Swift-Shadow Murders Chapter IV: The Rider of the Waves
The Knights circled the fields, each one seeking to gain an advantage. Their war-steeds chuffed and snorted, glaring at one another with no less intensity than those their riders did. Helms had long since been lowered, yet still no lance would come down, no lance would be pointed until prepared for a charge. This was the longest it had taken them to prepare to charge one another, as neither of the men who dominated the field at that moment, were fools. One was Léon de Roven a knight sworn to the service of the Duc de Norléan, and the other was Chrétien de Vaugrimée, one of the most southerly kingdoms his liege was the King Ferdan ‘Blackhammer’ or ‘Martel-Noire’.
Neither one of them was eager to prove themselves foolish and when they at last did charge, it was long after the wind had swept through the field, and the suns’ had dipped. Forward they went almost as one, with the first to have moved Léon, soon unhorsed as Chrétien properly put him in his place, praying beneath his breath before his own charge. Later, he was to be heard crediting the war-god Ziu, with his victory even as he was to do obeisance in the old way, to of all ladies the lady Seonag. This horrified some of the nobler women, who were so infuriated that an outside should receive so great an honour. Such being the way of such women, who though they might feign fondness for outsiders had no great desire to see one of their men do honour to a foreign woman.
Seonag for her part made timid at the honour done to her, did not entirely know what to do, how to respond and was to look for direction from Augustine. The lovely blonde haired woman was to whisper to her, the correct words and the correct gesture with a warmth that an older sister might well have bequeathed upon her favourite younger sister.
“I thank you Sir Knight, for this grand victory of unmatched splendour I am moved and thank the goddess Marianne for having kept you safe and for having granted you this victory!” Seonag almost yelled in her slightly accented voice, her voice carrying over to the peasants who were seated in their own box across from those of the nobility.
Chrétien for his part, was to bow his head and turn to go, her favour-cloth held high by him as he smiled proudly, pleased to have honoured so good a lady. Timidity being a common virtue among Gallian ladies, he therefore thought nothing of her hesitancy hardly noticing that in her reluctance her own eyes had gone instinctively to Salomon who stood to one side, his visor already lowered.
His lack of response and clear indifference had wounded her. She had come to quite like the handsome Knight, yet for him to be so cold towards her, was a reminder of her own outsider status in these lands.
Seeing her lower her eyes once more after Chrétien had departed towards another part of the fields, Augustine seeing her hurt took her hand up in her own. Solicitous and kind she knew well what troubled the other maiden, and that it was not simply the absence of her brother and kindly Augustin, but also the lack of visible affection by Sir Salomon.
“Fear not, he shall ask for thy favour, never fear Seonag,” Augustine assured her, thinking to do her a kindness.
Seonag tried to smile. Truly she did. It was difficult however, as her heart longed for even one gesture of recognition, a glance mayhap while her soul questioned if she had somehow betrayed Marculf by not accompanying her brother.
Where Ruaidhrí had taken up the path to the mountains, with nary a thought to his sister or to the warnings of those others who’s path he had crossed, Seonag had preferred to remain in the castle. Though, hardly of patrician birth hers was the brightest and most lovely face to be found amongst all the flowering ones that sat in the stands near where the jousts were to take place. Dressed in finery she had never worn before, or imagined she might ever wear Seonag knew little of the effect that she had had upon those around her.
She knew only that a great many stared in the direction of the stands where she sat. Sitting a short distance from where Pierre’s eldest daughter Augustine herself sat. The greatest of his daughters, and the most beloved it was she who might ordinarily have attracted every gaze but this was not so. Yet Pierre and Gisèle had raised their daughters well, for there was little in the way of jealousy or hatred that invaded their being when they realized who it was that everyone stared at.
To the contrary, they were relieved and happy, and Augustine was happiest of them all since the only gaze that did not seem as drawn to Seonag was that of the haughty Mathieu. Mathieu for his part did occasionally risk glances to his host’s daughter, but these were short-lived affairs that Augustine treasured more than the baubles, dress or shoes that she wore.
What brought about more than a little misery to her heart was when Mathieu did at last, glance in the direction of Seonag. Even he was to gaze on her admiringly, so that it was only about noon when he did so that the daughter of Pierre at last felt some sense of envy and insecurity. Yet still, she sought not as might have a lesser woman to undermine or otherwise wound the other woman, seeking instead to place herself above most other ladies. She did this by behaving as a true lady ought, even as a part of her felt, herself grow colder towards Mathieu.
If she was at all honest with herself, she might well have admitted to the true cause for her sudden coldness, and her volunteering her favour to the lance of one of the men who trotted forward in defiance of him. However, good as she is, true as she was always, even such a lady can at times prove herself fickle. This demonstration also won good lady Augustine the favour of her father Pierre, and if she was over-concerned for the man she encouraged against the man from eastern Norençia, it was out of guilt and the sense that she had somehow misled him.
