Shadows on a Sword (2 page)

“A knight cannot shine in war if he has not prepared for battle in tournaments.” The words of the count’s old squire, Hugh, echoed in Theo’s mind. Hugh had trained Theo well. “See your own blood flow, feel your own teeth crack with a well-aimed blow, that’s what you need, my young friend.” He had seen to it that Theo had experienced some of that pain, and Theo winced with the memory. Many of the tournaments Theo had taken part in had been, in fact, little more than undisciplined brawls. Men were injured frequently, and sometimes even killed. Godfrey, however, would have none of that. He had established rules and insisted on them being carried out strictly.

“We have many battles to come,” he had said. “I will not have my men die needlessly beforehand.”

Yet, as Theo watched, the very first bout brought death. Count Reginald, one of Godfrey’s own noblemen, caught his opponent squarely on the shield with his long, blunt-nosed lance, and unhorsed him.

The warhorse bolted. With his foot caught in the stirrup, the knight was dragged the length of the field before grooms were able to run out and get the horse back under control. The knight lay still on the ground. His own two squires carried him off.

“One who will not be with us on our journey, I fear,” Count Garnier said. His voice was tight. His own bout was next.

Theo willed his mind to go blank, to shut the fear out. He had seen death before. He dug his fingers into the thick, wiry gray mane of his warhorse. Centurion shuddered, and shifted nervously.

A superb horseman, the count defeated his opponent easily. The others of his house did equally well. By the time it finally came to Theo’s turn, the nervousness in his stomach had turned into a knot of pain. He swallowed hard as he tightened up the reins. The sour taste was worse. He settled his shield into his left shoulder, and received his lance from his groom. Across the field from him, another knight was making his preparations. Sweat poured into Theo’s eyes, but even with a free hand, he would not have been able to reach under the metal nose and forehead guard of his helmet. He blinked. The field in front of him blurred. A spot between his shoulder blades began to itch. Trumpets blared out. Centurion carved a deep half-moon into the green turf with one anxious stamp of a hoof. Theo clenched his right fist around the shaft of his lance, balanced the weight of it, and spurred the warhorse on.

“Now, Centurion!” he cried.

Centurion reacted with an explosion of movement unbelievable in an animal so immense. Theo found himself hurtling toward his opponent. The two horses crossed, careening within inches of each other. Great gobs of grass and earth flew into the air with the impact of the animals’ hooves. Theo felt his lance strike the other’s shield, then glance off. At the same instant, his opponent’s lance struck Theo’s shield with such force that, for a moment, Theo lost his balance. He tottered, almost lost his seat, then gripped desperately with his knees and managed to remain in the saddle. He was already past the other knight and galloping toward the far end of the field.

He pulled back hard on the reins, forcing Centurion into a tight turn. The charger snorted, flecks of foam flying from his mouth. Theo collected himself and quieted the horse. He settled his shield, renewed his grip on his lance. Across the field, his opponent was preparing himself again as well. They turned their chargers and faced each other. The warhorses, frantic with excitement now, tore at their bridles and ripped the ground with their hooves.

The signal sounded once more. Theo’s training took over. Aim low, in at the side, under the shoulder. Get under the shield! The horses raced toward each other, sweat-soaked withers colliding. This time, his opponent’s lance missed completely, but Theo’s found its mark with a jar that sent splinters of pain up his arm and into his shoulder. He held fast. The other knight let out a cry and flew out of his saddle. Theo twisted to look, even as he pulled at Centurion’s bridle to swing him around again. A clean fall. The other knight was already on his knees. A surge of triumph flooded through Theo. He had won!

As Theo checked Centurion and looked down at his fallen opponent, the other looked back up at him. Their eyes locked. The knight was young, probably not much older than Theo. What could be seen of his face was purple with rage and humiliation. Theo lifted his lance in a salute.

“Well fought,” he began.

The other spat onto the ground.

