“I’m going to challenge Arald. He’s the one who’s behind all this. He’s the one my opponents are gathering around. He’s the one who gives them the courage to defy me. So I’ll challenge him and then I’ll kill him.”
“But . . . how? It’s a tournament, after all. There are rules . . .”
“And accidents do happen. I’ll challenge him to fight, stipulating à résultat final. He won’t dare refuse—he’d lose too much respect in the eyes of his followers if he did.”
“But even so . . . ,” Teezal began. À résultat final was a Gallican phrase that translated as “to the final result.” It meant that, even after a combatant was unhorsed, the duel continued on foot until one of the fighters had overwhelmed his opponent. Usually, that meant until one of the combatants surrendered and admitted defeat. But sometimes, it meant to the death.
And that was how Morgarath planned it to be.
Arald was relaxing in his pavilion. The previous day, he had accepted a challenge from a young, untried knight looking to boost his reputation by contesting with the current tournament champion.
Arald had accepted. There had been no malice in the challenge and he felt it was his duty—and that of the other senior knights in the tournament—to give such young men a chance to prove themselves, and gain valuable experience in the profession of arms.
They had conducted five passes, with lances shattering on each. Arald could have unhorsed his young opponent at any time he had chosen, but that wasn’t the purpose behind the challenge system. Afterward, he sat with the young man and provided a critique of his technique and advice on how to improve it. The tyro knight had departed gratefully, well aware that the champion had gone easy on him.
The door flap was open, admitting a pleasant breeze. Gorlan was a beautiful fief, Arald thought, in a part of the Kingdom blessed with a most benign climate. Winter was never too cold, although around Yuletide there would sometimes be a picturesque scattering of snow on the trees. And summers were never too hot.
It was a shame that such a beautiful spot was under the control of a blackhearted killer like Morgarath.
Still, he thought, maybe that wouldn’t be the case for too much longer.
His head nodded on his chest and he dozed quietly.
“My lord!” a voice said urgently, snapping him awake with a start. He looked up and saw one of his battle-school apprentices pointing toward the far end of the tournament ground.
“Well, what do we have here?” he murmured. Riding across the jousting field toward him was the black-armored figure of Morgarath, astride his massive battlehorse, Warlock.
Slowly, Arald stood. He had no doubt as to who was about to be challenged. As Morgarath came to the end of the jousting field, he reined Warlock down from a canter, until the tall white horse was walking toward the blue-and-gold pavilion.
There was something ominous in Warlock’s steady gait. No curveting. No nervous prancing. No pulling at the reins. The huge white horse paced steadily and inexorably toward Arald. Morgarath’s face was hidden behind his lowered visor—a breach of protocol, Arald thought. Challengers were supposed to reveal their faces to their erstwhile opponents.
Morgarath brought Warlock to a halt in front of the pole bearing Arald’s shield. There was no sign of any command or action that stopped the horse. Arald knew it must have been accomplished by a minor pressure of the legs. Then Morgarath’s lance struck the shield hanging high above them.
Again, protocol had it that a knight merely touched the shield of an opponent with his lance. But Morgarath contrived to put a vicious thrust behind the action, sounding a ringing clang as the lance head struck the metal shield.
Arald was aware that there was a small crowd watching proceedings. Some had hurried after Morgarath across the jousting field. Others had emerged from tents clustered nearby.
A few muttered in surprise at the force behind Morgarath’s blow to the shield. But the muttering quickly died away as they waited for the coming byplay between the two champions.
“Arald of Redmont, I challenge you to single combat.” Morgarath’s voice echoed inside the helm.
Arald shrugged and leaned against the pole supporting the front of his pavilion. “And who might you be, you great black bird of evil omen,” he replied easily. A few of the bystanders tittered, then fell silent as the black helmet turned toward them to mark them down for later reference.
“You know well who I am!” Morgarath snapped. “I am Morgarath, lord of Gorlan and knight of the realm, a loyal follower of King Oswald of Araluen.”
“Then I’d best accept,” Arald said.
The onlookers grew silent. Some had expected him to reject the challenge. As the reigning champion, that was his right. He could have avoided combat until the final day of the tournament, when he would be obliged to defend his title against whoever qualified to fight him.
“The duel will be à résultat final,” Morgarath continued and the buzz of conversation sprang up again. Nobody had any doubt that Morgarath’s idea of à résultat final would be final indeed.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Arald replied, smiling grimly at his challenger.
41
THERE WERE STILL SEVERAL HOURS TO GO BEFORE THE DUEL between Arald and Morgarath was due to begin, but already people were streaming into the tournament ground looking for the best seats in the grandstands. The combat between the reigning champion and the three-time former champion promised to be an epic trial of arms, and nobody—noble or commoner—wanted to miss it. Aside from the expected quality of the bout, the two barons had polarized opinion over the past few days.
Morgarath had a strong following among the barons. Among the common people, he was less popular. He had a reputation as a cruel and haughty nobleman, who cared little for the castle staff who served him or the serfs and farmworkers who tended his lands. But he was a superbly skilled warrior with lance and sword and there were many who would forgive his personal failings for the privilege of watching him fight. A champion was always worth seeing, no matter how unpopular he might be.
