ONE

Honour is not Given, it is Earned

 

The quiet of the temple granted Sir Roslind Radsvinn of Aksson a moment of respite from the bustle of festivities on the crowded streets of Drottenheim. Abundant arrangements of flowers, bunting, and the pennants of twenty-six noble houses adorned the walls of the temple from the knighting ceremony the previous day. The heraldic flag of her house, a white bear’s claw over an open scroll of black on a field of crimson, was the only one absent. The fragrance from the flowers mixed with lingering incense, giving the temple a fragrant or musty smell dependent upon the way the draft caught the air. She stood now in the same position as when the Gothar Prime had absolved the squire of sin before he and King Landulf had placed their hands on her head and declared her a knight and protector of the realm, bestowing upon her the military rank of ‘Sir’. She remembered how her heart had quickened as nobles presented their squires for knighting. Eleventh in line, Roslind had readied to present herself when the armoured and resplendent Lady Millicent Eulan, her training master and constant tormentor for whom she had squired, stepped up beside her. Roslind had been so surprised by her presence she was thankful she had not yet removed her helm before standing to be recognised by the Gothar Prime, the king and the gathered.

At the preceding banquet, an empty chair next to Roslind – though set to honour her father, Baron of Aksson, a staunch supporter of the crown – had served to remind all present of her family’s lack of representation. It was perhaps only an illusion of the king’s magnanimity. Roslind was still undecided as to whether it had been a deliberate attempt by the king to show his rumoured disgruntlement at her father’s absence.

Pushing the thought aside, she bowed her head, causing loose strands of golden-copper hair to fall across her closed eyes:

 

Thank you, Lord Oln, for the blessings you have given me. For my family and home, and for granting me the strength to become a knight. Thank you for my triumphs earlier today – I offer them to you, Lord. Grant me one more victory in the tournament if you find me worthy. Please help my father put an end to the troubles in Aksson. For my sister Kitsvanna, to continue to grow strong and beautiful. For my brother Ulrik may he...may he...may he learn how to be less like himself, I suppose. Lord Oln, please keep my mother’s soul close to your side.

 

She kissed the golden pendant etched with a bear-claw and tucked it back under her leather jerkin.

I miss you, mother.

Rhythmic echoes of determined steps on the stone floor of the temple disrupted the silence of the nave. Soon she heard the movement of pieces of plate armour and a telling squeak in the hinge of the wearer’s left elbow as he stepped.

Calan, Roslind thought. She opened her eyes and turned to her friend and brother-in-arms. “Still haven’t fixed the elbow, then?” she said, smiling.

The young knight from the rural town of Three Streams chuckled, the beginnings of a blonde beard framing his mouth, which Roslind thought made him quite handsome.

“The Tournament of Peers, Red. Grand Final. Waiting all day for this,” Calan said in a hushed tone, stooping to meet Roslind’s ear: “Are you ready? Of course you are. I heard Millicent had her squire adjust her armour at least seven times already. She is either worried about facing you or she is enjoying breaking the poor wretch’s spirit.”

“She has a new squire already? Who did she pick?” asked Roslind just as quietly.

“Don’t be jealous, Red, she chose page Halla. Is that not who you responded was the brightest of pages? You should have known why Millicent was asking. And I thought you liked young Halla. The poor girl has no idea what she is in for. Besides, I’m sure Millicent would take you back if you wanted to renounce your knighthood.”

“Oh no, I am glad to be rid of her, I’ve had more than enough of that woman, and I have the cane scars to prove it. It is more likely she is just putting the lass through her paces, anyway. Our Training Master has never been worried about facing anyone in a joust, least of all me.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You could trounce any of us, blindfolded, and with a three-legged horse,” said Calan.

“I’ve never beaten her before, close on occasion.” There was a moment of silence between the two knights.

“This time is different – we are ready for her. Come on, we should go, we don’t want Fennick to lose his magniloquent mind. You know how he gets,” said Calan.

Roslind looked at Calan and raised an eyebrow. “Magniloquent?” she repeated.

“Yes, it’s when one gets annoyed at things other people think are funny, they are magniloquent,” said Calan, his tone changing to reflect those of their instructors.

“That is not what it means.”

