The Swans' War 1 - The One Kingdom (46 page)

MIDSUMMER'S DAY WAS HOT, WITH ONLY THE SMALLEST BREEZE TO flutter the banners flying over the tilt field. Sand swirled up like whirling spirits who careened around the yard and then , collapsed suddenly as though the spell that sustained them had broken.

The day's jousting was nearly done, Arden, Beld, and Toren defending the Renné honor at the tilt. Only one knight remained to stop their virtual sweep of the field; and he was an unknown, having appeared on the first day and won several mounts and suits of armor from those who opposed him. Dease had withdrawn after taking an errant lance strike to his knee, and he limped terribly about the field, watching. Without proper use of his leg he could not control his mount. The truth was, Arden did not care who won or lost that day, for all the joy had gone out of the tourney for him. His cousins had chosen to go ahead with their treachery, and Arden had been awake all that night, walking along the river-bank until he was far from Westbrook. The drifting moon had lit his way, pacing him along the river, casting its light down upon the surface in a silvered path. Arden had wished that he could walk out onto that path and up into the silent heavens. Anything to escape the infamy to which he had assented.

Dease and Samul were right—Toren would lead the family to ruin with his intractable belief in honor and his naive pursuit of peace. All well and good in stories of chivalry, but leaders in the real world could not afford to be so idealistic.

Yet Toren was also right. Once you surrendered your honor where would it lead? To treachery and murder, it seemed.

Treachery and murder.

The marshals were signaling the heralds to blow their horns and call the next riders forth. Arden was to ride against the upstart, and Toren against Beld. Arden might no longer care if he won or lost, but he was sure this was not the same between Beld and Toren. Both would be determined to unseat the other. Pure strength would be matched against skill, for Toren was the consummate horseman and could aim a lance, at speed, with a precision Arden had never seen before.

The horns sounded and he spurred his horse forward. Three passes they would ride. The marshals would tally the lances broken, unless one was unhorsed, which would end the contest. The rider at the far end of the tilt—the long barrier that divided the riders from each other and eliminated the possibility of collision—dipped his lance to Arden, who returned the salute. The marshal raised his flag, held it aloft. A bead of sweat ran down Arden's forehead and collected on the tip of his nose. Through the slits of his jousting helm he concentrated on the rider at the other end of the tilt, the marshal's flag just visible out of the corner of his eye. When the flag fell he spurred his horse forward, trying to bring all of his attention onto the rider bearing down on him, but his focus would not hold; and in a moment a lance splintered against his shield, throwing him back, while his own had glanced ineffectively off the other rider's shield. A cheer went up from the crowd. A mark would be recorded by the marshals for the upstart. Arden rode back, and found Toren waiting for him with a lance in his hand.” Take this," he said, passing the lance up to Arden.” That last was of little use." Toren stood a moment in silence, his burnished face aglow in the sun, ringed by a hood of mail. His surcoat of Renné blue rippled in the wind, the swans on his chest seeming to be reflected in moving water. How vital and alive he looks, Arden thought.” I don't know what is on your mind, Cousin," Toren said, "but this stranger is formidable. You will not best him with your thoughts elsewhere, that is certain. Whatever it is that distracts you, put it aside until the joust is complete. You can wool-gather all you want then." Then his serious face split in a grin.” And if you do not, I shall miss my chance to topple you once more before the season draws to a close." The heralds sounded their horns, and Arden returned to the tilt, trying not to smile. Toren usually knew what to say and do to pull Arden's attention back to the moment, but this day nothing mattered to Arden. He did not seem to care if he were injured or even if he were killed. In some ways it would be better if he were.

Yes, he thought as he stared at the knight opposite, spare me my infamy for what will be done.

The flag fell and Arden spurred his horse forward. He tried hard to concentrate his mind, if only to not disappoint Toren. The rider bearing down on him was moving at ferocious speed. Arden set his lance and at the last second stood up in his stirrups, thrusting forward.

A lance struck his shield, knocking Arden askew in his saddle, but he pulled himself upright and realized his own lance had shattered. A better effort, though he'd nearly lost his saddle.

Toren waited for him again, lance in hand, but a runner from the marshals interrupted them.