Arald, on the other hand, was a more cheerful and approachable person. He was considerate of the needs of those who worked his estates and made sure they were looked after. Plus he had an irrepressible sense of humor and a ready smile. He was well liked, and as far as his skill as a warrior was concerned, there was little to choose between him and Morgarath. Many of the spectators felt they were watching a changing of the guard, with the younger Arald poised to replace Morgarath as the acknowledged champion knight of the realm.
The steady tide of people flowed down the hill from Castle Gorlan to the tournament ground, growing thicker with each passing minute. They carried pillows and picnic hampers and some even had small casks of ale balanced on their shoulders.
As Pritchard had foreseen, the castle was virtually empty, with everyone who had no urgent work to do that day heading for the tournament ground. He suspected that, while the majority of people from the castle would support Morgarath, there would be a considerable number who were secretly hoping to see the tall, black-armored knight thrown down into the dust. Keeping his head down and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, he worked his way up the hill against the traffic, slipping unnoticed across the drawbridge and under the portcullis.
Moving quickly, he crossed the inner courtyard to the main keep. But, instead of entering via the door that led to the great hall, he turned down a small flight of stairs to one side and entered the service area of the castle.
This was where the kitchens, storerooms, sculleries and laundry were situated. Pritchard had familiarized himself with these below-stairs areas over the past week and now he made his way, head down and face concealed, to the huge laundry complex, where the castle staff had their uniforms washed and cleaned.
The massive vats were empty today, and the grates over which they hung were unlit an
d filled with gray ash. The laundry workers, like so many of the others in the castle, had taken the duel as an excuse for a holiday. They had left the piles of unwashed linen and uniforms in their hampers, and the neatly folded items of freshly laundered clothes lying in stacks on the long pine tables that ran the length of the room.
Pritchard hurried to a pile of linen surcoats, finished in a checkerboard pattern of Morgarath’s heraldic colors—black and gold. These were the everyday uniforms worn by the castle staff—servants, housekeepers and administrative assistants. He grabbed three of them from the stack, bundled them under his ragged cloak and made his way quickly out of the laundry.
He hurried back down the hill, now borne along by the people headed for the tournament field. He gradually worked his way to the edge of the press of hurrying humanity and darted off to the side, heading for a gardener’s toolshed set outside the tournament area.
Glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, he elbowed the door open—he had unlocked it earlier that morning—and stepped inside. Halt and Crowley were waiting for him. He tossed them two of the tunics and, pulling off his ragged cloak, donned the third one himself.
“Did you bring the hamper?” he asked.
Crowley indicated it—a food hamper with a crumpled tablecloth, several linen napkins and half a dozen wooden platters and goblets. There was also a large serving platter and a domed cover—the type used to keep food warm. Rounding out the collection of table items was an empty wine cask. If they were challenged on their return to the castle, they would claim they had been sent for extra refreshments by Morgarath’s castle chamberlain. It was highly unlikely that they would be asked what they were doing, but it never hurt to have a story ready. And it always helped if you could invoke the name of an important person in that story.
Pritchard checked his companions, leaning forward to adjust Halt’s tunic where the collar had rolled over and was inside out.
“You always were a snappy dresser,” he said. Halt ignored the comment.
Satisfied that the two Rangers looked like castle servants, Pritchard jerked a thumb toward the door. “Let’s go,” he said.
The traffic heading downhill was gradually petering out and they made good time back to the castle. The sentries on the drawbridge glanced idly at the empty hamper, and the wine cask Halt was carrying on his shoulder, then went back to discussing the coming contest. They were sour faced over the fact that they had to remain on duty, but at least they had managed to place wagers on Morgarath as the likely victor. They had seen their Baron in battle and had no doubts about his ability on the field.
As before, once they crossed the courtyard, Pritchard led Halt and Crowley to the side door and down into the service area of the castle. This time, however, he made his way to the kitchens. He peered round the doorway and ascertained that there was nobody working inside. Today, meals for Morgarath and his senior retainers would be prepared in the field kitchens behind his pavilion. If anybody else wanted food, they’d just have to wait till the fight was over.
Hastily, Pritchard tipped the contents of the hamper onto a wide pine table. Below the other items, in the bottom of the hamper, was a wooden serving tray. He proceeded to set up the tray with the serving platter, its domed cover in place, a goblet and a small wine flask, and one of the smaller platters. He folded a napkin and set it beside the small platter. Then, glancing round, he saw a wooden spoon on the next table and set that on the tray as well. He gestured at Halt.
“Pick it up,” he said.
The Hibernian complied, balancing the tray, with its empty platters and flask, and followed Pritchard out of the kitchen and across the great hall to the eastern staircase. Crowley brought up the rear, glancing back from time to time to make sure nobody was observing them.
As they hurried up the steps, their soft-soled boots making little noise, Halt whispered to his old mentor, “Won’t they be expecting the usual serving girl to bring the food?”
Crowley nodded. “That’s why we’ve planned our little byplay when we get to the tower,” he said. “It’ll keep them distracted.”
“We hope,” Halt said heavily.