The man in question though, had no great illusions for he did what he did for love of the sport. How could he not? Jousting was the noblest of pursuits one could aim towards at that time, just as hunting was. It was thus; with this passion in mind and heart the two men were to demonstrate their masculinity in the manner so beloved by the noblest of Gallia’s sons.
To one side of the vast fields was Mathieu and those whom had followed him west, from the lands of his beloved father. On the other end of the field to the east of the stands where sat the people of Norençia, were the tents belonging to the likes of those noblemen and knights aligned with other greater nobles. It was as he trotted back to his own side, the favour of Augustine tied about his lance Guilhèm one of the finest warriors there before the noble people of Arvon that the warrior was allowed to prepare himself for the great charge against Mathieu and his followers.
Excited, they could hardly restrain themselves, with their horses letting slip impatient noises that only served to heighten the men’s desire to charge. Still though, the son of Havion would not charge or allow any to do so, such was his desire to properly conquer the likes of Guilhèm.
It was with the lowering of his visor, the acceptance of his lance from a nearby squire that the warrior did not thank. This won him the irritation of the squire in question; he was to back away with a frown on his lips and with a glance to some of those around him.
Many of the followers and knights sworn to the service of the heir of Havion, were familiar with his brusque ways. Few there were who could better sympathize with the likes of the squire or the troubled lady of Arvois. Always he had been this sort of fellow, in complete opposition to an affable father who disliked confrontation and was amenable and prone to diffusing all conflicts. Save for those against his King or his family of course, whereas the son was quite a bit less thick-skinned and more prone to iciness, as his mother was.
It was these quirks of his that had made him so many rivals and foes, had angered a great many such as Salomon against him. It was this quality within the man that so offended Pierre, and was the cause for why he frowned when he saw how wounded his eldest was by the bitter son of Havion. If this was wrong, it was a sin he carried with a great deal of enthusiasm and one he did not intend at that moment to ever seek absolution for.
By his very nature, hardly different from Pierre in his respect for politeness, courtesy and respect for the dignity of others, Salomon was a man of great largesse, great boasts and fine speech. He was the most respected man from whence he came, and easily the finest knight. What other after all, could have carried his family’s livery and emblem upon his hauberk half so well? Truly, thought those who looked on him, this man was the most magnificent who had ever trotted into one of the Comte’s tourneys.
His was hardly the most popular of the lances that were raised, or figures that trotted across the fields, as he charged out into the field in counter to the Sir Walter of Auldchester. The Brittian knight was a remarkable man who had left the isle in favour of Norençia and the service of Mathieu. Famous for his chivalry, as he was for his goodness and great laugh none that looked upon him held any grudges nor could they imagine doing so against his great person. Such was his warm disposition that all who knew him had come to appreciate the man, this was how men of Brittia were at their most natural.
No matter how cheerful and popular though he was, his lance true and strong, narrow and fierce though it was and though it stabbed through the air this was to be all that it cut through. Neither did it shatter upon his foe’s buckler, nor did he achieve the glory he had set out to do on behalf of his friend and liege. Hardly incompetent, his talents considerable as they were, were as naught in comparison to those of the likes of the valiant Salomon.
When he had finished the unhorsing of his foe, he moved to unhorse the next man who was to have little more in the way of fortune. Hardly the skilled rider Sir Walter was, this next man was almost half his age and half his talent. Paul was his name, and he was a mighty youth yet one who had little in the way of success that the knight racing against him had had.
Felling two knights from their horses, with near to the same lance-swing, Salomon abruptly turned his horse about to cross near to the nobility’s box. Yet not before he allowed his steed the opportunity to kick up the dirt and filth of the earth in the direction of Mathieu.
It was this gesture along with his offering up his lance to Seonag, only to withdraw it when she went to tie her favour upon it.
Turning away, he returned to the other side of the fields, leaving behind several confused ladies, a red-faced Pierre and a thin-lipped Gisèle. Humiliated, Seonag resumed her seat in utter defeat lowering her gaze and trying to keep from allowing her face from becoming as scarlet as her mane.
This display of rudeness had not gone unnoticed as whispering kicked up and began to race about the fields, from thither to hither and here and there. None could resist the temptation to gossip about what had been done. The dishonour inflicted upon both the Lady Seonag, and the likes of the Knight Mathieu.
Pierre for all his disdain towards the son of his rival, found both displays sickening. “What a brusque little pup, I daresay he ought to be removed from the lists at once! Never has any man shown such disrespect towards one of my guests or any participant in all the years I have hosted one of these events! And to show such disdain and disrespect for a lady also!”
“Calm yourself my dear,” Gisèle murmured laying a hand upon his shoulder, “And I had thought you misliked Sir Havion.”
“I most certainly do, however this is a point of honour!”
“He does not seem to be particularly polite,” Augustine complained seeking to be solicitous towards her newfound friend, in spite of her hurt over the poor comportment of the cold Matthieu.
“Men of his rank often seem to share that particular flaw,” Seonag replied a little dispirited, only to smile a little wanly. “My own little brother has begun to become surly as they are, and even Marculf could be. Though, Marculf’s nature is far warmer deep down, and far in a way more sincere in his kindnesses than many others are.”