"The marshals send a reminder to drop your lance immediately upon its breaking, Lord Arden."Arden bowed his head.” Take them my apologies. I shall drop it the instant it shatters.""Do that, Arden," Toren said.” Don't forget what befell our uncle." He shook his head.” You've not held on to a shattered lance in three years." Toren tapped his temple.” I will knock you from your saddle in one pass, if you're still asleep when we meet."Arden returned to his place. His opponent's horse danced in place, impatient to begin. Arden seemed to notice the man at the far end of the tilt for the first time: large and strongly knit. His arms and armor looked well used, as though he'd been off fighting in some unknown war. And his horse was astonishing—perhaps the best horse in the tourney. For a brief second, greed kindled in Arden. How he'd like to win that beast!

The heralds sounded their horns and Arden tried to pull his focus back. At the other end of the tilt the knight leveled his lance to do Arden harm. What madness this is, he thought. Why do I engage in this brutal sport when I could be courting women and listening to minstrels and storytellers?

The flag dropped and Arden sent his mount forward. It was all he could do to aim his lance, the entire endeavor seemed so foolish suddenly. And then he seemed to hit a wall, and he was bent cruelly back, tumbling from his saddle. He hit the sand, gouging a furrow, and then rolled, the world spinning through the slits in his helm. When he came to rest he had sand in his eyes.

His first thought was not / have failed at Westbrook, but Thank all the spirits that it is over.

Dease sat in the stands, cursing the knight who had disabled him, the pain in his knee causing him to grit his teeth so ferociously that his jaw throbbed almost as fiercely as his leg. Samul took a seat beside him. Dease acknowledged his cousin with a grimace.” I do not think you will be dancing this evening," Samul said.” Will you have to withdraw from your obligations?" He gazed fixedly at his cousin as he asked this.” I can hobble as fast as Beld can run. Do not be concerned." Samul nodded.” I have just spoken with Beld." "How fortunate you are." "He is concerned about Arden." "He is concerned about no one, Cousin, and you know it." "He thinks Arden has lost his nerve," Samul said, gesturing to the tilt field.” I have not seen him joust so poorly since he was a boy." "Beldor is suspicious of everyone. What do you propose be done?" "I don't know. There is no way of releasing Arden from his... responsibilities." "That is true." Dease pitched his voice low.” He is racked by guilt and misgivings—as am I. Do you doubt me as well?" Dease turned to his cousin, not meaning this to be a challenge.

"I do not doubt you, Dease," Samul said softly.

"Then we should not doubt Arden. He is the most honorable of us. Treachery does not come as easily to him as it does to some.""Speak quietly, Dease," Samul cautioned.

"It is my leg, Samul. It makes me short-tempered." He took a few breaths to calm himself.” Arden is unhurt?""Bruised ribs and pride, though I don't think he much cared."Dease considered a moment.” Perhaps you should keep Arden under your watchful eye the rest of this day and this evening.""I thought you trusted him?"

"Yes, but I trust him because he is honorable."Samul was silent a moment.” Here is Beldor," he said finally.

And indeed, their cousin had taken the field. And at the opposite end of the tilt, Toren sat very erect on his horse.

"He is proud, isn't he?" Dease said.

"He is enraged," Samul answered.” And you know how Toren gets when he is so. Beldor is blinded by his hatred of Toren. But Toren's anger only concentrates his mind. He is more deadly now than ever. Beldor thinks his rage will give him strength, but it will not matter—not this day."The heralds sounded their horns, and lances were lowered. Dease closed his eyes a second as pain gripped his knee in its jaws. When he opened his eyes Toren and Beldor were hurtling toward each other.

In his rage Beld had urged his horse to speed, and, never a proficient horseman, he bounced about in the saddle like a sack of turnips. Toren, on the other hand, sat with grace, his gray making a speed equal to Beld's. Plumes fluttered in helms. Sand flew from hooves. And then there was the shock of their collision. Beld was thrown back, grasping for his pommel, his own lance bouncing harmlessly on the ground.

