Chapter 2

The crowd was buzzing restlessly about the stands when Jean and I arrived, Redlocks in tow. The rains, which must have been bucketing down all night, had turned the lists into a small lake, and grooms were still busy sweeping the waters back with enormous yard brushes. This had the convenient effect of delaying the action for a time, so after speaking to the joustmaster in the staging pen and explaining that Sir Falris would be unable to take part (bad fish, I lied half-heartedly) and that Jean would ride in his stead, I took off through the throng to place some bets.

By my reckoning, almost half of all the chivalry in the kingdom was gathered there that afternoon in early July in the valley between Siltshore and Mynton, and it was quite the idyll:

The banners of the three Houses were playing lazily above their respectively allotted seating; the eagle of Cragge, the fox of Adonowyth, and the dancing eels of my own sweet Wridwick. Dwarfing the three, on the other side of the lists and held steady by the household giant Medmuxigar (he was sixty-three feet tall then and not even fully grown yet), the great red royal banner of the Lorille dynasty flew proudly as if in a strong gale, most certainly enchanted to do so by Ravlix, the King’s tame wizard. Even the royal device, the Blade Aflame, seemed to have a light all its own, the painted fire appearing to writhe and lick at the fabric. All along the run, troupes of minstrels in the royal livery of red and white played lively jigs as dancers in motley pranced and tumbled about. Underfoot, hob-nosed cawns bustled platters of cold cuts and flatbreads to late breakfasters, while high above, swarms of fairies flew hither and tither with flutes of amberwine to keep the crowd sedate while they waited.

My destination was the shadowy demi-monde behind the stands where, curtained from innocent eyes, the bookies were plying their trade. “Sir Falris withdrew, he did?” called Portly Pat when he saw me. I groaned silently, for I owed the man three crowns. He was a jolly-looking fellow in his late fifties and portly, obviously.

“Aye,” I replied, coming to a stop before his table and opening my coin purse. “Bad fish.” How the news had reached his cabbaged ears so swiftly was beyond my ken, but all good bookies are spymasters.

He’d been smiling as I pulled my purse strings, but now he scratched his bald head in irritation. “Bad wine, more like. All wine’s bad after it’s been carted out to this end of the kingdom, sloshin’ around on roads rougher’n any poxin’ sea. You know I busted two wheels gettin’ here? Not to mention one o’ me asses is like to be lame for a fortnight. And will the Crown compensate me? Like pox it will. Divines, don’t we have enough tiltyards back at Castle Steepcliffe? Where’s the profit in draggin’ us three hundred miles to these parts, I ask you?”

I nodded as caringly as I could manage. “Even kings need a holiday, I suppose.”

“Pffft. T’aint King Gramm’s doin’, I can assure you o’ that! In any case, squire, will you be placin’ some bets wi’ me this afternoon?” He was all proper business once again, so I consulted the fixtures board and began to jot down my bets with one of his famed pheasant feather quills on the parchment laid out. Nothing extravagant, mind, for I had but two crowns left in my pocket after settling up with him.

“Think your boy’ll last one turn?” he needled.

“Several, hopefully,” I said, not rising to the bait but making a show of betting a crown on my brother-in-arms. Now there was coin thrown in the pigsty, I thought, but one must maintain a certain image around the peasantry, especially the rich ones.

“Aye,” mused Portly, “haven’t had a good championing in months, and I’m made to understand that Squire Jean’s got the eye. ‘Course, Baron Parven does love schoolin’ youngins what don’t know their place. Puts him in a right good mood, it does.” And here he dropped to a whisper. “Might just put him in a mood good enough to pay me what he owes me, eh?” Then he gave me his patented doubting scowl and allowed me to make several more bets on credit before I left him harrumphing to himself about his betters needing to be better with money.

You may wonder as to why old Portly was so familiar with me and so generous with credit (which was usually reserved for only the most fat-pursed clients). It was on account of my father, Sir Maren de Valois, the Hero of the Spire, who had died from his wounds after single-handedly saving King Gramm and his brood from assassination in the last war. As his only heir, and my father not having had the foresight to amass much of an inheritance for me, I lived something of a moderately charmed existence on the goodwill of the kingdom.

