The Summer's King (19 page)

“Tell no one of this!” he ordered. “Send Nerriot to me.”

“He took a night's leave from the tower, my King,” said Britt, “to visit in the city. Dan Sharn, this letter is in an Eildon hand. Do you suppose the musician . . .?”

“No,” said Sharn Am Zor. “Not he. Not Aram Nerriot.”

Yet he knew, suddenly, that the smiling, gentle, pleasant musician was not his true friend, did not give two straws for the ancient line of the Daindru. Probably, he cared only for his music. Or was he loyal to that ungrateful girl, Merilla, and to Carel, the pair who had brought him out of Lien? The thought of his sister and brother, far away in the Chameln lands, aroused feelings of envy and unrest.
You will bring no bride out of Eildon
. Could he fail? Could he fail so quietly and pointlessly, whiling away the spring days in this beautiful, puzzling city where he had done nothing but ride out to practice archery? Yet he had seen Moinagh; she was no dream, she was beautiful . . .

“Britt, my friend,” said Sharn Am Zor, “we will all do our best! We will put on a brave show and gain what honor we can! I will speak to the men before we ride out. All is not lost!”

Upon this cry of hope, Tazlo Am Ahrosh hurried in, dressed in his riding costume from the northern tribes, booted to the thigh, with a blue cloak and a red bonnet.

“My King,” he cried, “we will do great things! We will show these Eildon men and these men of the Isles!

Hard on his heels came Gerr of Kerrick, Count Zerrah, ready for another great adventure. Sharn Am Zor felt his spirits rise at last. When he was put to rights in his own gold tunic and brown breeches—he wondered that he had ever hated Chameln dress, handsome and practical—there was one more duty. He went up to Denwick's chamber and found poor Zilly half dressed in his satins, seated upon the bed. Ruako, the army doctor, stood over him. Zilly was close to tears.

“Dan Sharn,” said the healer, “the Lord must not ride to the Tourney, even as a spectator. He has a fever . . .”

“By the Goddess,” said Zilly in a shaking voice, “I will do it. I have lain here for twelve days—it feels like twenty. Sharn, my King, is there a litter? May I not watch in the stands with the women?”

“Zilly,” said Sharn Am Zor, “it won't do. It is a damnable thing this brain shaking, but the captain knows what is best. Stay here till I come. Let the captain bring you down to my bower. We will bring home crowns of oak leaves.”

II

The city of Lindriss was shrouded again in that drifting magical mist that the Chameln party recognized from their arrival, but in the familiar green fields before the Hall of the Kings the sun was shining brightly. As they rode up, a great concourse of citizens cheered Shennazar and then, to a skirl of bagpipe music, cheered King Diarmut Mack Dahl, who had ridden another way. Far from being a stiff knightly contest, the Tourney of All Trees was a popular festival. Heralds and marshals stood about in the livery of the knightly orders, and a way was quickly made for the two kings. As they rode on slowly past the lists, the tilt-ground, the race course, all decorated with green boughs and garlands, Sharn heard the marshals sorting the folk into “order of estate.” He and Diarmut were presently dismounted, and so they walked forward alone, two kings, towards the pillared porch of the Hall of the Kings, and behind them were the Princes, Borss Paldo, Beren Pendark, Gwalchai Tramarn and the Princess Gaveril Tramarn, in riding dress, and the Margrave of March, an aged lord from the west, together with his lady, and the two dukes of the southern cantreyn, Greddach and Wencaer. Then came the seven Eorls of Eildon, and lords, carrying branched staves, and the knights and their ladies, all blazoned with their own crests and those of the three orders. Then came all the people of Lindriss and the countryside, still sorted by the marshals into order of estate, until they gave up and let a host of prentices, servants, tinkers, beggars mill about, climbing on each others' shoulders to see what went on before the hall.

The trumpets sounded a long fanfare, and there followed a silence broken at last by the sound of harp music. Along the grey pillared porch of the hall came a line of men in white robes, walking from the west and a line of women in white and blue, walking from the east. The druda and the priestesses, the dagdaren, all wore their years; some were old, very old, the men white-bearded, but others were still young, no older than Sharn himself. Sharn Am Zor, afraid of his own impatience, prayed that the ceremony would not last long. The strange music soothed him; he could hold out, he knew it, and Aidris would have been proud of him.

