At the time of the Cataclysm, the average Etalan Legionnaires wore a helmet, greaves and cuirass of bronze, and their short swords and spears were meant for thrusting attacks. Their true protection was a great shield. Even Aurelius’ officers, who were better equipped, might only wear a scale shirt of iron and bronze, and an iron helmet. Three hundred years of advancement in the craft of armoring bring us to a time when the well-equipped knight is protected by a harness of full steel plate, a shirt of mail beneath, and a good padded gambeson.

As armor changes, so too must our weapons, and the use of them. Here, you will learn to kill a man in plate. I will teach you.

* Hans Talhouer, to a new class of students at his fighting school, 295 AC

☀

7th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

“I had no idea you brought so many things,” Trist admitted, as Clarisant supervised her maid, Anais, and Yaél unpacking a chest. A cambric shirt with neatly stitched blackwork about the collar and cuffs made its way onto the bed as if by magic, and he picked it up to look more closely. “I do not recall owning anything as fine as this.”

“You did not,” Clarisant confirmed, selecting a new doublet in green and laying it on the bed. “The blacksmith had your measurements for me. If I could have gotten more made for you in time before I left Camaret-à-Arden, I would have.”

“Hywel is a good man,” Trist said, with a smile. “And time seems to be the thing that we do not have. I would have commissioned him for more pieces of armor, if I had not left so quickly. This is a very expensive shade of green, is it not?”

“Your appearance needs to reflect your station,” Clarisant justified the expense - while also, he noted, not actually telling him how much any of this had cost. “Take a look in the bottom of the trunk, husband.”

Trist placed the white shirt back onto the bed, on top of the new doublet, and crossed the room to the chest with three steps. “What is all this,” he murmured, squatting down to get a better look. “Yaél, help me.”

“What’s it like?” the girl asked, as they pulled more shirts, breeches, and doublets out.

“Camaret-à-Arden?” Trist asked, and Yaél nodded. “Quiet,” he said, after a moment. “Peaceful. Not nearly so many people as all this. You can hear the river, and the air in the forest tastes fresher. More clean. And the light of the afternoon sun through the leaves…” He trailed off, with a smile.

“I want to see it,” Yaél admitted, setting aside the last of the clothing Clarisant had brought, and turning back to the bottom of the chest. There, they found a sack of canvas, and inside it individual wrappings of oiled cloth.

Together, they unwrapped piece by piece, and laid what they found out on the floor: a gorget, first, of fine steel, to protect the neck; two sabatons, to be secured over the boots and attached to his greaves, which would protect his feet and toes; and cuisses, to cover the front of his thighs, while leaving the back of his legs open for riding. “Clarisant,” Trist sighed, “You had these made for me?” He stretched a finger out nearly to touch one of the cuisses, and it was Yaél who slapped his hand away.

“I’ll be the one who has to oil and polish it!” his squire exclaimed.

Clarisant stepped up behind Trist and put a hand on his shoulder. “I would have brought more if it had been finished,” she apologized. “But this was all that Hywel could do before I left. He was working on a few pieces for your upper arms-”

“Rerebraces,” Trist supplied the word, reaching up to lay his hand over hers.

“Yes, those,” she said. “But he wanted you there for a full fitting to do the fiddly bits over the elbows and the knees.”

“Thank you,” Trist said, standing and turning to face her. Clarisant’s hand fell from his shoulder, but he kept it folded in his own.

“Every piece you have is a better chance you come home alive,” she said, and though Trist did not prize himself as the most perceptive person, there was something in her eyes that made him want to fold her in his arms.

“I will always come back,” Trist promised, though he had no right to. He hoped it was what she needed to hear.

“Well,” she said, “Go change in the next room, husband. I have work to do here with your squire. Go on!” With a new doublet and shirt over his arm, and a smile on his face, Trist allowed his wife to shoo him out.

