The Best Weapon Read online

  Fulk had only briefly glimpsed his opponent's face, and disliked what he saw. Etienne Beaumont had close-set blue eyes, a hooked snout and a mean mouth. He was cocky and played to the crowd, acknowledging their cheers and accepting, with much bowing and pretty speech-making, a scarf of pearls that his lady-love handed him to wear round his helm. She was the girl seated next to Lord Beaumont, and blushed prettily as Etienne kissed her white hand. Fulk felt both disgusted and envious, and would have liked nothing better than to send Etienne catapulting over his horse's rear end.

  But that was impossible. His orders were to throw the fight, and he could feel Comrade Malet's eyes burning into his back. The Master-at-Arms was seated beside his peers in the Temple pavilion, grim-faced as ever, with his arms folded across his massive chest.

  Fulk's squire, Thomas helped him to clamber aboard his horse, a restive black stallion named Thunder. Fulk held out his hand for his lance and felt its reassuring weight placed into his grip.

  The lance was four meters long and made of ash, and to avoid causing injury its normal, sharp spear head had been replaced by a flat cup. The Test was just that, a test of skill and strength, and those that ended in serious injury or death were a severe blow to the honour of the Temple. That was why the responsibility for fighting challengers was usually given to veteran Templars, since they could be relied upon to fight with restraint.

  But not in this case, Fulk thought bitterly. No veteran would consent to deliberately losing a Test for profit, so some useful idiot had been chosen instead from among the younger knights. Me.

  Then the heralds blew their trumpets for the Test to begin, the crowd raised a great yell, Fulk set his lance in rest and drove in his spurs.

  As his horse lumbered into a ponderous gallop, Fulk's nerves evaporated, allowing him to concentrate on the task in hand. Through the narrow slit in his visor, he could see his charging opponent, equally faceless behind a steel mask. Etienne was holding his lance diagonally in front of him, obviously hoping to impress by unhorsing Fulk with the point. The point-stroke was difficult, since it depended on the rider balancing his lance straight between finger and thumb while being jolted aboard a galloping horse. Far more experienced knights had trouble pulling it off, and Etienne's lance tip was wavering like a reed in the wind.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain and humiliation to come, Fulk positioned his own lance so that it jutted out horizontally from his body. This was the sweep-stroke, the easiest stroke in jousting and almost certain to knock the other man off his horse—provided, of course, he didn't strike you with the point first.

  He was trying to give Etienne every chance, deliberately riding loose in the saddle and holding his shield flat to provide an easy target for his opponent's lance. The riders surged together, the screams and yells of the crowd echoing inside the dark stuffiness of their helms.

  The cup of Etienne's wavering lance grazed Fulk's shield, scraped along the steel rim and broke against the side of his helm. Fulk's head snapped back under the force of the blow and he toppled sideways off his horse. Thunder galloped on regardless, leaving his stunned rider to land on his back in the dirt. The exultant victor galloped around the square, thrusting his lance into the air as the crowd cheered and his family went into an ecstasy of celebration.

  It was all so much noise to Fulk. He lay motionless and wondered groggily if his neck was broken. A worried voice echoed inside his helm, asking him if he was all right, and practised fingers swiftly undid the laces of his helm. Light and air flooded Fulk's world as the suffocating metal bucket was wrenched off his head. He found himself looking up at Thomas' anxious young face.

  "Are you all right, master?" the lad repeated. "Can you carry on?"

  Fulk was all for being carried away on a stretcher, but knew that his humiliation was not yet complete. Etienne may have won the joust, but to pass the Test he also had to prove his worth in single combat on foot.

  "Help me up," Fulk groaned, and between them his squire and a couple of other attendants pulled the armoured man to his feet. Gasping at the whiplash in his neck, Fulk had to be supported while Thomas ran to fetch his battle-staff.

  The square was now a cauldron of noise. Etienne's relatives were screaming encouragement at their boy, while the crowds of spectators heaving against the barricades were no less excited, stamping their feet and baying for blood. Only the Masters of the Temple remained aloof and silent in their pavilion, while the younger knights were agitated but dared not lose their composure. The honour of the Temple was at stake, or so they thought. None of them could understand why Fulk had allowed himself to be unhorsed so easily.