The ceremony closed with a mighty chorus in which all the men and women of Eildon gathered there in the meadows sang together with great power and sweetness. The druda and the priestesses were gone; the games began.

Down on the banks of the brook the prentices of Lindriss watched the oxen roasting or chased the greasy pig. Archery, horse races, sword play and tilting went on all at once. A kern or kedran might outshoot or outride a knight or nobleman; only the jousting was for knights alone. It was true that no prizes were given except for garlands of oak and willow, but more than honor could be gained. Bets were laid in coin or in kind upon every contest and rich gifts of meat, game, fruit or wine were lavished upon those who had brought the gamblers a winning. When Tazlo won his first horse race, he was cheered by a clutch of prentices and their sweethearts and presented with a fat goose.

As he debated whether or not to accept the humble gift—he was, after all, a king's champion—the escort sergeant who acted as his groom hissed, “Take it, for the Goddess, Count Ahrosh, we have trouble enough with fresh food in this place!”

It was clear that the tourney held certain dangers for anyone of high degree who deigned to take part. A prince or lord who stood forth with all comers had honor to lose while a contestant of humble estate had not. The notion of a king, even the outland king of Kemmelond, trounced at the shooting butts by some sharp-eyed kedran or hardy forester, was enough to shock the Eildon nobility. When Sharn Am Zor strolled over with his escort, he found the fool at his side in yellow and green motley with his midgets trotting at his heels.

“Oh Shennazar . . .” sang the fool very softly and sweetly,

“Unstring your bow, the wind blows cold,

Some country lad will hit the gold . . .”

“What do you mean?” asked the king.

“Does Shennazar really shoot so well?”

“Yes,” said Sharn Am Zor flatly.

He strode up to the place where Britt and the escort were holding his bows and called over his shoulder to the fool.

“Place yourself a wager, my lord fool, for the honor of our faraway home!”

The fool scowled and led his followers to a little mound where they could watch the king. Sharn Am Zor addressed himself to the targets, which were mounted upon hollow “trees” made of straw and daub that could be moved about by men inside their trunks.

So, hour after hour on that cloudless day in the meadow before the Hall of the Kings, he shot with tireless precision and grace. Foresters, kedran, country champions came and went; the targets went to their farthest distance; the short bow was used for “false hares” moved on wires and “woodcocks” ejected from the tops of the trees; still the king of the Chameln hardly wasted an arrow. He was at first a gold mine for those laying bets: a cartload of thank offerings grew beside the fool and the king's guard until the odds shortened.

Sharn Am Zor drank water and ate sparingly. Word was brought from the lists and the race track: Gerr of Zerrah held his own splendidly against a variety of opponents and Tazlo fared well in the short distances. Prince Gwalchai excelled in swordplay with the light blade, while the King of the Isles and one of his champions defeated all comers with the broadsword.

So the king went on, untroubled, smiling at last, free from care for a moment, as if he were practicing at the shooting butts in the garden of the Zor palace or flying his hawks on the side of the long valley. Few of the better folk came to watch him, but the commoners of Eildon saw and remembered his performance on that bright day and said simply: “He shoots like a king.” In after years there was a common adage “to shoot like Shennazar” meaning “to hit the mark.”

About the fourth hour of afternoon the garlands were given, to the king and to the two bowmen who had lasted longest against him, an old forester and a young esquire from the Tramarn household. There came a trumpet call, and a marshal approached; the crowd began to whisper and rustle with excitement. Sir Mortrice of Malm came up, dismounted and came with the marshal to the king.

“Majesty,” said the knight, “you have won much honor!”

“I have had a good day,” said Sharn Am Zor, “and so have these fine fellows.”

“There is a custom to be followed,” said Sir Mortrice. “The Grand Champion will be decided by the use of Ravedd's bow.”

The marshal unwrapped a long silken package, and in it lay a black bow, shorter than a longbow and strongly curved above and below the grip, which was inlaid with gold and ivory. The old archer, the forester, stepped back shaking his head, and the esquire did the same.

“Sire,” said Britt to the king in a low voice. “I think there is some magic in the black bow.”

“So do I,” said Sharn Am Zor. “Tell me plainly Sir Mortrice, is there magic in this bow? Where does it come from?”

