Part 27 (2/2)
”Our men?” the Wolf asked.
”What few we have are well placed,” Sparrow a.s.sured him. ”They will do nothing without your signal.”
”They will do nothing at all. The Lady Servanne's life depends upon it.”
Sparrow flinched at the wrath in the Wolf's voice. His own words came back to haunt him: Who fights the hardest also falls the farthest. Who fights the hardest also falls the farthest. He had been referring to the Lady Servanne's probability of succ.u.mbing to the Wolf's powers of persuasion. Never, in his wildest imaginings had he considered the opposite happening. He had been referring to the Lady Servanne's probability of succ.u.mbing to the Wolf's powers of persuasion. Never, in his wildest imaginings had he considered the opposite happening.
”Where is she now?”
”I do not know. My guess is the Dragon has her hidden away somewhere within the castle.” The Wolf turned from the door and Sparrow's belly plummeted to his feet. ”I never should have taken the chance with her life. I never should have let her leave the abbey, never should have met her last night, never should have touched her!” never should have touched her!”
G.o.d's rood, he was rambling! Rambling and lovesick, drowning in emotions Sparrow suspected he had blocked from his senses for so many years, he was unable to deal with them. Revenge and hatred had been the cornerstones of the impenetrable wall the reborn La Seyne Sur Mer had erected around his heart. Guilt, love, even feelings of jealousy were as foreign to him as hands on a fish and he was just as helpless to know what to do with them.
Moreover, it was beyond conceivable thought to imagine what his reaction might be if these newfound emotions were found to have no basis in truth. If his love was betrayed or deceived, if his trust was spurned and his loyalty mocked, it would surely destroy him. It would destroy every other living thing around him as well, for his rage, if unleashed, would know no bounds.
Sparrow took a deep breath and forced a calmness in his voice he was far from feeling. ”Hidden her away, you say? Even in a castle this size, the walls have ears and the windows have eyes. Someone will have seen where he put her. It is a challenge, make no mistake, but one I will embark upon willingly, if only to save myself the misery of listening to you bay at the moon each night ... unless, of course, you plan to spare us all the trouble of planning our futures by ignoring the task before you?”
The Wolf flexed and unflexed his fists. His gaze remained clouded and unresponsive, his pain seeking the only outlet it knew: violence.
”Your brother is strong and dangerous,” the little man continued, blithely ignoring the bloodl.u.s.t etched into the Wolf's face. ”He did not come by his reputation by chance or by underestimating his enemies. Proof thereof lies in the fact his spies were able to ferret out the ident.i.ty of Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer.”
Keep talking, Sparrow told himself. Do not think of the size of his fists. Do not think of the size of his fists.
”You have prepared well for this day, but there are always the tinkerings of Luck, Fate, and Destiny to contend with. We shall have to put them out of the way at once by offering them no opportunities to interfere. Smite the Dragon square on the visor, the heart, or the gut. Unhorse him on the first pa.s.s and waste no breath on the niceties of honour or chivalry. He will be out to skewer you as clean and sure, make no mistake. Have you recalled all of his weaknesses? Do you remember if he favours aiming for the left or the right side? The shoulder or the chest? The arm or the thigh? One thing to our advantage: Unless he has found himself another left-handed opponent to tilt with him throughout the years, he will be out of practice, whereas you, my lord, will face nothing new or awkward in the list. Is Triton groomed and ready, or has he managed to frighten these blundernoses into adding their own dung to the stable heaps?”
”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 Nottinghams.h.i.+re-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.” 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 bl.u.s.ter 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 t.i.tle 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 pa.s.s.
A groan of disappointment rippled through the crowds of spectators at so ign.o.ble 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 pa.s.ses 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 ma.s.sive 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 a.s.sisted 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 pa.s.sing 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 coif and accepted the polished steel helm from his squire. 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 ma.s.se, 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 G.o.d's mercy. The fight will be to the death. The partic.i.p.ants have waived the limit of three pa.s.ses, as well as any and all restrictions pertaining to weaponry and tactics. Any foul is hereby declared fair; any rule may thus be broken.”
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