Morningstar (12 page)

“It’s not mine,” he answered cheerfully. With great dignity he pushed himself to his feet, swayed, then staggered to his bed.

“Wake me early,” he called. “The first cull of the archers is before noon.”

“You’ll be in no fit state to take part,” I warned him.

“I could beat most of them in the state I’m in now,” he replied. For a little while there was silence; then he spoke again. “Have you heard? The Morningstar is really a Highland noble of the old blood. He is Rabain reborn, come to free the north.”

A cloud passed before the moon, and we were plunged into darkness. I lay back, thinking about what he had said.

“The legend is growing,” I said at last.

He did not reply, but I knew he had heard me.

True to his word, Jarek Mace awoke bright of eye and in high good humor. I, who had consumed no alcohol, had a splitting headache and could have stayed in bed until well past noon, while Wulf awoke with a curse and remained silent and sullen for most of the morning.

We walked to the meadow, where I watched Jarek register for the tournament. An elderly clerk lifted a quill pen, dabbed it into a clay pot of ink, and glanced up at the bowman.

“Name?” he asked.

“Garik of Pottersham,” answered Mace easily.

“Next?”

“Wulf of Pottersham.”

The clerk scribbled the names on the scroll, and we moved on. The wrestling had begun, and we waited by the rope boundary for Piercollo to make his entrance. He won his first bout easily, and Jarek and I decided to wager two silver pennies on the Tuscanian’s next contest.

Wulf declined to bet. “All he has is strength,” muttered the hunchback. He was proved wrong twice more, and Jarek and I earned ten silver pennies each. But the last fight had been tough for Piercollo, his opponent almost managing to use the Tuscanian’s great weight against him. Jarek did not agree and wagered the ten pennies on the final contest. It was over swiftly. Piercollo was matched against a man of almost equal size, and the two giants circled each other warily. This opponent was an older man, wily and skillful. Piercollo rushed in like an angry bear, and the man sidestepped, grabbed the Tuscanian’s outstretched arm, and spun him from his feet. Piercollo rose swiftly. Too swiftly, as Wulf pointed out, for he was still groggy from the fall. The older wrestler threw himself at the Tuscanian, hammering his forearm into Piercollo’s face while at the same time hooking his foot around our friend’s ankle. Piercollo fell like a toppled tree. Mace cursed roundly when the Tuscanian failed to rise before the count of ten.

Then the first names were called for the archery cull. There were more than a hundred bowmen, and the first targets were set at around thirty paces. Mace and Wulf scored gold and were told to return in half an hour for the second round.

By now the workmen had almost completed the knights’ platform, and bench seats were being lifted onto it. I strolled across, past the piled wood of a huge bonfire, to where a dozen servants carrying cushions were arguing with one another as to which of their knights were to have the best seats. It was a common enough scene. Those knights sitting closest to the manor lord were seen by the populace to be favorites. No one wished to be placed at the end of the bench. But it would be unseemly for knights to be seen squabbling over such matters, and therefore cushion-carrying servants were sent with orders to obtain for their masters places near the manor lord. I sat down with other interested—and knowing—fairgoers to watch. The arguments became more fierce until finally a young man in yellow livery
struck an older man wearing a blue tunic. The older man staggered, then struck back. Within seconds, the cushions had been hurled aside and the servants were whacking out at one another, kicking and punching.

The crowd cheered them on, and at last, with the fighting over, the cushions were placed. The boy in the yellow livery looked more than downcast as he tossed his cushion to the end of the bench. When his master saw his place, he would probably be in for a worse beating than the one he had already taken.

At that moment three soldiers approached, striding to the platform and climbing the wooden steps. The leader—a lean, fierce-looking individual with a jagged scar from his right brow to his chin—was carrying a satin cushion of rich scarlet. Casually he pushed aside the cushions already there, creating a gap at the center of the first bench. No one said a word, and not one of the servants moved as the man dropped the scarlet cushion into the gap.

“Who are they?” I asked a man standing beside me.

“Count Azrek’s men. He must be coming to the fair.”

