The Queen's Consort (18 page)

             
A rousing cheer spread through the camp. The Queen's army was eager to get on the road.

             
“Will you call for our horses?” she asked.

             
Ansel sighed. Sometimes a woman's magic could be pretty annoying.

Eighteen

             
After the show Clairwyn put on at Hilltop, Ansel’s nerves needed a break. He hoped for an uneventful stay at Wayside, a crossroads town located at the border between the farmer’s fields and the rolling hills of the Highlanders. When Goddard showed up with heavy cavalry, Ansel was not inclined to be gracious.

Clairwyn,
of course, greeted Goddard with the grace of a true diplomat. While Ansel scowled and rolled his eyes, she applauded as the knights showed off their finery and paraded on their big war horses. “They’re very pretty,” he scoffed as Sayer and Goddard joined them on the parade grounds, “but do they have any skills? Organize a tournament.”

Now Clairwyn scowled.
Sayer and Goddard, predictably, lit up like little boys on their birthdays.

“What a great idea,” Goddard said.

Sayer, who was more attuned to his kinswoman, took a different tact. “It would be great for morale,” he said. “And, with a gathering such as this, you’re practically obliged to host tournament. Tradition demands it.”

“Tradition,” Goddard echoed.

“Really?” Clairwyn gestured in annoyance. “We are marching off to war. Do we have to fight each other?”

“Absolutely,” Ansel said, keeping his face straig
ht. “Like these yokels said, it is a tradition.”

“Well, I certainly cannot argue with that,” Clairwyn said sarcastically. She tapped her fingers thoughtfully, then faced the men. “We're going to make new traditions, gentlemen. This is not a get-rich-quick or become-impoverished-in-one-stroke deal. There will be stripping of armor from or taking the horse of the loser.”

              “She's taking all the fun out of it,” Goddard whispered to Ansel.

             
“I know,” Ansel mourned.

              Clairwyn gave them a stern look. “This is all for show. Fun and games. No casualties. No maiming. No settling of grievances. I need all my soldiers intact. Understood?”

             
“You do realize that this is a tournament?” Sayer said cheekily.

             
“You do realize I can have you drawn and quartered?”

             
Sayer bowed low with a sweeping flourish. “As ever, my Queen, your wish is my command. I live to please you. I would be proud to—”

             
“Get out.” Clairwyn rolled her eyes. “Just go away. And tell your men that I need all of them—with all of their limbs intact—to fight my war.”

             
Goddard and Sayer grumbled good-naturedly all the way back to the lists. “It's easier for you,” Goddard complained to Sayer. “Your circus ponies and acrobats with bows are less likely to get hurt than my knights.”

             
“Keep talking like that,” Sayer snorted, “and we'll see how porous your knights are.”

             
“Prince Ansel,” Goddard said, “you should prevail upon the Queen. She should let us take the losers' horses, at least.” He rubbed his hands together. “I really love that gray you ride. Where did you buy him?”

             
“I cannot prevail upon the Queen,” Ansel replied, ignoring the question, “when I agree with her. She's going to need every last man.”

             
Sayer quirked a brow at him. “Beaumont's army is impressive and well-trained,” he said, “but we Highlanders can use the mountains and terrain to defeat him.”

             
“Defeating him is a vain hope,” Ansel said dryly. “And, while your light cavalry is impressive, the squabbling among your tribes keeps you from unifying under one leader.”

             
Sayer bristled but didn't deny it.

             
“Perhaps the Queen will be able to unite them,” Goddard said flippantly.

             
“No one in the past thousand years has been able to unite them,” Ansel said. “It's a lot to ask of her. And, even if the Highlanders unite, Beaumont's army will still outnumber your fighting men about six-to-one.”

             
Sayer grinned. “We like those odds,” he said. “Gives you poor Courchevel bastards a fighting chance against our slash-and-dash.”

             
“Your slash-and-dash won't win any battles for you.”

             
“And that's where the big guys come in.” Goddard puffed out his chest. “I'll meet you on the open field, my prince.”

             
“Against me alone your army will fare well,” Ansel said dryly. “Against Beaumont's well-disciplined troops your 'big guys' will cry like little girls.”

             
Goddard scowled. “Why do you think that? What's different between your troops and ours?”

             
“It's how we're raised. Our boys live in the lists, not with their mommies. We are used to death. Your Queen doesn't want you to get a boo-boo.” Ansel swung his short knife and rattled Goddard's decorated codpiece. “And your men are courtiers first, warriors second.”

             
Goddard smoothed his ruffled codpiece feathers. “There are advantages to being a lover, not a fighter,” he said.

             
“Not on the battlefield.”

             
“The Queen has that legion of Urmain archers,” Sayer said. “They're pretty impressive. And a little scary. Won't even talk to me.”

             
“Can you blame them?” Goddard asked. “You ride a pony and live in a cave.”

             
“Ha ha. I'm going to use your feathers to fletch my arrows, fancy boy.”

             
Ansel shrugged. “One legion of great archers, well-positioned, will slow Beaumont's army. Perhaps they will cause enough casualties and delays to force him to turn back. But they can't defeat him.”

             
“Siege engines can take his castles,” Goddard argued.

             
Ansel snorted a laugh. “You will never get far enough into Courchevel to take any castles,” he said.

             
“Enough of this,” Goddard said dismissively. “We have months on the road to argue. Today we ride and fight and play and impress the ladies.”