An hour later, Trist and Henry remained in the sitting room with the windows open to the night air. Trist was dressed in his new doublet, which fit quite well, and he had even buckled on his longsword over it. Henry had long since polished his boots to a glossy shine, and now the two of them were moving stones on a board of Six Soldiers Henry had found tucked away in the cupboard. Trist was losing.

“Shouldn’t you be better at this, m’lord?” Henry teased him gently. “They say a man who can win at Six Soldiers is a man who can command an army.”

“I would say that a man who can command an army, can command an army,” Trist grumbled. “Like the King. And in any event, I am unlikely to be in such a position. He will give commands to more experienced soldiers, like Baron Urien.”

“We’re running a bit low on loyal Barons, you may have noticed,” Henry pointed out. “Might be His Majesty needs commanders sooner than you think, m’lord.”

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

“Then I am still not a good choice,” Trist said, moving one of his pieces in disgust. He could already see Henry’s trap. “Percy beat me nine times out of ten at this, when we played, and the tenth game was a draw.”

The door swung open, and Clarisant emerged. She was wearing an overdress and bodice in green, with white beneath and a silver band in her hair to hold her white veil. Trist, happy to set aside the losing game, rose with a smile.

“You look as beautiful as ever, my lady,” he told her, and when his wife extended her hand he bent to kiss her knuckles.

“Thank you, my lord husband,” Clarisant said, accepting the praise with a smile. “But I am not the prize this evening. Come out, Yaél, and show everyone.”

Shy as a fawn trailing her mother, eyes cast down at the floor, Yaél left the bedchamber and stepped into the sitting room. Clarisant had dressed the squire in a black bodice and overskirt, with green beneath that matched her own gown. The girl’s black hair had been washed and brushed until it gleamed, and then pinned back, with only a single strand allowed to fall, artfully, next to her left eye. Though she was not yet a woman grown, Yaél now had the kind of fresh glow of youth that caught the eye, and if he had first seen her dressed like this, Trist would never have mistaken her for a boy. Clarisant caught his eye and jerked her head toward the young squire, and Trist knew exactly what she wanted.

“You wear it well, Yaél,” he said, with a nod, and at his words the girl finally looked up from the floor.

“Truly?” she asked. “I feel like a hog with ribbons on its tail for the fair.”

Trist grinned. “Truly. You look well enough for our family to be proud to have you. But there is something missing,” he said, and lifted up the squire’s sword belt and arming sword.

“Really?” Clarisant asked, with half a scowl.

“Dame Chantal wears her sword to evening supper,” Trist pointed out, and Yaél grinned.

When they entered the great hall, Trist and Clarisant escorted Yaél to the table where all of the squires and other young nobles sat. The noise from the rest of the gathered men and women in the chamber continued unabated, but the squires’ conversations broke apart like melting river ice in the spring. Isdern, Baroness Arnive’s son, gaped at them in astonishment.

“ Yaél?” he asked, voice loud in the absence of any chatter from the rest of the table. “You’re a girl?”

“Obviously,” Trist’s squire said, but her face was red and he worried she might break and run at the slightest provocation.

Kay, the oldest squire present, stood and came around the table to greet them. “Obviously,” he agreed. “And I detect my sister’s tastes in that dress. It looks wonderful on you,” he assured the younger child. “Sister, Brother-in-Law, thank you for delivering our comrade to us. We were just wondering where you were, Yaél. Isdern and I have some news for you - come sit.” He took Yaél by the arm and guided her to a seat on the bench between he and Isdern, and gave Trist and Clarisant a wink and a nod as he did so.

“Take care of her, little brother,” Clarisant teased him. “We must get to the high table.” By the time they’d turned to walk away, the conversation of the squires had started up again. “I think that was well managed,” she murmured to Trist as they made their way to their own places.

“Did you arrange that with your brother in advance?” Trist wondered.

“No,” Clarisant told him, as she took her seat. “But he’s always been a good boy like that, and serving the King has only improved him.”