The news made my heart hammer. I don’t know why, for Azrek would not know me and I had no reason then to fear him. Still I backed away as if the count’s arrival were imminent, my eyes scanning the crowd. None of the nobles would attend until well into the afternoon and the knights’ tourney. And yet I could not control my fear. I sought out Jarek Mace and told him what I had heard, but he seemed unconcerned.

“What difference can it make?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered. But the unease remained.

On impulse I returned to the tavern and gathered my harp, stopping only to pay the tavern keeper for our lodgings. “Will you want the room tonight?” he asked.

“Probably.”

“You’re not thinking of leaving today?”

“We may. Not sure. My friends … are traveling men. Don’t like towns, you know.”

“You’ll miss the burning.”

“Tragic, I know, but still …”

I stepped out into the open and drew a deep breath, fighting for calm.

Back at the fair Wulf and Mace had progressed through to the last sixteen of the bowmen and were thus guaranteed at least a
penny for their efforts. When I found them, they were discussing the merits of the other archers.

Piercollo joined us. “Not enough for a ship,” he said, opening his huge hand and showing us the four silver coins he had won.

“You did well,” I told him. Mace said nothing to the big man, and I knew he blamed him for the loss on his bet.

The archery tourney continued, and Wulf reached the last four but was eliminated by a tall forester wearing a black eye patch. This infuriated the hunchback.

“Everyone knows a good bowman needs two eyes to judge distance. How does he do it?” he complained. But he was four pennies richer, and his mood had improved.

The final was set just before the knight’s tourney. Mace and Eye Patch were matched against each other.

Legend has it that Jarek Mace won by splitting his opponent’s shaft from fifty paces. He didn’t; he lost. They loosed some twenty shafts, then the string of Jarek’s bow snapped, his arrow falling some ten paces forward. That should have disqualified him, but Eye Patch opened the pouch at his side and removed a spare string, which he handed to Mace. Swiftly Jarek restrung his bow, but his next arrow was two fingers’ width outside the gold, and Eye Patch won the tourney with a splendid shot that struck dead center.

Jarek Mace swung away without a word of congratulation and collected his two gold coins; then, with a face like thunder, he strode to where we waited at the edge of the crowd.

“Shorter string,” he snapped. “Different tension. He should have allowed me a practice shot. Bastard!”

“He needn’t have allowed you anything,” I pointed out. But Mace was not to be mollified. He was never a good loser.

We purchased meat pies and sat in the shade some thirty paces from the knight’s platform. Crowds were now filling the meadow, and we saw the nobles arriving and taking their places on the dais.

“That is Azrek,” muttered Piercollo.

I looked up and saw a tall young man with straight black hair and a long, curved nose. He wore a simple tunic and leggings of black satin, edged with silver thread, and a black shirt that glistened like the finest silk. My blood felt cold, and I looked away.

“Handsome fellow,” said Mace. “Lacks color, though. The shirt should have been cream, with puff sleeves, shot with gray silk. Now,
that
would have been stylish.”

The jousting that followed lasted for several hours, but none of us was interested, and we strolled through the crowds, playing occasional games of chance at the gambling stalls.

But just before dusk the stallholder refused another wager.

“There’s time for one more game, surely,” said Mace, who had lost several pennies.

“No, it’ll be the burning soon,” answered the man, “and I want to get a good position.”

“Who is for burning?” asked Wulf.

“They caught a witch; they say she’s a friend of the Morningstar.”

“Her name?” whispered Jarek Mace.

“Name? Hold on, I did hear it … Margan, Macan … something like, anyway. You know the name?”

I was about to speak, but Mace’s elbow struck me painfully in the side.

“No,” he said, and turned away.

I moved swiftly after him, grabbing his arm. “That’s Megan! They’re going to burn Megan!”

“I know,” he answered.

“What are we going to do?”

“Well, we have two choices,” he said grimly. “First, we can fight our way through the fifty soldiers and the crowd, cut her free, kill all the knights, and make our escape on stolen stallions. Or else we can forget it, buy some food, and have a quiet evening remembering past friends. What would you choose?”

I swung to Wulf. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Is she not a friend of yours?”