             
“I like ladies,” Sayer agreed. He dug his elbow into Goddard's ribs. “And there's one lady that Ansel likes very much.”

             
“True. And she's a lady that we thought we had a chance with.”

             
Both men turned to scowl at him.

             
“Be a shame if something bad happened to the prince,” Sayer mused.

             
“Tragic,” Goddard agreed.

             
Ansel rolled his eyes.

             
“No one's supposed to get hurt in this tournament,” Sayer said. “But sometimes accidents happen.”

             
“They do.” Goddard made a sad face. “If the prince dies or is horribly mutilated, pony boy, I get his horse.”

             
“I'll take his armor,” Sayer declared, and the two shook hands.

             
“It's nice to see you getting along so well,” Tristam said, coming up behind them.

             
“A common enemy will do that, Captain,” Goddard replied. “I'm glad to see you on your feet. Heard you had a bad time of it back in Haverton.”

             
“Thank you, Your Grace. But don't worry. You're way down on the list of candidates for the Guard.”

             
“I was hoping I was too old,” Goddard said.

             
“You're on the high side. But I supervised your training myself, remember. It would only take an intensive six-month course to make you fit enough to be a Guard.”

             
“Six months?” Goddard blinked.

             
“Give or take a year or so. Your Grace.”

             
Sayer laughed quietly, then blanched as Tristam turned to him. “I'd best go, um, get ready, get my men ready,” he stuttered, and bolted off.

             
Goddard left with a little more dignity but the same haste.

             
Tristam turned to Ansel. “Roger is waiting for you, my prince. I let him use the Guard smith to repair your armor.”

             
“Thank you.”

             
Tristam snorted. They walked together toward the lists. The knights each had huge and colorful tents, and each flew their colors. Ansel keenly felt his own lack of equipage.

             
“Since you don't have your own tent here, my prince, you are to use the Guards',” Tristam said. He led Ansel to a green tent in the center of the grounds. A squire, young Jonas, held the reins of the big gray stallion, Renshaw.

             
Ansel patted the horse's neck. “I'm glad to see you, boy.”

             
“And you don't have a second, my prince,” Tristam continued. “Or your own knights-in-arms. So Hugh will be your second, and he's chosen other Guards to fight with you.”

             
“Truly? They will fight with me?” It wasn't all that long ago that the Guard had held him prisoner.

             
Tristam gave him a crooked smile. “Truly, my prince. They are glad for the chance to compete.”

             
Ansel surveyed the tent. A green-and-gold banner with a black raven waved from the center support. It was the Queen's banner.

             
Tristam nodded. “You're the Queen's champion,” he said, “and we're her Guard. We fight together.” Solemnly, he extended his hand.

             
With an effort Ansel schooled his features and shook the Captain's hand. “Does this mean you trust me?” he asked.

             
“No, my prince. It means I have to work with you.” Tristam clapped him on the shoulder and urged him toward the tent. “Let us prepare. We have to put on a good show for our Queen—or she might just replace us all.”

*****

              Ansel planted his banner, a green flag with the Queen’s raven, on a hill just south of Wayside. Across a wide, shallow field, Goddard carried a red banner, also bearing a black raven. It was her not-so-subtle reminder that they all fought for her.

             
One hundred knights, in two long lines of fifty, faced each other across the field. The thrill of battle sang through Ansel’s veins. Was there anything as glorious, as thrilling, as a good fight on a clear summer’s day?

             
Renshaw shifted eagerly, snapping at Hugh’s stallion. The horses were as eager for the fight as their riders. At the end of the field, safely above the fray, Clairwyn stood on a tall platform.

             
“Gentlemen,” she called, “find your mark.”

             
Grinning under his helm, Ansel accepted his shield and lance from Roger. The man-at-arms spoke anxiously, giving him last-minute advice and instructions. Ansel didn’t even hear him. The clash of remembered battles filled his mind with the shouts of men and the ring of arms.

             
He lifted his lance, settled his shield, and kneed Renshaw to a position directly across from Goddard’s chestnut. He pointed his lance at Goddard, who nodded in grim acknowledgement.

             
“Steady,” Clairwyn called. The knights paused, the gathered crowd sucked in a collective breath, and the wind sighed across the grass that separated the combatants.

             
“Charge!”

             
Renshaw grabbed the bit and leaped forward, ears pinned as he galloped toward the chestnut. Again, Ansel praised the horse’s unknown trainer. The warhorse was so exquisitely trained—and so eager to sink his teeth into the chestnut stallion—that Ansel just let the knotted reins fall over the pommel of his saddle. As the distance between him and Goddard closed, he braced his lance and set his shield.

             
Just like their first meeting, the chestnut shied away from Renshaw’s vicious teeth. Unlike their first meeting, Ansel was ready. His lance hit Goddard square on the chest while he deflected the other man’s attack.

             
He caught a glimpse of Goddard’s surprised face as the other man flew through the air before Renshaw carried him past the fight and up the opposite hill.

             
Ansel grabbed the reins and drew the horse in a tight circle, assessing the damage. On the other hill the red knights were regrouping, too.

             
Both sides formed up and charged again. Renshaw’s size, speed, and aggression gave Ansel a sizeable advantage, and he used it skillfully to unseat two more opponents. After four charges there were only ten men still on horseback.