Elfrida nodded. ‘Aye, that is true and since the Fealde’s champion is specifically trained in single combat, it is rare indeed that a criminal escapes justice.’
‘But what if they are falsely accused?’
‘Then God would ensure their safety,’ Elfrida replied with childlike naiveté.
Duncan and Iseult exchanged an incredulous glance, and the Banrìgh said with spurious sweetness, ‘Tell Duncan about the other ways a criminal can be tried and judged.’
‘Well, there be ordeal by fire, where the accused must pass through flames in order to prove their innocence. Any sign o’ burning is seen as proof o’ guilt. Then there be the ordeal by water, where criminals are held below the water. Water is the blessed medium o’ baptism, so if it receives the accused, it is a sign they be innocent but if it buoys them up, then they be guilty.’
‘So if they can swim, they are dragged out and executed, and if they canna swim, they drown. Neat, isn’t it?’ Iseult said.
This time, Elfrida heard the sarcasm in Iseult’s voice and flushed vividly. ‘Ye may mock our judicial system but we have very little crime,’ she cried angrily. ‘No’ like Lucescere where ye have to carry your purse hung inside your clothes because o’ all the pickpockets.’
‘I did no’ think to hear ye defend the Fealde,’ Iain said with a faint stress of reproof in his voice. ‘Surely ye can see such a trial is terribly flawed. Ye yourself were wrongfully imprisoned most o’ your life, dearling, and Killian the Listener too. He was never given a fair trial, ye ken that. Did he no’ suffer the ordeal by water? Would he no’ have died if the crowd had no’ broken through the ranks o’ the soldiers and dragged him free o’ the dunking-pool?’
‘Being the instrument o’ God’s will in doing so,’ Elfrida replied obstinately. She stood up, the daisy chain falling unheeded from her lap.
‘Happen that is so,’ Leonard the Canny said placatingly. ‘God moves in mysterious ways.’
Elfrida nodded in agreement, though her face was still set in stubborn lines.
‘So if we challenged the Fealde to prove her innocence by ordeal by combat, would she be required to submit?’ Lachlan said impatiently. ‘It is in my mind that we could win Bride without having to waste our strength by trying to breach all those walls. Canna we contrive it so that the whole outcome o’ the war rests upon one single battle, between the champions o’ Elfrida and the Fealde?’
All stared at Lachlan, fascinated and afraid. ‘But what if we lost?’ Iseult objected.
‘We shallna lose,’ Elfrida said. ‘Right is on our side.’
‘We canna lose,’ Lachlan said. ‘The whole country must see the Fealde defeated. For if Elfrida is right about the significance o’ trial by combat, her defeat will be seen as a clear sign from their god that her reign is over and that she has been found guilty by both the judicial system and by the kirk. Do ye understand? This must be a spectacle that all will watch, and there canna be any confusion about the outcome. The Fealde’s champion must die.’
‘She will no’ be easily defeated,’ Leonard said, troubled. ‘The Fealde’s champion has never lost a trial by battle. She is a woman o’ incredible strength and skill, trained, in the use o’ all hand weapons. I am a cavalier, used to fighting from horseback. Although I have been taught to fight hand to hand, as all Bright Soldiers are, I must admit to some trepidation.’
‘I do no’ mean for ye to fight,’ Lachlan said. ‘I ken ye are a brave man and loyal indeed to your banprionnsa, but if this ordeal by single combat is to achieve all I want it to achieve, I must be the one to face the Fealde’s champion.’
Immediately there was an outcry.
‘Nay, master! Ye canna risk yourself so,’ Dide cried.
‘But leannan, ye ken ye were no’ trained to fight from the cradle as this berhtilde would have been,’ Iseult objected. ‘I myself taught ye to fight and ye were already a grown man. I ken ye are a strong and bonny fighter now, but she would have the greater experience …’
‘Your Highness, I am your captain; I will fight,’ Duncan Ironfist said, going down heavily on one knee before his Rìgh.
Lachlan smiled at him affectionately. ‘Thank ye, my friend. I do no’ doubt that ye would be a better choice, the stoutest-hearted man I have ever kent. But nay. It must be I who fights.’
Dillon flung himself on his knees, gripping the intricately coiled hilt of his sword with both hands. ‘Please, Your Highness, let me fight for ye. Ye ken Joyeuse has never been defeated!’
