The Queen's Gambit (20 page)

An elbow dug into his spine, and he glanced over his shoulder to see a guardsman with broken teeth and a crooked nose grinning at him. “So you got the word, eh, Talmor? Good fer you. Thought you'd turn up.”

Talmor smiled with more good nature than he actually felt. He'd taken plenty of ribbing for his part in rescuing Lady Pheresa. It wasn't often that a guardsman of sentry rank got
his arms around a highborn lady. The fact that he'd carried her all the way into her bedchamber had sparked ribald talk for days. It infuriated him for these coarse, unlettered men to make sport of the lady's name, but he knew better than to show his anger. He was no longer an officer, he had to remind himself. It was not his place to shut them up, no matter how often his fists involuntarily clenched.

“The word is that the king wanted no less than fifty knights in the tourney, so they're letting ten of us compete,” the man with the broken teeth said. He winked. “Can't let us all go in, eh? Who'd mind the crowd then?”

“Ten,” Talmor said thoughtfully. His gaze went to the head of the line.

“I done counted. You make eight, and I make nine.” The fellow grinned broadly. “We're all right. There's four officers I see ahead of us.”

Sir Kedrien, Talmor saw now, was second in line. Talmor's brows drew together, and he felt a hot surge of angry determination. If he met Kedrien face-to-face on the jousting field, for that brief time they'd be equals. Talmor intended to break Kedrien, break him and defeat him and shame him at arms.

When his turn came, he stepped up to the table and signed his name on the line. Lord Nejel stood nearby, watching the proceedings. He grinned at Talmor, and said with good cheer, “I thought I'd find you here. What luck that you weren't on duty and could enter.”

“Aye, my lord. Thank you.”

Sir Kedrien turned at the sound of their exchange and glared at Talmor in red-faced displeasure. “What are you doing here?” he demanded sharply. “You've no business entering.”

Talmor set his jaw. “The lists are open to any guardsman, of any rank, sir. I—”

“You're late for duty. Consider yourself fined—”

“Excuse me, sir,” Talmor said, his voice clipped, his muscles rigid, “but I chose to sign up rather than go to mess. I don't report for duty until the bell rings.”

Sir Kedrien's eyes were flat and hard. “Get out.”

Talmor saluted and strode out briskly, his heart thumping with anger. At least today, he'd had a chance to stand up for himself, he thought. But Sir Kedrien faded quickly from his mind as he hurried across the courtyard to assume his post. Instead, he thought of Lady Pheresa, with her long eyelashes and the sweet curve of her mouth. By some miracle he'd been given the chance, however slim, of vying for the honor of serving her the rest of his days. And by Thod, he meant to win.

The fanfare of trumpets marked the start of the tourney. Escorted into the royal box by her attendants, Pheresa found the king already there, attended by his marechals, ducs, and favorites. Lervan, clad in a yellow doublet with slashed sleeves, his cap at a rakish angle on his light brown hair, the absurd jadecock feather curling out from it as usual, had taken a position higher in the stands. Several other young nobles stood laughing with him as he described something with sweeping gestures. Princess Dianthelle, dressed for hunting, looked bored and dissatisfied. The Countess Lalieux, exquisitely gowned, nibbled bonbons daintily from a plate held for her by an attendant and fanned herself with a handkerchief.

The trumpets sounded again, and Pheresa saw the contestants riding into the arena behind the heralds. The tourney was to take place over the course of three days, with jousting first, followed by combat on horseback, followed by hand-to-hand sword fighting on foot.

The spectators cheered and applauded Pheresa's arrival, and Princess Dianthelle cast her a sour look.

But although she might feel flustered at being late, Pheresa kept her expression serene. She wore a gown of celestial blue, cut low and plain across the bodice, then filled in with ruchings of delicate lace. The sleeves were long and slender, emphasizing the grace of her arms, and ended in points at her knuckles. A scarf of silk gauze covered her hair to protect it from dust, and the long ends trailed artfully over her shoulders. Her haste had brought a most becoming blush to her cheeks.

Verence broke off what he was saying to one of the dignitaries to greet her with a smile. She curtsied deeply to him, giving him her apology, which he waved aside.

“Nothing can begin without you. 'Tis for you to start the proceedings at your leisure.”

This gracious statement embarrassed her more, for it only emphasized her discourtesy in coming so late. She knew better, however, than to repeat her apologies, and instead asked, “Then, if it please your majesty, shall I permit them to commence now?”