Toren had broken a lance, which the marshals duly recorded.” Toren toys with him," Samul said.” Did you see him knock Beld's lance aside with his own, and still he shattered a lance upon Beld's shield? Could you manage that at such speed?" Dease shook his head. He would have said that no one could. On the second pass Toren lifted his shield at the last second and batted Beld's lance tip aside, while cleanly breaking a second lance. This display brought a great cheer from the crowd, for Toren was their favorite and Beld was disliked, as was his lot everywhere. Dease and Samul glanced at each other.” Beld should never have called him coward," Dease whispered as the cheering died away and the knights rode back to their places again. Toren must have said something to Beld as they passed, for Beld shook his fist at him and shouted a curse that could be heard to the top of the stands. Again Dease and Samul shared a glance. Who would be thought most likely to hate Toren after today's encounter? The third pass was signaled and the horses sprinted along their respective sides of the tilt fence. It seemed to Dease that, despite the speed of the horses, they took an unusually long time to meet. And when they did Beld was hurled violently from his saddle, turning completely in the air so that he landed upon his face, where he lay very still. All the crowd stood and, after the initial cheer, were silent, watching the equerries run out onto the field. They bent over Beld, who still had not moved, only the breeze rippling his surcoat. But then the big man moved his arm and raised himself shakily to hands and knees. His squires removed his helm and he sat back on his haunches, hands to his head. With assistance he stood and made his way off the field, as Toren rode before the Renné box to receive the favor of his own mother.

Samul turned to Dease and raised his eyebrows.” Perhaps Beld will be unfit for further activity this day," he said.

"I rather doubt Beld will miss what is to come. He has dreamt of it his entire life." Dease rose from his seat suddenly.

"Will you come to the ball?" Samul asked.

"Yes. Nothing must appear amiss. But I have two costumes: the messenger of death and an ass. Which shall I wear this night?""Come as a man who would sacrifice even his honor to preserve his family.""Now, that would be a masquerade, indeed," Dease said, and left Samul standing among the crowd that was cheering their cousin as a hero. Cheering him as though he were their own loved brother.

Tarn and the others had ventured forth from hiding, lured by the last day of the Westbrook Fair—and the final contest of mounted knights. Seeing the size of the crowd, Tarn wondered if they had not been too timid. How would this man Hafydd and his black-clad minions ever find them among such a sea of humanity? It would be like looking for one particular wave upon the open ocean.

At least they would have this story to tell: they would see the greatest tourneyer of their time, Toren Renné , ride against an upstart.

The four of them sat on a hill overlooking the tilt field, the stands, and the river beyond. The day was midsummer warm, though relieved by a soft breeze laden with the sweet scent of fresh-cut hay. Clouds bubbled and tumbled into the distance, chasing their shadows across wood and meadow. It was a glorious day for a fair, Tarn thought.

Fynnol suddenly pointed to the field.” Do we not know that horse?" he said.

The knights had taken the field for the final contest— Lord Toren Renn￡ against a man whose name no one had known but two days before.” Alaan's messenger!" Tam said.” What did he call himself?" "Pwyll," Cynddl said.” Certainly that is his horse. There can't be two such animals in all of Ayr." The stranger wore a round, flat-topped jousting helm that hid his face. There was nothing to mark him as Alaan's messenger but his magnificent horse. The muscles and shining copper coat showed where the trappings did not cover. But almost more than that it was his bearing and manner of going that marked him, for he was lively and alert as few horses were. Even Cloud, the great gray of Toren Renné , did not compare.” If they were jousting wide," Cynddl said, "without the tilt fence, I should say that Alaan's messenger could simply ride his opponents down—though, of course, it is not allowed." "Pwyll Stagshanks," a young man sitting near them said.” That's what they call him. He's come from some distant duchy and has triumphed over the best knights at Westbrook. Some are saying he will stand first at the end of the day." The heralds sounded their horns then, and the riders dipped their lances in salute. The stranger wore a surcoat of white trimmed with crimson, a shining black horse-tail on his helm. His saddle was plain, and his shield bore only a high-stepping charger upon a field of gold, and nothing more. Toren Renné wore the sky blue of the Renné , the double swan upon his shield. His saddle was trimmed in silver, and sweet-voiced bells jingled on his harness. A caparison of the same colors covered his famous gray, and his jousting helm was damasked with the gold figures of an eagle and a swan.” Let us wager," Fynnol said.” I will take the stranger over this coddled lord. What say you, Tam? The loser shall buy ale all around.""Then I have no choice but to take the Renné ," Tarn said.” But it's not the horse that levels the lance, so I'm happy."The flag dropped, and both riders spurred their horses forward, closing at a speed that took everyone by surprise. The sound of wood shattering could be heard all up the hillside, and when the marshals collected the lances from the ground it was found the stranger's had shattered well up its shaft, while the Renné 's had broken only at the tip. A mark upon the cheque for Alaan's messenger.