Through a Dark Mist (36 page)

“He is behaving,” the Wolf said slowly.

“Good. I shall whisper a word or two in his ear anyway, to be sure he knows his business.”

Sparrow’s chatter had had its desired effect. The killing rage had not completely faded from the Wolf’s eyes, but at least it was now being channeled in a healthier direction. He thrust aside the flap of the tent once again and fixed his gaze on the Dragon of Bloodmoor Keep, his thoughts focused solely on their pending confrontation.

The bells on Sparrow’s collar tinkled as he moved forward and stalked a loose thong he had noticed on the Wolf’s hauberk.

“There are twenty matches scheduled for the afternoon,” he said, frowning as he checked the laces, buckles, and belts of the Black Wolf’s armour. “Three of the early ones are with some lout from Nottinghamshire—Guy de Gisbourne. He will be fighting in place of Sir Aubrey de Vere, who, as we well know, met with an unfortunate accident in the woods. Gisbourne is another dog who strives to lick Jack Lack’s backside with admirable energy. He is also skilled and dangerous in the saddle, but I am told he finds the act of thinking too strenuous and prefers not to do it too often. Mark him well anyway if there is trouble.”

“If
there is trouble?” The Wolf dropped the flap back in place. “I admire your gift for understatement.”

“Bah! You act as if you hold some doubt as to whether or not you can oust the Dragon from his lair.”

“A man without doubts is a fool and could find himself making mistakes.”

“Then let us hope the Dragon is as fine a fool as he has proven to be so far.”

Sparrow’s attempt to bluster his way through a smile faltered noticeably as the Wolf reached down and gripped his slender shoulders.

“She must be found, my little friend. Regardless of what happens here this afternoon, she must be found and removed from this place, for she would not survive a month in his keeping.”

Sparrow laid his hand overtop the Wolf’s. “We will save your lady, my lord, or we will all perish in the trying; you have my word on it. Let that be one less worry you take with you onto the field.” He paused and gave the matter an extra moment of debate before peering up through his long black lashes. “Does that mean we are bound to rescue Old Blister as well? Twould cause a man or two to balk at the notion, I warrant, for she’d be as sour being saved as sullied.”

The Wolf almost grinned. “Admit it: You have missed having her around to box your ears and order you about.”

“Bah! Poxy trull! I should have drowned her in the pool when I had the chance and saved us all a deal of aggravation.”

The Wolf smiled. “Aggravate yourself some more, Puck, and lend a hand with the rest of my armour. I would dress early and enjoy the show a while.”

26

The first pair of challengers were announced by the herald and called to horse. Sir Guy de Gisbourne, fighting on behalf of the host, appeared at one end of the lists, his rampager draped in blue and armoured almost as heavily as his rider. The knight wore De Gournay’s colours, a sky-blue gypon overtopping oiled chain mail and a breastplate of polished steel. His shoulders, arms, thighs, calves, and knees were armoured by protective steel plates as well, and he carried a kite-shaped shield emblazoned with his own family crest and colours. The helm he wore covered all but a narrow strip across the eyes, which would be subsequently protected when the slitted visor was lowered into place. A towering blue plume danced above the peak of the helm, matching the flamboyant plumes woven into his steed’s mane and tail.

Gisbourne’s opponent was a visiting knight who had issued the challenge in the hopes of settling a claim over a disputed parcel of land. Mixing business with entertainment was an acceptable way of resolving such matters. The winner would take clear title of the land; the loser would forfeit all future claims along with the customary surrender of his armour and weapons.

After their formal progress around the field, the challengers took up their positions at opposite ends of the list and waited for the signal from the dais. There was a flourish of trumpets while Prince John raised the ceremonial gold arrow above his head; his hand flashed downward and the destriers were spurred into action, charging down the narrow lane, converging at a point midway along the field in a clash of steel and rampaging horseflesh.

Gisbourne’s lance struck the challenger’s breastplate and unseated the valiant knight on the first pass.

A groan of disappointment rippled through the crowds of spectators at so ignoble a beginning to the afternoon’s activities. Wagers grudgingly changed hands and a fresh flurry of excitement began to rise as the defeated knight was helped from the field. The next pair of challengers survived two passes before a victor was declared, the third went the limit of three charges and had to be decided by the panel of impartial judges.

Gisbourne settled his second dispute as effortlessly as the first, and his opponent not only had to forfeit his gear and destrier in the loss, but broke both his legs in the tumble from the saddle. The eighth and ninth pair were unexceptional, prompting the crowd to hiss and jeer at their lack of nerve. Gisbourne took to the palisades for his third and final victory of the day, leaving the field with narry a scratch to armour or flesh.

