The Last Arrow RH3 (37 page)

In short time, the two challengers signaled the judges they were ready. Visors were dropped and gauntlets adjusted to insure a firm grip on the hilt of the lance. Squires handed up shields and reins were gathered tight. There was a flourish of trumpets as the marshal raised the small linen couvre-chef and glanced one last time at each champion before dropping it.

Dag's charger was first off the mark, its powerful hooves carving up the soft turf, raising great clods of dirt and hurling it back as he quickly built to full speed. From the opposite end of the list, Roald of Anjou bolted forward, the point of his lance stretched out across his steed's neck, his massive bulk leaning into the wind to seek the perfect balance.

It was a sight to inspire awe in every breast, regardless of the combatants, for horse and rider moved as one, straining forward with silks and tassels flowing, lances aimed straight and true, bodies moving to the rhythm of power and fury and steel-edged nerve. The ranks shuddered on both sides of the field as the two mighty beasts converged. The tips of the lances passed, the shafts seemed a moment to stream together as one, then the clash, the screech of metal on metal, the flying sparks and screams of the horses as the impact staggered both and sent them rearing up on hind legs.

Dag had missed his mark and, as the two horses churned apart, Brenna could hear Richard bemoaning a lost opportunity and Sparrow cursing all fools to perdition. The two challengers rode to the end of the tilt and wheeled their horses around, waiting until each was set before they launched themselves down the course again, back-and-gold rushing at breakneck speed toward the streaking blur of vermilion. It was a matter of seconds only until they met at the halfway mark, and this time Dag's lance struck squarely on Roald's left shoulder, wrenching him back with such force the stem of the lance split and shattered. Despite the heightened and reinforced troussequin on his saddle, the bulbous lord from Anjou found himself reeling sideways off the leather. His horse spun, further upsetting his balance, and the weight of his upper body armor did the rest, dragging him out of the saddle, spilling him on the ground in a cloud of dust and thrashing hooves. There he stayed, his arms and legs flailing like an overturned bug, and there he remained until the attendants raced out and helped hoist him to his feet.

There was laughter in the crowds and much snapping of fingers as Dag's charger pranced back to his end of the enclosure. It was a clean win and almost anticlimactic to see all the flags in the judges' hands go up to confirm the victory. Roald, in a fury over the humiliation, struck one of the attendants across the face and pushed another to the ground in his haste to clear the field.

"I never doubted it for a moment." Richard chuckled. "I should have tried for five hundred!" Geoffrey laughed in agreement.

Brenna turned to respond but was caught by the sudden deep hush that had fallen over the crowd. It was so quiet, where there should have been applause and cheering, she could hear the rustle of the silk pennons stirring overhead in the breeze. Searching for the cause, she had only to look at the sea of faces around her and to follow their rapt gazes to where the second of two new contestants were entering the enclosure.

No one needed to ask who he was. Both the dark knight and his destrier were clad in green silks and black leathers, with shield, pennons, and gambeson blazoned with the gold falcon identifying him as the Prince of Darkness.

"So," Robin murmured. "We see the devil in the flesh at last."

"A great hulking bustard," Sparrow agreed in solemn tones.

Unlike Roald of Anjou, whose weight was centered around his girth, the dark knight's power was concentrated across his shoulders and chest, the latter aggrandized further by the bulk of armor and the fearsome gold falcon in full wingspread. He sat straight and tall in the saddle, looking neither to the left nor the right as he took to the field.

"Now," announced Bertrand Malagane in a voice loud enough for those in the back row of seats to overhear, "we shall begin to see some true fighting skills. You have heard, of course, that he has chosen not to restrict himself to three challenges, but has offered his shield to all comers? It should make for an interesting afternoon."

"Interesting and bloody," Richard muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"Who is he fighting first?" Robin asked, straining forward to see around an offending banner that temporarily blocked his view.

"Savaric de Mauleon," Geoffrey LaFer provided from his slightly higher vantage point in the row behind.

