those, pass them down.”

At the head table, Prince Richard and Princess Catherine sat side by side, ignoring the food in front of them in favour of staring into each other’s eyes and smiling big, silly smiles. The more than usually heavy security presence stood well back, to give the Royal couple as much privacy as they could. Even though it was clear to all the guards that they could have been standing there stark naked except for their swords, and the Prince and Princess wouldn’t have noticed a thing.

“You didn’t even hesitate,” said Catherine. “Just threw yourself in front of me. Took the knife, for me. Took my death for me. No one ever did anything like that for me before.”

“Trust me,” Richard said dryly, “I didn’t plan it. Just . . . did what I had to.”

“You did the right thing without even thinking about it,” said Catherine. “That’s even better! That is the mark of a true hero.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that,” said Richard. “Heroes are supposed to rescue the Princess without nearly getting themselves killed in the process.” He paused, thinking. “I couldn’t let you die. Just couldn’t.”

“Because our marriage is so important to the Peace agreement?” said Catherine.

“No. Because you’re important, to me.”

“Really?”

“Much to my surprise, yes,” said Richard. “All those years looking for the love of my life . . . and it’s an arranged marriage that brings her to me.”

“Well,” said Catherine, squeezing his hand firmly, “this changes everything, doesn’t it?”

“It does, doesn’t it?” said Richard.

•   •   •

S
at together in a beer tent, back at the Tourney, because they hadn’t been invited to the banquet, were Richard’s friends, Peter and Clarence. The soldier and the minstrel-in-training. They sat glumly at a rough wooden trestle table covered in food stains and beer spills, drinking overpriced ale from carved wooden tankards, not so much because they wanted to as because there was nothing else to do. The tent was pretty much empty. A single barmaid, in a traditional outfit that didn’t suit her, was manning the bar on her own and looking pretty pissed off about it. An old married couple were drinking cheap wine in the far corner and glaring silently at each other. And a failed champion was lying facedown in his own spilt beer, snoring loudly. The Grand Tourney was over, the stalls had closed, and most people had gone home. The only ones left . . . were the people drowning their sorrows.

Peter and Clarence had been drinking for quite a while. Peter was brooding, and Clarence was flushed, but otherwise no one could have told the difference. Peter had tried his luck in the sword-fighting contests and did quite well until he found himself facing a Bladesmaster from the Sorting Houses. Clarence had walked back and forth through the Tourney, watching all the fights, looking for material. And had been delighted to be right there at the front when Sir Kay was unhorsed and unmasked by the Sombre Warrior. He rushed off to bash out a first version of a new song while the events were still fresh in his mind . . . and as a result completely missed out on the knife-throwing assassin. He was still sulking. He just knew he was never going to live that down.

“It’s not really sword-fighting, in the circles,” said Peter. “The borders, that was real fighting. Not prancing about until someone gets a scratch and shouts
First blood
. Win or die! That was what it was all about on the border. I was a soldier! Fighting for my country. Not just showing off.”

“Everyone thinks they’re heroes, just because they can show off in a circle,” said Clarence. “The girls here won’t even look at you unless you’ve got more muscles than brains. Like to see one of those muscle-bound morons describe a battle in perfect iambic pentameter.”

“He’s not coming,” said Peter.

“What?” said Clarence, peering at him owlishly over his tankard.

“Richard!” said Peter. “He said he’d meet us here, in the beer tent. After the Tourney was over, and he wasn’t needed anymore. Said we’d have some good times together. But he isn’t here. No way he’s coming now.”

“Be fair,” said Clarence. “By all accounts, he came bloody close to dying.”

“That’s not it,” Peter said darkly. “It’s her. The Princess. He’s with her, now.”

“Well, yes,” said Clarence. “He’s marrying her tomorrow. I’ve got a stag night set up for tonight, and everything.”

“You really think he’s going to attend your stupid little party?” said Peter, slamming his tankard down hard on the table. “No . . . I saw this coming. He’s moved on! Left us behind. We . . . are the embarrassing friends, the bad influence of his past. He can’t go riding off on adventures anymore, not once he’s married. Got to settle down. Become . . . responsible. Respectable. She’ll soon have him under her thumb.”

“But . . . it looks like it’s going to be a happy marriage, at least,” said Clarence. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Shouldn’t we be happy for him? For them?”