  Thomas ran back with the battle-staff and placed the heavy weapon in Fulk's hands. It was a vicious weapon, a favourite of the Templars, and consisted of a long pole with an iron hook at one end and a steel disk at the other. The hook was used to trip up opponents or drag them off their feet, while the razor-sharp disk could slash or bludgeon them to death. For the purposes of the Test, the edges of the disk on Fulk's staff had been sanded blunt.

  Fulk shrugged off his attendants and limped towards his opponent, who had dismounted and was waiting for him in the middle of the square. Etienne's squire had removed his tilting helm, and the young knight was grinning. Disdaining a shield, he intended to put on a show by fighting with a broadsword in one hand and a flanged mace in the other.

  "Feeling the strain?" Etienne shouted as Fulk warily approached him. "Never mind, you'll be tucked up in bed soon enough. You might be there some time, after I've finished with you."

  "Be silent, you cocky little pimp," Fulk growled, raising his staff and aiming a deliberately clumsy overhead blow at Etienne's head. The younger man laughed as he easily danced aside and slashed his sword at his opponent's arm. The blade struck Fulk's elbow, almost shearing through the links of his mail and sending a throb of pain shooting through his bruised neck and spine.

  Over-excited, and with the blood pounding in the veins of his neck, Etienne tried to club Fulk in the chest with his mace. Fulk turned away the blow with his staff, knowing that the ridged steel head of the mace would otherwise have crushed his breastbone. Templars were supposed to fight with restraint and caution during Tests, but the challengers were under no such restrictions and often did their best to maim or kill their exalted opponents. Etienne was clearly one of these.

  Moving with a lithe grace, Etienne pressed his attack. Fulk retreated and defended as best he could, hampered by the pain in his spine and the knowledge that he must lose this fight. He had to grudgingly admit that Etienne was a fair swordsman, though still an amateur by Temple standards. Only fear of Comrade Malet's retribution stopped him from dropping his staff and disarming the boy with his bare hands.

  A passing blow from the mace got through his guard and clattered against his thigh. He staggered, cursing the pain and his own sloppiness, and Etienne's sword stabbed him in the stomach. His mail saved him from being run through, but he was badly winded and crumpled to his knees, gasping for air.

  Etienne was jubilant and raised his arms to acknowledge the roars of the crowd. "Hear that, fool?" he gloated, lashing out with his foot to kick Fulk in the ribs. "That's the sound of glory. I'll make you an offer—beg me for mercy, in front of all these people, and I'll spare your life. Not your knighthood, though. I'll insist on your spurs being struck off, and then maybe you can serve as my groom. A more fitting trade for you, don't you think?"

  Etienne punctuated his words with another kick. Still fighting for breath, Fulk rolled onto his side and glanced up at House Beaumont's pavilion. He saw the pretty blonde girl, laughing and squealing in her chair as she applauded her dashing knight. Her bright blue eyes flashed with blood-lust as she exhorted him to greater efforts:

  "Go on, Etienne, give the dog what for! Thrash him senseless!"

  And then the red rage prowled forth from the pit of Fulk's soul. Years of Temple discipline had curbed it somewhat, but Fulk could still rely on it to burst out at the worst mo
ments and make a complete hash of his life. The sight of that lovely blonde girl in the pavilion, the kind of girl he had only encountered before in his dreams, cooing and clapping as her lover beat him into the dirt, made him forget his pain. And his orders.

  "Come on, get up and fight! Why don't you get up and fight, you coward?"

  Fulk's right hand shot out and grasped a handful of the Beaumont family jewels.

  "I fear your girl will have little use for you in her chamber tonight," Fulk hissed through bloody teeth as he gave a savage twist to the collection of soft objects in his hand, "after I've finished with you."

  Etienne squealed and dropped his sword. Fulk gave another twist and he collapsed into a heap, sobbing and clutching his affected parts. Then the young Templar stood up and tossed away his staff.

  "Get up, you coward," he mimicked, grinning and cracking his knuckles, "let's see what you're really made of."