Robin nodded approvingly. He liked Savaric, had spent a good portion of the previous evening in the company of the spirited young champion from Gascon, and was generous with his praise for the other man's considerable talents.

"He is not afraid to meet a lance head-on and straps himself into his saddle to insure he does not leave it any too soon."

"He might want to reconsider the buckles this time," Richard said quietly. "Have you seen the other's lance?"

A similar awestruck observation was already beginning to ripple through the ranks of spectators, for the weapon was not blunted by the conventional coronal. Instead, the metal cap tapered to a single point, the only concession to civility being that the tip was squared.

"He is not come to play at games," Sparrow remarked.

Robin's face had hardened into a mask and he said nothing, but the more practical eye of Geoffrey LaFer noted other ominous refinements in the paladin's armor. "His mail, if mine eyes do not deceive me, is double-linked! And the helm is most unusual—I do not think I have seen its like before."

"Nor have I," remarked the Count of Saintonge, proving his hearing was excellent despite the surrounding buzz of conversations. "But I understand it is a style gaining favor in Germany and Flanders, for the plates are almost completely smooth, and the rounded top offers no seams or ornamentation to catch the point of a lance. What do you think of it, Lord Robert?"

"It looks practical," Robin admitted, his teeth clipping every word.

All eyes in the crowd were on the Prince of Darkness as he rode to the royal dais and tipped his lance in a salute to his host and Prince Louis. Up close, he made an even more formidable impression, for the visor had but one slit running left to right, and because he had already hooked it in place, there was only a slash of darkness where his eyes should be. The double linking of his armor made his arms look as if they were encased in solid sheets of steel, heavy enough to daunt all but the strongest of men, thick enough to deflect all but the mightiest of blows.

He seemed to wait until he was certain everyone in the bower had satisfied their curiosity, then turned and rode directly back to his recet, forgoing the customary progress around the rest of the field. It was a blatant discourtesy to the rest of the gathering, who began to hoot and hiss and shout their disapproval. By contrast, Savaric de Mauleon, who was good-looking and dashing and everyone's favorite, won rousing applause and cheers of enthusiasm from each bench as he circled the entire field. Nearly every maiden in the Bower of Beauty offered tokens without waiting to be asked, and by the time he had completed his progress, his lance fluttered with every color of the rainbow.

The two knights took their positions. The crowd stilled and waited for the judges, who were still debating furiously among themselves over the legality of the square-tipped lance. The marshal hastened over to the dais and expressed his concerns to the Count of Saintonge, who in turn gave his ruling that the lance was acceptable, but if Savaric de Mauleon chose to decline to fight, it would be perfectly understandable.

The crowd jeered again at the implied slur against their favorite's courage, and whether he would have liked to embrace the offer or not, honor forced Savaric to refuse it. The marshal returned to his seat and raised the couvre-chef ... and without further adieu, dropped it.

The two destriers broke evenly from the line, but the Prince of Darkness's steed was obviously superior in speed and sheer thundering fury. He ran with his head forward and his silks streaming, so swift to gain full gallop, he carried the contest into Savaric's half of the course and was on him before the knight had his lance fully raised and steadied.

The squared tip of the paladin's lance slammed directly into the flat of Savaric's shield and jerked him back with such force, the raised backing of his saddle snapped and sent buckles flying off in all directions. Savaric himself was lifted into the air and seemed to hang there, suspended at the end of his opponent's lance for several rampaging paces, finally falling in such a crump of dust and cracking metal, the crowd continued to hold its breath, to sit in stunned silence as if they could not believe their eyes.

"He made it look as if he was plucking a fly off a piece of meat," Richard murmured.

"A dead fly," Sparrow agreed. "Deader now than before, I warrant."

Robin was on his feet. Savaric had not yet moved so much as an arm or leg. The attendants ran out bearing a litter between them, and some of the gawping tension in the crowd was transferred to the almost casual manner in which the Prince of Darkness cantered to the end of the course and turned into the recet without looking back, as if he needed no judges or cheers to confirm the results.

