Kings of Clonmel (39 page)

 

“You can’t do this,” Halt said out of the side of his mouth as he accompanied Horace to the center of the field. He was carrying Horace’s shield and sword, using the shield to keep a surreptitious pressure on the young man’s arm so he could guide his footsteps.

“That man! What is that man doing?” Tennyson’s voice rang out across the arena, rising above the cheers that rang out from both sides of the field. Halt looked and saw the white-robed figure had come out of his chair and was standing, pointing at him, shouting his protest.

“Just get me to the starting point, Halt. I’ll be fine,” Horace said. He could hear Sean Carrick replying to the priest’s protest, stating that Halt was acting as Horace’s shield bearer, which was allowed within the rules. Horace allowed himself a bitter smile. Arguing over such fine points of procedure was unimportant to him. He was wondering how he was going to fight when all he could see of Gerard was a massive, blurred shape.

“His presence is a breach of the rules! He must remove himself from the field!” Tennyson shouted.

Sean drew breath to reply but stopped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Surprised, he turned to see the King had left his throne and was standing behind him.

“Be silent, you posturing fake!” Ferris shouted. For a moment, the people of Dun Kilty were shocked to see their King taking such a positive stance. Then they roared their wholehearted approval. “Don’t quote rules unless you know them and understand them! The shield bearer is legitimate! Now sit and be silent!”

Again, his subjects yelled their approval. Ferris looked around, mildly surprised and pleased. He’d never heard that sound before. He drew strength from it and held himself a little taller. Opposite him, Tennyson pointed a threatening finger.

“You’ve crossed me once too often, Ferris. I’ll see you pay for this!”

But he retreated to his seat, contenting himself with glaring at the King. Ferris, after enjoying the plaudits of the crowd for a few more moments, also went back to his seat.

On the field, Halt pulled the arm strap tight on Horace’s shield.

“How’s that?” he said, and Horace nodded.

“Fine,” he said. The blurred figure of Gerard stood in front of him, and he concentrated on it, squinting as he tried to force his eyes to focus. With the distraction of his diminished vision, he had forgotten the sense of weariness that had settled over him after he had woken up. Now he was aware of it once more. His limbs felt leaden and clumsy as he tested the balance of his sword. He realized what poor condition he was in.

He decided that his best chance lay in making a sudden attack as soon as the trumpet sounded, lunging with the point for the mass of the body before him. Most combatants circled briefly at the start of a fight, looking to test their opponents’ reactions. He hoped Gerard would be expecting him to do that. He sensed Halt was still close by, but he didn’t want to take his attention away from his mighty opponent.

“ Thanks, Halt,” he said. “You’d better go now.”

“I’ll fight in your place,” Halt said, in one last desperate attempt. Horace smiled, without humor, his attention still on Gerard.

“Can’t be done. Against the rules. I have to finish it. Now go away.”

Reluctantly, Halt withdrew, backing away. He reached the single-rail fence, ducked under it and took his seat in the front row.

“Ready, combatants!” Sean called. Neither answered, and he took that for a positive reply. He nodded to the trumpeter.

“Sound,” he said quietly. The braying note rang over the field.

Horace didn’t wait for the sound to die away. The instant he heard it begin, he lunged forward, his right foot stamping out toward Gerard, the blade of his sword thrusting at the fuzzily seen mass before him.

It might have worked, had he not been slowed down by the effect of the drug. Gerard was expecting his smaller opponent to circle and weave, testing his own defenses and speed. He was surprised by the sudden attack. The sword point struck him in the center of his body, but he managed to twist so that his hard leather breastplate deflected it, sending it skating across his ribs.

It hurt and winded him. And it may well have cracked a rib. But it wasn’t the killing stroke Horace needed so desperately. He continued the forward rush, a little more clumsily than his normal sure-footed movement, spinning to his left so that he brought his shield up to ward off the counterstroke he expected from Gerard.

He was just in time; the backhand cut clanged heavily against his shield. It was a solid blow, but nowhere near as bad as the hammering mace strokes he had taken from Killeen.

