Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy (8 page)

The hastiludes of the second day of the clansmeet should have been a welcome relief after the morose atmosphere of the nobles’ meet the day prior, but to Bronwen they equated to yet another exercise in patience and royal decorum. Though she had been sitting in the royal box beside her father since early morning, visitors continued to pour in through the gates. She wondered whether the procession would ever end.

To the sound of a cheering crowd, armsmen, knights, serfs, and sellswords all marched proudly onto the field, when on this day even a merchant with enough skill could rise up the ranks to greatness and glory. Behind the procession of marching men, those on horses rode forth. Over their heads, banners of every color of the spectrum fluttered in the wind, emblazoned with house and clan sigils from the entirety of Dweömer.

Bronwen yawned. She looked at her father, deep in conversation with the high king. He would be of no help to allay her boredom. There were several other nobles afforded the high king’s company in the royal box, but Bronwen could not imagine Duke Gweliwch being an apt conversationalist. Under other circumstances there would have been far more attendees to accept the invitation of the high king, but Duke Rhodri Helygen had sent his apologies prior to the start of the tourney. He fell ill the night before from drinking until the early hours of morning.

Despite the season, the heat from the midday sun vexed her. She motioned to her lady-in-waiting, Mara, who lifted the fan from her lap and waved it frantically. The small breeze was enough to cool Bronwen’s flushed cheeks.

She recognized some of the riders from her father’s court in Annwyd, not that she could have placed a name with any of their faces. They were all hidden behind their metal helmets now. Some had vertical slits, to allow men’s noses to poke through, while others had only horizontal slits for the eyes.

Once the grandiose ceremony had ended, the games began. The joust was first, only half of which Bronwen would later be able to recall. She rested her head on her hand and dozed behind heavy eyelids for the majority of the matches. She woke when the excitement reached heightened levels amidst the splintering of lances and screams of injured men. She would have missed the hand-to-hand matches as well if Duke Gweliwch’s jeering had not roused her from her sleep.

She looked at High King Alric II, her future husband. He was watching the games, though not as fervently as Rodric Gweliwch. If she had known what her father planned, she might never have left her bower that day. She learned of her marriage to the high king only two fortnights past. In her bower, where she kept to herself most days, her father sent for her to join him in the throne room.

Braith looked up from his conversation as she entered the long stone hall. “Ah, daughter, I trust you have heard the Reverent Father Andras’ name before, yes?”

“Of course, Father.” Bronwen looked at the older man standing before her father dressed in the common muslin robes of a monk. She stepped forward and gave him a polite bow. Quite a feat since she stood an entire foot above him. Were his back not so hunched, he might have been taller than she. His thin, tawny beard ran nearly to his knees, a comical look, considering he only retained a few white wisps of hair atop his head. “You are the abbot of Northfeld, Reverent Father, and Grand Abbot of Dweömer.”

“Very wise, my child.” Andras smiled sweetly as he looked at her with squinted eyes.

She was not used to being spoken to in such a manner by men‌—‌certainly not monks. They, while maintaining a polite tone, always spoke down to her as though she were a dullard goose girl from the kitchens.

“Thank you, Your Reverence. My father has made allowances of the best tutors for my education. I have considered, for a time, becoming a postulant at your very abbey.” It was not altogether a lie, though she had abandoned that thought some time ago. As a child, not long after her mother died, she sought solace in the Maker. In seeking answers for her mother’s death, she thought to become His servant. Now, however, she thought it better to serve Him in a more powerful sense.

Andras looked to Braith momentarily before returning his gaze to Bronwen. “I am truly impressed by your piety, but no, child, I do not think that is the path the Maker has chosen for you. There are far better ways you can serve Him.”

“Your Reverence?”

“Daughter, the Reverent Father and I have spoken of a matter which concerns the kingdom. He has brought to my attention, for the benefit of Annwyd, a binding pact between Cærwyn and our kingdom.”

“A binding pact, Father?”

“The relationship between your father’s kingdom and Cærwyn is a tumultuous one at best, considering their respective histories. A chasm still remains between the two, one you are to bridge.”