It was a win. It was also the first serious injury of the tournament.

Robin's gaze remained fixed on the dark knight and the frown tightened across his brow as Malagane lifted his wine cup in a salute.

"Have you ever seen so straight a lance, so determined a course? God's blood, I dare swear we could declare him champion now and save a deal of broken bones and barber's fees."

The proclamation won a laugh from the Dauphin and several of the other guests.

"Who does he fight next?" Solange inquired, feigning a yawn.

"The Castilian, Pedro the Cruel," another provided helpfully.

"Unless, of course, he has injured himself since his boastings last night," said a familiar voice.

Robin's gaze was pulled away from the field and settled on the grinning face of Gerome de Saintonge. Sparrow, sensing trouble in the air, moved closer to Robin and curled his hand around the hilt of his eating knife.

"Sit you down," he hissed. "The man is offal. Dung Wormrot. He is a frog turd, not worthy of being scraped from your boot!"

There was a call for fresh wine to fill the Dauphin's cup, and Sparrow took advantage of the distraction to tug openly on Robin's tunic and literally haul him back down onto his seat.

On the field, meanwhile, another pair of combatants were beginning their progress, neither of them drawing more than a polite spattering of applause from the spectators. The entire crowd seemed poised on the edge of their seats, waiting in breathless anticipation for another chance to see the Prince of Darkness in action. He had not left the enclosure after his match, which signified another upcoming in short order. His squire was with him and a handler for the horse, but overall he looked confident, almost a little bored as he watched the pageantry.

Brenna could not have said who the challengers were, what colors they wore, how many passes they made or who emerged the victor. She shared Sparrow's uneasiness, especially when she looked around at one point and saw that Will had joined them on the dais, but instead of taking the empty seat she indicated, he shook his head and remained at the rear, staring hard at two men who were lounging against the barricades. Their faces were not familiar to

Brenna, but they obviously were to Will, for he stood as tense as a bloodhound, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

The crowd broke her concentration again as a general stir and swelling of noise indicated the interim match was over and the Castilian was entering the tilting grounds. His horse was caparisoned in gold and blue, a magnificent roan with thickly feathered fetlocks and a high, proud step. His armor was gilded and ornamented in the Spanish style, complete with a tall, sky-blue cluster of ostrich plumes in his helm. He had dark, intense eyes that glowered boldly through the raised window of his visor as he passed the dais, and when he stopped in front of the Bower of Beauty, he dipped his lance like an accusing finger toward his betrothed, a petite, ashen-faced girl of no more than fourteen years who could only stare in terror at the dark knight waiting at the far end of the field. She tried to tie a length of purple scarf to the end of her lover's lance, but her hand shook so badly, the silk slipped and drifted to the ground.

The crowd gasped and groaned, for it was a bad omen. The girl fainted into a crush of sympathetic arms, and it was just as well she remained unconscious during the next ten minutes, for her affianced fared no better than Savaric de Mauleon. The Prince of Darkness struck him hard and high on the first pass, the tip of his lance catching the Castilian

at the base of his helm, shattering his collarbone and nearly tipping his head from his shoulders.

A third challenger managed to remain astride for two passes, but only because his destrier veered at the last minute—which earned resounding jeers from the spectators and a subtle shift of favor toward the champion from the east. The shift became stronger with the next blare of trumpets, for Draco the Hun was well known for his under-handed tricks and fouls, and was rarely anyone's favorite. He gave the Prince his best challenge thus far, stretching the joust into three passes, but even then, there was a sense that he was only being toyed with, like a mouse being tossed around by a cat to prolong the pleasure and the play. And in the end, he went the way of the others, carried off the field on a litter dripping blood. By the time it was Ivo the Crippler's turn to enter the tilt, the crowd was on its feet, stamping and cheering for their awesome new champion.