Lachlan raised him with one strong hand, then bent and pulled Duncan to his feet also. ‘Such loyal, true men I have to serve me,’ he said, his voice rather thick. ‘But would I send a lad to die for me, or a man who will never see forty years again? Nay, I would no’! More importantly, I do no’ fight on my own behalf but on Elfrida’s. Have we no’ told the people o’ Tìrsoilleir that I am this angel o’ death, come to lead her army and win back her throne for her? Do I no’ proclaim myself the sword o’ their god? Canna ye see this is a true test? It is no’ just the Fealde I need to convince here but every Tìrsoilleirean man, woman and bairn!’
They were all silent. Iseult was white to the lips but she showed no other sign of her fear. After a long moment of stillness, she came forward and laid her hand on Lachlan’s arm. ‘Are ye sure ye are willing to risk your life so?’
‘Every time I fight in battle I risk my life! At least here there will be only one foe and I shall ken she’s attacking!’
‘We must plan this carefully,’ Leonard said. ‘There is no use fighting such a battle beyond the city walls. Even if ye should win, Your Highness, they will just shut the gates against us and we shall have gained naught.’
‘Aye, it must be within the inner sanctum,’ Donald said. ‘And we must have a force with us, for they shall plan treachery, no doubt o’ that.’
‘It must be within a public arena,’ Iseult said. ‘If the whole point is to prove Elfrida’s right to rule to the people o’ Bride, the people must be able to see her.’
‘We shall have to goad her into agreeing,’ Leonard said. ‘We must make any refusal seem like an admission o’ guilt. We must give her no other course o’ action but to send her champion against ye.’
Lachlan nodded. ‘Let us sit down and write the charges against the Fealde, and let us make the wording as contemptuous and mocking as possible!’
The next day a long procession rode out of the army camp, led by Lachlan upon his high-stepping black stallion. The Rìgh was dressed all in white and gold, with a gold circlet upon his black curls. He held aloft a gilded sword, blade upwards, which shone in the long rays of sunlight pouring down upon the Rìgh’s head. Heavy clouds, rumbling with thunder, hung over the city but where the Rìgh’s procession rode, all was bright.
On either side of the Rìgh trotted the standard-bearers. Dillon carried a square banner of forest green, upon which the white stag of the MacCuinns leapt, a golden crown in its antlers. Connor, acting as Elfrida’s squire, carried the red flag of the MacHilde clan, with its black gauntlet holding a golden sword. Behind fluttered the flags of all those that supported Elfrida, in every device and colour possible, including those of the ten prionnsachan.
Before Lachlan marched the pipers and the drummers, skirling and pounding away. They came to a halt before the main gate of Bride, and there was a loud flourish of trumpets. Then Leonard the Canny dismounted and strode forward. He was dressed in full armour, the visor of his helmet lowered, his red cloak blowing back in the wind. With great deliberation, he removed his heavy gauntlet and flung it to the ground.
‘I, Leonard Adalheit, Duke of Adalric, Earl of Friduric, Baron of Burnaby, due hereby charge thee, Ulrica of Bride, self-proclaimed Fealde o’ the General Assembly o’ the Great Kirk, o’ the following crimes, in the name o’ our blessed banprionnsa and lady, Elfrida Elise NicHilde, the only daughter and heir o’ Dieter Dearborn MacHilde, and direct descendant o’ Berhtilde the Bright-maid, bearer o’ the golden sword and founder o
’ the great land o’ Tìrsoilleir, the Bright Land.’
Then, with a great many flourishes, he read out the proclamation which he and Lachlan had laboured over until the wee small hours. It accused the Fealde and the elders of the General Assembly of murder, manslaughter, false arrest and imprisonment, treason, sedition, embezzlement and fraud. Leonard would have included many more, such as heresy, unorthodoxy, lewdness and licentiousness, but Lachlan wished to make this a political matter, not a religious one.
Leonard the Canny had a strong carrying voice and Gwilym the Ugly was able to use his magic to amplify the sound so it boomed out over the city, causing birds to rise screaming in their thousands and horses to neigh and rear. The only answer was the booming of the city cannons, which failed to cause any damage to the ranks of Lachlan’s supporters, who had been careful to stop well out of range.
He repeated his challenge at sunset, a pronounced sneer in his voice, and again at dawn the next day. This time there was a response, an angry refutation of the charges and counter-accusations against Elfrida and Lachlan, who was described variously as a foul demon, a heretic, blasphemer and apostate, a uile-bheist and monster, and a false idol. Leonard the Canny did not retire to ponder the charges but immediately and angrily threw down his gauntlet.