  The spectators had grown quieter now, particularly those in House Beaumont's pavilion, and the only cheers came from one or two young Templars who couldn't contain themselves any longer. Comrade Malet sat rigid in his seat and clenched his fists.

  To his credit, Etienne had some courage. Despite the exquisite pain in his groin, he managed to get to his feet. His reward was a vicious uppercut to his jaw that sent him reeling across the square.

  "Wait!" he squealed as Fulk came striding towards him, "this is supposed to be a duel at arms, not a pot-house brawl! Gentlemen do not fight with their fists like common thugs!"

  This time Fulk's punch caught Etienne square on his over-sized snout, squashing it like a ripe tomato in a welter of blood and shattered cartilage. He followed up with a swift one-two to the boy's ribcage, and for good measure delivered a contemptuous open-handed slap to the gory wreckage of his face.

  It wasn't a hard slap, but enough to knock the punch-drunk Etienne to the floor. Before he could fall Fulk stepped in and grabbed him by the hair. For the next few moments he amused himself by holding his opponent upright with one hand and pummelling him with the other

  Fulk was only vaguely aware of the shocked noises from the crowd. Nor did he take much notice of the attendants and men-at-arms that tried to drag him off his opponent, or the outraged shouts coming from the Beaumont pavilion. Etienne's mother had gone into a swoon, while Lord Beaumont was on his feet and screaming that the Templars could whistle for their money. Etienne's lady-love had gone into hysterics, tears streaming down her delicate cheeks and ruining her carefully applied cosmetics.

  It took six men to wrench Fulk away from his victim, by which time his rage was ebbing. He was conscious of his surroundings again, and through the fading red mist saw the remains of his opponent being scraped off the ground and carried away in a stretcher. Fulk grinned savagely as he observed the shattered ruin of Etienne's face. All those years of pounding away at the Block hadn't been a total waste of time.

  Cries of "Shame!" and "Barbarian!" followed him as he was escorted from the field.

  The general feeling among the crowd was that Fulk had cheated somehow, and only the Temple servants and younger knights took any joy in his brutal victory. The Masters were divided between trying to placate Count Beaumont and arguing among themselves.

  It was Comrade Malet who spotted the horseman, riding hard over the white expanse of the plains to the west of the Temple. Shading his eyes, Malet saw that the rider wore green and gold livery, and that his horse's flanks were bloody from the flogging he had given them with his spurs.

  6.

  "The only reason you are still walking upright with a full complement of teeth, you little shit, is because every man is needed in the current crisis. When it is over, I shall take great pleasure in breaking you in half."

  Comrade Malet's words echoed inside Fulk's head as he rode away from the Temple. He was part of a long column of mounted and fully armed knights, two thousand in all, as many men as could be spared without leaving the Temple unguarded.

  The knights had not ridden out in such force for years, and the labourers in the fields stood and gawped in disbelief at the glittering procession as it thundered past. At the head of the column rode the spare figure of the Grand Master, his ageing back held straight in its cuirass of steel. Behind him rode his standard bearer and the Lesser Masters, including the tall figure of Comrade Malet.

  Fulk rode at the rear of the column, deliberately keeping as much distance between himself and Malet as possible. The Master-at-Arms had visited him in his tent shortly after the Test, and made it clear that he did not approve of Fulk's decision to disobey orders. He had waxed eloquent on the subject, particularly on the punishment he intended to dish out.

  The crisis had saved Fulk, for the time being at least. The nature of it had been explained by the Grand Master when the knights were summoned to muster in the Great Hall the morning after the Test.

  The Hall was a vast chamber, big enough to accommodate the full strength of the Temple. Its walls were hung with moth-eaten tapestries depicting ancient Templar victories in battle, along with a few of the more glorious defeats, and ragged banners spattered with the blood of long-dead warriors. A great fire was kept burning permanently in the centre of the hall, scented with herbs that sent thick columns of sweet smoke drifting up to coil around the blackened rafters.

  This vast echoing space had filled with armed men, all dressed and armed for the occasion in their mail and white cloaks. The Grand Master himself stood on a raised dais at one end of the hall. His aged voice was too weak to carry, so two heralds stood at opposite corners of the platform and repeated his words.

