The quickest route took him past the reviewing stand, but, as he slipped into its shadow, a knight in red dragons spotted him. The man's gilded helm and its tall dragon crest twitched Durand's way. Though the whoreson must have seen that Durand was unarmed, the Dragon jammed his spurs home, his warhorse's trapper rising in a red storm. The pennon of the Dragon's lance lashed like flame. "Hells," snarled Durand.
In the instant that Durand understood that he must run, voices gasped behind him. Several of the young women were standing now, many with their hands at their faces. He saw wide eyes and excited grins. If she was here, his Stream Maid was among them. He could not run.
He spurred the cob down the Dragon's throat. There was no time. He got one gulp of air, then Dragon struck, lance glancing from Durand's shield—slamming Durand over the back of his saddle. But Durand swung: the slapping overhand blow caught the Dragon's helm—staving it in with the force of charging horses alone. The dragon crest flew on, spinning.
There was a shriek among the women as the leather crest flopped down among them.
The Dragon himself crashed from his saddle. As the downed man's mount flounced to a halt, Durand hauled himself back into his seat and turned to the stand. The maids were smiling and standing and staring. His Stream Maid was there, in shadow. The Lady of the Bower flashed her teeth. The Dragon struggled on the ground, like an insect, half-crushed. Durand felt he should do something. He should get help. Or he should take the bastard prisoner.
The heralds winded their arcane horns: a long hollow note that skirled above the field.
Durand twisted. The din of blades ebbed away.
The Lady stood as placidly as she had been when she started the whole event. In the lists behind Durand, only a few straggling clatters continued to ensure him that it was not sorcery that had stilled them all.
Every streaked and muddy soldier on the field looked to the Lady of the Bower and her handmaids. Durand felt a fool, caught by mistake on the same stage before all the others. With a nod to the Lady, he gave ground, bullying his carthorse backward, as the gray-bearded herald strode out in front of the stand.
The man bowed stiffly to the crowd.
"You have each acquitted yourself well this morning, and my Lady thanks you for your spirited participation. The Eye of Heaven has reached its zenith. The general melee is at an end. When every man has sung Noontide Lauds, the tournament will continue; this time to be fought by chosen men alone. The Lady's selections will be delivered to each war band. Let each righting man be ready for the call." The man paused. "When next the horns sound, it will be the seventh hour."
As the old herald departed with his mistress for the castle, Durand closed his eyes and breathed deep, careful breaths. It was over.
For a time only men-at-arms and villagers remained.
After a few awkward heartbeats, the fighting men turned from the lists, moving without orders toward the pavilions. Someone collected the battered Dragon.
One-eyed Berchard swung in beside Durand's cob.
"Durand! Bravely done." He smiled. "And you've found hidden virtues in that old cob horse." He extended a wineskin to Durand. "May you both sire great lines!"
Durand took it, surprised that any of Lamoric's men would speak with him. "I thought the thing would be scared out of its wits."
'Too daft to notice, more like. And I'm not sure he isn't blind," Berchard said. He took back the skin. "You did well. Taught a couple of them, I reckon. That last one anyway." He grimaced. "He'll think twice next time he sees a rough country lout on a plow horse." Then he offered the skin once more.
Durand took another swig from the bottle and a good breath of air.
"He deserved worse," said Berchard.
Glancing around, the old campaigner leaned close. "And, as for me, I talk to whomever I like." The man leaned back and nodded. "For what it's worth.
"Here's your mate," he added, with a glance toward the edge of the field.
Heremund took the reins of the plow horse as Durand climbed down, his legs like sacks of sand.
"You're alive," the skald laughed. "What a brawl that was. Like no melee these eyes have seen. Half these fools are lucky they didn't kill themselves, let alone anyone else. There were horses bounding off like hares, every which way. Men on backward. Upside down. Boys on pigs have more grace."
They trudged toward Lamoric's tents, Durand eyeing his future. It was Blood Mo
on in the wide world beyond Hes
perand, and winter was in the wind. He would be making his own way once more.
Heremund produced a loaf of bread. "Don't worry. I stole it from Guthred," he explained. "Nothing baked or grown in Hesperand."
There were bruised men sprawled everywhere, most too tired or battered to even think about speaking. Heremund winced at the worst of them. "Looks like a wagon wreck on market day."
They found a dry spot in the grass and sat down. The earth felt like earth. The Eye of Heaven was as warm as always. Slipping his arm from the straps of his shield, Durand tore a chunk from the loaf with his teeth—a few loose. His right hand was stiff and swollen.
Heremund smiled around a long sip of claret. "I might have missed your ugly face, you know."
"You saw that scrape with the Dragon, then?" Durand said.
Heremund handed him the wineskin. "He should never have come for you with that lance."
Durand didn't argue.
"Dragon's a baron," said Heremund, "I think. I can't remember which. Hardly fair, and what's he gain besting a foe like you?"
Durand smiled. "Thank you, I'm sure."
"Your gear is nothing he'd want as a prize, and you weren't fairly armed. He made a fool of himself losing. No money. No honor. Little risk, no reward. I wonder what the rules would be if you'd have caught him? He'd have to yield to a knight."
"I thought I was going to end up skewered."
Heremund laughed. "Aye. Whack! A bolt through a pigeon, right in front of our lovely hostess. I'm beginning to think I should train you for a skald like me. I don't even lance boils."
Durand raked his helmet off with the bad hand, the leather webbing peeling away from a paste of brown blood.