By this time, the noise and frenzy was reaching a fevered pitch. A cheer swelled and burst as the Dragon de Gournay stood and bowed, his smile promising a good show as he took his leave of the dais. Scarcely an eye was not on his broad back as he made his way to the pavilion to prepare. Those same eyes, alerted by a pointed finger and a gasp of recognition, swept to the black silk tent that stood a little apart from the others. A huge, jet-black beast was being led toward the pavilion, his hooves prancing and pawing his impatience. Caparisoned all in black, it could have been the Devil’s rampager save for the startling contrast of the snow-white mane and tail. These were left unbraided and unfettered by bows and feathers, the hair brushed sleek and shiny so that on each toss of the tapered head, it lashed the air like white wind.

Men and women alike watched the remainder of the matches with one eye on the jousting fields and one eye on the far end of the enclosure. When the last pair clashed, tumbled from their saddles, and prolonged their battle on the ground with swords and mace, the spectators grew so incensed by the delay they pelted the combatants with orange peels, figs, and (from the commoners) clods of dung. Hastened into accidentally slitting the throat of his rival, the winning knight limped from the field and promptly broke his sword over the head of a bystander he considered too vocal during the fray.

Hardly anyone noticed this minor drama as a tense hush gripped the crowd. Pennants snapping in the breeze and the sound of a hammer reinforcing a broken length of the palisade were heard as clearly as if the arena were empty of human life. One by one, little murmurs broke the silence, fortified by anxious whispers and frantic wagering. A cheer went up from the crowded hillside as the flap of the black silk pavilion was lifted aside; a corresponding uproar rose from the bowers as red-faced squires cleared a path for the challenger.

At first glance, the Scourge of Mirebeau was well named and no less ominous in appearance than his fiery-eyed steed. Garbed head to toe in black, he drew gasps from all sectors, for even his armour had been tempered a gleaming ebony by some sorcerer’s hand. His breastplate, vambrace, and gorget had been hammered with breathtaking precision to mould around the massive musculature of chest and shoulders; his chausses seemed to bulge with the power in his thighs. The visor on his helm was already lowered, sparing the more faint-hearted beauties the necessity of swooning and possibly missing a moment of the excitement.

He was assisted into the saddle of his destrier by two nervous squires and a terrified groomsman. Not a morsel of food was chewed nor a mouthful of ale supped while the black knight took up his weapons: a steel lance twenty feet long and tapered to a deadly spearhead at one end, and a huge black bat-wing of a shield emblazoned with the snarling figurehead of a wolf wrought in gold.

On his command, the destrier paced forward, mane and tail streaming white against the uncompromising black. The fount of dark plumes on Mirebeau’s helm danced up and down with each prancing step as the ranks of the spectators melted back, their hands sweaty, their mouths lax with awe. He completed his progress around the field in total silence, breaking only once from a stately gait to pause before the dais and tip his lance in a mocking salute to the regent. Formalities observed, he then steered his horse back to the end of the palisades to await the appearance of his opponent.

A second murmur, like a swarm of bees passing over a meadow, buzzed through the crowd, surging into a rousing tribute as Lord Wardieu, Baron de Gournay stepped out of his tent into the bright wash of sunlight. The hearts of the women fluttered wildly within their breasts as he lifted a mailed gauntlet in salute. His armour shone like the purest silver, his raiment was blue enough to rival the colour of the skies. Bareheaded, his hair shone gold against the bronzed glory of his tanned complexion, and a swoon or two could not be avoided as he raised the hood of his mail
coif
and accepted the polished steel helm from his squire.

With a casual glance toward the waiting black knight, he mounted his destrier—an enormous beast, as white and fierce as the driven snow—and took his own weapons to hand. By the time he had completed his progress, the voices of those who had been the most raucous and scornful throughout the long afternoon were struck dumb.

En masse, the crowd leaned forward as the herald, dressed in a parti-coloured tunic and plumed cap, proclaimed the nature of this, the final contest of the day.

“In the king’s name,” he declared solemnly, “a test of skill between Lord Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, and Lord Lucien Wardieu, Baron de Gournay. The winner of this bout—”

“The winner of this bout,” shouted Prince John from the dais, “will be decided by God’s mercy. The fight will be to the death. The participants have waived the limit of three passes, as well as any and all restrictions pertaining to weaponry and tactics. Any foul is hereby declared fair; any rule may thus be broken.”

