The Forest of Adventures (#1 of The Knight Trilogy) (19 page)

I made my way to the small
boundary of woods. The bluebells had finally begun to open and the
first morning light was beginning to spread across the tree-laced
skies. Coming into a clearing, I stopped, held out my arms and
threw my head back to greet the coming of the dawn; handing myself
over to the immensity of sky and air. I vowed to myself that from
the next moment I saw Blake, I’d show no fear. Loss would not be
etched on my face before I’d actually lost him. I stood like this
for sometime, my eyes closed, listening to the sound of birds and
the distant hammering, shutting myself up and dressing myself with
internal armour that would protect me against the sharp and brutal
weapons of feeling.

A warm, liquid voice broke my
meditation, “Mina, honey?”

“Vivien?”

“Mina, it’s time. Blake needs
to see you.”

She came up behind me and
stroked my hair. I turned to see that she was as gorgeous as ever,
dressed in a deep green dress, her hair piled up and laced with
pearls.

“I’ve brought you a change of
clothes. Something more appropriate for the occasion. Here!”

She handed me a parcel tied
with string. Sensing my hesitation she swept a stray curl from my
face and whispered, “Would you like me to dress you?”

I stood there arms held out
like a compliant child as Vivien undressed me swiftly and
tenderly.

“Lift your arms honey.” She
looked at me and smiled weakly as she slipped a dress over my
head.

It was a simple, pearl silk
gown that unfolded over my hips to touch the ground. Vivien spun me
around and my body ricocheted under the tugging of laces. I felt
like a doll, beautiful but hollow.

Vivien continued to talk to my
silent back, “All eyes will be on you and Blake. You’re quite the
talk of The Realm, Mina so it’s important that you blend in as much
as possible, show that you belong with us. We still dress, rather
ludicrously in my opinion, in the old way for a tournament.”

Vivien swept up my curls,
gently stabbing them with pins.

“You look beautiful Mina, truly
a vision worth living for.” She spun me round and kissed my
cheek.

I looked down at the silk and I
realised with a bitterness that I looked like a bride and I guessed
that this what she’d intended. Not for the first time, I felt like
a pawn in somebody else’s game. Her mobile sprang into life
indicating that she had a text.

“It is time.” She took my hand
and led me back towards the chapel.

At the chapel door, she left me
to take her place in the waiting arena. The door of the chapel was
heavy and I felt impossibly weakened by it. The satin slippers I
wore barely whispered against the floor and I made my entrance into
the chapel unannounced. Shafts of sunlight stabbed through the
windows reminding me of a magician’s sword box. Blake sat bolt
upright in the pew nearest the front
. A groom waiting for his
bride
. My clumsy movements alerted Blake to my presence and he
stood, holding out his hand in invitation. With each step down the
aisle I fought the urge to scream.

“You look - angelic.” Blake
held out his hand, reaching for mine.

“Don’t,” I said nodding and
choking back tears, “I look tragic,” I said, forcing a smile at
him.

“Fine, you look angelically
tragic,” he said winking.

There was everything to say and
yet words failed us both. We stood in the silence, overlooked by
curious saints. Time passed too quickly and before we had said what
needed to be, before we could accept our need to reach out and
touch each other, to steal a lingering kiss, there was a brutal
knocking on the door and the rough voice of the herald called
out.

“Time to dress and mount,
Sir.”

“It’s time Mina.”

Blake pulled my hand up to his
mouth and planted a kiss on it before clicking his heels together
in salute and walking out.

I was left utterly alone.

24. EAST OF EDEN

Vivien led me through the
assembled crowds and as I had been warned, every eye turned on me.
If I hadn’t been lost in my own private hell, it might have lead to
a general mortification, but today all faces were a blur, all
sounds an underwater soundtrack. The only thing that I was totally
conscious of at all times was Vivien’s arm through mine, guiding
me, holding me straight.

At last I found myself seated
on the plush cushions of a basic wooden throne. In matching seats,
Vivien sat to my right and next to her resplendent in a blood red
gown sat Morgan.

“Good morning, Mina.” Morgan’s
voice cut through me like a blade. I looked over to her out the
corner of my eye and saw with some comfort that she too, was
trapped in hell.