“It’s not? Yes, well, fine. I have no idea what it means, I just heard his majesty say it before. It sounded good.” Calan scratched the back of his head. “Can we go?”

“I’ll meet you outside, I just need a moment.”

Calan nodded and placed his hand on Roslind’s shoulder before giving an awkward bow to the statue of Oln in the centre of the temple and leaving.

Roslind’s thoughts turned to Lady Millicent: she remembered a rain-soaked evening drill around the royal city of Drottenheim during the second year of her training, when she had fallen behind the boys – even the other girls – and become lost. She remembered the frantic searching, sheer exhaustion, and her awareness of the punishment she would receive. Roslind thought of the doorstep in an alley into which she had collapsed, crying, the image vivid and hard.

She had yelped when she realised she shared the alleyway with a hooded figure, but she remembered a calmness washing over her. It was the first time she had met a cougari. “Why do you fret, girl?” the creature half-spoke, half-purred in a low, measured tone.

All Roslind was able to see was a soft lustre of silver-green light where the eyes should have been, obscured under a dripping hood.

Common sense should have made her flee from this dark creature with its glowing eyes and strange voice, but her heartbeat became slow and steady, her breathing easy. She had felt the presence somehow familiar.

“I cannot do anything right,” Roslind had answered, still trying to get a better look at the stranger’s face.

“Who has told you this?”

“Lady Millicent,” Roslind replied. “She oversees our training. She said, compared to the other initiates, that I am not even fit to clean their horses’ stables. She always goes harder on me than the others. It’s so unfair. I want to do better and become a knight, but I just can’t. I get punished for not doing things the way they want me to. I can’t keep up with the boys, I am just a girl.”

The dark shape in the doorway moved toward her.

“If that is what you believe, then it is all you will ever be,” the fur-covered mouth said. “Whether you know it or not, you are being taught more lessons than those in the practice arena or the classroom. Our failures are the steps we climb, and your success or failure will not be determined by your physical strength alone, but also by your strength of mind. It matters not if you can run faster than the boys right now, as long as you are determined to finish the race.”

Roslind remembered sniffing back her tears and uttering her words more to herself than to the mysterious figure. “I’m going to get punished when I get back. It is not the cane to my thighs or the hair-pulling, although I hate it when she curls her fingers around my locks and yanks at the hair over my ears. The names she calls me always stay longer than the sting of the rod. You would think me used to it at this stage.”

“Take heart, little one. This time will pass, as with all things. The injuries will scar, and the voice of your oppressor will fade from your mind. Not all that is will be forever.

“I was born in captivity. And once called nektan djak, ‘beast of no nation’, a term for those with no home, no history, and no honour. I believed the taunts at first, but soon realised they were just words. Words spoken from ignorant mouths. I proved them all wrong.”

As the reflective orbs lost the light, Roslind could tell they had looked above her and beyond the doorway before returning her gaze.

“If you wish to prove them wrong, too, you must do as your master says and then half as much again. Meet and exceed her tasks and never give up until you have mastered them. Stay the course, focus your will, finish the run.”

Roslind had listened so intently she had not sniffed back the liquid in her nose and needed her sleeve to wipe it away.

“Now go, riddari,” the creature said, “it seems your persecutor has come back to find you.”

Roslind instinctively leapt up and moved out of the doorway before looking back. “Thank you…” she said. There was no response.

Roslind ran to Millicent to be struck on the side of the head, the wet clatter echoing around the streets.

“You little bitch,” Millicent said. “I thought you would have been knifed or taken by slavers, but apparently you are not even worth a slaver’s time. Back to the barracks, I’ll deal with you there.”

Somewhere between the caning, the demeaning insults and the inevitable hair yank, the creature’s words had percolated through Roslind’s mind.

Roslind smiled as she remembered parading with the other initiates the following morning, having cut her golden copper hair from her head, leaving only an occasional cut to her scalp. She would not have her hair yanked again. Millicent had even given her a hint of a smile that morning, the first time she had ever seen anything other than a scowl on the woman’s face.

