The Pagan Night (15 page)

“There’s enough danger, all right, but if a knight of any real court saw this masquerade, I swear these two would be laughed out of any lists they might wish to join in the future.”

“Little chance of that. The Fen Gate hasn’t drawn much of a crowd, beyond the village.”

“Oh, would that it were true,” Grieg said, straightening his back and frowning. “We have company.”

Gwen gave him an odd look, then turned to see what he was staring at. A pair of riders had entered the clearing. The first was a priest dressed in the drab colors of Cinder. He was a handsome man, if a bit old to be on the road still, with light hair and strong features, all of them very typically Suhdrin. He wore the robes and staff of a frair of Cinder, though none of the icons of the god of winter. The priest sat low in his saddle, shoulders slumped, his arms crossed casually over the staff. He looked like a wolf, if wolves could ride horses.

Beside him rode a knight, wearing a shirt of mail that was covered by a green tabard emblazoned with a golden triple acorn and cross. The knight seemed very young, his tabard and sword freshly bestowed. His face was too sharp to be attractive, too delicate to be admirable. Behind them followed a mule, laden with heavy baggage and the tools of war.

The knight watched the mock joust, a thin smile on his face.

“What’s so unusual about a priest and a knight on the Allfire?” Gwen asked.

“I’m never happy to see an inquisitor in the Fen.”

“Well, he’s here, and we must make him welcome, Cinder or Strife,” Gwen answered. She slid from her seat. “But it’s not the priest who worries me. His fellow wears the acorns of Greenhall. Can’t imagine what a knight of Halverdt’s stable is doing in the Fen.”

“Another pass, if you would, gentlemen!” the knight called out, just as Gwen and her brother approached. “Those are fine lances you carry, that they could stand such a furious charge without breaking.”

Sir Merret ignored him, but Sir Dobbs clattered to a halt and raised his visor. His fat face was red, and his thick beard stuck out around his cheeks like fire.

“We only demonstrate, sir,” he said. “There is no need for mockery.”

“Crockery, you say? Yes, please, demonstrate some crockery! You seem fit for a potter’s apprentice, though perhaps a bit too fat!”

“Good sirs,” Grieg called. “Welcome to the Fen Gate. I greet you in the name of Colm Adair, baron of the—”

“Save the pleasantries, boy.” The knight didn’t spare Grieg a glance, but looked contemptuously around the meager fair grounds. In the distance, a small choir of drunken villagers broke out into a bawdy song, but around the visiting knight, the festival had grown quiet. “There must be more, mustn’t there? Or did the pious Colm Adair travel to Heartsbridge, to bow his pagan head before the celestriarch?”

The priest at his side put a hand on the knight’s shoulder, speaking in calm, quiet tones.

“Good sir, there is no need to antagonize these people. We hope to be their guests, after all.”

“Shut up, priest,” the knight said. He spurred his horse away from his companion, then the knight’s eyes fell on Gwen, and his already wicked grin got sharper. “What is this? What lovely rose perches at the edge of this offal? By your colors, I mark you as an Adair, no? The daughter of our brave baron?”

Gwen stood still, her head swimming with the wine and a sudden anger that rolled up out of her gut to grip her heart. The knight trotted closer, leaning forward to look her in the face.

“Are you struck dumb, or born that way?” he said. “A perfect girl, I think, silent and yet beautiful. A perfect girl for certain things, at least. Does your mouth open, at least?”

Gwen couldn’t help herself. She rolled her head back and let out a long and hearty laugh. When she looked back down, the young knight was turning every shade of red his face could muster.

“Oh, gods, what a charming and brave fellow you are,” she said sharply. “Is it the custom of knights in Halverdt’s service to ride far and wide, to offend the ladies that they meet and insult the good servants of the gods?” She leaned forward, squinting at him. “Or are you simple?”

“Do not think a sharp tongue will keep you safe, child,” the knight hissed. “I’ve beaten prettier girls than you.”

“With every word you add greatly to your honor, and to the glory of your name,” Gwen countered. “Perhaps I shall give you a title, to commemorate your many victories against the whores of your land. Why, we could even have a ballad written in your honor! What is your name, brave knight?”

“I will not stand here and be insulted by a girlish whelp!” the man said.

