The Widow and the King (46 page)

Ambrose realized that the man was talking to him. He could glimpse the eyes within the slit of the huge, closed helm that covered the man's head. He was wearing mail. They all were. But it had been thrown on in a rush. The helm was unlaced. They should have padded coats on under their armour, like Aun, to prevent the chain links bruising their flesh with each blow. They hadn't. They had come hurriedly, to stop what he was doing.

Ambrose looked hard, but could not see the Heron Man. That worried him.

To the Helm he said: ‘They were hurting too much.’

‘Hurting! What's that to you, you wart? Leo, grab him and cut his britches for me. First, I'm going to turn his buttocks black, and then …’

‘Mar!’ said one of the others, and pointed to the ragged banner.

The man in the helm looked at it.

‘So you're with
them,
are you? That noser Orcrim sent you to have fun, did he? Well, he can buck out of my business. What he says doesn't go here. We'll have your ear off, to show him I don't hear him. And I'll cut it into fifteen
little bits for you to carry back to those bastards at Tarceny. Grab him, Leo.’

‘I'm not with anyone!’ said Ambrose. ‘The banner's mine!’

‘Grab him, Leo.’

The second man lunged for Ambrose's collar, but Ambrose twisted out of his grip and jumped back, raising his sword to guard as Chawlin had taught him.

‘Put it down,’ said the Helm in a different tone.

‘Leave me alone!’

‘I'm getting angry, boy. And when I get angry someone dies. Is that what you want? Put it down or I'll take it and spit you and leave you to wriggle on it.’

He could run down the road, calling Aun to help him. But even if they got away, these men would just put their victims back in the stocks again. And the Heron Man would have shown him that he was powerless. He had not got down from his mount to let that happen. The Helm must be made to see that he was wrong.

‘I'm not with anyone. I'm with me,’ he said, keeping his sword up. ‘And …’ He dug among his memories of the teaching at Develin. ‘And I want to hear what you tried these men for, and when, and what witness was brought. That's the Law.’

‘
Law?
Now he's telling me the Law! I'll give you law – the kind I run here. And I don't listen to anyone else …’

‘A lord who is lawless loses his right to land,’ said Ambrose remembering voices at Develin that had talked of land-right, and the Law, and the King.

He heard the breath hiss within the helm. The man was staring at him as if he had taken a body-blow.

It must be hard to hear, and see, inside a case of iron like that, Ambrose thought. Or to be heard, or seen, for who you are. It was a great, blind barrier between the man and the world: like never using anyone's name.

‘So! It's like that is it? Right to the land, now, is it? If it's like that, then I know a good little game we can play with the law. Durbey, show me that fellow's neck, will you?’

One of his armed followers took the man that Ambrose had just released and forced him to kneel, pushing his head forward so that the back of the neck gleamed pale through the strands of dark hair. There was an angry red mark where it had been chafing against the upper board.

‘Right. Now I put this one and his fellows in stock for a little for Disrespect. That's all. It was just something they needed reminding about. But
now
I say they were really plotting riot, and this one here's the ringleader. That means I can hang him, if I want to. But since I'm nice, and in a hurry, I'll do it with my sweet sharp sword here. Shouldn't take a moment.’

He flapped his hand. One of his fellows drew a great hand-and-a-half sword from the saddle of a horse and placed it in his leader's grip.

‘Witnesses? Oh dear, there weren't any. All you've got is my word as a knight for it. But if you're
very
sure I'm wrong, you know what to do, don't you? Toot me a blast, Leo.’

One of the other armed men was fumbling at his saddle again.

‘Toot me a blast, Leo!’

‘Coming,’ said the man. He held a short hunting horn
in his gauntleted hands, and blew a quick, harsh note on it.

‘Right. Now by Heaven and by my hold on this land, I say this court is open. Let any who feel the right of this cause stand forth to prove it with his body before three blasts of the trumpet. Toot it, Leo.’

The horn sounded again.

‘Right, I'm up. I say he did it. Leo? Durbey?’ The other two nodded. One raised his hand, in the mockery of an oath. ‘
We
all say he did it. If no one says he didn't do it, I'll knock his head off at the third blast and make you a present of it. Going to help him out, are you?’

