1
Caer-Lyoness, May Day celebrations
For God’s sake, thought Armand despairingly as his opponent swung wildly, overextended, and nearly lost his balance. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up winning this bout. He feigned a slide even though the grass was dry and parched and dropped to one knee, letting his sword fall with a clatter. Surely even Farleigh couldn’t fuck this up. He watched the other’s eyes light up behind his visor as his competitor bore down on him with wild enthusiasm. At this rate, he’d end up losing an ear to this bloody young fool!
“Do ye yield?” Farleigh panted, clumsily setting the point of his blade at Armand’s throat.
“Watch my chin, for fuck’s sake, Farleigh, you oaf! Of course, I bloody do!”
Someone in the crowd booed and others followed suit. Too bad, Armand thought, clambering to his knees. The crowd always hated it when he lost. But they’d had good entertainment from him this past quarter of an hour and no one could say they had not. He always put on a good show, and it wasn’t like his life had not been endangered. Not with an inexperienced hand at weapons like Farleigh.
He pulled his helmet from his head and shrugged eloquently to the masses. A few lackluster cheers went up for him, though they turned to boos again as Farleigh held up his sword, turning in a circle for adulation. Feeling a stab of pity, Armand grimaced and approached his foe to hold up his arm in a show of sportsmanlike defeat.
Farleigh looked gratified as the crowd cheered for that gesture at least. He’d better make the most of it—whoever faced him in the next round would surely beat the living daylights out of him. As Armand knelt for the royal box, he scanned the crowd for that weasel Fulcher who owed him half of his takings. He was sure it would be a fat purse this time. After all, he had been runner-up at Tranton Vale and placed highly in the last three rural tournaments. No one could have predicted Armand de Bussell would go crashing out in the first round to a nonentity like Sir Douglas Farleigh, even if his form was sadly unpredictable.
“De Bussell!” He gave a start, noticing that Farleigh was hissing at him out of the corner of his mouth.
“What?” he snapped irritably.
“The king speaks!” the other said hoarsely.
Oh. Armand lifted his head and noticed King Wymer had come to the front of the royal box.
“… Grave disappointment.” The King was finishing. “But you must take heart. Fortune may be a fickle mistress, but I have no doubt she will smile on the house of De Bussell again one day soon.”
Armand arranged his face into an expression of brave and noble suffering in the face of defeat. For some reason, Wymer usually gave him some word of favor at these events. Probably on account of his great-grandfather being one of Wymer’s grandfather’s staunchest supporters back in the day or some such thing. Besides, people always did like Armand. He was damned if he knew why.
His gaze wandered from the king, who was sadly shaking his head, to the queen regally waving to the crowd, to the third figure seated in the box, the reviled Northern princess. Armand winced. What the hells was that monstrous headdress, which stuck out like two cow horns on either side of her head? She looked totally out of place in the royal box, jarringly foreign with her barbarous trappings of a bygone age and utterly incongruous in comparison to the sophisticated Argent royals.
It was ironic that it was her forbears, the Blechmarshes, who had been the ones to actually build this palace, while Wymer’s ancestors were merely poor relations. Funny how the world turns. He wondered if the wide and rigid construction she wore could possibly be fashionable in the North. It made her look more like a pavilion than a woman. She looked three times as wide as Queen Armenal, and that peculiar mass of frizzy hair didn’t help matters. For a moment he felt something akin to pity for the frumpy royal cousin. For a few years, it had been touch and go whether she would keep her head on her shoulders after the Northern forces fell. It was dangerous having rival claims upon someone else’s throne. Inconvenient for the king that her claim was legitimate. Armand found himself wondering for a moment if she could possibly be as placid and bovine as she appeared, considering the blood of warlike kings that flowed in her veins.
Then a trumpet blasted, and he was jerked out of his reverie. He needed a drink. And to find that rat Fulcher before he started spending their winnings.
*
“A pity, a great pity,” Wymer tutted as he sat back in his gilded seat. “If only De Bussell could conquer this wild inconsistency in his performance, he could be a fine champion one day.”
Queen Armenal, sat at the King’s left, did not bother responding, so Una sat on a seat behind the two of them, leaned forward to give a murmur of agreement to her royal cousin.
“He looks a fine figure of a man, cousin,” she commented in her most colorless tone. She did not lie, for not only was De Bussell’s build athletic and muscular, his tanned face was also undeniably handsome. He looked the very image of knightly prowess, and it was a sad fact of life that appearances could often be deceptive.
Wymer gave a bark of a laugh. “You’ll catch cold looking in that quarter. His family has been loyal to the Argent throne for centuries,” he said, jutting out his chin.
Which meant they have also been an enemy of mine, thought Una. Wymer never failed to rub such things in her face where he could. If only he knew how much she loathed any loyalty to her own family’s cause, she thought with wry amusement. Northern followers were the bane of her existence. Their insistence that she was the true ruler of all Karadok had nearly sent her to the executioner’s block on several occasions over the years.
Would her royal cousin, as she was now bid to call him, ever forgive her for existing? She had such hopes for reconciliation when she had first come to court eighteen months ago. But now, her only wish was to marry some obscure knight and be allowed to sink into obscurity, tucked away in some remote spot where she could at last be free of her bloody heritage.
She felt her stomach lurch as the next two combatants took to the field. Surely, that was Otho. What on earth was Otho doing here? And why, oh why, would one of her own half-brothers be fighting in a contest to find her a bridegroom? It made no sense! Craning her ears, she made out the name the herald announced: Sir Bavistock of Leigh. Una’s heart sank, he was fighting under a false name. What on earth was she going to do if he made it through to the final? Could she really denounce Otho, the only one of her father’s numerous bastards, who she actually held some affection for? She certainly could not marry her own brother!
“Never heard of this pair,” Wymer muttered irritably, jerking her out of her thoughts. “Northerners?”
Una hesitated. “I do not know them, cousin,” she answered and wondered if she was, once again, setting her head on the axman’s block with this lie. Would it never end?
Wymer waved a hand and a servant darted forward. “Fetch me Vawdrey,” he said plaintively, asking for his chief advisor.
Una’s heart sank. Most people knew Earl Vawdrey was also His Majesty’s spymaster. She felt a good deal of anxiety whenever she caught sight of his tall, elegant figure about court, dressed head to toe in unrelenting black. What if he recognized Otho as one of her half-blood siblings? She wouldn’t put such knowledge past him. He knew so many unexpected things, that people sometimes whispered he was in league with imps and demons. Not that Una believed in such things. She was all too aware of the horrors men were capable of, to start inventing ghouls and beasties to account for them.