The crowd was thankfully
smaller than I’d feared. About thirty silk pavilions housed seated
spectators. They’d been positioned to mark out the boundaries of
the field. On our walk back from the chapel, Vivien had told me
that this form of duelling tournament was rare in these times and
many of the younger generation refused to attend them on ethical
grounds. There had been a movement to have them outlawed and
whereas they were once seen as a symbol of civilisation and
chivalry, many now argued that they were nothing more than a crude,
animal savagery, no matter how richly it was dressed in ritual and
spectacle.

As I looked round, I saw that
the only younger generation were Blake’s friends from Meadowlake
who sat in a purple silk pavilion bearing the Beldevier coat of
arms. Unlike the older generation who had set out feasting tables
and who had dressed more for a banquet than a fight, his friends
sat on simple wooden benches, dressed sombrely as if for a funeral.
Strangely, part of me wished that they too were more festive and
joyful, rather than sitting like carrion waiting for the blood to
flow. Percy caught my eye and offered a weak sympathetic smile
across the space. It seemed then that nobody fancied Blake’s
chances.

The herald came onto the field
blowing a trumpet and followed by a small entourage of smaller boys
carrying the standards of the main families present. In the middle
of the field he stopped and extending a hand high into the air,
called the audience to attention,

“Good Sirs, Sweet Ladies may I
extend welcome to you this morning. In accordance with the ancient
and honoured code of our Realm a challenge has been issued by the
Black Knight whom is executing his right to be known only by the
colours of his Lady’s shield; that being that of our Lady Morgan of
Gore. Being in knowledge of his identity, he is of a level and rank
acceptable for this challenge.”

Something faltered in the
Herald’s speech. There was a small twist of his face, as if he were
turning away from something distasteful, but it was so slight that
when I looked around to Vivien, she seemed not to have noticed. I
tried to dismiss it as paranoia. The Herald continued his booming
address,

“The tournament will take the
form of hand to hand combat and the challenge will be completed
when one of them,” he coughed and now I was certain, “…until one of
them falls and is declared.”

“What?” Vivien whipped round to
face Morgan, “This isn’t a tournament, it’s a melee; a fight to the
death!”

“Quiet yourself Vivien. It
won’t come to that, you know how it goes.” Her voice came out with
cold-steel contempt.

The crowd seemed to be as
shocked by the declaration as Vivien and now any trace of playful
bloodlust instantly disappeared from the spectators as they
realised they were here to witness an execution and not a sporting
game. I dared to look over to the Beldevier camp and instantly
wished I hadn’t. All of them, except for Percy, had their heads
bowed in anticipation. He sat bolt upright, his eyes fixed with
hatred on Morgan.

Percy went to move, his hand
reaching for his sword. Before any of them could act, Percy stood
and shouted out across the field, “MORGAN YOU BITCH; YOU JEALOUS,
BITTER BITCH!” His scream filled the space causing the frozen
stadium to flutter back to life.

“HE’S A BELOVED MORGAN. A
BELOVED AND YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE HIM SLAUGHTERED. WHAT IN GOD’S
NAME ARE YOU THINKING?”

By now several of the boys had
sprung into action and were holding Percy in his place, whispering
soothing words to try and calm him. Sensing that they were gaining
control of the situation, the Herald took his chance, “Sit down
Sir, or you’ll be asked to leave.”

With reluctance, Percy allowed
himself to be bundled back to his seat but the other boys were
obviously not certain of his compliance and two of the boys kept
tight hold of his arms.

I turned to Vivien, “What do
they mean a
Beloved
?”

“Blake’s under the protection
of the Templars. Nobody will be happy about this; Morgan has
completely overstretched herself.”

“Why don’t they stop it then?
Why the hell don’t they do something?” I spoke out louder than I’d
intended, causing a few curious glances in my direction.

“It isn’t like that Mina.
Morgan is royalty from the old time. To go against her decision to
let this take place would be treason, and in truth they’re
terrified of her.”

“So because of that they’re
going to sit back and do nothing?”

