Chapter 2 – A Song of Shepherds #5
“Matchmaking already?” he teased, and let his fingers brush hers. “Juste said that you—there’s Miche,” he interrupted himself. Taking her hand, they went to stand together at the rail before the dais.
The townspeople had been arriving during Elodie’s interview, filling the benches and sitting on blankets outside the string barrier, and the loquacious Miche was the obvious choice to wrangle them.
For as long as Remin had known him, he had always been one to draw the eye, one of those charismatic people who excited admiration in both men and women.
His long blond hair was pulled back in much the same style as Auber’s and his armor was no more decorative than anyone else’s, but somehow Miche of Harnost always contrived to shine.
“Good people,” he said, his booming baritone slicing through the noise of the crowd.
A knight knew how to make himself heard.
“Welcome to Tresingale’s first tourney. In appreciation for the labors of his people and seeking the blessings of the stars for a bountiful harvest, His Grace the Duke of Andelin has declared today a holiday.
Let us pray for the continued health and prosperity of the House of Andelin, our sacred lady, the Daughter of the Stars, and all the good folk of this valley. ”
A murmured prayer swept through the watching people, and at the far end of the field, knights, archers, and horsemen knelt on one knee, making the sign of the stars’ blessing in Remin’s direction.
He was not much fonder of the attention than his wife, but this was necessary, and he let the people have a long look.
Ophele’s fingers in his palm were cold .
“All of you are welcome,” Remin said briefly, his deep voice carrying to the furthest benches. No one wanted to hear speeches when knights on horse were in the wings. “Enjoy the tourney.”
“Archers!” called Miche, and Remin and Ophele took their seats.
“They can aim from so far away?” she asked, watching as the line of archers moved onto the field. The targets were at the opposite end and looked impressively far away from the dais.
“Archery in competition is two hundred yards,” he explained. “On the battlefield, their effective range is twice that, but they aren’t precision shooting at that distance. Argencian longbows, the best in the world.”
“They are?”
“Powerful and accurate,” he said, nodding. “They train to it from childhood, that’s why their shoulders are like that. Watch the ninth man down, and the fourth. My money is on Tancrede, the fourth man. It’s windy today, he’s better at compensating.”
“Then I will bet on the ninth man,” she said, glancing up at him with a little mischief in her eyes. “What’s his name?”
“Heben Barleul.” He almost smiled at her, in full view of the entire crowd. “What will you bet me, wife?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her eyes opening wide that they were actually betting. “I don’t have any money…”
“You have quite a lot of money,” he replied, surprised. “Even aside from mine. What about Aldeburke?”
“Oh. I…I never needed money before,” she stammered. “I suppose that’s true, now that I’m eighteen…”
He hadn’t thought of that either, that she still had an estate of her own.
He had assumed Lord Hurrell would administer it, as he would have done since she was a child, but now that he thought of it, Ophele hadn’t sent a single letter to her former guardians.
Well, a tournament wasn’t the time to discuss it.
“A forfeit,” he said, to spare her. “Anything I name.”
Deliberately, he added a rumbling, suggestive purr to his voice to make her blush, and it worked.
“Remin,” she whispered, scandalized.
“Well?”
“All right,” she agreed, a smile playing on her lips as she turned to watch the archers, drawing their arrows at the center of the field .
“Notch!” Miche called from the opposite end of the field, lifting his arm. Longbows bent, creaking, the massive shoulder muscles of the archers rippling in a single motion. “Draw!” His voice boomed with only the space of a breath before he roared, “Loose!”
The sound of arrows in flight was a burring screech, almost like the cry of a bird of prey. They rose in a graceful parabola and descended at the far end of the field, thudding into their targets. Those arrows were powerful enough to punch through plate armor. Of twenty arrows, six were bullseyes.
“Oh, look at that!” Ophele said breathlessly, her voice almost lost in the cheers of the crowd.
The archers got seven arrows, just enough to satisfy without boring anyone, and it came down to a whisker of a difference between Heben and Tancrede, who both scored seven consecutive bullseyes.
Miche had to bring the target leathers over to Remin for final judgment, and Ophele was all but leaning over the railing as they measured.
The slit in the leather from Heben’s arrows was a scant half-inch wider than Tancrede’s; likely the difference of a single arrow.