“Prince Ravedd Pendark brought it back long ago from an expedition to the Burnt Lands,” said Sir Mortrice, “and there
is
magic in it. The bow will not allow everyone to handle it. Yet it is the custom to shoot with this bow every year in the spring and to wish for good fortune for the land of Eildon.”

“These two archers have refused to shoot with Ravedd's bow,” said Captain-General Britt. “Should our king . . .”

“Pardon me, Captain,” said the marshal, “these men are not of high estate. It is a matter of honor.”

“I have been made an offer that I must not refuse,” said the king smiling. “Peace, Britt, I have no fear of the black bow. The blood of Pendark runs in my veins, too.”

He picked up the black bow, fitted the bow string and tightened it easily.

“I will use a Chameln arrow,” he said. “What distance, Marshal?”

The marshal had one of the target trees set on a mark in the middle distance. Sharn tested the bow a little and felt in it a strong resistance, a strength greater than its size, which yielded to him.

At last he took the arrow from his own quiver and said, “I wish all in Eildon good harvest and good hunting!”

Then he stepped up, took aim and with a singing note of the bowstring, the arrow flew straight to the mark. The crowd cheered, but for Sharn Am Zor time had stopped, and the noises round about were hushed except for one loud cry and the clash of metal. The moment passed; the marshal took back Ravedd's bow. Sharn forced himself to smile upon all those who cheered and wished him well. He left the archery ground wreathed in green garlands, Grand Champion of the Bow, and strode off across the meadow towards the tent of his escort with its Chameln banner, near the lists. He saw Tazlo, on foot, wearing garlands himself, running towards him with two guardsmen and knew their message before they uttered a word.

“My King,” gasped Tazlo, “Gerr of Zerrah is down. The knight Pellasur struck him down. They have brought him to the tent.”

Sharn quickened his pace, climbed a low hill to the tent, seeing anxious faces. His guards and some of the Eildon servants who worked in the lists scattered as he approached, making a pathway. Then he was inside the hot tent that reeked of crushed grass. Gerr lay on a trestle, his head supported by a folded saddlecloth. His face, tanned by the sun, now had an ugly greyish pallor; his eyes were closed. Captain Ruako was wrenching off portions of the knight's strip mail, hacking with a knife at his undertunic. A thick splinter of wood and metal from Sir Pellasur's lance had penetrated the left side of Gerr's chest, high up near the armpit. Now the healer took a firm hold, motioned to his assistants who held the fainting knight firmly to the table. He drew out the splinter, and blood followed it; Gerr gave a loud cry of pain and opened his eyes.

“My King . . .” he whispered.

“Praise to the Goddess that you still live, good Zerrah!” said Sharn.

“Ill . . . fortune . . .” said Gerr. “By Carach, Captain, that salve of yours smarts . . .”

“Do not speak, lord,” said the healer. “Give him a sip of water, no more.”

Sharn Am Zor came round the trestle, took the beaker from the ensign and held it to Gerr's lips. He thought of a high-vaulted old hall and a table covered with featherbeds. Aidris lay face down on them, pale as the linen, and Jalmar Raiz went to draw out the arrow. An old woman, one of the elders of Musna village, hustled him away down the hall, would not let him watch. He heard Aidris, the bravest person he knew besides his father, give a cry of pain.

Britt murmured in the king's ear.

“Sir Pellasur's esquire is without. The knight will know how Count Zerrah is doing.”

“Tell him he does well enough,” said the king.

He moved away and stood with Tazlo in a corner of the stuffy tent. They tried to smile, and Tazlo told him haltingly, then with more heart, of the races he had won. Captain Ruako turned aside now and came to the king.

“It is not life-threatening, sire,” he said. “Count Gerr will need some nursing.”

“Did you see the joust?” asked the king.

“It was an evil chance,” said Ruako. “Pellasur and Gerr were well matched. It was the last round but one. The knight's lance caught and splintered—luckily it was not on the Count's helm.”

Sharn Am Zor felt a furious irritation; the whole world was bent on crossing him in great things as in small. Life was no more than a series of discomforts, even though he was a king. He made no reply to the healer, but frowned and went out into the afternoon sunshine. There was a strange silence; he was afraid that some other champion had been cut down.