Brotherhood of the Wolf (18 page)

But the formal code of chivalry observed on the battlefield was seldom taken seriously here in the arena. A defeated knight might be asked to pay a ransom of arms or armor, sometimes even money or land. But he was never slain outright.

“You'll not get off so handily!” the High Marshal bellowed like a bull. “Your life is mine, you scurvy bastard, and I intend to take it!”

Sir Borenson lay back, astonished by the High Marshal's battle fury.

Another man might have fought on, hoping to save himself. But true to his word, Borenson lay back and taunted his opponent. “I said ‘I yield.' If it's my life you want, take it!”

The High Marshal smiled savagely, and the giant hunched over him, as if eager to dig the knife blade into Borenson's throat.

“First, a question,” the High Marshal demanded, “and you must answer honestly, or it's your life.”

Sir Borenson nodded, his pale blue eyes going hard as stone.

“Tell me,” the High Marshal bellowed, “is Gaborn Val Orden truly the Earth King?”

Now Myrrima understood that the High Marshal did not want her husband's life, only information. And he'd wanted that information so badly, he'd been willing to risk his own life for it.

A knight who yielded on the battlefield was bound by
honor to speak truly. Borenson would answer truly now, so long as his answer did not betray his lord.

The High Marshal had shouted so that the entire field hushed to hear the answer. Speaking in a voice that brooked no argument, Borenson said, “He
is
truly the Earth King.”

“I wonder …” the High Marshal said. “In South Crowthen I heard strange rumors. It's said that in the House of Understanding, your king studied in the Room of Faces and in the Room of the Heart—he studied mimicry and motives in a place where a dishonest man might better learn to deceive. And then when he announced himself to be Earth King, on that very day, his first act was to perform an elaborate ruse to drive Raj Ahten from his lands! Some think it an odd coincidence that Young Orden ‘happens' to become the Earth King just when Heredon needs him most. It seems a too convenient tale, one to rouse a peasant's hopes. So I ask you once again, is he truly the Earth King—or is he a fakir?”

“On my honor and my life, he
is
the Earth King.”

“Some call him a cur, without natural affection,” the High Marshal growled. “Some wonder why he fled Longmot, leaving his men and his father to die at the hand of Raj Ahten. Surely if he is the Earth King, he could have withstood even Raj Ahten. But you've known the boy for ages—raised him from a pup.
What say you?”

Borenson's voice shook with rage. “Kill me now, you lousy knave, for I'll not listen to poisonous lies spread by that fool King Anders!”

There was a whispered hush, and many in the crowd glanced to the far end of the field from whence Sir Skalbairn had ridden. There at the gate stood a tall man in a fine robe. He had wispy blond hair, a hatchet face, and a grim demeanor. He looked to be thirty, but if he had endowments of metabolism, he might have been far younger than that. Myrrima had not seen him before, would not have noticed him in a crowd, but now people whispered, “Prince Celinor.” “Anders's son.”

The giant smiled grimly and looked up at Prince Celinor
as if seeking his approval. The Prince nodded; he appeared satisfied.

So, Myrrima realized. King Anders's boy was behind all of this. But did he demand to know whether Gaborn was the Earth King because he sought confirmation, or did he do so because he wanted to plant doubts in the minds of the peasants? If it was for the latter reason, he could not have chosen a better venue for this spectacle than here among the petty lords.

High Marshal Skalbairn sheathed his knife, then offered Sir Borenson his hand. He said, “Arise, then, Sir Borenson. I would see this boy king myself.”

In moments, the arena filled with young boys and minor nobles who rushed up to see the High Marshal, the man who had bested Sir Borenson. Some went to retrieve his lance, others to bring him his horse.

Borenson got up shakily, and no one came to offer him comfort or congratulate him on a good fight. Instead, he went to his cracked lance and knelt to untie Myrrima's red scarf from it, the sign of her favor.

Myrrima climbed over a rail of the arena, found herself in the thick mud, looking for an easy path to her husband. She struggled through the deep mud, and when she reached Borenson, she found herself shaking, unsure of what she should say to him.

He'd gotten the scarf untied, and stood with his back to her, wrapping it around his own neck. He tried to tie it while wearing his gauntlets, but the thick leather and ring mail left him fumbling.

Myrrima went around to the front of him, tied the damned thing for him, and found that her own hands were trembling so badly that she was as clumsy as he was. She looked at his face. His hair was smeared with mud, and blood was thickening from a deep gouge above his right eye.

“You saw?” he asked.

Myrrima nodded wordlessly, finished tying the scarf. She could not see it anymore. Tears were filling her eyes.

“Damn you, I could be tying this around your corpse right now.”

Borenson laughed, a short nervous bark.

“Do you think so little of me that you didn't even tell me?” She thought now that he must have fought here so that she wouldn't see.

“I
tried
to find you,” Borenson explained. “But you weren't at the King's feast, and you weren't at the royal games. No one had seen you since this morning. Sir Skalbairn called me to task, demanding battle before sundown. It was a matter of honor!”

Myrrima realized why no one had seen her. She'd been careful not to let anyone know that she'd gone to practice the bow. “You could have waited. Do you love me less than your own honor?”

She had not spoken to him before of love. Gaborn had arranged their marriage. In all, she'd not known Borenson for a week. Yet in spite of their short time together, she knew that she was in love. She wanted to hear Borenson admit the same.