When I returned to the pen, Jean had already mounted Redlocks, looking every bit the knight in shoddy armour, with his dented helm, dull light mail and chipped shield. Even his set of lances looked to have been painted over gods knew how many times. His family was of no repute at all, of course, and he had often had to ask other squires for loans of gear. I felt a queer sort of guilt all of a sudden now that the dread hour was upon us. I even found myself offering to buy him a better mace than the grandfatherly one he had at his hip, but he cried off. He probably thought I’d grease the leather on the haft before I gave it to him. I’d done things like that before.

“Well, good luck then, friend Jean,” I said, making busy feeding Redlocks some of the coloured lowly grain that Anyak said brought luck. The great gangly brown beast slobbered on my fingers.

“Aye, Anton, I shall see you anon,” was all he had to say in reply to my kindness, which bristled my hackles, and I was about to respond with something arch when I spied Baron Cragge riding into the pen on Gravesby, his massive black stallion, and instinct told me to make myself scarce.

I had Sir Bandren Dolt in the opener against Sir Floriday Hewliff, and the ever reliable Sir Bandren let me down by finally living up to his surname and breaking his arm in a crash to the ground in the first poxing tilt. To be fair, he valiantly insisted on carrying on, but Sir Floriday wouldn’t hear of it, curse him, which denied us a spectacle too. I consoled myself with another flute of amberwine (I’d taken up residence high in the stands with some other Wridwick squires, and we were making a party of it with a basket of drink that someone had bullied out of the fairies). From up here I had a good view of the proceedings–on the field and off–including of the royals on their dais, and I marvelled for perhaps the hundredth time at what a motley crew they were. There was old King Gramm, looking like a mound of old porridge in his wheeled chair, and to his left the fading rose, Queen Mattild (a Steepcliffe Grenstable and cousin to Sir Leam, our paladin) dressed in a yellow and green gown so gaudy it stung the eyes to look upon. To the King’s right was an empty chair, Prince Thraddic having scuttled himself again on dreamsalts the night before; we doubtless wouldn’t see him until late evening. Behind the queen, like a squadron of ducklings, were the royal couple’s three daughters; Mousy, Horsey and Eater, their monikers as cruel as they were accurate. And there, in attendance to the trio, were maidens of the three Houses, including my fair Selene Cragge, who was looking like her natural iciness had frozen her over once more. I wondered if I might get the chance to thaw her again before she returned to her mountains.

The second joust was Sir Dunston Sless against Don Arturo Baggi, which won me a half crown after Sir Dunston dispensed with the lance altogether, vaulting from his horse at full speed, slamming into the foreigner and proceeding to pound the poo out of him on the ground; this was all years before Lord Creen’s regrettable jousting reforms, of course. I had been about to cheer for Sir Dunston but I spied Sir Leam not far from where I sat, recalling that he and Sir Dunston had squabbled over a prize stallion recently, so I smothered my enthusiasm. All was not bliss in House Wridwick, but more of that anon.

For here it was, and I must admit mine own nerves were going like harp strings by now, for as much of a noseleak as Jean was, I’d made more from betting on him in the last three months than I had in the last three years. The thought of losing him to injury, or worse, was wretched.

“For our third meeting,” bellowed the royal herald, his voice carrying the length of the gathering as clearly as if it were in one’s ear, “we have the good knight and guardian of the King’s northern domains, Baron Parven Cragge, who will ride against Master Jean Forgeron, winner of the Fetley Cup, the Belton Sceptre and runner-up in this year’s Grand Melee of Squires at Lunstridge Mill.”

And in rode Jean in his hodgepodge armour, with Redlocks shying most embarrassingly at the cheer that went up from the Wridwick contingent. At the other end of the track, Baron Cragge emerged in his midnight black armour and winged eagle helm to rote enthusiasm from his cohort, Gravesby looking more like a dragon than a horse, snorting and stamping his forehooves evilly.

An ominous murmur was blowing through the crowd. They knew a mismatch when they saw one.

“I say, Anton,” shouted Rigglen, a creature of mine and one of Sir Dunston’s squires, at my side, “this is not at all the thing, really, is it? And you say Jean volunteered? Would it not have been more fitting for you to ride in Sir Falris’ stead?”

I thought about throwing him over the back of the stands, but I merely glared him away, for at the swipe of the joustmaster’s flag, the two combatants were off.

Baron Cragge started at a trot, leisurely as you like, but now all of a sudden full of horrible purpose and looking inexorable as a landslide.

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Jean, by comparison, came on as fast as an enchanted arrow from the offing. That was Redlock’s true strength, as it was Jean’s. He was a blur as he rode to meet the great rolling rock of Cragge.