Roslind knew this was the moment her world started to make sense. From then on, she performed her extensive chores with speed and muted acceptance. She read and reread the training manuals to provide ready answers to her instructors. She sought out other initiates who were skilled in the sword and bow to learn from them after the training day was complete, even making new friends along the way. Roslind remembered, in turn, aiding them in the techniques for grooming and proper tacking of their horses, and reading and writing where they needed it. Within the year Roslind had taken her first steps in training her mind to achieve the ‘battle focus’ every true knight was required to master and rely on during combat.

Roslind took a deep breath and pushed it out through her lips.

I’m ready.

She gave a final look to the looming statue of Oln at the centre of the temple and briefly placed her hand over her heart. The muscular figure, grasping twin swords – Vígdís and Ádís (Brutality and Serenity) – often reminded her of her father. It was time to once again be bombarded by the music, beating drums, and throngs of people outside the temple, making their way back to the arena for the second half of the tournament. When she returned to the throng, she smiled as she saw Calan waiting outside with two flagons of ale procured from a street vendor.

“You looked like you might need a drink,” said Calan as she approached him. Roslind accepted the tankard and looked at it, undecided.

When she spotted the newly knighted Sir Fennick Drakensang hurry toward them as she and Calan approached the stables, she tucked her tankard of ale behind her back…but too late. Calan defiantly took a large gulp from his.

As the great-grandson of the revered Lord Knight Sir Logan Drakensang ‘The Immortal’, Roslind felt Fennick carried the Drakensang legacy a bit too heavily. To her, there was no finer example of knightly ideals than the young man, even if it made him overly serious at times. Fennick scowled at Calan, who was taking another large swig from the tankard. His already sharp features and dark eyes made him look like some strange bird of prey.

“I expect a casual disregard for the significance of this joust from him, but you should know better, Roslind,” Fennick said, disappointed. “We finally have a chance to beat her, and you can be tournament champion to rub salt in her wounds if you do.”

“Back off, your majesty,” said Calan, gently pushing Fennick away. “Just because you will be commanded by the king in the Royal Order of the Great Helm does not mean you get to push us around. You should go easy on her. Our sister is a little nervous about losing to Millicent for the hundredth – I mean facing Millicent for the hundredth time.” Calan gave Roslind a wink and a smile, showing nearly all his teeth. Roslind looked at the knight for a moment, smiled back and knocked his tankard from his hand. The mug clattered on the stone, splashing ale over Calan’s boots and greaves.

“Oh, fine behaviour for a knight, you got it all over my armour,” said Calan, shaking ale from his legs.

“Why are you wearing armour? You are not competing in anything today,” asked Fennick.

Calan made a face as if struggling to find an answer, but when three young women walked by tittering and looking at the handsome knight, his attention was drawn to them. He smiled with a slight bow of his head. “Good morrow to you, fair maidens,” he said. The women hurried onward, laughing and hiding their mouths in their hands.

“That’s right, armour means you are a knight, I forgot,” said Fennick, his tone speckled in sarcasm. “Imagine if those women mistook you for anything less. You might have a harder time tricking one of them into your bed.”

“Only one of them?” asked Calan, feigning confusion.

“There is something quite sad about your entire existence, Cal,” said Fennick. Calan furrowed his brow and focused his attention on his shorter brother knight. Roslind had witnessed dozens of arguments between the two, most of which started with a comment from Fennick and a frown from Calan before the eruption.

To halt the all-too-familiar tale, Roslind produced her tankard, still mostly full. “Here, have mine, sorry about yours,” said Roslind. Calan accepted the tankard gladly and took a large swig, Fennick’s comment forgotten.

“Back to the matter at hand,” said Fennick. “We saw Millicent training. The defence we came up with should work well. If she goes with the same approach, you have her.”

“And if not?” asked Roslind.

“I suppose there is a good chance she will strike your head instead of the grand guard,” said Fennick. There was no response from Roslind, who stared at him.

“Try not to think about it,” said Fennick. “Let us get your armour back on and get you out there to finally show Millicent the knight you have become.”

Trumpets sounded from inside the jousting arena, drawing the attention of everyone gathered. People rushed toward the area.