‘In the name o’ Elfrida NicHilde, banprionnsa o’ Tìrsoilleir, I challenge ye to prove these false and vile charges in a trial o’ arms, where the judgement o’ God Our Father shall prove her faith and innocence beyond the faintest shadow o’ a doubt. Name your champion!’
The challenge caused a flurry of surprise on the battlements. There was a long pause, during which Leonard stood straight and tall, then finally there came a response. The Fealde herself stood upon the battlements, dressed in golden armour, carrying a great golden sword that caused Elfrida to cry out in anger and dismay, ‘That be my father’s sword! How dare she!’
The Fealde had a brusque, uncultivated voice, showing her origins as a cobbler’s daughter. With many coarse swear words and calls to the heavens, she accepted the challenge, crying contemptuously, ‘If this devilish uile-bheist be indeed the angel o’ death and wields the sword o’ God let him prove it so on the field o’ combat, in a fight to the very death!’
‘And so the trap is sprung,’ Lachlan said with satisfaction.
‘Let us just hope that ye are no’ the mouse,’ Iseult replied curtly.
It took a week of negotiations before the location of the ordeal by combat was agreed upon, and marshals appointed to ensure a fair fight, and weapons determined upon. The Fealde was understandably reluctant to open her gates to the Greycloaks, and it took much jeering and taunting before she agreed. Leonard the Canny tried to force her to have the battle in the public square before the Great Kirk, but the Fealde was too canny to agree to allowing a force of enemies within all three rings o’ Bride’s walls. So at last it was agreed to hold the ordeal in the massive public arena in the centre of the merchants’ quarter. Here there were tiers of stone seats where hundreds of the city folk could sit and watch, as well as grandstands where the principal parties could sit and still be well protected from any enemy attack.
‘I do no’ trust that cursehag as far as I could throw an elven cat,’ Duncan Ironfist said. ‘Are ye sure this is a wise manoeuvre, Your Highness?’
‘The Bright Soldiers are bound by a rigid code o’ chivalry and honour, Ironfist, ye ken that,’ Lachlan replied. ‘Any obvious act o’ treachery will be hissed upon by both the army and the common folk, I am sure o’ that. It is the hidden act o’ treachery I must guard against, the hidden blade in the tip o’ the boot, the poison-dipped dagger, the dust thrown in the eyes.’
‘Ye will have a care for yourself?’ Duncan said anxiously and Lachlan nodded, smacking him on his burly shoulder.
‘Aye, o’ course, auld friend. It is your job to guard Iseult and Elfrida, and to watch my back.’
At last the day arrived, a cool spring day with the sun veiled behind grey clouds and very little breeze. It was perfect fighting weather, and Lachlan smiled at Gwilym and thanked him, for he knew the sorcerer had a talent for weather and would have arranged it so Lachlan did not have to contend with heat, flies and the sun in his eyes.
‘I wish I could do more, my liege,’ Gwilym answered.
‘Ye could give me Eà’s blessing,’ Lachlan said grimly and Gwilym made the mark o’ Eà upon his brow, murmuring, ‘May Eà shine her bright face upon ye this day.’
Leonard the Canny had tried to persuade Lachlan to don the heavy metal armour of the Tìrsoilleirean but Lachlan had refused. He was not used to the extra weight or lack of mobility, and so wore only his battered leather cuirass over a light, closely woven chain-mail shirt that had been a gift to him by the silversmiths of Dùn Gorm. On his head he wore a light helmet with a broad brim and pierced visor, giving exceptional protection to his head, face and neck. He wore his kilt, as always, his legs protected by long leather boots. On his back was strapped his heavy claymore, with a short court sword and dagger at his belt, and his little sgian dubh, a narrow but deadly dagger, thrust in the boot. Over it all he wore a dark green surcoat with a white stag leaping across his breast.
Lachlan was not allowed to carry the Lodestar, since that was a magical weapon, forbidden under the rules of the trial by combat. Since it was death to anyone but a MacCuinn to touch it, it had been rolled in silk and locked securely in a chest which was left back in the army camp in the care of one of the Blue Guards. If Lachlan should fall this day, it was the guard’s sole responsibility to escape Tìrsoilleir and take the chest back to Lachlan’s five-year-old son, Donncan MacCuinn, who would then be Rìgh.
As the procession approached the gates into Bride, all felt the hairs on the back of their necks lift. Once they had passed through that long ill-lit tunnel, there was no retreat. If the Fealde broke her surety of safety, all could be cut to pieces in minutes.