Seventy yards…

Fifty…

Thirty…

Ten…

Cragge was barely a third of the way along the track when Jean drove his lancehead squarely into that thick shell of steel, right into the centre of his opponent’s chest. The Baron didn’t even have time to get his shield in place… but of course it was to no good. Jean’s lance bent and shattered into a hundred pieces, with the much bigger man being moved from his trajectory not even an inch, his own lance missing Jean by an arm’s length.

A cheer went up for such good play on Jean’s part, but many others groaned, myself among them, for one could not have hoped for a better strike, and for it all to come to nought…

Jean came to a stop at the end of the track, took another of his lances from a Wridwick groom and waited for Baron Cragge to take up his position to begin again.

And so it went for another three turns, Jean pipping the Baron exactly where he intended to while dodging his opponent’s lance by pivoting like an acrobat in the saddle (a recent contrivance; dancing, we called it). It was marvellous to see such a display of unorthodox skill on such a stage, especially against a disapproving traditionalist like Baron Cragge, and I basked in reflected glory as the other squires slapped my back in enthusiasm. But, again, all of Jean’s efforts resulted in just what I had predicted: lances turned to firewood.

Eventually, on the fifth turn, Baron Cragge had had his fill of Jean’s antics.

“Quit that dancing, boy!” he roared as he took up his position once more. “Meet me as a true son of Wridwick, if that is what you are!”

I couldn’t be quite sure if Jean had heard his words, but the challenge was unequivocal. They both rushed to meet each other, and just when I thought Jean would brace and take the strike on his shield, he danced again.

“Coward!” Baron Cragge fumed, and a cry of agreement went up, even, worryingly, from some of our own (I made note of the names). The crowd was beginning to turn against the underdog.

The two kicked off yet again, both horses flagging somewhat now, but Grimsby by far the more, and when they were five yards from one another, the unthinkable happened; the Baron lowered his lance at the last possible moment and took Redlocks through the neck. There was one united gasp of horror as the world seemed to slow to the pace of a snail. Poor Redlocks’ forelegs buckled, and he and Jean went tumbling down in a screeching wreck of steel and horseflesh.

“Hah!” snorted Baron Cragge, reining up.

Everyone was on their feet, and dark grumblings quickly boiled over into outright booing.

I’d never seen its like. Yes, horses were often injured or even killed in the fury of a tilt, but for the animal to be deliberately targeted…

Baron Cragge ignored the crowd and dismounted as if he were about to join a picnic. A Cragge groom appeared, wrestling with a monstrously great mace and the Baron took it, swinging it as if it weighed no more than a rolling pin.

Jean looked dazed but was getting to his feet, great sheets of mud sloughing off his armour. He scraped the stuff off his shield with his own mace, and the Forgeron crest (a frollicking unicorn of all things) presented dully. He did not make an inspiring sight.

The Baron advanced on him with some effort, for he must have weighed forty stone betwixt himself and his armour, and all of it being sucked at by the greedy wet mud. Each laboured pace seemed to sap some of his strength, but it was not enough to stop him smashing through the tilting fence with an easy swipe of his weapon.

Jean made no move but to nod assent as two grooms came to dispatch the fallen Redlocks. The Baron’s lance stood obscenely upright from the beast’s throat, and yet still he struggled to rise, bloody froth pouring from between his huge square horse teeth. I looked away as they drove a long iron shaft through his temple and into his brain, ending his worries forever. Anyak’s corn had not brought him the right kind of luck.

And now it was Jean’s turn to advance. He carefully tested the Baron’s range, skirting around to the much bigger man’s right, forcing him to switch his grip on that awful weapon, and when he did, Jean darted in on his off-side, striking him on the wrist, where the plate steel segments gave way to nowt but ringmail and hardened leather.

“Rahhh!” roared the Baron, losing his grip on his weapon and clutching his hand, and quick as a whippet, Jean was in again with a back-handed slash that bent a wing on Cragge’s helm and sent him reeling back into the fence.

Wild cheering broke out, with mine own voice louder than any other. Godspox me, why hadn’t I bet more on the golden boy?

Cragge managed to raise his good arm against a third attack and Jean’s mace but bounced off the thick steel. The Baron almost had him then, his good hand closing on the empty air where a moment before Jean’s head had been.

Jean backed off quickly, like a wolf before a wounded bear. His strategy was clear now; in his much lighter armour, he was able to traverse the mud far more easily than his opponent. I saw now too that he wore those wide-soled sabatons of his. I felt stupid for not having teased his thinking out beforehand.