The three new knights attended the archery competition first. Roslind was out when a muscle in her right shoulder twinged in pain that eased quickly after she put down the bow. They gathered around a long wooden frame known as Landulf’s Run, within which were all manner of spearing, slicing and bludgeoning mechanisms. The crowd gasped and cheered when the plentiful failures were knocked, pushed, or jumped from the gear driven dangers whirling and chopping on the frame. Calan wanted to try it, but Fennick realised it was nearly time for the joust. He announced that they needed to return to the tents. Once there, the two men squired for Roslind, helping with her armour.

 

As Roslind entered the arena on Solstice, her sixteen-hand stallion, there was rapturous applause from the academy’s initiates, squires, and novice knights. More refined applause came from the gathered nobility. Roslind’s new silver spurs shone brightly in the sunshine. Her etched steel breastplate and backplate, trimmed in gold, rested on soft gambeson. She had on pauldrons of dark mild steel with helm and gauntlets to match. The armour on her limbs, simple white steel. Her dulled tournament sword, sheathed in an embellished hard-leather scabbard, hung at her right thigh, should the match go to the ground. Roslind could see the blue-armoured figure of Lady Millicent at the far end of the tilt barrier, resplendent in the sunshine.

As was tradition, both knights trotted out of their respective sides, without lances, to meet in the middle as a mark of respect to their competitor. As they drew close, Roslind raised her visor to acknowledge Millicent with a bow of her head. Millicent, keeping her visor down, turned her head from Roslind. Both combatants manoeuvred their mounts to face the central plinth, where the gathered nobility sat and bowed in response.

“Good crowd today, wench,” Millicent said, her head bowed now. “Perhaps you should put this off until you have had a bit more practice.”

“Perhaps,” said Roslind, lifting her head. “But as you once told me, ‘to understand is hard, but once one understands, the action is easy’. You might find I understand a lot more than you think.”

“Oh, so you did listen,” Millicent began, turning her head back to Roslind; but the younger woman had turned her horse and was cantering to her starting position.

“My Lord Ultin,” the list caller announced in a clear and crisp voice. “Lord Drakensang, venerated knights of renown, fellow masters, and future keepers of justice. I present the challenger, avowed protector of the realm, representative of His Royal Majesty King Klingsor Landulf and his law, joining the prestigious few women to wear the armour for our king, I present Knight of the Sword Sir Roslind Radsvinn of Aksson.”

There was a thunderous applause, banging of feet, and boisterous screams from the spectators, which continued past the beginning of Millicent’s presentation. The list caller raised his voice, but only parts of the introduction could be heard. It was not needed. Roslind knew whom she faced. When he had finished, the applause was resounding, but it faded quickly. Roslind trotted her mount to her side of the tilt barrier.

“Well, guess who is ‘Sir Popular’ today?” teased Calan as he held the barding and patted Roslind’s stallion on the neck. “You lucky nag,” he said to the horse, “I would love to be ridden by this beauty all day. Although I’m told one needs a strong back like yours.” Calan’s smile was in stark contrast to the anger on Fennik’s face.

“Leave my poor boy alone, he’s way too smart for you,” said Roslind, unfazed. “Although I do see how you would confuse him with the last ‘lady’ you bedded. What was her name again? A Lattic name, ‘Tempt-trix’ or something?”

“Tel-ematrix,” corrected Fennick, clicking his fingers and clearly enjoying the awkward look on Calan’s face.

“Ah yes, Tel-ematrix. How could I forget the name of a girl who looked more like a horse than this fellow?” said Roslind, patting Solstice’s neck.

“Sadly true,” Calan replied. “And you may laugh, but it was amazing what she would do for a carrot.”

The three young knights burst into laughter, Fennick despite himself. When the laughter subsided, Fennick addressed them both.

“We have been together since we were eight years old. It is hard to believe we will not see each other every day after tonight. Who knows when we will all be together again? I will miss you. Well, maybe not you, Calan.”

“Was that a joke, Fennick? Did you hear that, Red?” retorted Calan. “Maybe it is time for us to part ways, I’m clearly a bad influence. I just can’t believe it took this long. I have been trying so hard for years. Besides, we could get lucky, someone could start a war, then we would see each other again.”

Although spoken in jest, Calan’s words rang true for the knights.

“I want to say, I think Elenor would be proud of us all. Let us share a moment for our fallen sister,” said Roslind. “Our fallen sister,” repeated the others as they bowed their heads. The moment allowed Roslind to conjure in her mind the image of Elenor’s face, forever so young.