He shuffled backward, straining to see. His eyes watered, and Gerard was a shapeless mass moving toward him. He saw the vague outline of a sword arm rising and threw up his shield again. Gerard’s sword slammed into it again, and Horace, acting purely on instinct, cut back at the giant with his own sword.

Gerard was big and strong. But he was no combat master. In addition, knowing that Horace had been drugged, he was expecting no opposition at all and was overconfident. His shield was poorly positioned and a fraction too low to take Horace’s counter. The long blade caught the top of the shield, deflected and clanged solidly off Gerard’s helmet, leaving a severe dent on the curved metal.

Horace felt the satisfying shock of solid contact up his right arm. The crowd on the western bleachers roared their approval. He saw the fuzzy lumbering shape that was Gerard move back, becoming more difficult to see as he merged into the background.

Gerard, for his part, shook his head to clear it and stood like a huge, angry bull, glaring at the young warrior before him. The padded lining to his helmet had absorbed some of the blow he had just taken, but even so, it had shaken him. He was furious now. He had been told he would face minimal resistance while he avenged his brother’s death. But he had only just avoided suffering a similar fate. He roared with fury and charged at Horace.

Horace heard the roar but, virtually blinded as he was, he was slow registering the fact that Gerard was coming at him. Too late, he realized what was happening and tried to retreat. At that moment, Gerard rammed his shield into Horace’s, with all the force of his charging body behind it. Horace, already beginning to move backward, was hurled off his feet and crashed onto his back on the grass, his sword flying from his hand.

There was a concerted gasp of horror from the western stands and a simultaneous shout of triumph from Tennyson’s followers. Horace, winded and almost blind, saw the out-of-focus figure towering over him. He sensed rather than saw that Gerard was raising his sword, point down, holding it in both hands to drive it into Horace’s body.

So this was how it was going to happen, he thought. He felt a vague sense of disappointment that he had let Halt down. He heard Tennyson’s section of the crowd shouting encouragement to Gerard and resolved to keep his eyes open as he died, in spite of the fact that he could see almost nothing of his killer. That was annoying, somehow. He wanted to see.

He wished he weren’t going to die while he was annoyed. It seemed such a petty emotion.

WILL HEARD THE FIRST CLASH OF SWORD ON SHIELD AS HE AND the marshal dragged the staggering Genovesan toward the field of combat. Curious spectators separated before the small group. The ice vendor followed behind him, puzzled but curious to see what was about to unfold.

Will heard the spectators roaring, heard shouts of triumph turn to a giant gasp of despair from the western stands. Then he pushed through the crowd at the southern end of the arena and his heart sank.

The huge sword in Gerard’s hand was being held like a dagger as he prepared to drive it down, plunging it into Horace’s helpless body. Acting entirely by instinct, Will shrugged his bow off his shoulder and into his left hand. As he raised it, an arrow seemed to nock itself to the string, and he drew and fired in a heartbeat.

Gerard’s snarl of triumph turned abruptly into a screech of agony as the arrow transfixed the muscle of his upper right arm.

He wheeled away from the body before him, the sword falling harmlessly from his nerveless hand, clasping with his left hand at the throbbing pain that had burst out in his arm, shooting blasts of agony down to his hand and fingers. The crowd, after an initial gasp of surprise, was shocked to silence.

Tennyson came to his feet, drawing breath to shout for the marshals. But another voice beat him to it. A young voice.

“ Treachery!” Will yelled at the top of his lungs. “ Treachery! The Sunrise Warrior has been poisoned by Tennyson! Treachery!”

Tennyson’s eyes swung toward the voice. His heart sank as he heard the accusation of poisoning and saw the bound, hobbling figure of the Genovesan. Somehow, his plot had been discovered.

Halt, on his feet now in the crowd, realized the need to maintain the momentum. He began echoing Will’s cry.

“Treachery! Treachery!” And, as he had hoped, those around him took it up, not knowing the how or the why of it but caught up in the mass hysteria. The word rang around the arena.

Will, dragging the Genovesan with him, turned to the ice vendor and whispered a quick instruction to him. The man hesitated, a puzzled look on his face. Then, as Will urged him, he turned and ran back toward the pavilion.