“Aye, she is. But Jarek is right. There’s nothing we can do—save die with her. You think she’d want that?”

Their reaction to Megan’s plight stunned me. What kind of men were these? I wondered. The answer was not long in coming. Jarek Mace was a wolfshead who cared for nothing and no one save himself, and the hunchback was a man whom I had first seen cutting the fingers from one of his victims in order to steal the dead man’s rings. What more could I have expected?

And yet I was still surprised and deeply saddened by their easy acceptance of the cruel fate awaiting the iron-haired witch woman. I stood, my legs trembling, and walked back into the throng, wishing I had never ventured into this dark forest.

On the far side of the meadow, before the knights’ platform, a large crowd had assembled to watch the burning. There was blood upon the grass, and a man in the crowd informed me that moments before a lance had pierced the helm of a young jouster, putting out both his eyes. I arrived in time to see the corpse being carried away by stretcher bearers. A sudden trumpet blast rent the air, and two soldiers marched into sight. Behind them, being led by a rope around her neck, came Megan, her hands bound behind her.

She moved like a queen, stately and slow. There was no sign of panic in her, nor did she look at the crowd. Upon her tall, thin body she wore only the single white robe of the condemned. The crowd was hushed, awed, I think, by her dignity. My eyes strayed to the waiting stake atop a mass of dry wood some six feet high. My mouth was dry, my heart heavy.

The soldiers and their prisoner halted before the Lord of Lualis and the black-garbed figure of Count Azrek. The Lord of Lualis, a round-faced, balding Angostin, rose ponderously to his feet. “Do you have anything to say to your judges, witch?” he said, his voice booming like a drum.

If Megan answered, I did not hear her. She stood straight of back, her head held high. The Lualis Lord cleared his throat and addressed the crowd. “This woman has been found guilty of witchcraft and treason,” he shouted. “She practiced black arts and, in communion with the murderous outlaw known as Morningstar, has overseen the butchery of the honest men and women of her own village and others who traveled the forest roads. The sentence is just. Is there any man here who would cast doubt upon the verdict?”

“I would!” I called. The Lualis Lord looked surprised, but in truth he was less surprised than I. The crowd parted before me as if I had the plague, and I walked forward, stepping over the rope that held back the spectators.

I cannot explain now why I ventured out, save to say that I could not bear for Megan to be killed without at least showing that I cared. It was folly and could achieve nothing. For a successful
defense against conviction I would have needed witnesses or at the least a champion.

As I moved nearer, I avoided Azrek’s dark eyes, but I could feel his venomous gaze upon me. Soldiers around the platform tensed and took up their weapons, but they did not look at me. Instead they spread out and scanned the crowd.

“And who might you be, peasant?” the lord asked.

“No peasant, my lord. I am Owen Odell, an Angostin from the southern coast. My father is Lord Aubertain, thrice decorated by the father of our glorious king, Edmund.”

It was—even at that moment of tension and fear—more than irritating to use the name of my father as a talisman. I did not like the man, nor ever did, I think, and as a child I was determined one day to ride away where men would never have heard of his name. Yet here I was, making the sound of it a shield.

“You have proof of identity?” asked the lord.

“I need none, sir, for I am not on trial here,” I answered. This show of arrogance was convincing of itself, and he fell silent for a moment.

“How do you know of this woman?”

“I spent the winter in her village—before it was sacked and destroyed not by the Morningstar but by the soldiers of Count Azrek. I saw the results of
their
butchery. And at no time did I witness the practicing of dark magick by Megan or any other in the village. Nor did I hear talk of treason.”

“You are suggesting that soldiers in the service of the king would attack and kill innocent people? Are you mad, sir?”

“I saw what I saw, my lord,” I told him.

“Is there any other witness to corroborate your accusations?” I watched his eyes scan the crowd. Azrek, too, was sitting forward, his body tense, his eyes gleaming.

“No,” I said. “I am alone.”

For a moment there was silence, and I sensed disappointment in the Lualis Lord. He turned to me, his small round eyes bleak and angry. “Without corroboration I have no choice but to let the verdict stand. Are you sure there is no one else you would wish to call upon?”