  "We have received a message from His Grace, Archpriest Flambard," the old man announced. "A riot has broken out in Hope, and his attempts to quell it have failed. The whole city is plunged into chaos and the archpriest and his council are besieged by the mob."

  This news was greeted by more than a few wry smiles. Flambard was not a popular figure anywhere in the Winter Realm.

  "He pleads for our assistance," the Grand Master went on, "and offers a substantial reward if we ride to his aid and restore order in the city. Comrades, listen to me. We are not mercenaries, nor are we watchmen, but the safety of the Winter Realm and the Founder dynasty have always been our first priorities. Our infant Queen is inside the palace, and only the gods know what might happen to her if the mob breaks through the gates. We have no choice but to go."

  There were no smiles now, for every knight present was sworn to defend his monarch to the death.

  The Grand Master slowly raised his ancient longsword, which had been carried by every Grand Master since the founding of the Temple. In times of peace, so the laws decreed, the sword was kept firmly in its scabbard. In time of war, it must be drawn and not sheathed again until its blade was greasy to the hilt with enemy blood.

  The hall shook to the sound of cheers and stamping feet as he grasped the hilt of the sword and tugged the blade free.

  7.

  Count Flambard was impatient. Brawny and bluff, he liked to think of himself as a man of deeds rather than words, only truly comfortable with a hawk on his wrist or a sword in his hand. When he wasn't hunting or hitting someone, he was usually drunk. It was his way of guarding against the dangers of thought.

  It was barely midday, but the Count was already on his third cup of wine. He stood, leaning beside an embrasure in the Council Chamber of the Founders' Palace, looking down through an arched window at the chaos outside.

  What he saw disgusted him. The lower classes always made him feel vaguely ill, and the sight of the unwashed hordes currently laying siege to the palace turned his stomach. Night and day they gathered at the foot of the sandstone crag that the palace stood on, chanting their vile slogans and waving their foolish banners. They had the temerity to make demands, absurd stuff like equal justice for all and the abolition of lordship.

  There were some nasty revolutionary elements out there, he considered, troublesome little demagogues with nothing better to do than stir up
trouble. He would have dearly loved to don his armour and ride out to administer some harsh justice. But he wasn't allowed to.

  "I can hear the gears in your brain creaking," said the familiar rumble of his brother's voice. "Try not to think too hard, else they might snap."

  The Count swung round to confront him, spilling his wine in the process. He swore as it spattered over his yellow hose, and spent an undignified few seconds rubbing at the wet spots with his handkerchief.

  "That will stain," he muttered angrily, giving up and stuffing the handkerchief back into his doublet. He glanced up and stiffened as he saw his brother smiling and piteously shaking his head.

  The Archpriest was seated in his high-backed chair at the head of the long oak council table. His heavy figure was dressed in the usual fur-lined purple robes. The chamber was otherwise empty, for all the other councillors had either fled the city or retired to their bed-chambers to pray for deliverance.

  "Our parents," the Archpriest mused, "must have thanked the gods of hearth and home that I was born before you. What on earth would you have done with the power and influence that I inherited? It is a question I often ask myself."

  His brother rose to the bait. "And what have you achieved, other than lining your own pockets?" he spat, his coarse face scarlet with pique and too much wine. "Have you seen what's happening outside? That's all your work."

  Flambard thoughtfully pulled at his lower lip. "Yes. I made a mistake. I didn't think that Captain Marshall would let me down so badly. He is usually so efficient."

  "Was so efficient. The last I heard, his body was floating in the docks and being pelted with stones by a gang of street urchins."

  This was true. The Archpriest's attempt to restore order in the streets by sending Captain Marshall in with the Palace Guard had met with disaster. The Dragon banner had been raised, as per the Archpriest's orders, but the mere sight of it had made the legions of the Guard forget their discipline and training. They had gone on the rampage, looting and killing indiscriminately and causing the whole city to rise up in revolt. Suddenly outnumbered by an enemy that knew how to fight in the narrow streets and alleyways better than they did, the Guard had suffered heavy casualties before managing to fight their way back to the palace.