Page 53

Over the months since her arrival in Tresingale, Ophele had all but forgotten how deadly Remin and his knights really were.

Other than their omnipresent swords, there wasn’t much evidence that they were knights at all, day to day.

They went about the town in much the same clothing as the common soldiers, did the same work, and other than Remin, she rarely saw them in armor and never saw the least hint of their violent potential.

To her, they were the Knights of the Brede in only the most chivalrous, heroic sense: unfailingly gentle, protective, and gallant.

Except for Sir Miche, who liked to tease.

But in his armor, even Sir Miche looked like a stranger.

Armored and helmeted, the knights rode a circuit of the field, tipping their lances to Remin as they passed the dais.

He acknowledged them gravely, and Ophele, watching him from the corner of her eye, nodded her head just as he did, trying to play her part for the watching crowd.

At the far end, the knights massed and wheeled their horses in a sudden surge of motion, and Ophele caught her breath as they leveled their lances and charged, a momentary glimpse of who they really were and what they could really do.

Six knights on armored horses made a thunder like nothing she had ever heard before, and she watched with her fan frozen in front of her face.

Stars, just imagine them on a battlefield, with real lances.

“I feel sorry for Valleth,”

she said without thinking, and then glanced up at Remin apologetically.

“I thought the same too, sometimes,”

he replied, without taking his eyes from them.

“But they’ll be careful today.

This is more a demonstration than a contest.”

Indeed, as the knights came around again, Ophele could tell who was who now: Sir Auber sitting very straight in the saddle, Sir Edemir with the sign of the boar on his breastplate, and Sir Miche, somehow cheeky even in a helmet.

She didn’t know the others as well.

Sir Darrigault, Sir Bertin, and Sir Osinot were Remin’s knights too, but they were not Knights of the Brede.

They had not been there for the charge of the Gresein.

As it turned out, that was no measure of skill.

“They get points for breaking a lance on each other, and for unhorsing each other,”

Remin explained as Sir Bertin and Sir Darri took their places at opposite ends of the field, their horses dancing restlessly, scenting the excitement.

Sir Bertin was the taller of the two knights, while Sir Darrigault was very short and sturdy, and both lifted their heavy lances as if they weighed nothing.

It seemed to take forever for them to get going, with squires and pages darting about, little Valentin scampering fearlessly around the huge horses.

A half-dozen times the knights lifted their lances as if they were about to charge and then lowered them again.

But then all at once they were standing at either end of the tilt barrier, visors down and lances ready, and at Sir Bram’s signal, the horses leapt forward.

Even two armored horses were heavy enough to shake the ground.

Ophele didn’t know enough to understand everything she was seeing, but as they raced toward each other, she saw Sir Darrigault roll his arm back and his lance thrust forward and there was a tremendous smashing sound, a shattering of splinters, so quickly over she hardly knew what had happened.

“…done, Bertin!”

Remin applauded beside her, and Ophele looked at him and then back at the knights, wondering if she had blinked.

Sir Be rtin threw his shattered lance aside to be dragged away by a shouting Denin, and the crowd roared their approval.

“He hit him?”

she said blankly.

“In the shoulder, neat as you please,”

Remin said approvingly.

“You have to watch carefully; the horses are moving fast.”

“They are.”

Her heart was pounding with excitement.

At the ends of the tilt barrier, the horses slowed, blowing, and Sir Darrigault lifted an arm to show he was all right, bowing to acknowledge Sir Bertin’s point.

“Bertin’s an eel,”

Remin said beside her, clearly enjoying himself.

“He’s so skinny, it’s like trying to aim at a fence post.”

“A fence post on horseback,”

Ophele laughed.

“It must be hard to aim, mustn’t it? With both horses moving?”

“It is.

Watch, when they’re squaring up, they stand up in the stirrups to give themselves a platform.”

Honestly, in their armor, it was hard for her to tell either way, but she clapped her hands as Sir Darrigault’s lance glanced over Sir Bertin’s skinny shoulders, just enough to count as a hit.

All of it was so loud, louder than any noise she had ever heard before: the horses, the crowd, the smashing impact of the lances.

Again, the knights turned, picked up fresh lances, and Sir Bram, with a little showmanship, held them in place for an agonizing heartbeat, then dropped his arm.

The horses surged forward.