Lachlan had tried to limit his retinue to the three hundred soldiers agreed upon by the Fealde and Leonard the Canny, but Iseult had refused to stay behind and so had Elfrida, rather to Iseult’s surprise.
‘Ye risk your life on my behalf,’ Elfrida had said. ‘I must go.’
The League of the Healing Hand had also insisted on accompanying Lachlan’s retinue, though Lachlan had at first been incredulous and then angry. But as Finn said, ‘As if we want to miss the battle o’ the century! I’d rather eat roasted rats than no’ be there. Besides, if there is treachery, happen we’ll be able to help.’
Given how helpful the League of the Healing Hand had been in the past, Lachlan had protested no longer, though their presence only added to the heavy weight he carried. Now that it was time to face the Fealde’s champion, Lachlan was conscious of a sick, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. No sign of it showed on his face, though, which was set as pale and cold as carved marble.
As he strode through the gateway into the public arena, there was a great uproar from the stands, much hissing and cries of ‘demon’ and ‘heretic’. In the grandstand, Elfrida clenched her hands together, closing her eyes and muttering a prayer under her breath. Iseult sat still and proud, dressed as a banrìgh in heavy white damask all edged and scalloped with gold. Her red hair was plaited into a thick heavy braid that hung down her shoulder, reaching past her waist. Although none there knew it, her dress had been designed to be loosened with a single tie so that, if need be, Iseult could discard her ornate gown and be ready to fight at a moment’s notice.
The Fealde’s champion strode out to meet Lachlan and they bowed to each other and then to the two grandstands at opposite ends of the stadium. The champion was a tall heavy figure, clad all in silver armour, with a long white surcoat emblazoned with a scarlet fitchè cross. All that could be seen of her was a pair of glacial-grey eyes, glaring from the slit of her helmet. Her armour had been forged in order to proclaim her status as a berhtilde, having been shaped to fit only one large breast, the left side being fashioned into a hollow. She too carried
a heavy, two-handled sword, with her dagger and court sword hanging at her waist.
There was a long flourish of trumpets and then both Lachlan and the berhtilde each in turn swore that their case was just and their testimony true, and that they carried no weapons other than those decided upon by the marshals and no magical aids.
‘Then let the ordeal by combat begin!’ the Fealde declared in her coarse, angry voice. Again she wore the suit of golden armour, her face concealed behind the visor of her ornate helmet, her gauntlets resting on the hilt of the sacred golden sword.
At first the two combatants tested each other’s strength and looked for their weaknesses. Claymores were heavy, double-bladed weapons, designed for hacking rather than thrusting. Since both hands were engaged, there was no opportunity to use the dagger to feint or parry. Occasionally one or the other was able to kick or elbow their opponent, but otherwise there was only the clash of sword against sword, the constant circling and rushing forward, sword swinging, the dance back out of reach, the sudden duck or roll when the enemy drew too close.
Although Lachlan was a shade taller and heavier, his upper body strongly developed as a result of his wings, it was clear the berhtilde was his master at the art of swordplay. She had many a tricky swing or parry stroke that came close to disarming Lachlan on a number of occasions, and she fought relentlessly, without anger or fear. Once the blade of her sword sliced along Lachlan’s arm, tearing the chain mail so that blood came welling up, making the ground beneath his feet slippery. Many in the Rìgh’s box sucked their breath in sharply but Iseult sat as still and poised as ever, her hands clasped loosely in her lap.
The sting of the wound seemed to excite Lachlan to action. He attacked the berhtilde in a wild flurry of blows, causing her to retreat back across the stadium. Her movements here were ponderous. It was clear to all watching that her armour weighed her down, made her slow to respond to Lachlan’s lithe and graceful movements. Suddenly she spun on one foot, her sword held low and close to her body. It seemed Lachlan would be sliced in half, so swift and powerful was her movement, but he spread his wings and leapt high into the air, the sword passing below his boots. Then one foot suddenly lashed out, kicking the berhtilde hard in the face. She fell with a crash of armour. Lachlan landed lightly, bringing his sword down in one quick, hard blow. It smashed into her chest, denting the concave of her left breast but not piercing it. She cried aloud in pain, but knocked Lachlan’s sword away with her gauntlet, bringing her own sword up in a rather wild swipe. Lachlan leapt back, and she scrambled to her feet, one hand to her chest, her breath coming harshly.