“That’s a shame.” Ophele said, looking at Heben sympathetically. “I wagered on you.”
That alone was some consolation. The archer brightened.
“Thank you, m’lady,” he said. “Next time, I’ll win in your honor.”
“The winner is Tancrede Emion,” Remin announced, pointing for the benefit of the gamblers in the furthest benches. Miche handed a golden cup to Ophele, who started in surprise at the sudden outburst of clapping and cheering.
“Congratulations,” she said, wilting as every eye in the crowd turned to her. “Th-that was very good. I have never seen anything like that. Thank you. Tancrede of Emion.”
Her ears were reddening. Remin laid his palm flat against her back, feeling her tremble. He knew she was shy, but he still didn’t really understand what she was afraid of, or why some things were worse than others, much less how to remedy it.
“Thankee, lady,” said Tancrede. The archer looked a great deal like his weapon, tall and skinny, with a great beak of a nose that he swore helped him with his sightlines. He accepted the prize with a wide smile, bowed, and walked away under a storm of cheers, already exchanging insults with Heben.
“You did well, saying his name,” Remin murmured as they took their seats again, wondering if he ought to present the rest of the prizes himself. “They like that.”
“Sir Edemir told me about it,” Ophele whispered, trying to smile. “He said they do it in Segoile, I asked about tournaments. You won prizes there, didn’t you?”
“I did.” He rarely had time for tournaments, but the year he won his knighthood, he had competed vengefully for half a season and swept both the joust and the melee, receiving his honors from the Empress herself.
She had not shown any signs of her husband’s loathing for him, but Remin would far rather have received his prizes from someone with Ophele’s sincerity.
“Though we have something they didn’t,” he added, with some satisfaction as he nodded toward the field. “Look.”
Even as he spoke, Madam Sanai and Master Balad were moving toward the center of the field with their polished wooden staves in hand, an altogether different elegance than the Empress’s icy, empty manners.
Both had the long limbs and willowy grace of Benkki Desa, and Madam Sanai was clad in her usual light tunic and trousers while Master Balad went bare-chested.
Shaved bald, he was as ageless as a beech tree, his torso and arms smoothly muscled.
The two turned to face each other and bowed, then extended their staves to their full reach to measure their starting positions, just out of one another’s range. Turning, they faced the dais and bowed again, and Remin waved a hand for them to proceed.
“She can really fight him?” Ophele whispered, leaning forward and craning her neck. “You said she fought you?”
“The master has six inches on her, which means a longer reach,” Remin explained, watching no less avidly. “Women are usually at a disadvantage; she doesn’t have as much muscle to put behind her staff, nor to absorb a strike. But the madam knows what she’s about. Look.”
As if to demonstrate, Madam Sanai’s stave flashed forward, a flick of her elbow that propelled the staff straight into the master’s chest. His own staff swung up to block, a blow that would have rattled Madam Sanai to her shoulders if she hadn’t pulled her staff inside and let him yank her forward, her long leg snapping out with his strength behind it .
“There, see?” Remin applauded as the master jerked out of the way. “She did that to me, too. They have a word for it, balahimsama, using the opponent’s strength against them. It takes skill.”
“She almost kicked him in the face.” Ophele was sitting on the edge of her seat, her large eyes riveted. “Oh, but if he hits her…”
“It will hurt,” Remin agreed, watching as the master lunged forward with a sweep of his staff to try to take her feet out from under her.
Madam Sanai flung herself into a backflip, kicking her feet up heels-first and narrowly missing his chin.
“So would that,” he added, adding his own applause to the crowd’s.
“But he’s so fast,” Ophele marveled, as the master swiveled out of the way and lunged again like a striking snake.
The sharp clack clack of staff against staff rang over the field, and Remin was as caught up in it as anyone else; this was a very different martial style than anything in Argence.
The clean, pure strength Master Balad advocated was evident in his fluid motions, one strike leading straight into the next, propelled all the way up from his toes, sturdy as a tree, swaying like branches in the wind.
If he was a tree, Madam Sanai was a bird, a dark, glossy raptor swerving around his staff. Applause broke out again and again as her feet lashed out toward his head, the counterpoint of her staff, deadly strikes that he absorbed expressionlessly.
“She’s doing so well,” Ophele breathed. “She’s hit him so many—”