He meant a fight. He wanted Ambrose to choose between fighting the three of them, or watching them kill this man, who would have lived if he had not interfered.

He had fallen into a trap. When he had slid from his mule, he had thought he was undoing the work of the Heron Man. Now there was iron at a man's neck, and a sudden, appalling understanding of things he had not seen, and yet that he had seen before.

(
I will give you One
, said his memory.
There will be a price
.)

The Heron Man must be very close.

‘This is an Ordeal, runt. If we say he did it and you say he didn't, we settle it in a fight. Don't worry. We're only allowed to come at you one at a time. That's the Law.’

(
Law bends before power
, said the ghost of Denke at his elbow.)

‘Toot it, Leo.’

The horn sounded. (
My darling … You see how he tricked you
.)

He had no idea if he could fight them. He supposed
not. They were stronger. They had mail, and big weapons. He was still learning.

The man he had rescued was whimpering now. He thought they meant it. Probably they did.

‘Going to do it? No? Too bad, you could have helped him. Better still, you could have left him alone to get sore knees.’

‘I'll do it,’ said Ambrose.

It was his fault, so he would have to. And he was angry. He hated this lumbering, jeering voice that mocked everything he knew to be right. He stepped back and lifted his sword-point.

‘I'm sorry you said that, boy,’ said the Helm slowly. ‘It's not my fault you did.’

Ambrose sidled onto smoother ground, wondering when the fight would begin. A voice called from behind him. The men straightened and looked up. Still he did not take his eyes off them, because Chawlin had taught him he must not.

Then a hand gripped him by the shoulder.

‘Now that you've got this far,’ said Aun dryly. ‘You'd better let me do the rest.’

He was wearing his helmet. It was laced into his mailshirt. He had dropped his cloak and was carrying his shield. His heavy, mailed gauntlets were on his hands. He must have been preparing for a fight all this time.

‘So the pup's got a dog with him, has he?’ said the Helm. ‘Where did you spring from?’

‘Not a dog,’ said Aun, with a sour grin and a lift of his wolf-shield. ‘Tourney, is it?’

‘Ordeal,’ said the Helm.

‘Ordeal!’ Aun glanced at the kneeling man. ‘For the life of a townsman?’

‘What's good enough for fine folk is good enough for mine. This is my ground. My law.’

‘Better get into your saddles, then, the three of you,’ said Aun.

‘One at a time!’ said Ambrose, finding his tongue again. ‘He said.’

‘One at a time,’ agreed the Helm. He looked over Aun's shoulder at their horses. ‘On foot.’

Aun shrugged. Ambrose realized how much of an advantage big, war-hardened Stefan would have given him over those three on their poor mounts.

‘But …’

‘It makes no difference,’ Aun said to him, in a voice that was meant to carry.

‘Damn right it won't,’ said the Helm.

Then there was a bad time, which seemed to stretch for hours. Ambrose helped Aun to tighten the laces on his helmet. He knew he had nearly got the townsman killed, and then had nearly got himself killed, and now he was going to have to watch and see whether Aun would be killed instead. He wanted to explain what he had been doing, and why the Helm was so wrong. Aun did not look at him or speak to him. He had been arming while Ambrose was arguing. He must have known all along it would come to a fight. Ambrose felt stupid, and rebuked. On the other side of the road the three knights were getting themselves ready, making good the shortcomings in their gear with what they had between them, looking at Aun and trying to assess him. They were nervous, too.

‘I'll have my sword back,’ said Aun suddenly.

‘I don't like that hand-and-a-half of his.’ The oak-pommel blade could not have half the reach of the big bastard sword the Helm carried; but it must be better than the mace would be. Ambrose put it into Aun's hand. There was no time to unfasten the pocket with the little stone in it. If Aun lost, he was going to lose everything.

When Aun at last stepped forward to take his place, Ambrose hurried to Stefan and took the mace for himself, in case he had to fight after Aun fell. Then he picked up his ragged banner. With a hollow, sick feeling inside himself he stood to wait upon the events that would never have happened if it hadn't been for him.

‘Go to it, Leo,’ said the Helm.

One of the men, armed with a sword and shield, stepped forward to face Aun. He was big, a head taller than Aun with shoulders to match. The two men crouched opposite each other, waiting. There was no signal.

‘Go to it,’ said the Helm again.

