For My Lady's Heart (9 page)

In the stands noble ladies shrilled their disapproval, answered by
impudent shouts from some of the common soldiers below. Another scuffle
broke out and spread. Melanthe felt the duke tense beside her, but his
guards moved quickly, laying about with clubs and staves and hauling the
brawlers away.

Lancaster made another subtle signal to the marshal, and the next
challenge heralded was without the Green Sire. Melanthe watched as her
champion left the gate. He and his squire were surrounded instantly by
soldiers and commoners, who made a phalanx about his horse and escorted him
through the mob toward the tents.

“But if you allow him yet more rest, my lord,” she complained petulantly,
“what chance have these beardless children to defeat him?”

Lancaster swung a goaded look upon her. She swished the plume lightly.

“There are other matches to be fought, Princess,” he said. “We have a
hundred knights who desire to joust.”

“I suppose my champion has not time to fight them all,” she murmured.
“Though I vow, I had not truly supposed him the greatest of the lot. I
believe my father or brother could have knocked him down several times
over.”

He managed a creditable smile. “Perhaps so, my lady. But the day is not
yet gone.”

“I despair of surprises at this late hour.” She shook her head. “The
great days of the tournaments are past. We have only boys’ games now. The
king your father, God’s blessing upon him, would find this a pale image of
the splendid spectacles he has hosted.”

Lancaster had become quite red now about the neck, but still he only
nodded, stiffly polite. “There is naught to surpass the tournaments of our
beloved lord the king.”

Melanthe gazed upon the pair now thundering toward each other. To her
pleasure, and the crowd’s sneers, they missed each another entirely—a
commonplace in any ordinary
pas de arms,
but the first time it had
occurred today. She clucked ruefully. “I suppose the Italians care more for
their honor in these matters,” she commented. “They take their ease upon the
hearth rug instead of in the lists, and joust like gallant men before the
ladies.”

Lancaster made a sudden move, sitting straighter in his chair. A page
moved quickly to him—they bent their heads together for an instant, and then
the duke rose. “You will forgive my discourtesy, Your Highness.” He bowed
deeply. “A summons from my brother the prince—I regret I must leave your
companionship awhile.”

Melanthe acknowledged him with good grace. “Be pleased to go at once,”
she said, “with my health and dear friendship, may God keep our esteemed
Lord Edward the prince.”

He turned, with a degree less than his usual elegance, and strode down
the steps behind his page. The musicians continued to play their merry
melody. Melanthe looked after him, fanning herself slowly and smiling.

The crowd had grown dangerously restless with the lesser jousts, and
Lancaster was still missing from the
escafaut
by the time the
heralds’ trumpets blew a great fanfare, silencing the musicians and the
noise. The marshal of the lists held up his arms and strode to the center of
the ground, his slashed sleeves showing blue under scarlet and his cape
flying out behind him.

“Now comes the one who will take their measure!” he shouted. “The one who
will take their measure has arrived!”

As he declared the ritual words, old as the legends of King Arthur and
Lancelot, the throng burst into frenzy. The discharge of sound beat against
Melanthe’s ears like the blare of the trumpets themselves.

From between the tents came a knight the color of blood-sunset, galloping
with his black lance balanced on one hand above his head, his armor shining
reddish gold. He rode a massive black destrier encased in the same
shimmering metal. His shield was sable, as dark as his lance and horse,
without device or color.

He dragged his mount to a halt at the stone monument. A hush fell over
the onlookers, delicious expectation; a carnal pleasure in this drama. The
black lance poised—and came down on the silver falcon, rocking it with force
of the blow. The shield he had chosen rang with a wooden resonance as the
cheers hit a new plane of passion.

A outrance.

The black lance had no safe coronal to blunt it, but a sharp tip. The
shield it had struck was not the battered falcon with the hood, but the one
that hung above it, with the silver bird of prey unhooded, offering combat
a outrance
—beyond all limits.

A joust of war, fought to the death with real weapons.