“Sir Standhere, yes, a fine name. Sir Standhere the Whore’s Scourge. I like the sound of it. Now, how shall your ballad go?” Gwen cleared her throat and made a face to appear as if she was thinking deeply. “Sir Standhere was a mighty man, a wicked man, a childish man. Sir Standhere fought the ladies true, he beat them blue…”

The crowd that was gathering gave a polite and nervous laugh, until a smart bard behind the huntress took up the song on his lute and started adding his own verses. Soon the crowd was singing along, coming up with rhymes for “limp” and “bollocks,” to a point that had Gwendolyn blushing. As the song rolled on, the priest dismounted and came to stand beside her and her brother, looking out over the crowd.

“I swear to the gods, I have never been treated this way by a child,” the knight said, drawing steel. “You will learn the error of your—”

“Knave!” Sir Merret said, loud and plain. He had ridden to the edge of the tourney yard, and sat with his lance couched at his foot, his visor up. “That child is huntress of this clan, and the true heir of Lord Adair. Leave her alone, before she gelds you in truth rather than just in verse.”

The knight raised his brow and turned to face Sir Merret.

“Whom do I address?” he asked.

“I am Sir Alliet Merret, knight-marshal of Lord Adair, and sworn to the lady’s service.” He tipped his head. “And you?”

The knight was silent for a moment, sawing his horse back and forth between Merret and Gwen. The fury had faded from his lips, but not his eyes.

“Sir Yves Maison. Knighted of Halverdt, and sworn to the holy celestes in Heartsbridge.” The knight tilted his head, appraising Sir Merret as he would a prize calf. “There are Merrets sworn to Roard, I think, far to the south. A fine line of Suhdrin knights going back to the first crusade, brave men of proud blood. Are you of that noble line?”

“I have the honor,” Sir Merret answered.

“And how did such honest Suhdrin blood come to be subject to filthy Tenerrans? What sin did you commit, to be banished to the pagan north, good Sir Merret?” Maison leaned back in his saddle, resting his gauntlets on the pommel of his saddle. “Or could you simply not cut it among the true knights of Suhdrin name?”

“I will not rise to your childish barbs, Sir Maison. If you wish to partake of the baron’s hospitality, I would suggest you blunt your tongue, before I am forced to dull my blade with your blood.”

“The pagan’s dog has a bark! I have not come to partake in the hospitality of some mud-hut noble, if it can be called hospitality, and if you can call such as this—” he swung a hand at Gwen “—nobility.”

“Colm Adair is the celestially appointed baron of the Fen Gate, and his blood has held this honor for generations,” Sir Merret said tensely. “Longer than your name has spoiled the pages of the peerage, I assure you.”

“I will not take lessons in nobility from a pagan’s pet Suhdrin,” Maison spat. “Better that you change your name to reflect your station, jester-jouster. I think MaeMerret suits you better, don’t you agree?”

“You have twice named Lord Adair pagan, and that is twice more than I will allow. The baron prays in the doma, serves the gods of heaven, and is a more faithful, noble and holy man than you will ever know. If you won’t take lessons in nobility, perhaps you will take a lesson in steel?” Merret slid his hand to the hilt of his blade. “I have instruction here, if you are interested.”

“Gentlemen, please,” the priest said quietly, speaking with little urgency. “This is a festival day, and we are guests in Adair’s realm. Let’s not ruin the joy of the day with petty fights.”

“It is the festival of Lady Strife, priest,” Maison said sharply. “I can think of no better day to ruin with blood.”

“Yes, well. I had to pretend to try, didn’t I?” the priest said, giving Gwen a fatherly smile.

“Nor can I,” Merret answered Maison, ignoring the priest. “If you are brave enough to insult a child, perhaps you can muster the steel to face me, as well? Or do they not teach bravery at Greenhall, these days?”

Sir Maison sat, his chest heaving, his fine face shading from red to black and back again before he answered.

“I have no second,” he muttered.

“I will serve that function,” Sir Dobbs answered.

“As if I would trust a Tenerran savage to tie my boots, much less my armor.”

“Then your trust must fall to me,” the priest answered. “Unless you doubt the faith of the holy church?”

Maison stared at the frair for several breaths, then nodded. The crowd grew, a muttering wonderment rising into the air as the fight began to form up. The strange knight rode to the far end of the field, drawing his mule with him. The priest sighed and turned to Gwen.

“I apologize for this,” he said. “His business is not mine, nor his manner.”