“His Reverence has suggested a marriage between you and the high king.”

“I am to marry the high king?” Her initial thought was to reject such a notion. He was old enough to be her father. However, marriage to the high king would certainly smooth her path to power.

“Your father and I think it a most excellent solution to the threat of war. In the coming times, the Gethin threat may very well overwhelm Annwyd. If joined with Cærwynian forces, Annwyd’s defenses would be far stronger and the Gethin would be outmatched.”

“I think it is a marvelous idea, Bronwen. I have agreed to Andras’ suggestion. Already, a messenger travels to Cærwyn. Your marriage will be most beneficial.”

The joust lasted late into the afternoon, until the oncesmooth field lay torn and ragged. Several men raked over the rough soil and tamped down the center of the field as others removed the rope which had separated the two jousting aisles.

First, the pugilists took to the field. The bare-knuckled brutes fought up the ranks for some time. It was, Bronwen surmised, even fiercer a battle than it would have been with armed men. Although forbidden from killing their opponent intentionally, accidental deaths were part of the attraction of the tournament. With weapons, a proper warrior knew, on the whole, what amount of force was required to do serious damage. The pugilists, however, knew no bounds.

Bronwen sat up straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap as the men bloodied and maimed one another for the promise of trivial trophies. She thought it odd that the sight of blood did not curdle her stomach. The high king’s nephew, Connor, who squirmed in his seat as one man’s front teeth flew out not ten paces from the royal box, disgusted her. Even she knew how to behave as a lady of court at the high king’s tourney. That boy fidgeted like a child.

After the pugilist rounds finished and the winner, a muscle-bound giant from Helygen, given his laurels, it was time for the swordsman competition. A young boy ran out onto the field with a broom and swept up the dirt, turning over the bloody loam until it looked smooth once more.

She glanced back in the high king’s direction to see Connor’s face turn pale as parchment. Without giving notice, he stood from his seat and left the royal box, his hand on his chest. Not giving it further thought, she turned her attentions back to the field.

Far faster than Bronwen expected, the three dozen swordsmen who entered the competition whittled down to four men. The first pair was a Gwelian solider, Caden, outfitted in full Gwelian regalia against a serf from Ealdorman Allt. The serf’s armor was decidedly less impressive‌—‌home-hewn leathers with brass tacks. Caden won without incident.

“Now, the final round of the swordsmanship games!” the announcer called from the field. “To be fought by Caden of Gweliwch and Gawain of Gweliwch.”

This match did not seem altogether fair to Bronwen. Whoever won, Gweliwch still claimed the honor of best sword arm in Dweömer.

In a chivalrous manner, they stood fifteen paces apart. For fairness, each was given a five-hand width round shield and a cruciform sword. When readied, they touched cruciform tips in salutation. Their swords clashed before each jumped back and shuffled in the circle, eyes locked on his opponent. Bronwen was impressed. Gawain was dangerously graceful and clearly well-trained, precise in every move. Caden, while a Gwelian-bred soldier, seemed awkward, even fearful. Did he fear injuring his duke’s son?

If fearful, Caden did not lack courage. He rushed forward with a tremulous yell. As his boots kicked up the bloodied dirt clods and gravel, he swung in a chest-level forward arc. Gawain did not even bother to evade the attack. He slammed his round shield toward the blow and deflected Caden’s sword. Before Caden could recover, Gawain let loose with a flurry of blows. Bronwen had never seen anyone as accomplished with a sword as unwieldy as the cruciform.

Caden stumbled, holding his shield in front of him and struggling to regain an offensive stance. He was driven backward, giving ground steadily under Gawain’s thunderous onslaught. He finally lost his footing and tumbled to the side, his sword flying into the air.

Bronwen watched as Caden lie flat on his back, stunned for several moments. He lifted his head and prepared to stand, only to find the tip of Gawain’s sword at his throat.

“Yield!” Gawain cried out.

Caden managed a clumsy nod, and Gawain offered him his right hand. He pulled Caden up with ease and sheathed his sword.