His attendants came behind him, a full score, masked, dressed as fools in
rainbow colors, playing flutes and hunting horns. The curling toes of their
shoes were so long and pointed that they were attached by belled chains at
the knee. They made a grotesque fantasy behind the blood-gold knight, an
uncanny contrast to his hostile silence.

Amid the cries and tumult, Melanthe’s green knight rode out to meet him,
armed with a sharpened lance. She pressed her palms together and tasted the
salt on her fingertips, then folded her hands and held Gryngolet’s jesses
motionless in her lap.

The hunting horns mingled their clear notes with the trumpets, rising
higher and higher into the air. They broke off one by one, leaving a single
carol from the herald’s horn to ascend and echo back from the stands and the
river and the city walls, dying away like an angel’s voice.

The knights saluted Melanthe, the golden one with an extra flourish.

As they faced their mounts toward each other, the Green Sire pulled his
arm from within the leather straps and threw his shield away.

He knew it. Melanthe knew it. The crowd guessed it—and burst into a furor
of scandalized exaltation as the man hidden inside the ruddy gold armor
tossed down his blank shield in answer.

When the lances couched level, an instant of silent anticipation
blanketed the onlookers. The black horse threw its head and charged. The
Green Sire spurred his destrier. In the hush the thunderous roll of the
animals’ hooves made the wood beneath Melanthe’s feet vibrate.

The lances impacted with the sound of fractured bone, of a hundred
hammers against steel. Both knights fell backward and sideways, clinging to
smashed lances; hanging half off their mounts against the weight of armor as
the onlookers broke into an uproar.

The rainbow attendants rushed to propel their master back into place and
supply him with a fresh lance. He was already at the charge before the Green
Sire had hauled himself upright and grabbed his new lance from the
hunchback. As the green spear swung up, tip to the sky, Melanthe realized
that he had it in the wrong hand to meet his opponent.

A sound like a great moan rose from the crowd. His dancing mount froze in
place. As the challenger realized his advantage, he aimed for the most vital
target, leveling the black lance at his adversary’s head. The green knight
didn’t even attempt to compel his horse forward, but faced the oncoming
lance and rider as if he were entranced. The onlookers’ groan rose to
voluptuous agony.

Then the Green Sire seemed to collapse; an instant before the black spear
hit his faceplate, he and his lance both toppled sideways—a sheer
perpendicular to his course. As the tip of the black spear grazed his helm,
the green lance swung down across his opponent’s path.

The rod took the golden knight flat across his belly. In a crash of
plated metal he seemed to fly, bent double for a suspended instant across
the lance as the green destrier sat down on its haunches, scrambling against
the force of the butt end jammed between the Green Sire’s thigh and the
pommel.

Melanthe found herself on her feet with everyone else. She stared at the
fallen knight stretched on his back on the ground. When he moved, rising
drunkenly, his golden armor dimmed by dust, she sat down. The green destrier
wheeled and galloped after the loose horse, scattering the attendants as if
they were colorful leaves.

Leaning to catch the reins, her champion flipped them over the black’s
head just as his mount danced away from a vicious kick. The horses trotted
together to the little hunchback, who took the black as if it were a palfrey
instead of a trained warhorse—and the animal lowered its head, submitting
instantly, as if it recognized that a man without armor was no enemy. The
squire led the captured horse out of the gate. Melanthe looked away from the
dirty golden challenger as he swayed to his feet, shaking off his
attendants’ aid.

The Green Sire sat fixed upon his horse, gazing toward her.

The nameless challenger drew his sword, shouting within his helm. Still
her knight did not move, but stared toward Melanthe. The great helm showed
only menace, its eyeslits black and empty, but she saw beyond, saw a man on
his knees in the great hall, looking up at her with intense entreaty. She
allowed herself no change of expression, gazing steadily back.

The red-gold challenger shouted again. Her knight turned and swung down
from his horse, jerking his sword from its sheath. His squire ran up to him
with his shield and bascinet helm, but the challenger was already running
forward, aiming a great swing with a sword that took the sun to its tip,
shining murderous steel.