The trumpets sounded for the last time, signaling the end of the tournament. Theo wheeled Centurion away. If the knight was so ill-mannered, that was his concern. He, Theo, would not have been so ungracious in defeat. Still, the triumph he had felt was lessened somewhat. He galloped back to the count’s enclosure. When he reached it, he leaped from his horse and threw the reins to William. He tore off the confining helmet, tossed it to the ground and swept his short hair back out of his eyes. When dry, his hair was light, almost corn-colored, but now it clung to his scalp, dark with sweat. The count’s men surrounded him. They thumped him on the back and pummeled him with affection until the breath was nearly knocked out of him. The squire, Hugh, shook

his hand, dropped it, then reached to shake it again.

“A fine showing for your first joust as a knight, my young lord. A
fine
showing.” His face shone ruddy with pleasure.

Theo glowed at the praise. My first victory, he thought. And there will be many others. So many others! Real victories against real enemies. The memory of his opponent’s churlish behavior vanished from his mind. Of what importance was that? I’ve proven myself, Theo thought. And in front of my foster father and the duke himself.

“Come, Theo,” Count Garnier called from outside the circle of men. “You have earned the right to your feast.” He waved Theo forward and led the way across the field back toward the castle.

Around Theo, the whole meadow was a mass of moving color, converging in a noisy, babbling horde upon the castle grounds. Long trestle tables had been set up in the fields, and servants were heaping them high with food. Theo had passed through the great stone-floored kitchens early that morning and had seen the maids already hard at work, cauldrons boiling over the fires. Small boys had been turning spits on which whole carcasses of deer and boar roasted; pigeons and other birds by the hundreds had been tipped out of gamebags in sticky, bleeding heaps onto the floors. The heavy, oily smell of roasting and boiling meat had been overwhelming, almost nauseating then. Now, however, the smells awakened a voracious appetite within him. He had not eaten since the evening before. He strode eagerly to the feast, congratulating and receiving congratulations from everyone he met.

An arm suddenly landed on his shoulders. Startled, he looked up.

“That was bravely done!” A young knight fell into step beside him. He was dark of complexion, and thick curling brown hair obscured his eyes. “Guy will not soon forgive you for that embarrassment.”

“Guy?” Theo stammered, taken by surprise.

“My cousin. He rides with me, but has no fondness for me. He has no fondness for any man, I think. He never forgives a slight. I am Amalric,” he added. “Foster son to Godfrey, Duke of Lorraine.”

“I am Theobald—”

“Foster son of Count Garnier. We go together on this grand adventure.” Amalric’s eyes shone and he tossed his head, almost in the manner of Theo’s charger. “We are blessed, are we not? Surely this will be the greatest quest known to man.”

“So it will,” Theo answered eagerly. There was an enthusiasm and openness about the young knight that attracted him immediately. He matched his stride to Amalric’s.

“Feast at our table. I would like to know you better.” Amalric urged Theo toward several trestles set up at the very head of the field. Godfrey was already seated at the topmost table, surrounded by knights and ladies. The women’s flowing, colorful gowns fluttered in the wind like butterflies in a meadow of wildflowers. Children were there, too.

“Gladly,” Theo assented. He raised his voice and called out to Count Garnier. “My lord?”

The count stopped and looked back.

“Will you excuse me? I would go with Amalric.”

The count recognized the young knight. He bowed to Amalric, and smiled at Theo. “Certainly. Come to me later, son,” he answered.

Theo followed Amalric.

“Gentlemen, meet Theobald, who disported himself with such glory today!” Amalric cried, as they took their places at a table groaning with food.

At these words, a tall man at the far end leaped to his feet.

“Can he not sup with his own kind, then?” he growled, the words already slurred with wine. “I fancy a better sort to share my food with.” With that, he turned his back and headed for another table. In the instant the man had glared at him, Theo had recognized his adversary.

Amalric laughed. “Guy is his usual self, I see. By my life, it was sweet to see you unhorse him today. There are not many who can. And to be bested by such a young, untried boy!” He threw back his head and his laughter turned into a bellow of joy.

The others at the table joined in and made room for Theo. Theo hesitated. Boy he might be, and the worn look of Amalric’s mail and tunic showed him to be a more seasoned warrior, but Amalric was not that much older than Theo and his words grated. He almost decided to return to Count Garnier’s men, but the warmth of the welcome from all sides overcame his misgivings. And to be singled out by the foster son of Godfrey himself was an honor. Jokes flew as the platters of meat were handed around. Theo’s cup was filled with wine; the strong liquid warmed and relaxed him. He was soon laughing with the rest and comfortably at ease in his place beside Amalric.