Heremund winced, but, looking up, spotted something over Durand's shoulder. Durand turned to find eyes on him. Toward
Lamoric's pavilion, dour Guthred was staring. Lamoric's helm faced their way as well. Heremund touched his shoulder.
"I suppose though," he said,
"you
really
ought
to seek out the uneven battle."
"You want me skewered?" Durand said.
Heremund's eyes narrowed, considering the proposition. "No, I imagine you'd be a bit tough for my teeth. Though I suppose with the kind of malleting you took today, you're likely halfway tender by now."
Durand allowed himself a smile. There were a hundred bruises waiting for him, he was sure.
Heremund jabbed a stubby finger toward Durand. "Everyone likes the dashing hero who wins despite overwhelming opposition. Yes, overwhelming opposition's the only way. You'll have to keep an eye out."
"I'll need a better helm," Durand said.
"Skill."
"Aye, and a coat of plates, while I'm at it." Durand laughed, swallowing another tart mouthful of wine.
Someone whooped toward Lamoric's camp.
"What's this now?" said Heremund.
Durand thought he heard his name, and stood to find Berchard marching toward him.
"Here! Durand! The Green Lady. She sent this along for you." He slapped a hard yellow lump into Durand's torn right hand. He caught a whiff of lye. Durand didn't understand.
"What is it?"
"They've announced the chosen men, and, God save us, you're one. We'll have to clean you up a bit."
In different ways, every man in the conroi looked as astounded as Durand—all but Sir Coensar, who wore an expression that might have been amusement. The captain had a scroll of cream vellum in his hand.
Coensar lifted the scroll and quietly read: "From the company of the Knight in Red are selected the Knight in Red himself, Sir Coensar his captain, and Durand of the Col."
Berchard grinned. "Well done, lad," he said, taking the soap back and giving the hand a good pump. "My horse is yours, if you need it."
15. On th
e Field of Bower Mead
B
y Agryn's dial, the seventh hour was almost upon them. The strap on Durand's helmet was tight enough to crack his teeth. He swallowed against the knot. The green and yellow shield of his family was torn in a dozen places. Berchard's horse, a sooty brown, tossed its head fit to break its neck. Durand snugged his grip on the reins.
There were thirty chosen men. All the fighting men north and south had been reduced to two tight conrois. Peasants had uprooted the palings and driven them into the turf much closer to the reviewing stand, staking out an area fifty paces on a side. There would be no room to breathe out there.
Durand waited in a line with the north fifteen. He was the only man on either side whose horse wore no trapper—and the only man whose face was bare.
"When it starts, stick close," hissed Coensar. Lamoric, as Knight in Red, sat beyond the captain.
Durand nodded once, sharply. With Lamoric at risk, the captain wasn't pleased that a novice had stolen an experienced man's place.
Opposite their conroi were fifteen visored knights; helms, and shields, and trappers all matched. "I'm the saltire cross. Take the green." There was, indeed, a man in gold and green opposite him. Durand slipped his lance higher in his hand, accidentally provoking the blue knight to do the same, raising his lance in a mocking salute. He could feel the garter below his knee binding.
The Lady of the Bower stood. In one delicate hand, she held a bit of green silk. Durand glanced for the champing conroi opposite. He saw Coensar's "saltire"—a white cross on sable: Cassonel of Damaryn. His black helm turned to the stands.
The Lady raised her arm. Durand locked his teeth and tore his eyes away as the green fabric fell.
The avalanche of their hooves buried the call of horns. The line charged as though every knight had leapt from a cliff. Durand aimed for the green and yellow shield that bobbed toward him but, at the last, the head of his lance slipped over the rim. Green's point struck Durand's three stags hard enough that Durand nearly lost his shield.
Reining in as the thunder passed, Durand shot a glance at Coensar.
—And saw the captain's horse galloping riderless, Coensar himself still tumbling.
While Coensar staggered to his feet some twenty or thirty paces from help, the Baron of Damaryn drew Termagant and set his spurs.
Durand pitched his mount into a headlong gallop as the whole rumbling charge of Cassonel's sword and armor and barding flashed down to skewer the captain's heart.
There was just a chance: Durand hoisted his lance overhand and stabbed into the blur of sable and silver like lightning from the empty air. The lance splintered as he flashed by.
He heaved th
e brown into a savage turn to find Cassonel's warhorse lolloping away, and the Baron of Damaryn himself rolling across the turf.
Durand pulled up where Coensar swayed. The man was blinking. Keening dragged in the grass. He was still on his guard or trying—unsure if Cassonel was alive or dead.
Durand ripped his own sword from its scabbard, but the Baron of Damaryn lay sprawled in the skirts of his surcoat. He struggled to get his hands underneath him, tried to shove himself upright. He couldn't.
Now, Lamoric—the Knight in Red—joined Durand, putting himself between the captain and anyone who might think to pick off a stricken man. Cassonel was still on his face.
"That was well done," said Lamori
c. Riders from Cas
sonel's retinue were swarming out. If they chose to fight, there were too many. But they leapt down around their leader, ducking low like dogs around a corpse. For a disjointed moment, Durand thought they were sniffing and picking at his clothes. Soon, though, they gathered their master up, and carried him from the lists. There were no shouted challenges or threats of revenge.
Lamoric was watching Cassonel. "He's finished for today."
Coensar laughed from the ground. "And I've missed my chance."
And Durand realized. "I'm sorry," he said. "You might have taken him. I shouldn't have."