The other fighter took a step forward. Aun did not move. The fighter hesitated. He wore an open-face helmet, like Aun's but without a noseguard. Ambrose could see his eyes, fixed on Aun. When they come on at you, Chawlin had said, you go back to keep your distance. Or you attack. That was what the fighter had expected. Aun was doing neither.

The fighter moved forward again, just an inch this time. The point of his sword lifted. Even Ambrose could see the blow was coming.

It came, sweeping up and hard down. The wolf-shield lifted into it. There was a
crunch
, and Ambrose cried out
as he saw the blade split the wooden rim. The fighter was stumbling. Aun punched into the man's face with the pommel of his sword. The fighter dropped like a sack falling to the ground.

The point of Aun's blade hovered over him. The man did not see it. The sword lifted and Aun stepped back. The man lay there, moving one leg feebly.

The fighter's sword was still stuck in the rim of the wolfshield. Ambrose ran forward to help Aun free it. At first it would not shift, for the wood gripped it fast. Aun must have used it to pull his enemy off balance and into his counterblow. Ambrose had not known you could do that.

The sword wrenched loose and clattered onto the ground.

‘Shall we get down to it now?’ Aun said to the Helm. ‘Or will you send me your other farmer first?’

The Helm grunted. He was not jeering any more. But he lifted his big sword two-handed and swung it
whoopwhoop!
in a figure-of-eight in front of him. Ambrose felt the air wince with it. He backed to the roadside, hurriedly. Aun circled, well beyond the reach of the sword. On the ground at their feet, the fallen fighter was trying to lift his head. The circling men ignored him.

Whoop-whoop!
went the hand-and-a-half.
Whoop-whoop!

He was quick. Ambrose was looking for the moment when Aun would try to duck inside the blow. Each time his mind thought
Go!
and his legs tensed, the sword was already whistling in on the back-stroke to cut off the head of a lunging enemy. Aun did not try it. He circled easily, at a long distance, sword dangling, shield half raised.

Whoop-whoop!

It was meant to keep Aun off. That was why he was swinging his sword like that – to keep Aun away. The Helm was afraid: afraid of the little man with the little sword, who circled him like a wolf. And Aun knew it. He knew who was going to win.

‘Don't kill him, Aun,’ said Ambrose suddenly.

The Helm grunted, furious. Aun did not answer. Now Aun came, bounding like a wolf ! The big sword swung to meet him. The shield was up – metal crashed and wood splintered. Ambrose saw Aun's counter-blow, delivered at the run, but it swished uselessly in the air. The Helm had jumped to his right – beyond Aun's reach – even as his own blow fell.

Aun spun to face him, panting. One corner of his shield was gone – clean gone with the blow from the big sword. Aun was moving his shoulder as if it hurt him. He began to circle again.

‘I'll have your arm next time, old man,’ the Helm shouted. ‘Maybe your head, too.’

He was sounding more confident now. Aun did not answer. He went pace, pace pace, feinted a movement back and then pace, pace on in a quarter-circle around the man with the whooping sword.

Now he came again, shield to his head as before. The sword swung – low! Low for the knees; but Aun leaped it like a girl over a rope. The Helm was jumping away – already out of reach. And his foot caught in the feet of his fallen companion, and he stumbled, and crashed over backwards to the ground.

Aun was on him, dropping sideways onto his enemy's body with the short sword held high in his right hand. His
shield clumped and dangled from one strap on his arm. His left hand caught the blade of his sword and brought the point down over his enemy's helmet. The Helm's hand flailed at Aun's upper arm but could not hold it. The point was poised.

‘Don't kill him!’ shouted Ambrose, running in.

‘Don't kill him!’

Aun did not seem to hear. The Helm was swearing, struggling to knock the point aside. Aun was lying across him, half-pinning one arm with his body and hunching his shoulder against the blows of the other while he guided his blade down into the eyeslit. The man was bucking as he lay, straining to put off the stroke.

‘Don't kill him!’

A horrible, ululating howl broke from inside the helmet as the point forced its way into the slit. Now Aun's left hand caught the blade higher up, and he lifted himself, putting all his weight behind the downward thrust. Blood spurted from inside the slit and ran over the metal cheek. The legs kicked. The free hand clutched at air. Then all the man's body was still.