“Of course not,” Borenson said. “But what is a life without honor? You could never grow fond of me if I were any less of a man.”

At that moment, Borenson looked over Myrrima's shoulder, and Myrrima glanced back to see the object of his attention. It was Horsesister Connal, bringing Myrrima her bow and quiver. Myrrima had dropped them on the knoll outside the arena. Borenson smiled at the horsewoman.

“Milady,” Horsesister Connal said. “You dropped these.”

Myrrima took them in one hand.

“Erin Connal, well met!” Borenson said in greeting. “I hadn't heard that you were in camp.”

“I've been here since yesterday,” Horsesister Connal said, “with nothing better to do than stare at that rotting reaver head you dragged in at dawn.”

“You two have met?” Myrrima asked.

“A couple of times,” Borenson said hesitantly. “Old King
Orden was a friend of her mother's, so he usually stopped at her palace when he rode through Fleeds.”

“Good to see you,” Erin said, ducking her head like a shy lady.

Myrrima didn't like this. Didn't like the idea that they knew each other, that Connal was attracted to her husband. She asked her husband bluntly. “Did you know that she wants to have your babies?”

Borenson snorted in surprise and his face turned red. “Well, of course she wants to have my children, what Horsewoman wouldn't?” He spoke as if to a crowd of drinking companions. Then he faltered as if he realized that he'd spoken too soon, and added jokingly, “But, of course, we won't sell her any of our precious offspring, will we, my pet?”

Myrrima smiled with tight lips, hardly placated.

7
THE HIGH MARSHAL

Borenson turned aside, wishing he could run from his wife. He dared not ask her what she was doing with a bow, or why she was in the company of Erin Connal.

Fortunately, he had to clear his gear from the field for the next challengers, so he went to his horse, led his mount and the women toward the High Marshal.

The High Marshal was deep in whispered conversation with the Prince. But of course Borenson had two endowments of hearing and caught the tail of it. “Tell your father he can keep his damned money,” the High Marshal whispered. “I'll not winter my armies in Crowthen if this boy
is
the Earth King. I'll send them where needed.”

“Of course, of course,” Celinor said in almost a pleading tone. Then he looked up and saw Borenson coming.

Borenson smiled and called across the short distance, “Prince Celinor, Sir Skalbairn, may I present my wife.”

The High Marshal nodded in greeting, and Prince Celinor merely let his gaze sweep appreciatively from Myrrima's head to her feet.

“I'll get my horse,” Celinor said, turning aside. As he passed, Borenson smelled the stench of alcohol strong on him. Celinor headed through the throng at the north end of the field.

“What was that all about?” Borenson asked the High Marshal, looking up into the big man's face. Skalbairn lumbered above him like a bear. “What is this about wintering in Crowthen?”

The High Marshal studied Borenson, as if gauging just how much to tell him. Obviously, what he had to say was not anything King Anders of South Crowthen would want spoken in public. But the High Marshal was a tough man, and he seemed not to care what effect the truth might have. “Word reached me in Beldinook of Raj Ahten's attack here about four days ago. But King Anders's messengers, who begged that I bring the Righteous Horde of the Knight Equitable to South Crowthen, carried the word. And they brought money to pay for our travel. There's too much money by half. It smelled of a bribe to me.”

“He wants to bribe the Knights Equitable?”

“I could understand Anders's distress,” the High Marshal continued. “What king wouldn't want the Knights Equitable camped in their realm with Raj Ahten's armies moving about. Indeed, it seemed a logical move. Instead, we drove Raj Ahten into the mountains and I ordered my men to hound him.

“But when I reached Crowthen last night, I found that Anders still wants my armies to stay in Crowthen, ignoring the greater threat to Mystarria. His son just pressed me to hold to their bargain, at least for now.”

“What will you do?”

“Anders will be furious. I'm sending back his gold—at least most of it.”

“Anders sounds craven,” Borenson said.

At that, the High Marshal's black eyes glittered dangerously. “Don't underestimate him. I fear he's worse than a coward.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wants my troops, and he wants them badly. A coward would want them for protection. But as I rode to Crowthen, I was thinking, what if he is not afraid of Raj Ahten? What if he really fears the Earth King?”

“Gaborn?” Borenson said in astonishment, for he could not imagine that Anders would fear the lad.

“I got proof of it at the border. King Anders had troops stationed at the road, and he's forbade any peasants and even merchants from entering Heredon. His troops proclaim Gaborn a fraud and say that it is a waste of men's time to come see him, and harmful to Anders's interests.”

“If Anders had no interest in learning the truth himself,” Borenson said, “that would be one thing. But to forbid his people from coming? That's evil.”

“Look at it from his point of view,” Skalbairn said. “There has not been an Earth King in over two thousand years. In Erden Geboren's day, he was honored as the one and only true king of all Rofehavan. But since then, lesser men have been called kings, and the lands have been divided and squabbled over.

“What will happen to Anders if the people rise up and offer to serve House Orden? Will he be relegated to the status of a petty lord? Or will he be asked to bow and scrape the knee like some common peasant?

“You and the commoners may think it is a fine thing to have an Earth King, but mark my words: if Anders could kill the boy now, he'd do so. And he's not the only lord in Rofehavan who will feel that way.”