Pritchard nodded. “Yes. We certainly do.”
Behind them, Crowley dropped his hand to the hilt of the saxe underneath his black-and-yellow tunic.
The problem with castles, Halt thought as he continued upward, was that they were full of stairs. If someone could only design a castle that was all on one level, it would save a lot of effort. But he continued upward, moving quickly as he took the stairs two at a time.
“One more flight,” Pritchard whispered behind him.
Halt paused at the landing, gathering his breath and his thoughts. Pritchard moved closer to him.
“We’ll wait at the entrance to the hallway,” he said in a lowered tone. “You go on with the tray. The door to Oswald’s room is on your right, ten meters away. There’ll be two guards.”
Halt nodded. He was tempted to ask, What if there are more than two? but he sensed that Pritchard’s reply would be simply: Improvise. Then he set out, heading up the remaining dozen steps at a more sedate pace. He could hear the faint sound of his friends moving up behind him, then he was at the top and was stepping out into the corridor, turning right. He saw the two guards where Pritchard had said they’d be, sitting on straight-backed wooden chairs on either side of a solid wooden door, bound with iron reinforcing strips. They wore chain mail under their black-and-yellow tunics and short swords in their belts. Neither wore a helmet and their mail coifs were pushed back off their heads, lying in thick folds around their necks. Two halberds were leaning against the wall, one on either side of the heavy, ironbound door.
The man nearest to him began to rise from his feet, frowning at him. His hand dropped casually to the hilt of the sword in his belt, but he made no movement to draw it.
“Hullo, what are you doing?” he asked. “Where’s Nelly?”
Halt guessed that Nelly was the serving girl who usually brought Oswald’s meals. He pulled a wry face.
“Said she was sick,” he replied. “Ask me, she’s skived off to the tournament to watch Lord Morgarath beat the tar out of fat Arald of Redmont.”
The other guard was on his feet now. Any change in the daily routine was to be treated with suspicion. He’d served Morgarath for fifteen years and had learned that lesson the hard way.
“Nobody told us . . . ,” he began, but then he was distracted, looking toward the staircase doorway, where a furious Pritchard had emerged from the stairs, puffing heavily from the effort of climbing to the tower and pointing an accusing finger at Halt. The guard noticed that the newcomer wore the chain and medal of a senior servant around his neck—an item Pritchard had spent the previous evening fashioning.
“You!” Pritchard yelled. “Where are you going with that tray? Come back here at once!”
Halt turned to face the angry white-haired man, his voice and face sullen. “Bringin’ the prisoner his meal, is all.”
Pritchard waved his arms angrily as he advanced along the hall. Crowley emerged from the staircase door and followed him.
“I told you!” Pritchard raged. “Lord Morgarath left orders that the prisoner wasn’t to be served today!”
“Man’s got to eat,” Halt said stubbornly.
But Pritchard snapped his fingers at Crowley and pointed to the tray.
“Ridley! Take that tray from him!”
“Yes, Master Wildom,” said Crowley, moving to stand closer to Halt and, coincidentally, to the two guards.
The guards were now exchanging grins, enjoying the sight of a squabble between the palace servants. Morgarath’s soldiers held the serving staff in mild contempt. They had a soft, easy life, with ample opportunity to augment their rations with choice pieces from the kitchen. And they suffered no hardship or danger. There was little love lost between Morgarath’s sol
diers and the castle servants.
“You tell him, grandpa,” one of them said.
Crowley reached for the tray, but Halt snatched it away, out of his reach.
Crowley glared at him. “Hand it over!” he demanded.
“Stop messing about!” Pritchard yelled, his voice cracking into a higher register. “Hand it over, Massey!”
Halt glared at the other two. “You want it so bad, you can have it!” he said to Crowley, and hurled the tray onto the flagstones of the corridor. The platters and the dome flew in the air as the tray hit the ground, then fell back, rattling and rolling. The two guards burst out laughing at Halt’s display of petulance. Then one of them noticed that the platters were all empty.
“Hey,” he said, “there’s no food—”
That was as far as he got. Halt swung a savage left hook at him, catching him on the point of the jaw and sending him down like a poleaxed steer. The other guard, confused and alarmed, reached for the hilt of his sword, but Crowley, pivoting on one heel, drove his elbow into the man’s belly. Then, as he doubled over with an explosive whoof of released breath, the Ranger brought both hands, clenched together, down onto the back of his exposed neck. The guard joined his companion on the floor, facedown.
Halt didn’t wait to see the result of Crowley’s work. Once his own man was down, he stepped quickly to the door. The large key was in the lock. That made sense, he thought. No need to hide it with two armed guards outside the door. He twisted it quickly, feeling the well-oiled lock click open, then pushed the door inward and went into the room.
Crowley and Pritchard were close behind him.
They found themselves in a large, dimly lit tower room, where the windows were barred with wooden shutters and only thin streaks of daylight made their way through the wooden slats. A pine table and straight-backed chair were in the center of the room and on the far wall was a narrow bed. An elderly man, his hair and beard untrimmed and matted, was sitting up on the bed, watching them with alarm in his eyes. He looked a little dazed, Halt thought.