Esme was full of questions. Despite the escort of a squad of men-at-arms, her knuckle rested lightly on the hilt of her sword, hoisted readily for the drawing. Nor did the armed men miss her ready stance, but they ignored it, the same way they were permitting a supposed convict to bear arms in their midst. Whatever was the silent agreement between everyone involved, only Esme did not know. And Cordelia did not care to tell. She was occupied enough with the constant effort to calm her wit, now that the decisive battle was drawing near. Ere long, the blonde resolved into her own contemplative world, plotting perhaps the taking down of their escorts should the situation turn ugly. And for a fact Cordelia knew they would not be Esme’s match. The same she dared not say of the person they should soon face.
A few turns made, and it became apparent they were not headed for the keep. People turned out of their houses, children and housewives from every alley converged for the rare excitement in town. It reminded Cordelia of something bad - an event not so long ago when she had been likewise in the center of attention for a reason almost as terrible.
And as though to best serve the people’s thirst for excitement, the contingent made the last turn and went into the town square, a fairly clean and open affair with a well at its center. This was oft the gathering place for housewives on customary rest from their errands, exchanging information real and exaggerated at a rate quicker than any modern tabloids. They were nowhere to be seen this morning. In their place a council of men-at-arms had assembled. What Cordelia reckoned to be most of Sir Kamaric’s dignified retinue was about two dozen trained warriors, with the addition of squires and garrison soldiers. The seneschal was with them. And seated upon a mighty stallion was his lord, the knight Sir Kamaric.
It did not require her charged sense and the power Holy Detect to pick him out from among the rest, markedly imposing as he was even among seasoned fighters.
She had had only a brief glance of the knight’s back on the day he returned from his patrol around the Marches. Now his frame from the front proved a warrior even more daunting. A man in his middle years, he was larger than Sir Derrick, who himself was tall as any door could admit. And unlike Derrick, he was clad under a helmet with the visor drawn up in addition to full plates, his tabard sporting the coat of a silver wolf on a blue field. Behind the gap in steel a pair of hawkish eyes sternly stared out at the newcomers, hints of bronze-red strands sticking out from his helmet’s padding.
By now, the perimeter of the square was thronged with curious folk. The town guards, whose one member’s murder she was alleged, maintained a fairly spacious ground for Cordelia and the member of Sir Kamaric’s household.
“Are you Cordelia?” the knight’s voice boomed as she entered the square with her escorts, staring down.
“Even I, my lord.” She inclined her head. Perhaps it would be more apt to perform a curtsy. Only she did not know how. And at any rate, it would be a silly gesture in a pair of breeches.
“And that yonder is the girl?” he shifted his eyes to the blonde.
“Aye, my lord. There’s my mistress Esme.”
This started Esme. Cordelia had not told the girl they would play mistress and servant, knowing she would not assent to anything less than perfect honesty anyway. Not, unless they be put in a situation where exposing the lie would further endanger the liar. And so Esme swallowed the livid protests.
“Now,” the knight declared on horseback, “regarding your confession and accusation, my seneschal had made swift work in the night and early morning to sound out the truth.” He scratched his bevor, as though it was his chin unarmored. “The artisans near to the premise confirmed your information, that my man had committed dishonor, that you might have been justified in defending yourself.”
“Believe you it, my lord?” she asked.
He nodded. “I confirmed just now with my own eyes - though your proposal had me briefly in doubt - you are no fighter. I do not imagine an armed man could be slain by a lass so harmless - and by his own sword no less - unless the situation... proved complicated.” He appeared uncomfortable to put it in words. “Very well, as far as I and the laws are concerned, I do declare you are clear of charges, Cordelia. I do not hold you account for murder, nor shall any men loyal to me shall inconvenience you in aught unbecoming way.”
Beside her, Esme seemed visibly relaxed. Cordelia was not. It hardly mattered in the first place whether he believed in her or not. Not at this stage. Not when she had a different goal in mind. If it could have been such a simple trial, there would never have been a need for all this clamor in the middle of the town. A simple meeting at his keep would suffice. But nay, this was her demand.
“I pray your pardon, my lord knight,” she said, “but there’s another matter I addressed in my letter--”
“Well,” he overrode her at once, “Here’s my offer. As recompense for the offense my man had caused, I offered seven hundred pence, for the man himself could no longer be punished, this shall be paid from my personal fund. And I say to you it shall be wise to take this offer, on account of your mistress’ living.”
“You know well I can’t.” She answered right away. “It is either what I begged of you or a chance to realize it.”
But he shook his head, leaning forth restlessly on his horse. “Which under no obligation I am to obey. Pray, take you the money and be away, lass. I cannot bring a perfect stranger into my household.”
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
“My lord,” Cordelia drew up, gazing straight in the uneasy knight’s eyes. “I shall not accept your money, I won’t. And that is final. Either bid me away by force or allow my request a chance. I plead once more that you allow my mistress to squire for you.”