“Why do you ride with such a man, if you don’t mean to support him?” Gwen asked the priest. He shrugged, an elaborate gesture that involved his shoulders, his face, and most of his chest.

“We met on the road from Greenhall, and were going in the same direction. The way was safer with me along, so I offered to accompany young Maison as far as your tourney ground. He is beyond my protection now.”

“Don’t you mean your way was safer with him along? Sure it is the duty of knights to protect the blood-sworn of Cinder?” Gwen asked.

The priest chuckled, gesturing to the blushing knight. “Do you feel safer with him around?”

“Should I instruct Sir Merret to go easy on him? We don’t want an incident.”

“This man needs humbling,” the priest answered. He gave Gwen an appraising look. “You are the huntress here?”

“I am.”

“Then my business is with you, once this nonsense is finished. You and your father. Speaking of whom, you should go find the baron and tell him what is happening. Then hide yourself away. This will go sour before it goes sweet.”

“I am as safe here as hidden away,” Gwen said.

“Perhaps, but I am trying to protect young Maison. Please.”

The priest gave Gwen the barest push. Clenching her jaw at being sent on an errand like a servant, she hesitated. She would rather stay and watch the bastard get beaten into a pulp, but was deeply uncomfortable with the knight’s constant accusations against her father. Someday, someone would ride into the Fen Gate and make that accusation with proof behind it.

Turning, she ran to find her father.

* * *

By the time she returned with the baron in tow, the two knights were facing off. The crowd was silent and tense, wondering what would come of this joust. There was a taste of great violence in the air, much worse than most tournaments Gwen had attended. She imagined this must be what a battle felt like, in the moments before the charge. Despite her trepidation, there was a thrill to it that made her heart sing.

She reached the front of the crowd just as the mysterious priest dropped the flag and the two knights charged. Merret, a veteran of the lists, surged smoothly forward, dropping his lance to meet Maison’s shield. Both lances burst in the center of the lists, and a shower of splinters filled the air. When the horses had thundered past, Maison was on the ground, rolling groggily to his feet, and Merret was at the far end of the lists.

The crowd roared.

“I will save you the trouble of your duties, good priest,” Sir Merret announced. “I forfeit the right of second pass. On your feet, Maison.”

“I need no coward’s shield to guard me, fool!” Maison roared. “Bring your steel, and we’ll see who is better with the blade.”

“We have settled that, or did you fall so hard you forgot having ridden? Shall we try again? I’m sure I could find a child to lower a lance for you, if you prefer.”

“Enough of this!” Colm Adair shouted. He stepped into the open ground of the lists, the fine silk of his robes muddied at the hem. The false steel of his ornamental armor flashed in the light of the morning sun. He carried a sword, the bright blade bare and sharp. He turned to face the fallen knight, and then Sir Merret, and finally his daughter. “No blood will be spilled on this ground!”

“Aye, my lord,” Merret said tensely. “I beg your pardon.”

“Given,” Adair said. “And you, sir knight?” Colm asked, facing Sir Maison. “Will you seek pardon? Or do you have offense left to give?”

Maison stood quietly, his sword loose in his hand. He glanced around at the swelling crowd, the handful of knights who had gathered by their lord, and finally to Sir Merret, still in his saddle.

He shrugged. “I beg your pardon, my lord. The passion of the festival… I had the fire of Strife in my blood.”

“Strife’s pardon is not mine to give,” Colm said, “but you are welcome to this festival, and to my house. Will you accept our hospitality?”

Maison paused again, then walked to his horse and, without assistance, mounted. He sheathed his blade and trotted to where his pack mule waited. The knight rode back into the woods without looking back.

“That went about as well as I could have hoped,” the priest muttered at the baron’s side. Colm Adair turned to the man.

“I hope you at least will accept our hospitality, Frair…”

“Frair Gillem Lucas, most recently of Cinderfell, though I have not passed through that blessed gate in many years.”

“A traveler, then?” Grieg asked.

“Of a sort,” he answered. “I am sorry for the trouble I’ve brought to your celebration.”

“Not to worry,” Gwen said. “Brave Sir Maison seems to have been taken care of.”

“Oh, not that trouble, my lady.” Lucas squinted up at the castle. “I’m afraid that I have tracked something quite dangerous to your lands. A gheist, making its way from Gardengerry and through Halverdt’s territory. I believe it crossed into your lands last night.”