The king looked around at his company. “We are commanded to take our places, it seems.”

Everyone laughed and seated themselves in evident good humor. Pheresa's blush deepened, and inside she wanted to sink with mortification at her own gaucheness. What was wrong with her today, she wondered. As a rule, she ordered her life well, appeared on time, kept her person and her clothing tidy, said the proper things at the proper moment, and was skilled at maintaining her composure under the most trying circumstances. Today, however, everything seemed awry. The tourney was bringing a change in her life, for to have a protector of her own gave her not only a measure of safety which she welcomed, but also tremendous consequence. She knew wagers were running as to whether the king now intended to name her his successor. She could sense the anticipation and tension gathered around her, and indeed she felt it herself. More was happening here than a tourney in her honor. Yet she had enough sense to realize that few things at court were as
they seemed. She dared make no assumptions, and tried once more to calm the wild rush of her senses.

Seated on the king's left, a tremendous honor that made Dianthelle's mouth pinch at the corners, Pheresa was glad of the canopy's shade against a blazing sun. She pitied the contestants milling inside the enclosure. It looked very hot inside the arena. One of the heralds was wiping perspiration from his face. Another fanned himself with his cap. The knights, glittering in polished armor, rode excited horses caparisoned in armor cloths of bright colors and patterns. On the wooden stands, the common folk shouted, clapped, and cheered, while pennons fluttered in the fitful breeze and the trumpets blared again.

At the king's nod, Pheresa lifted her dainty handkerchief high.

A sudden hush fell over the crowd. The heralds looked up. Everything seemed frozen, waiting for her signal. The power in that moment rushed to her head. It thrilled her and alarmed her, for she realized how easy it was to become drunk on such a feeling, drunk and unwise.

Swiftly she dropped her hand. A great shout went up from the people, and the contestants galloped thunderously from the arena. While the heralds shouted the rules of the opening round, the first two knights took their places opposite each other in the jousting list. Armored, their faces hidden inside their helmets, they readied their lances while their eager horses pawed and strained at the bit.

The shout came, and they charged each other. There was a great crash, and the man in green and orange went tumbling off the back of his mount. Cheers rang out. It was a most satisfying opening round, quickly and cleanly won.

As she watched, Pheresa felt a wave of hostility coming from someone. Not mere dislike or scorn, but something darker, something terrible and dangerous. Closing in, breathing on her, reaching out to her in some mysterious way.

Another crash, another tumbling knight. Fresh cheers went up, and startled, Pheresa clapped with the others. The feeling of danger ebbed, and she gasped, her eyes filling with tears
that she blinked quickly away.
Soon,
she told herself, pretending to laugh at Lalieux's witty remark,
soon I shall have a protector. Please, Thod, keep me safe until then.

Two days later, staggering a little as he walked down into the cool stone chambers beneath the jousting stands, Talmor pulled off his helmet to let the air bathe his sweating face. All he wanted was to drink an entire pail of water and collapse somewhere.

Pears walked close beside him, muttering under his breath and pointing out the way through a maze of passageways thronged with knights, squires, and nobles. It was the last day of the tourney, and today's contest was hand-to-hand combat. Thod's bones, Talmor thought to himself, swiping his sleeve across his brow, but it was mortally hot. He'd won the contest of lances on the first day, and yesterday he'd acquitted himself well enough until felled in the final round. He was determined to gain another victory today, for unless he demonstrated, beyond all question, that he was the man best qualified to serve as Lady Pheresa's protector, someone like him, with mixed blood, would never be chosen.

Now, as Pears ushered him into a small chamber fitted with a stone basin and a pair of benches, he dropped his helmet and pushed back his mail coif. He was beginning to regain his breath a little. Pears brought him water, and he took the dipper, gulping down its cool contents greedily before drawing his sword.

“Check the edge. Be sure I haven't nicked it.”

Scowling, Pears took the weapon and sighted down the blade with an expert squint. “Be a wonder, won't it, after ye walloped the gate?”

Talmor had to laugh. “The fool shouldn't have run and cornered himself against it.”

“Ye scared all the growth out of that boy, damn 'im.” Pears shot a disapproving look at Talmor. “Just because that great brute Sir Maldriard is scaring the piss out of the lesser ranks don't mean ye have to do the same.”

Being compared to the brutish knight, who'd almost hacked off a man's arm in one of the opening rounds, brought Talmor's dark brows together. He dipped himself another drink, then bent and pulled off his hauberk and mail shirt with a wince.