Will was almost up to the central point of the arena now, where Horace had slowly regained his feet and where Gerard crouched, hunched over, still clasping his wounded arm. He shoved the Genovesan forward, sending him stumbling to his knees.

“I caught this man in the Sunrise Warrior’s pavilion, trying to destroy the evidence. Look beside Tennyson and you’ll see his cohorts!”

An angry murmur swept through the crowd. Will noted that it wasn’t confined to the King’s side of the arena. Some of Tennyson’s recent “converts” looked questioningly at the priest, flanked by two of the Genovesans. The foreigners were unpopular. Since joining Tennyson’s band, their arrogant manner had done little to endear them to their colleagues.

In the silence now, Will spoke up. “ The Warrior’s drinking water was drugged by this man.” He pointed to the Genovesan, who was on the ground before him. “And he was working for Tennyson! They’ve betrayed the sacred rules of trial by combat.”

Tennyson searched for a reply, knowing every eye was on him. He was close to panic. He was used to using the dynamics of mob opinion for his own benefit, not to having them turned against him. Then a lifeline was thrown to him, as Will’s Genovesan prisoner struggled to rise to his feet.

“Proof!” the Genovesan shouted, his voice thickly accented. “Where’s your proof? Where is this drugged water? Produce it now!”

He looked up at Tennyson and gave him a discreet nod. The priest’s spirits soared. His man had got to the tent in time to destroy the evidence. So now the situation could be reversed.

He echoed the man’s challenge.

“Proof! Show us proof if you accuse us! Bring the proof here now!”

Tennyson switched his gaze from Will to the King, seated opposite. His voice rose, thundering now with all the power of a trained orator, sure of his ground once more.

“This man has violated the sacred rules of trial by combat! He has attacked my champion. Now his life must be forfeited and Gerard must be proclaimed the winner! He makes charges against me, but he does so without proof. If there is proof, let him show it now!”

He frowned as he realized that eyes in the royal enclosure were looking to his right, where Will stood. He followed their gaze and saw the young man smiling triumphantly as he held up a tumbler. Beside him, the ice vendor, who had run all the way to do his bidding, stood hunched over, recovering his breath.

Will looked at the Genovesan. “You thought you’d destroyed the evidence, didn’t you? You poured the water out of the jug onto the ground so nobody would ever know.”

Tennyson saw the doubt suddenly flicker in his henchman’s eyes as they fastened on the tumbler. Will raised his voice now so that more people could hear him.

“But I got to the tent first. And I poured some of the water into this mug. I thought Tennyson might try something like that. I was curious to see what this poisoner would do when he got there.”

He looked to Ferris, who had risen from his throne and moved forward to the front of the enclosure.

“Your majesty, this is a sample of the poisoned water they used to drug the Sunrise Warrior. It’s Tennyson and his cult who have broken the rules of fair combat. They’ve tried to subvert a fair trial by combat, and they stand condemned.”

Ferris rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. He might have been weak and vacillating, but even a weak man will resist if he’s given enough provocation. And Tennyson’s contemptuous threats had finally gone too far.

“Can you prove this?” he asked Will. Will smiled and gripped the Genovesan by his collar, dragging him to his feet and shoving the tumbler against his tightly closed lips.

“Easily,” he said. “Let’s see what happens when our friend here drinks it.”

The Genovesan began to thrash frantically against Will’s iron grip. But Will held him fast and again thrust the tumbler to his mouth.

“Go ahead,” he said. He turned to the marshal. “Marshal, would you pinch his nose for me so his mouth will have to open?”

The marshal obliged and the Genovesan’s lips finally parted as he had to breathe. But as Will raised the tumbler to his open lips, the assassin, with a supreme effort, tore one hand free from his restraints and dashed the tumbler out of Will’s hands, sending it spinning and spilling the water onto the grass.

Will released him and stood back. He spread his hands in appeal to the King.

“I think his actions speak for themselves, your majesty,” he said. But Tennyson instantly screamed his dissent.

“They prove nothing! Nothing! There is no real proof. It’s a web of lies and tricks.”