“This Marculf is your brother or father?”
“Hardly though at times he seems as though he might well be both, I do know that Ruaidhrí looks on him as such,” Seonag admitted nervously, eager to try to please her young hostess, whom she had already begun to revere as one might the distant suns’ in the heavens. “He is an Ogre who took us on as his wards of sorts, and had us brought into the household of his Master Wiglaf, when we were cast out from Norwend. We were servants in the castle, when the previous King died along with his heir, leaving only his youngest son to succeed him. The Regent, the lad’s uncle had no great love for us and so we chose to depart with Marculf.”
“That was very kind of him,” Gisèle remarked having been listening in on the girls as they spoke, a genial smile on her lips. Turning to Pierre she murmured to him, “Do you not think so Pierre?”
“Bah, I suppose, though it is to be expected for one of our Ogres,” He replied disinterestedly his eyes fixed upon the distant fields as he measured the distance and the speed of the two Knights. Turning to his court fool, the renowned Yvain, he was to say to him whilst plucking a satchel from his belt. “I daresay that the one to the right has the way of it, he shall win the next joust and the left one shall fall. He has leant too much to the right and seems to have bruised his side and seeks to compensate for it.”
“I see, I still do not think he shall have the right of it,” Yvain replied stubbornly, convinced as always that where matters of tourneys were concerned that his liege had made a mistake.
“Shall we say forty bronze lilies?” Pierre proposed genially, with a gleam in his eyes, to which his friend nodded eagerly already counting the coin in his head.
It was the way of the Comte; to gamble on every round in the tourney. He had learnt this habit in his youth, when he had gone south to serve at the royal court. It was one that he had never wholly broken from, and had actually grown worse with as gambling allowed him when unable to go jousting himself, partake in some measure of risks. He loved risks. They made him feel alive, and as though he were still youthful, no matter how much Gisèle disapproved, or his late father had. As part of his promises to them though, and out of consideration to his subjects he only ever gambled in bronze coins and never in silver. This way, it was only the sort of coin necessary for two cows that might be lost, and not that of whole farms or a castle. He had the coin to spare, however even he felt embarrassed and ashamed of those lords who gambled whole farms on such things. And heavens knew that gold was far, far too valuable to be used for such things, better to hoard it and use it for precious goods or to pay tithes and such owed to the Temple or High-King.
The two men as predicted readied their lances, both of them chuffing almost as loudly as their horses. Tearing himself free from memories of his father and also of his time at Clovis’ court in their youth, Pierre wondered briefly what his friend might have made of this display just before the knights began their charge.
“He may have unhorsed Walter, but he shall not succeed against Casimir. I have never heard of any man being able to unhorse him,” Mathieu was heard to remark to those around him, proud of his closest friend. The man had returned late to the joust, whereupon he had spent undue amounts of time staring in the direction of Seonag and Augustine, however once in the field Mathieu knew he would steady himself and seize victory. “He shall triumph.”
“And if he does not?”
“Bah, you are too modest Monseigneur, all know that your lance is the only one finer than that of Casimir,” Walter retorted cheerfully having already forgotten his own defeat.
Mathieu pretended he did not hear the other man’s praise. Never one to indulge at the slightest of moments, he was rather more interested in staring intently as Casimir and Salomon steadied themselves. There was certainly a great deal of talent to be seen, in Salomon’s abilities with the lance. Yet all the same, he had been bruised in the first round that he had participated in, the one before Walter so that he leant far too much to one side.
This Mathieu noted with the same glee that the even more experienced Pierre had, and like him had he been asked to bet on the odds of the man’s victory he would have sided against him. It was thus with considerable interest they observed this joust.
The first turning so to speak resulted in a pair of broken jousting lances. Both men struck out at the other’s shield. Somehow Salomon did not fall from his horse, and did quite well in barely remaining upon his horse.
It was in the second round as they threw themselves with renewed fury that all changed. A song on his lips, one that Casimir took but poorly, and that set Seonag’s heart ablaze as it leapt from her throat and soared higher, and higher than the Highland peaks of her homeland, to the heavens above.
“In days of yore,
By raging waves,
In e’ery hour,
Steely as Orcus’ will,
Mighty as the tides,
The suns’ rays be as swill,
Neither as fierce as my lance that divides
Foe as it dost all fear as in days,
Of yore, Lo! Onwards O Lance!
Hew, gut and sever limb and valour alike!
Yet remember; my heat and ride
Be naught as the northern maid
Of the flashing curls bright as the suns’!”
It was Salomon’s battle song. This was the old tradition, the oldest perhaps of all the knights of Gallia, with songs and cries of joy often bursting forth from their lips when in the grips of the most euphoric battle-joy imaginable. This is perhaps unimaginable to those not of Caled, Ériu or Gallian blood however there is a love of battle, a love of violence in them that shan’t be equalled nor understood by those not of their tribes.