Ophele didn’t dare to blink as they thundered toward each other, hundreds of pounds of muscle and hooves and steel, and this time she saw how Sir Bertin’s lean body swayed and lifted slightly off the saddle, evading one lance and smashing his own home.

“Oh, he won!”

she exclaimed, applauding wildly.

Beside her, Remin was pounding the arm of his chair, the noise almost lost in the clamor of the crowd.

“Did you see it that time?”

he asked, bending his head and raising his voice to be heard.

“Yes, yes!”

she shouted back.

“It really doesn’t hurt them? When the lance hits?”

“No, it hurts.”

He lowered his voice to normal volume as the cheering faded.

Sir Bertin and Sir Darrigault quit the field, and Sir Miche and Sir Auber were taking their places at either end of the barrier.

“Darri will be feeling that for a few days. ”

“I hope not too much,”

she said, looking with a little anxiety at Sir Miche.

Of course, she didn’t want anyone to be hurt, but she did want him to win; he was her friend, after all.

This time, it seemed all too soon before Sir Bram was lifting his arm to signal readiness, and she held her breath as the horses charged.

But her hopes were swiftly dashed.

Twice in rapid succession, Sir Auber smashed his lance into Sir Miche’s shoulder, and Remin shook his head.

“He’s just playing with him,”

he said, as Ophele looked at him quizzically.

“He turned his head at the last second?”

“Did he? Why?”

Ophele asked, disappointed.

“He doesn’t want to spoil his record,”

Remin replied, and booed loudly as Sir Miche took off his helmet and offered Sir Auber a bow without the slightest sign of pique.

“He does love to be underestimated, though he’ll say he was just protecting his pretty face.

Don’t applaud him, he doesn’t deserve it!”

There was a little more good-natured heckling from the other Knights of the Brede, and Ophele resolved to ask Sir Miche about it later and then promptly forgot as Sir Edemir and Sir Osinot rode forward.

Since Remin had said Sir Edemir was particularly skilled, Ophele tried to watch closely, but this match was over even faster than Sir Miche’s.

It began the same as they surged toward each other on their horses, lances lifted, seeking the mark.

But this time Sir Edemir’s lance struck squarely and Sir Osinot was smashed backward off his horse as if he had crashed into a wall.

The thud as he struck the earth resounded all the way through her own bones.

“Oh!”

she cried involuntarily, rising to her feet, and Remin caught her wrist.

“He’s all right,”

he said reassuringly.

“Just winded.

Edemir knows where to strike.”

“You’re sure?”

She looked back at the field, but it seemed to be true.

Sir Osinot was already climbing back to his feet, but it looked painful.

“He doesn’t have to go again, does he?”

“If this were a real tournament, yes, but not today.”

“So that leaves Sir Edemir, Sir Auber, and Sir Bertin,”

she said, sitting back down as Sir Osinot made his way off the field.

“Will they all fight each other? ”

“Yes, with total points to determine the winner.”

“Who do you think will win?”

“I’m not telling,”

he said, glancing at her with a glint of humor.

“Are you enjoying your first tourney?”

“Yes,”

she said fervently, flicking out her fan and feeling as if she rather needed it.

It was the most exciting thing she had ever seen.

Until Sir Bertin and Sir Auber rode against each other.

Really, that was the closest contest of the day.

Ophele had no gauge at all for jousting and no idea whether she was watching something ordinary or extraordinary, but Remin certainly seemed impressed as the men swayed out of the path of the lances again and again, doubly remarkable in heavy armor.

It was meant to be the best of three passes, but neither struck a blow, and then both did at once, wooden splinters flying every which way.

“They both have to be steady to land a strike,”

Remin explained, his face intent on the pair.

“They’re good.

They have a moment to see the other one squaring up and aim, a split second where they’re steady enough to be a target.

They’re very good.”

“Better than you?”

she asked curiously.

“They might take a few points from me,”

he said, with a gleam in his eyes that was really no answer at all.

Six rounds later, the score remained resolutely tied as the two knights shattered lance after lance, so evenly matched that every clash was more nerve-wracking than the last.

Finally, Sir Miche appeared, his damp golden hair darkened to the color of honey, and swept his usual extravagant bow to Ophele.

“Lovely lady,”

he said, and cut his hazel eyes over to Remin.

“Honored lord.

Bram sends me to say we are almost out of lances.

Edemir says he doesn’t mind conceding the field.”

“If it’s a draw, it’s a draw,”

Remin said with a shrug.

“Let them have a last try.