“It’s too late. The challenge
was issued and the code says it must be completed. There’s hope
yet. All one of them has to do is call for mercy and they’ll both
survive. And even if that doesn’t happen, Blake’s strong, and his
intelligence in combat is not to be outdone anywhere in The Realm.
He’s his father’s child and there’s no reason to doubt that he
won’t win.”

Vivien’s speech was cut short
by the Herald’s command to stand. A polite but measured round of
applause broke out as Blake freehandedly rode Lancelot out into the
field. His armour was brightly glinting in the sunlight, giving the
weird vision that he was surrounded by his own shinning halo. At
his side he carried his broad sword; in his other hand he carried a
piece of cloth that I recognised as the scarf he’d been wearing on
the first day I’d met him. He made his way towards our seats on the
raised wooden platform. Lancelot nodded his head in recognition of
his own people.

Before he reached me, Vivien
leant in and whispered, “Mina, he’ll address you and ask you for
your favour. You must hand him something of your own, something
personal and make sure the crowd sees it. When he offers you his
cloth, take it and place it into the left side of your dress, above
your heart.”

“My Lady,” Blake bowed his head
to me and handed out to me the piece of cloth.

I took it as instructed, and
tucked it under the fabric of my dress. The only thing I had on me
was the small gold band that had been my grandmother’s wedding
ring. My stomach lurched as once again the symbols of a marriage
mocked me. I held out the ring to Blake who accepted it with
another bow and a small quick turn of Lancelot. The sound of
applause filled the air again. Blake’s page scurried over to him
and helped him to dismount before handing him his shield and taking
the ring from Blake which he fixed to the leather lace that held
Blake’s wooden cross. Having threaded it, the page clasped it back
around his master’s neck. Morgan turned her face away, insulted and
humiliated by such a public display of Blake’s favour to me.

As Blake’s page finished
dressing his armour, placing his helm onto his head and planting
his pennon into the soft earth of the field, the audience spent
several minutes discussing the exchanges between me and Blake,
Morgan’s humiliation and Vivien’s pregnancy. Their bubbling
conversation fell silent however as the Dark Knight entered the
field with his page.

His dress was already finished
and he cut a menacing contrast with Blake. In flagrant rejection of
the old code, he had had his armour sprayed black, giving the
impression of some monstrously overgrown and shiny stag beetle. He
held in his hand a mace and in the other a shield which had been
spray painted with the flames of hell. Morgan’s crest seemed to be
rising out from them. I wondered if this was meant as triumphant
praise or ironic insult. His page held a heavy, glinting sword.

Morgan stood, the crowd fell
silent and the men took their positions. Unknown and unclaimed, the
Black Knight had no need to offer his favour. It was clear that he
was no equal to ask for Morgan’s favour and it was also clear to
all there that he had already been branded by her as nothing more
than a dutiful servant.

Unhappy about the break in
protocol, the Herald looked nervously around before making the
plunge and raising his flag and whilst making a hasty retreat from
the field shouted, “Let battle commence!”

Morgan adjusted herself in her
seat so that she sat bolt upright. She was as pale as the coldest
marble and her heart was just as hard.

Face to face, the two knights
stood absolutely still. The tension was almost too much to bear. As
much as I wanted it over, I needed it to start. Blake made the
first move, pacing himself around the monstrous knight and then
within seconds the clashing and mashing of metal filled the air.
The noise of the mace as it whirred and wheeled around the Black
Knight’s head built to a thunderous crescendo stopping dead with
the crashing impact on Blake’s shield. The mace was covered in
murderous spikes and I couldn’t escape the vision of it tearing
through Blake’s flesh. I was used to watching Blake fight in
practice, but this was something different. The aggression of the
two men as they went for each other reminded me more of fighting
dogs than the skilful art I’d seen in training. Something animal
raged through their body as if they were in the grasp of an
elemental frenzy.

The clash of metal went on for
what felt like an eternity, with neither knight seeming to show any
kind of dominance. They were a perfectly matched fight. And
contrary to first appearances, the Dark Knight was as agile and
quick as Blake. The knights refused to stop at the first call for a
rest period, seeming not to be aware of a world outside of their
own immediate and violent universe, but after another twenty
minutes of intense fighting they both pulled away and the Dark
Knight cried for the herald to call a rest.