“No!” It was Esme who raised her voice suddenly, “This is not needed, if he does not want-”
“With all my frank honesty,” Cordelia cut her off, “ ‘Tis my decision to make, Miss. Dirty not your hand nor trouble your mind, for it is my duty to follow through.”
To this the knight shifted on his horse. Cordelia marked this reaction and pleaded once more. “Will you accede then, my lord, to my request?”
“That I cannot,” he answered.
“Then it is the alternative I desire - our purpose for being here - I challenge you to a duel,” she said, matter of factly.
“I am not obliged to accept it,” he said. And he sat up with a frown. Even though he had made the preparation for one to take place, having anticipated that it would come down to this. Simply a last-ditch attempt to avoid fighting a woman who was not a fighter.
She observed the man. In her plan, this part only had been left to be improvised upon meeting him in person. And now that she had, all the cold observations as elating as praises of the raven Huginn rang true. That as a man, a knight, a father, a landlord, he was at once proud and honorable. And yet she saw also, markedly, how the latter played the bigger part in his character. That pride came second, being a given luxury of the ruling class. But honor was a thing ingrained, so much so he was one of those who lived and died for tiny shame as well as great deeds.
Humans are quite amusing when you think about it. Things they consider virtues in the open they sneer at in secret. They admire and demand in others what they themselves find ample excuses to have not. No doubt a saner, “wiser” man would consider being so honorable to a fault unadvised. That there is something foolish in recompensating a woman who could be thrown into the dungeon with little resistance. That there is something unnecessary in acceding to the demand for a trial in public while an authority is available to drag that girl to your feet, your reputation unharmed. And why even argue, when the final word is yours?
But this man was not so.
This character was what marked a knight from a common man, Cordelia realized, not the superfluous things Esme had rambled on about: the coats of arms or education or romance. ‘Twas a character quite close to fanatic, a creature almost deprived of common humanity, an angel not made to fall but to immortally guard the pearly gates, more conceptual than real. More knight than human.
Or mayhap it was only this knight.
Long story short, unlike her confrontation with the seneschal at the keep’s gate, it would be foolish to strike now at his pride as a man. For though proud, he would not stir even should she, a peasant girl he deemed harmless, call him a coward. In fact, it was specifically because she was young and harmless that it would not work.
Instead, she drew her voice up, roaring as though in utter despair: “Will you deny a woman's claim to honor lost, my lord knight? Have you an idea ‘twas my dignity your man had harmed, not my pocket? Can you not see that only by fulfilling this lacking duty as a servant may my wounded dignity as a woman be redressed? Would you not grant a chance - not even the thing itself - for which I am desperate, though ‘tis in your ability to do it?”
At length, he stared back, his silent expression unreadable behind the helmet, as though unaffected by her sudden appeals. Then he dismounted, and beckoned the squire who carried his arms over. His movements as that of a man condemned.
“Very well,” he said, “I accept your challenge. But know that I do not dishonor you when I say now that should this contest result in your loss, the recompense I promised would be paid in full nonetheless. Is that well?”
“I know you are well intended, my lord. But victory shall liberate my lady from monetary needs. And as for my shame my lady’s employment is redress enough.”
There was much to remark on her unwarranted confidence, but he made naught. The knight lifted his sword from the squire, a two-handed affair measuring to his own height. Little needs to be said of the stark contrast between a martial lord in plates and a girl in the habit of a man, equipped with a somewhat rusty, untreated blade. At the edge of the square, confused mumbles spread through the eager audience, remarking of a turn of events both amusing and bizarre. Not a single person in the square expected the fight to be aught more than the knight’s whacking a lesson into the insolent commoner’s stubborn head.
Even Cordelia anticipated little else.
Even so, she sized up her opponent.
There lay, to be sure, the reason why the knight was so opposed to taking her challenge. Not only because such a battle could only conclude as an exercise in humiliation, which runs opposed to a knight’s values, but also for the risk he might accidentally injure his rather too feeble foe. Pathetic a thought that was.
And so she entered the ground of combat, seeing what to come as less of a duel than a gamble, her only ace being the power she had tried on Esme yesterday.
“Lass,” said the knight, “Shall we assume your challenging me to this duel means you are learned of all the trappings this practice involves?”
“Aye, sir,” she answered, “I have the required knowledge. And speaking the terms out somewhat shames me for the unfairness of which. But regardless, they are so: should I be the victor, you will have my lady serve you; if you should win, I will go away, never to bother you again.”
“And you will take the money I offered. And now, since you claim to understand the laws of honorable duel, I shall speak only of added terms: that he, or she, who connects the first strike shall be the victor, and no first blood need be drawn.”
That was only sensible. She had witnessed firsthand how Sir Derrick had fought off an army of fey in full plates, unhelmed. But for her to do what a pack of vicious feys could not was unthinkable.
“And needless to say,” his eyes between the gap of his helmet narrowed, “--for this is a duel bound by honor, nothing outside of which is permitted. Among others, no underhanded methods, no magic, no poison - all forbidden on pain of an oath broken. Are we clear?”
So it seemed the marquess’s seneschal had warned him somewhat of his insubstantial fear.
Here goes nothing.