Roslind knew who would break the silence first.

“Hey Red, how about a kiss for luck, I’ve never kissed a knight before,” said Calan. Fennick drew out and clipped Calan at the back of his head, and although he didn’t show it, Roslind could see Calan felt the hit.

“I don’t see how a kiss from you would be lucky for me, I’d probably come down with the pox,” said Roslind. Calan feigned hurt and drooped his lower lip.

“Now I think about it, maybe a kiss is a good idea,” said Roslind.

“Really?” Calan blurted.

“Why not?” said Roslind.

Calan took a step closer, but Roslind could see the uncertainty in his eyes. Roslind puckered her lips before bending low and kissing the neck of her horse. Calan threw his arms in the air and turned away.

She gathered her lance from Fennick, who bore a satisfied smirk.

“Remember,” said Fennick, “don’t grip too tight on the lance. And lift your head on impact. You don’t need to be blinded today. You’ve got the idea of what we did the other day...more or less.” The young man gathered Roslind’s shield, admiring the crossed sword symbol signifying Roslind’s membership as a Knight of the Sword. He hoisted it to her.

Roslind thanked Fennick as he re-checked the barding. She moved to her starting position to tremendous applause. Millicent’s blue armour shone from the far end of the arena, on her shield the single ring wreathed in flames of the Royal Order of the Exemplar. The allotted preparation time was signalled complete by a reverberating low tone from wide-mouthed trumpets, requesting the jousters move to their starting posts.

She slowed her breathing and prepared to enter the ‘battle focus’ taught only to those training to be Knights of Gaelgara, as she was sure Millicent was also doing. Her vision narrowed to the end of the arena, the noise of the crowd diminished. She then looked at the Shield Tree with only their two shields remaining. She had a heightened sense of her position in the saddle, the lance in her hand and tensing muscles of her horse; even the smells of hewn grass, wood shavings and horse manure distinguished themselves through her helm.

The flag was raised, and from a trot to a canter to a gallop, the combatants stormed forward, the warhorses closing the distance at great speed. The lances collided. Millicent’s strike was powerful, but it missed her target. Instead, with it deflecting off the grand guard, Roslind’s right shoulder absorbed the tremendous force. Roslind shifted her weight to the left stirrup. She lowered the stock of her lance, landing a strike – diminished in force but enhanced in precision. Millicent rocked from her saddle and tumbled to the ground. Roslind’s stirrup snapped, almost tipping her forward. Solstice bucked and turned, settling her back in the saddle. The remainder of her lance forgotten and the pain scorching her right side, Roslind tried to maintain some manner of control as the arena erupted in applause. White flames engulfed her vision with each heartbeat.

The battle focus faded. It was not until Roslind heard the cheers and noticed Millicent’s signal of yielding that she realised she had won. Solstice circled on the spot, almost prancing to the crowd. Roslind removed her helm and dismounted, raising her left arm in victory to renewed cheers and applause. She ducked under the tilt barrier, where Millicent, reeling, held her right knee.

“Aww…you lucky bitch…ehh…I think my knee is gone…” Millicent groaned through gritted teeth. “Someone fetch my squire,” she called to the crowd. Roslind instinctively reacted before stopping herself. The older knight ripped off her helmet to reveal her distinguished face, the only true evidence of her age etched in the lines under and around her blue, hooded eyes. Her silver hair was pulled to her scalp in tight braids except for a single long curl which fell from her forehead, an allowable embellishment.

Millicent turned her head to Roslind. “The poor girl is useless but she has potential, like some others I know,” she said with the most modest of winks. Roslind held out her working arm to assist Millicent to her feet. A hush grew as Roslind stood, her arm outstretched.

“Ha! I bet you can’t use your other arm, eh? Well, make yourself useful, girl, get me up then, there is no point in continuing our discussion in the mud,” ordered Millicent as she clasped Roslind’s wrist. A resounding cheer erupted, all signalling their approval.

A smile appeared on the veteran’s face. The smile grew to a low chuckle and was replaced by a hearty laugh as Roslind helped Millicent out of the arena, soon joined by Halla, amid a crowd of cheering spectators.