The guests, momentarily too stunned to react, glanced from one end of the list to the other. From his seat on the dais, Friar felt a disturbing prickle of apprehension chill his flesh. A quick glance around the borders of the field—surely the only pair of eyes not glued to the combatants—confirmed his earlier suspicion that all was not what it should be. There were far too many of De Gournay’s guards present, and now, acting on some unseen signal, they were pressing forward, forming a solid wall of steel and bullhide around the field. Here and there a familiar face, paled by indecision, looked to Friar for guidance, but he could only warn them against any rash action with a slight shake of his head.

“Further,” the regent continued in his most pompous manner, “it has also come to our attention that this is no mere challenge of valour and skill, but a pitting of one man’s honour against another. And since a knight’s name and honour are those things which he should value most above all else, it has been agreed by both parties that the winner shall take all: trophies of armour and gear, as well as lands, titles, and such wealth as both men have acquired through purchase or battle during their lifetimes. Before God and His witnesses, is it so agreed?”

A flurry of shocked gasps was marked by a general, swirling collapse of delicate figures in the Bower of Beauty.

“I will abide by God’s decision,” the Wolf said promptly.

“Or die by it,” the Dragon declared, and reached up to drop his slitted visor into place.

The herald, an astonished bystander to this point, looked from one end of the lists to the other as the two knights readied themselves for the final confrontation. He started to raise a hand to signal the trumpeters, but reconsidered the gesture as being too flamboyant. He opened his mouth to call the challengers to horse, but since they were already mounted and armed, he thrust his tongue to the side of his cheek and kept his silence. In the end, he slinked back into the lee of the dais and left it up to Prince John to loose the combatants.

The Dragon adjusted the weight and balance of the long, wickedly barbed steel lance he carried, and a keen eye among the spectators launched a fresh volley of wagering. The Dragon couched the twenty-foot shaft of deadly steel on his right side, directly in line with the approach of the opposing rider. The black knight, it was observed with a cry of amazement, favoured the left, making it necessary to angle the lance over the front of his saddle. A wrong step by his charger, a swerve or a veer at the last moment and the tip of the lance would stray wildly off the course.

The Wolf, seemingly unconcerned over the flurry of new speculation swelling in the bowers, affected a last-minute adjustment to the fit of his mail gauntlets. His armour, like the Dragon’s, consisted of many plates of steel linked together over a quilted leather surcoat. This, in turn, was worn over a full hauberk of chain mail, and in combination, was like carrying the additional weight of a slender man on his body. His shoulders were covered by metal spaudlers, his arms were sheathed in a jointed vambrace. Hammered and molded cuisses, poleyns, and greaves shielded his thighs, knees, and lower legs, but even though the armour would deflect most of the potential damage of a combatant’s blow, there was nothing but flesh and muscle to absorb the horrendous shock of impact. Massive bruising could cripple a man at shoulder, elbow, or knee even through the layers of link, hide, and steel, and if an opponent became aware of the weakness, he could strike again and again at the vulnerable point until his adversary fell.

Both knights waited, planned, calculated. Their chargers were still as statues, their armour and silk trappings glinting in the sunlight.

Prince John stood, the golden arrow raised above his head for all to see. With his black eyes narrowed against the glare of the lowering sun, and his face reflecting avaricious delight, he brought his arm arcing swiftly downward, giving the command for the two destriers to spring into action.

In a matter of a few heartbeats, the two beasts had thundered to the midway point of the lists, their riders leaning forward, intent upon the approaching threat. The unblunted tips of the two lances lifted at precisely the same moment and converged into a single line of unbroken steel for a split second before a tremendous crash and scream of metal sent the horses buckling and the riders staggering to maintain their balance.

The crowd held its breath, then released it in a long, low groan as men and horses separated and galloped to the end of the lists unscathed. Both tossed away broken or splintered lances and called for new ones. Wheeling their destriers around, they set themselves for a second pass, and this time it was the Dragon who reached the halfway marker first, his lance a notch higher and bolder in its objective to strike for the blackened visor.

The Wolf had to think and react quickly as he saw the flash of steel fill his limited field of sight. He raised his own lance at the last possible moment and hooked it to the inside edge of De Gournay’s, locking the two shafts together, and creating a fiery shower of sparks from the searing friction. The Dragon had no choice but to release his grip on the lance, or risk having his arm torn away at the shoulder.

Furious and cursing, he rode to the end of the list and screamed for a new weapon. He spurred his horse back into the cloud of hot dust boiling between the palisades, his rage launching him like a bolt of blue and silver thunder, back into the fray. His lance struck a solid blow to the Wolf’s shoulder, gouging through the links of his spaudler and ripping away a goodly chunk of leather and cotton padding from the surcoat below. On their next pass, he aimed for the same spot but missed by several inches, the barbed end of his lance careening wildly off the Wolf’s angled shield.