The feast began with a course of fish and turnip stew, full of garlic, hot peppers, parsley and onions. It was served with whole loaves of a light, fresh baked bread, flavored with herbs and a touch of salt, from which they tore chunks to dip into the stew. Servants filled Trist’s goblet with a white wine, and he recognized from the taste the same type as he had used to heal Henry, Sir Divdan, and Yaél atop the Church of Saint Abatur. He decided it was a good omen, and by the time they had finished their stew, in between snatching scraps of conversation with his cousin Lucan across the table, the King rose to speak.

“My friends,” King Lionel Aurelianus began, and the voices of the hall fell silent. “You all know that we march tomorrow morning. A vile traitor has struck at the heart of our Kingdom of Narvonnne, and murdered my father, our king. I tell you truly, and without hesitation, that Narvonne has not faced a threat such as this since the Cataclysm. Most of you will march to Rocher de la Garde with me. Baron Urien shall command the van, and Sir Florent the rear, while Baroness Arnive remains at Falais to secure our southern border and to see that our wounded are well cared for.” He tipped his goblet to Urien, Florent and to Arnive in turn. “Bring out the accused,” he ordered.

The crowd waited silently while Dame Chantal and Sir Divdan marched a man down the center aisle, then put him on his knees in front of the high table. Trist recognized one of the knights he had sparred with when he first arrived at Falais. The prisoner had been stripped to a linen shirt, breeches and boots.

“Many of you know, also,” the King said, “That Valeria du Champs d'Or, and her father the Baron Maël, have not only betrayed the realm, but made foul compact with the daemonic. Maël du Champs d'Or is charged with regicide, as witnessed by Sir Guiron, Exarch of Penarys, whose word we hold in great faith; while Valeria is charged with the murder of Father Kramer du Falais. Furthermore, their knight Sir Landevale, rather than fighting in the service of his realm, did knowingly abandon his duty and lead a group of traitors to set fire throughout Falais, which would have devastated the town if not for the quick actions of Sir Lucan du Rocher de la Garde. Sir Landevale,” Lionel intoned, finally addressing the kneeling man, “Have you anything to say for yourself?”

The kneeling knight looked around the feast hall, then back to the King. “I swore an oath to my liege,” he said simply. “And I held it true.”

Baron Urien stirred. “You admit, freely, that it was at the order of your liege that you committed these crimes?” His voice filled the hall as easily as a sitting room.

“The Baron sent me to keep his daughter safe, and serve her,” Landevale said.

“His daughter sold her soul to a daemon,” Ismet pointed out, her eyes chiseled from stone.

“So she did,” Landevale said. “And yet, an oath is an oath. If a man breaks his oath, he is no true knight.”

Before he’d even realized he was moving, Trist was on his feet. “There are things more important than oaths,” he said. “You are a knight, Sir. You were meant to protect the people of this kingdom from the very same evil you served.” Clarisant’s hand was on his arm, and Trist swallowed when he found every eye in the hall on him.

“If we pick and choose which oaths to keep,” Landevale said solemnly, “Our honor means nothing.”

“If,” King Lionel said, “This was merely a debate among peers on a joyous feast day, I might say there is merit in both your views.” He shook his head. “But this is not a debate. Thousands of people are dead, and a great deal of the blame lays at the feet of your Baron, and his daughter. You could have chosen loyalty to this kingdom, provided us warning of their plans, and you did not. And so, Landevale, a part of the blame is on your head, as well. Here is my judgment, and let it be written, and let it be taken throughout the land.”

“Any who truck with daemons,” he continued, raising his voice, “Are traitors to this kingdom. As traitors, their titles and lands are forfeit, and they are hereby sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered. Landevale du Champs d'Or, in recognition of your confession and past service, I hereby commute your sentence to beheading, to be carried out at dawn. May the Angelus have mercy on you.”