There was a moment’s break as the same Cragge groom from before appeared and strapped a shield on Baron Cragge’s wounded arm, and the Baron took up a chained morning star in his other.

When the groom departed, the combatants came together again, and the crowd, Redlocks a distant memory, let out a hearty roar as the Baron began to swing the black ball of the morning star in a wide, practised arc. Suddenly, it was all Jean could do to stay out of its range. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh went the deadly ball as the Baron came on, and then there was the sudden THWACK of impact as he lunged forward and Jean barely got his shield up in time. The Forgeron unicorn device was torn away. Again and again, steel ball smashed into poplarwood, wrenching Jean this way and that, until his shield was whittled down to hardly a sliver.

But the Baron was tiring, every swing depleting him. He stumbled now, almost falling, and Jean pounced in again, taking him on the side of the helm, the impact ringing out awfully. Baron Cragge dropped to a knee, protecting his head with his arms.

“Murder him!” I found myself screaming, but thankfully it was drowned out by the crowd. Yet it wouldn’t have helped anyway, for Jean, that honourable fool, was moving back to let the Baron recover, with the crowd clapping in moronic appreciation of his fair play. I could have torn my eyes out at what I was seeing.

Baron Cragge rose again, looking very unsteady, but then he was falling, all his famous strength leeched away, into the mud.

I was the first one on my feet, bellowing victory, as Cragge healers ran to attend to the Baron. I’d have been dancing like a lunatic if I were Jean, yet he was hardly stirring but to remove his helm.

They were taking the Baron away on a stretcher when I arrived to be the first to congratulate my new best friend.

“Oh, well done, Jean, well done!” I cried, holding out my hand.

Jean nodded, taking it. “I did my best,” said he. What a solemn trout, I thought. Well, I’d certainly enjoy his victory, even if he didn’t.

Rigglen and the others were there now too, hugging Jean and simpering something dreadful, as if we hadn’t only yesterday come up with a ditty in his honour called The Upjumped Bumpkin. We were all giddy as damsels on account of the amberwine, of course. Oh, but it truly was marvellous. It was the biggest triumph for the squires since Danwith Danlock had slain the Troll King at the Battle of Winking Moon, sixty years previous.

A bottle of that fizzed-up foreign piss appeared and I took it, shaking it vigorously and spraying Jean from head to toe (which was all the stuff was good for). “The mud,” I explained, laughing when I saw his stony scowl. “I’m cleaning your armour!” At that, he couldn’t help but smile too, and I realised with alarm that it was the first time I’d ever seen him do so. At that, a wave of tipsy optimism washed over me. Yes, I thought, maybe we really could be friends! After all, he’d just won me thirty crowns. And what a night was due us. We would be the toast of the kingdom, all expenses paid!

And then Baron Cragge had to go and ruin everything by dying.

***

“Dead, begads?!” rasped Sir Falris. Despite the fine day, he was cocooned in a lambswool blanket by the open stove, looking strangely small for all his girth. He'd missed everything, of course. I was never quite sure of his age, but he seemed ancient at that moment, salving his hangover with one of Anyak’s teas. She served it to him from shaking hands, inconsolable over Redlocks.

“Aye,” I said with cheer, “Jean brained him splendidly. Redlocks avenged, eh?!”

“Stop saying that, Anton!” snarled the champion of the Squires.

“A boy o’ mine slew the Bear o’ Cragge…” Sir Falris whispered, gazing into the flames. I couldn’t decide if he was proud or appalled. “At any rate,” he said, remembering himself, “it behooves us to make for Steepcliffe forthwith. Anyak, my dear, see to the carriage as best you can. Anton, yourself and Jean will make ready the baggage and strike the tent.”

“But the celebrations!” I cried.

“Are you drunk, boy?” he spluttered, stabbing a hungover eye at me. “The master of the north lays slain by Jean’s hand, and you think to-”

A huge shadow fell across the entryway, and as Anyak made to see who it was, its caster pushed his way in. It was Sir Redmund Yngring of the Royal Guard, a huge barrel-chested champion of a man. I'd have been happy to see him, for I was one of his favourites, but something in his look gave me pause.

“Begging your pardon, Sir Falris, but I needs must take your lad into custody. There is to be an investigation.”

Sir Falris was on his feet, red beard ashiver. “Damn it, Ed. The man knew the risks, and Jean’s as-”

“Not Jean, Sir Falris. Anton.”