Tell them to make it count.”

Miche nodded and turned, signaling to Sir Bram on the far side of the field with a single finger, and then sliced the finger over his own throat in a gesture that likely meant tell them to finish it but Ophele fancied could also be the old Imperial signal for fight to the death.

The blond knight flopped into the lower chair on the dais with an exaggerated sigh .

“That was exhausting,”

he said to the world in general.

“Are you still determined to have your test, Rem?”

“Of course.”

“He thinks there will be soldiers willing to go through Remin Grimjaw to be your guard, my lady.”

Sir Miche turned toward her to confide this information in an exaggerated whisper, as if Remin weren’t sitting right there listening.

“I told him they’d sooner head to Hara Vos for another dragon expedition.”

“You’re making my guards fight you?”

Ophele badly wanted to ask about the dragon expedition, but first things first.

Remin had hinted that there was some selection process underway, but she had imagined something more…administrative.

“Your prospective guards,”

Remin corrected.

“I’ll take your bet, Miche, if you want to put money on it.”

“Only a fool bets with the participants,”

the knight said, waving negligently.

“Though I will put money on Auber for the last pass, if you’re set on wagering.”

“That’s where I’d place my own bet,”

Remin replied, sitting forward as the two knights on the field moved into position for their final contest.

So, they were just going to pretend that no one had said anything about her guards fighting for the privilege.

Ophele was torn.

She couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to, unless there were some other significant incentives, and if there were…Remin was planning to fight all of them?

She was so distracted, she almost missed the end of the joust.

Her head jerked up at the pounding of hooves, closing the distance so fast, and Ophele felt the breathless instant when the knights hung in the air, almost seeming to fly, braced up in their stirrups as they turned to drive their lances home.

Distantly, she heard Remin and Sir Miche shouting, almost drowned out by the screaming of the crowd.

Helmets turned, finding their targets.

And since both Sir Miche and Remin were betting on Sir Auber, Ophele was watching as his body swiveled, the point of his lance circling to thrust Sir Bertin’s lance out and away and slamming into his shoulder to nearly knock him from the saddle.

The horses’ hooves struck the earth in ringing silence.

Sir Auber threw his broken lance down .

The field exploded with cheers.

Ophele didn’t even realize she was on her feet, clapping and shouting, bouncing on her heels and applauding until her hands stung.

“He parried it!”

she exclaimed, looking up at Remin with glowing eyes.

“Didn’t he? As if it was a sword!”

“Yes, exactly.”

His big hand squeezed her shoulder in his excitement.

“Did you like it, wife?”

“Yes,”

she said breathlessly.

“I wish we could give them both prizes, they were so good!”

“You can tell them that,”

he said, gesturing to the approaching knights.

“Bertin will appreciate it.

Tell them they both fought hard.”

“They did,”

she agreed, and she did tell them as they came to kneel before the dais, battered and dusty and disheveled, but pleased.

This was a side to the mild Sir Auber she had never imagined, and she was so glad for him that his family was here to see it, hugging each other rapturously a short distance away.

“Thank you both,”

she said, so impressed with them that she forgot all about the watching crowd.

“It was such a close match, I’m so glad this was the first joust I ever saw.

Oh, the prize,”

she remembered, turning to take it from Sir Miche.

“Sir Auber.

Congratulations on your victory.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

Bowing, he accepted the plain golden cup.

“It’s also the valley’s first tournament,”

she added impulsively, glancing at Sir Edemir behind them.

“The first tournament in the duchy, ever.

And all of you were the first to compete in it.

His Grace’s first champions.”

“We will record it,”

Sir Edemir agreed, meeting her eyes with surprise and appreciation.

It was something to think about.

This might be a humble beginning compared to tourneys she had read about in books, with hundreds of combatants from dozens of noble houses, and prizes that were masterpieces of gold and gems, enough to make the fortune of a family.

But one day House Andelin would be anything but humble.

She knew it because she knew Remin, and Remin built on bedrock.

Though she had a few misgivings about the next event.

“You’re really going to fight all of them?”

she asked him a little faintly as a line of armored men took the field, anonymous in their helmets and formidable-looking.

“By yourself? ”

“They’ll just get in each other’s way,”

he assured her cheerfully, and brushed her fingers with his hand.

“Don’t worry, wife, it’ll be all right.”

Vaulting onto the field, he strode toward the waiting combatants, to make his own little bit of history.