He was battered, with dark bruises liberally staining his face, torso, and arms, and more to come after today's fighting.

“Your hauberk is cut along the side,” Pears said in alarm. “Damne, but I didn't see that thrust strike home.”

Talmor grinned. “That's because he missed.”

Pears held up the mail shirt and waggled his fingers grimly through the severed links of mail. “Not by much.”

Talmor showed him the tear in his undertunic. It was a battered, smelly old garment, sweat-soaked and hard-worn. Some of the padding was spilling out in places.

Shaking his head, Pears unbuckled the straps and peeled it off before picking up a pail of water and pouring it over Talmor.

Shuddering with pleasure, Talmor slicked back his hair with his hands and sank down on a bench. The contest had halted for an hour to permit a rest period. There were two rounds remaining. He, Sir Kedrien, and Sir Maldriard had made it to the end. One of them would have to fight both rounds, back-to-back, depending on the luck of the lots.

Pears dug through the leather pouch where he kept remedies and the tools with which to make small repairs. “I'm sorry, sir. I've no camphor and culleinwort left.”

“Thod be thanked,” Talmor said fervently. “I reek enough now from your ointments.”

“ 'Twould numb the scrape on yer knuckles, but I've used it all on them bruises.”

Flexing his hand, Talmor shrugged. “Just see to my sword.”

Pears flung the hauberk over his arm and picked up the sword. “I'll run to the armorer and see what he can do.”

“The sword's important. My mail isn't. I doubt there's time for both.”

Pears looked suddenly fierce. “By Thod, he'll make time.”

Dashing out, he jostled in the doorway momentarily with a man in a herald's tabard.

The herald, followed by two escorts, halted before Talmor and held out a small leather bucket. “The others have drawn, sir.”

Talmor drew his lot. It was white, not red, which meant he must win the next round in order to advance to the final one. He stared at it in numb disappointment, wondering which of the two men he was about to face.

The herald handed the lot to his assistant, who made a written notation on a piece of parchment. “Sir Kedrien also drew white. That means you and he will fight next. Sir Maldriard drew red, and awaits the victor of your contest.”

Voices came from the doorway. Talmor saw several curious faces gazing in at him. He made sure his own visage betrayed no expression at all before these professional wagerers, but inside he felt cold fingers of dismay. Two more rounds to fight, not one. Assuming he could defeat Sir Kedrien, who no doubt meant to trounce him to prove Mandrian superiority. He wasn't sure if he had enough strength left in his arms to make it. Sir Maldriard, humiliated before all by his defeat with the lance, had already publicly sworn revenge and declared that if he didn't meet Talmor today in armed combat, his challenge would be issued as soon as the tourney ended.

“May I enter?” a soft, educated voice asked.

Glancing up, Talmor saw an elderly courtier in an old-fashioned tunic and leggings, soft shoes on his feet and a thinsword belted around his somewhat portly waist. He was accompanied by a young priest in yellow robes. Two burly church knights stood at his back.

“Forgive the intrusion,” the nobleman said with a placating smile. “I know you are not to be disturbed, but I hoped to speak to you privately.”

Talmor wanted to be left alone, but he could not be discourteous to a lord. He rose stiffly to his feet, and gave the stranger a wary bow.

The courtier smiled and waved his hand at his men. All of
them withdrew, and the rickety wooden door was closed, leaving Talmor and his visitor together.

“Forgive me if I make no introductions. Names are unimportant.”

Talmor frowned. His sense of uneasiness was growing. To hide it, he began to pace slowly back and forth. He had to keep himself from stiffening up too much, but the exercise also helped keep him up and ready for whatever might come.

“Have you come to offer me a post at your hold?” he asked.

The courtier laughed. “Alas, I have not. You are an able fighter, but I am no chevard.”

“What then?”

“You are an impatient man, sir.”

“I haven't much time.” A burst of laughter came from the passageway outside. Talmor ignored it, keeping his gaze on his visitor.

“Are you going to win today, sir knight?” the courtier asked. “You look as though you might. I must say that you are a magnificent warrior, wonderfully trained.”

Talmor inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment and said nothing.

Again the courtier laughed. “A cautious man, I see.”

“If you seek to bribe me into throwing the contest, I won't do it.”

“So blunt, my good sir. So crude!” The courtier made a little tsking sound and shook his white head. “Nay, indeed not. I think you will win, and if you do, I want to be the first to approach you.”