The man in the red hood made his working-while the archbishop’s own secretary frowned in disgust so plain that Amicia noted it.
Amicia did nothing to prevent his casting. The archbishop’s hands moved with an ill grace.
The man in the red hood choked. The water flew, and did nothing but make the Green Knight’s surcoat wet.
“Choose your champion!” he called, his voice mocking.
Amicia would have grinned, if she had not been so afraid.
Because, of course, Gabriel was a very creature of magick. And so, he had turned the working himself. His skill towered over Red Hood’s the way an eagle towers over a squirrel.
The archbishop turned on his two secretaries.
Du Corse frowned and looked at de Rohan as the crowd roared its approval of the Green Knight. “Someone must fight him,” he said.
De Rohan rolled his eyes. “Just take the lot,” he hissed. “We have the men. Surround them and take them.”
Du Corse shook his head. “Nay, cousin. Someone must fight.” He looked at the commoners pushing against the guards. “Or we’ll all be dead before nightfall.”
“Very well,” de Rohan said. “You.”
Du Corse smiled a hard smile. “No,” he said.
“L’Isle d’Adam, then.”
Du Corse nodded. “But-” he said. “No. I recommend that you fight your own battle, de Rohan.”
De Rohan’s eyes narrowed.
Behind him, the King moved. Heads turned again.
“Yes,” the King said. “You have been her loudest and most constant accuser, de Rohan. Take up your cousin’s sword.”
A chair had been brought for the King. He was sitting by the lists now-more alert than many of the Gallish knights had ever seen him.
Amicia began to edge away from the royal box.
One of de Rohan’s yellow and black men-at-arms was pointing at her. She saw the man, and she steadied her working, which had slipped as she had moved in the real.
The man’s gaze slid off her even as she sat suddenly between two Alban families in the lowest bench of the stands. There was no room for her, but men on either hand instinctively made space.
The black and yellow man-at-arms looked her way, and then his attention-and everyone else’s-was on the lists.
Inside the Green Knight’s helmet, Gabriel Muriens tried to distance himself from the heady brew of excitement and pure fear that rose to choke him.
His heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wings, his chest felt tight and his arms weak.
“It is easier to face Thorn in desperate combat than to do this with five thousand people watching and everything on the line,” he thought.
“I volunteered to do this,” he thought.
“I don’t know this knight,” he thought.
All his thought had been bent on de Vrailly. And when he had admitted that Gavin was the better lance, he had freed himself from all of the anxiety of the moment, and settled for the petty stress of command.
And now it was all on him anyway. His mind multiplied his fears.
And he wondered how and why de Vrailly had been disqualified.
I should be relieved, he thought.
Instead, his lance felt like lead, and the points of his shoulder ached as if he’d jousted all day, and his great helm seemed to suffocate him.
But there was Toby, checking his stirrups, and Gavin, of all people, holding his shield.
“You bastard,” Gavin said. He wasn’t really smiling. He was mad as hell. “You always get your way.”
“This was none of my doing,” Gabriel said.
Gavin pulled the straps of his jousting shield tight over his arm harness with more emphasis than was necessary. “No, of course not,” he said. His tone didn’t give away whether he believed his brother or not.
“Gavin, I would not cede the lists to you and then take them away,” he said.
“Really?” Gavin asked. “Then go with God and win. Even if you did, brother, I hope you win.” Gavin slapped him on the shoulder. Gavin-on the ground-looked at Toby. “Who is riding for the King?”
“Marshal called him de Rohan.” Toby shrugged.
“I don’t know any of these Galles,” Gavin admitted.
“Anyway,” Gabriel said, a little pettishly through his great helm, “I’m not fighting de Vrailly.”
Gavin nodded. “That’s why I’m not pulling you off your horse and beating you with the butt of your own lance,” he said. “You as nervous as you sound?”
Gabriel swallowed with some difficulty.
“Give him water,” Gavin said. “Your man’s in the saddle. You have a better horse. He’s taller. He’s got a very long lance. You know the trick we practised in Morea?”
Gabriel drank the water. He didn’t quite feel like a new man, but he felt better. “You think?” he asked.
“His lance is five hand-spans longer than yours, and his arms are longer as well,” Gavin said. “This is not sport-this is war. There are no tricks. If it were me, I’d lace my helm lightly so he could pluck it off without hurting my neck.”
Deep in his helm, Gabriel laughed. “You made me laugh, Gavin. For that alone, I thank you.”
“Marshal’s telling us to lace up.”
“Tell him I’ve been laced up an hour.” Gabriel made his horse rear slightly, and the crowd shouted.
“Get him,” Gavin said.
Bad Tom leaned in. “Just fewkin’ kill him,” he said. He smiled. “Be a right bastard and put your fewkin’ iron in any way you can and don’t show off or fewk around or act like yersel.” He grinned.
Gabriel looked at the marshal. He had his baton over his head, and was looking at the King.
“The moment I have him,” Gabriel said, “go for the Queen.”
“Even if he has you, boyo,” Bad Tom said. “I can see Ranald fra’ here.”
The Green Knight flicked his lance at all of his friends.
He half reared-exactly as the baton dropped his horse’s front hooves were touching the ground. Ataelus exploded forward.
Gabriel had the sensation that time, rather than stopping, was sliding. As his adversary accelerated, Gabriel lowered his lance point too far, seated the butt of his lance in his lance rest, and let his point drop below the level of his own waist like an utterly inept jouster.
Any strike at the opposing horse was a foul.
Everything was moving so fast, yet in the hoof beats before the crossing of the spears, Gabriel felt the entanglement. The world about him was like a lattice of ice crystals-an infinite connection, man to man, thought to thought, earth to horse to lance to plot to consequence.
He was in it.
De Rohan’s lance was firm and solid, the steel tip all but invisible as they closed.
In practice, Gabriel had made this work once in three tries.
In the half a heartbeat that the spearheads passed one another, Gabriel used the cut-out corner of his shield as a fulcrum to lever his spear point up. His rising spear shaft crossed the oncoming might of the longer shaft, and struck it-hard.
His motion had been a trifle late, and the Gallish lance caught the bottom left of his great helm, slamming sideways into his head-he relaxed as much as his inner tension would allow, tried to be the jouster that his dead master-at-arms had wanted and that Ser Henri had derided, flowed with his adversary’s blow and in the second half heartbeat his own point caught his adversary in the shield, just over his bridle hand-
His solid ash lance exploded in his hand-and he was past, the royal box a blur on his left as Ataelus hurtled down the lists. He was the best fighting horse Gabriel had ever had-he slowed without a touch of the rein.
There were no barriers down the middle, because this was a war joust.
And his adversary was already coming at him.
Of course-his lance had not broken. He was choosing to fight continuously, instead of allowing his opponent to re-arm.
Gabriel dropped the butt of his lance as Ataelus reared and pivoted on his rear legs, front legs kicking. Ataelus let out an equine battle cry, a great scream that filled the air, and then they were straight to a gallop.