When the first pangs of his hunger had been assuaged, he pushed back from the table, threw a bone to the hounds fighting in the grass beneath their feet, and looked around. His gaze was drawn to Godfrey’s table. This was the first time he had had a chance to observe the famous Duke of Lower Lorraine closely. Godfrey lounged carelessly in his seat, laughing across at another knight. He was tall and massively built, his head and shoulders towering over the others around him. His hair was fair and cut longer than most. Disheveled now after the activity of the day, it hung almost to his shoulders. He had an air of complete confidence. Theo could believe that the tales told of his courage and nobility had not been exaggerated.

He let his glance travel to the others at the table. On one side of the duke sat a lady, and beside her two children. His family, Theo surmised. They would be accompanying the duke on this crusade. On the other side was a dark, wolfish-looking man, with a proud and haughty air. His black eyes stood out from a pale, almost startlingly white face. They moved ceaselessly, suspiciously, even as he held himself taut and almost immobile.

“Baldwin, younger brother to Godfrey,” Amalric said beside Theo, following his gaze. “Not a bit like the duke, though. Destined for the church he was, and not allotted any of the family estates. Seems he didn’t have the temperament for a churchman, however. Whether he left the church, or the church left him, no one really knows, but here he is now, taking his brother’s charity. You’d never know it by his manner, though. You’d think
he
was the great lord, the way he carries himself. They say he’s more interested in making his fortune in the east than in the holy quest.”

A minstrel group struck up a few notes, and Amalric turned away, instantly distracted.

“Music! Now we shall have some fun!”

Theo remained staring at Baldwin. At his side sat a stout, rather homely woman, eating steadily. Baldwin seemed to pay her no attention at all. His wife, Theo guessed. Beside her sat a line of three children, and beyond them a girl—a girl with thick black hair that streamed down her back and over her shoulders in a mass of undisciplined curls. Unlike the other women at the table, she was dressed in rough, plain-colored homespun. As Theo watched, one of the boys pinched the other and an angry cry rang out. Their mother, her attention focused on the dripping joint she held in her grease-covered hand, gave them barely a glance, but the girl was quick to administer a sharp slap to the aggressor, who then set up a wail of his own.

The girl glanced up and caught Theo’s eyes. She stared back at him for one long moment, defiant. Then she turned away.

“Theo!”

With a start, Theo realized Amalric was elbowing him in the ribs. The others were laughing at something he had missed.

“Your pardon?” Theo said quickly. The conversation swirled around him again, but he did not hear. His mind was full of the most wondrous dark, bright eyes he had ever seen in his life.

“K
ing Coloman keeps us waiting still! It is eight days now since Lord Godfrey sent to him for permission to cross his lands!” Amalric’s face was flushed and dark, his eyes angry.

“Perhaps he has had a stomach-full of crusaders,” Theo answered. In the two months since the crusade had set out from the Frankish lands, Theo had come to know Amalric well.

He’s in one of his moods, Theo thought. Almaric was as quick to anger as he was to enthusiasm. Sometimes it was hard to keep up with him.

Nonetheless, Theo could understand Amalric’s impatience. He remembered how they had set out, with such glory, pomp and fanfare. Hundreds of knights had assembled and ridden forth through the dim and leafy forest of the Ardennes in the early morning mists, chain mail gleaming, pennants flying, chargers bedecked in glowing color. Theo had never seen such an assemblage. They had been followed by all their retinue: wives and children in gaily painted wagons and litters, squires and grooms. Behind them, the archers and the foot soldiers, straight-backed, with their long-handled, spear-pointed halberds massed in unswerving, gleaming lines. Behind them, the pilgrims, on foot, on donkeys, in carts—all yearning to make their vows at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. A never-ending river of people, it seemed to Theo. Dogs barked and ran to and fro, cattle lowed and bellowed. Chickens and geese added their cackles and shrieks to the cacophony. It was a festive, almost delirious procession, and no one could resist being caught up in the spirit of it. This gathering had much more the look of celebration than of war. But now, it had been brought to a halt here at the frontiers of Hungary.