Peter scowled. He emptied his tankard and called for more ale. The barmaid slouched over and poured him a refill from her jug. She would have liked to tell him to keep the noise down, would have liked to have thrown the pair of them out, but they were friends of the Prince. So she couldn’t. Instead, she made a point of displaying a lot of cleavage as she bent over to fill the tankard, in the hope of a generous tip later on. Barmaiding didn’t pay much, so you had to make your money where you could. But the soldier didn’t even look at her, and the minstrel’s eyes were far away. So she gave the soldier short measure and went back to the bar.

“You’ll see,” said Peter, staring into his drink. “We’ll be left out of things from now on. Less and less invitations to join him, for . . . anything. Until he forgets about us completely. Taken up with all his new responsibilities, as a married man.”

“We’ve still got his stag night to finish organising,” Clarence said firmly. “And not much time left to do it in. I’ve been negotiating with several tavern sluts, of quite appalling reputation, to come along and warm things up. At really quite reasonable prices.”

Peter considered that for a moment. “How many tavern sluts?”

“Seven!”

“What? That’s not a party! Go for the full dozen!”

“You want them, you pay for them,” said Clarence.

Peter sniffed. “Bit short at the moment. Have to owe you.”

“Seven,” Clarence said firmly. “Two of them can dance, sort of, and one of them can do this amazing thing with her . . .”

“You really think the Prince is going to show up?” Peter said angrily. “After a second assassination attempt on the Princess? He won’t leave her side until they’re safely married.”

“But . . . it’s his stag!” said Clarence. “You can’t get married without a stag first! There’s a law . . .”

“Pretty sure there isn’t,” said Peter.

“I’m still going,” said Clarence determinedly. “You still going?”

“Of course I’m going! Wouldn’t miss a party with a dozen tavern sluts.”

“Seven.”

“Whatever.”

“I might be able to get a conjurer,” said Clarence. “Do you want a conjurer?”

“Not really, no.” Peter drank steadily from his tankard. “Always knew he’d move on. Leave us behind. Because he’s Royal . . . and we’re not. It’s the way of things. The Prince proves how responsible he is, by leaving his disreputable friends behind.”

“I’m not disreputable! I’m a minstrel!”

“I am!” Peter said loudly. “I’m disreputable, I am, and proud of it!”

And then they both sat glumly together for a while, considering the way of things.

“No more invitations to the Royal table,” Clarence said despondently. “What am I going to do now, for good food and company and red-hot gossip? What am I going to do, Peter?”

“Get out in the world more?” said Peter. “Meet some girls who don’t want paying?”

“Oh shut up.”

“How are you sleeping?” Peter said suddenly, not looking at him.

“All right,” said Clarence. “You?”

“Badly,” said Peter. “Really badly.”

“Me too,” said Clarence. “I can’t stand the dark anymore. I have to have a night-light in my room every night, like a child.”

“It’s the Darkwood,” said Peter. “Only in the bloody thing for a minute, but it put its mark on us. Only a minute, but we’re never going to be free of it. We should never have followed Richard into the Darkwood.”

“He went in,” said Clarence. “He was our friend. What else could we do?”

“Where will you go now?” said Peter. “What will you do? Will you and I ever meet again, after the stag? I mean, what did we ever have in common? Apart from Prince Richard?”

•   •   •

I
n a room that wasn’t on any of the official Castle maps, because it kept moving about for security reasons, the First Minister of the Forest Parliament, Peregrine de Woodville, was having a very tense meeting with the Leader of the Loyal Opposition, Henry Wallace, the Seneschal (as the King’s representative), and Laurence Garner, head of Forest Castle security. It was his room. One of the few seriously magical rooms left over from the days when the Castle was a magical place, bigger on the inside than it was on the outside.

Like most spies and security agents, Laurence Garner was nothing much to look at. Certainly not anybody you’d look at a second time. Average height and weight, with an unmemorable face and a soft, polite voice. Most people in the Castle had no idea of his true status and function; they thought he was just another guard. Garner liked it that way. Always ready with a quiet word and a meaningless smile, there to smooth things over and move things along. Someone you could rely on to sort things out without making a fuss. Garner was part of every important event, sitting tucked away in some quiet corner, keeping a watchful eye on everyone and everything. With a dozen armed guards under his personal command, ready to spring forward and do terrible things at his slightest nod. For now, the head of security sat quietly behind his desk, its top covered with overflowing piles of papers, waiting patiently for everyone to stop shouting at one another and quiet down so he could tell them what they needed to do.

“How the hell did that assassin get so close to the Princess?” demanded Peregrine. “Bad enough the Princess was almost poisoned at her own welcoming Banquet!”