The hunchback ducked away, dragging the destrier with him. Her knight met
the blow with an upward cut; the weapons rang and the crowd cheered. Neither
man gave way as the blows fell, denting helmets and armor. They fought as
barbarians fought, without mercy.

The golden knight slashed over and over at her champion’s neck, killing
blows, pivoting and swinging back again. He landed a strike that made the
Green Sire stumble sideways, but her knight seemed better at mischance even
than advantage, turning his swordhand down and slicing sideways, beneath his
adversary’s arm, cutting through the vambrace strap. The challenger’s plate
flapped loose, exposing vulnerable chain mail above his elbow.

He did not appear to realize it, whipping his sword again toward his
opponent’s helmet. It struck, driving a deep dent in the steel—under the
force of the blow, the green knight’s sword seemed to fly from his hand, but
then it was in his left as if he’d snatched it from the air. He brought it
overhead, striking an arc downward, the sharpened edge aimed for his
adversary’s outstretched arm with a force that would slice through chain
mail and bone alike.

Sunlight flashed on the broad side of the blade. Melanthe closed her
eyes. She heard it hit—and the golden knight’s grunt of pain was audible an
instant before the throng burst into noisy reaction.

She blinked her eyes open. The challenger was hauling himself up off the
ground, but he could not seem to gain any purchase on his sword. The Green
Sire stood over him, looking up again at Melanthe. She had full expected to
see the blood-gold arm severed and covered in real gore.

But it was still attached to its owner—only rendered useless. The golden
knight was groping for his sword with his left hand, his other hanging
ineffectually at his side.

The marshall had stepped forward, poised with his white arrow, but the
fallen challenger shouted furiously at him. The official hesitated, his hand
wavering, and then bowed and stepped back.

The red-gold knight rolled, pushing himself to his feet with his good
arm. Melanthe’s champion took a step toward her, the black eyeslits in his
helm still focused in her direction. She could see his heavy breathing at
the edges of his hauberk.

He lifted his hand, palm up in petition.

Melanthe saw the red-gold opponent achieve his feet. He shouted, his
words obscured and echoing within the helm, and raised his sword with his
left arm.

She ignored her champion’s appeal, staring at him coldly.

The challenger ran forward. The Green Sire turned, met the sword, and
threw it off. He thrust the tip of his weapon at the golden knight’s helm,
catching the visor’s edge, shoving the whole helmet upward, half off.
Blinded, the other man ducked away, flailing his wounded arm and his sword
to reset the helm, but another blow took it completely off.

It rolled across the ground. A great roar swelled from the crowd.
Lancaster stood swaying in the middle of the dusty list. One of his
attendants grabbed the helmet and ran toward him.

Her green knight turned yet again to Melanthe. He lifted his sword and
shoved his helmet off his head with both hands; throwing the armor away from
him. He pushed back his mail coif. Sweat streaked his face, stained with
rust from inside the helm, marking the edge of his curling, half-plastered
black hair. He did not look toward Lancaster, but still to her, breathing in
great deep gusts.

She watched the attendants rehelm their master, and then met her
champion’s silent plea with calm indifference. He closed his eyes and turned
his face upward, like a man under torture.

The duke rushed at him. Without helm, the Green Sire came on guard. He
ducked his liege’s left-handed swing and pressed close inside the other
man’s reach, nullifying the lack of a helmet. Lancaster tried to grapple him
with both arms, but the injured one would not lift past his waist. The
duke’s sword cut awkwardly across the back of the Green Sire’s head,
spreading crimson on black curls and mail. The blades locked at their hilts,
crossed, pointing at the sky, shaking with the force of each man’s strength.

Lancaster made a hard shove, turning his sword inward between them,
trying to slash it into the green knight’s unprotected face. The tip sliced
her champion’s cheek, but he used the sudden motion to thrust his elbow back
and up in one vicious lunge, ramming the guard against Lancaster’s fist,
breaking the duke’s hold on his weapon. The duke made a desperate recovery,
trying to retain his blade. The sword dropped, the tip lodging for an
instant against the earth just as Lancaster caught it. As he stumbled, the
Green Knight’s blade came up broadside against his helmet.