The Skeleth (18 page)

T
he jousting field bloomed in patterned color, a summer garden of tent and pennant set up in defiance of the dying year. Katherine paused to catch her breath, resting her heavy wicker basket on the road that led down from the castle hill.

“Now that one there, that's a bad rider.” A few folk from Northend town had climbed the hill to watch the jousting practice, with an eye toward where to place their bets once the tourney started in earnest. Katherine straightened up to look and spied a knight in red riding Indigo along the jousting lists, a long track with a fence down the middle to keep the two combatants apart. There was no joust just then, though—the knight charged alone, his lance lowered at the cross-shaped quintain set up at the opposite end. Indigo cantered, but veering, stepping high, his every motion speaking of a rising rage. The knight jammed his spurs hard into Indigo's flanks, jerking back and forth at the bit to keep on target.

Katherine hauled up her basket. “A very bad rider.” Even as she spoke, Indigo swerved against the jousting fence and scraped the man off. The red knight landed on his back in the dirt, in front of a gang of watching squires who knew better than to laugh out loud.

Clouds bunched and menaced in the sky. Katherine hurried her pace as best she could, lest the rain fall and ruin her meal before she could deliver it. She cast a look of longing across the field toward the knights at boasting play upon their great horses of war, at the young squires polishing the armor of their masters and the grooms cleaning tack and saddle. She would rather be any of the men before her, highborn or low, than what she had become. She pushed sweaty locks of hair up beneath her wimple, steeled herself and ducked under the side flap of the grand reviewing tent.

“My lord. My lady.” She knew that she had to announce herself, much as she would have wished to simply sneak in and out. “I bring your noontime meal.” She glanced warily around, uncertain of whether she would find Ellí there with them, but saw no sign of her. She curtsied on her way to the rear of the tent, to the trestle bench spread with the tablecloth she had washed and laid out that morning.

“You again?” Lady Isabeau sat in prim splendor on a padded chair next to Lord Aelfric. She eyed Katherine up and down. “What on earth possessed Master Cook to send
you
down here? Where are our page boys?”

“I do not know, my lady.” Katherine craned to look through the open front of the tent toward the jousting field. The red knight grabbed for his fallen lance, and for an instant it looked
as though he was about to attack Indigo, right there on the field with everyone watching. Then Harry came out onto the lists and got between them, and after a few tries caught hold of Indigo's reins and led him away.

Katherine breathed a sigh of relief and turned to open the basket. She pulled out wrapped slices of beef, cheese and river trout, then some ceramic jars of sauces and jellies, and started arranging them on the table.

“You stupid girl! What are you doing?” Lady Isabeau made Katherine jump. “Is that how you set table at your father's house?”

Katherine looked down at the food, then over at the nobles. She had no idea what was wrong. “We did not often have beef at home, my lady. I am sorry—I don't know what to do.”

Lady Isabeau snapped her fingers at Katherine. “You dullard!” She drew her lips tight. “You utter—”

“Ah, Katherine Marshal. There you are!”

Katherine turned—and so did Aelfric and Isabeau—for Lord Wolland had a voice of born command.

“Come, come.” Wolland beckoned from the open front of the tent. “We have a small dispute regarding horses to settle, and I espied you on your way down from the castle.”

Katherine waited, unsure of whom to obey. She looked to Lord Aelfric.

Lord Wolland smiled upon the seated lord and lady. “That is, if you could spare this girl from her services?”

Lord Aelfric flicked his fingers. “Take her.”

“And keep her,” muttered Lady Isabeau.

“Good!” Lord Wolland stepped in and took Katherine by
the arm. Lady Isabeau grimaced at the sight, so Katherine let herself enjoy it, just a little.

Lord Wolland led Katherine out through the front of the tent. “It is but a small matter.” He was a lord of the realm, but he stumped along at Katherine's side like a prattling, jovial uncle. “But a matter for which none are better suited than you, my dear girl. Here we are, here we are—have you settled it, my good lords and knights?”

He stopped by the horse-tents at the far end of the field, where grooms and smiths worked in preparation for the tourney soon to come. A crowd of noblemen, Harry among them, stood in a circle around a familiar blue-gray shape. Indigo raised his head and stamped at Katherine's approach, pushing a few of them out of his way to come and greet her.

“We have settled nothing, my lord.” Dirt caked and dusted up the back of the red knight's surcoat. “And see? This stupid brute simply wanders off whenever the mood strikes him.”

“He sees the one who trained him, Richard—and, I'll hazard, the one who birthed him.” Lord Wolland beckoned to Katherine. “Come, my girl, step over here.”

Katherine dropped a curtsy and followed, feeling all eyes on her. She held forth a hand; Indigo nuzzled it.

Lord Wolland nodded to the red knight. “My loyal vassal here—Richard Redhands, by name and by fame—tells me this horse is ill-trained.”

Katherine patted under Indigo's chin. “He is not, my lord.” She nodded to Richard Redhands. “Saving your pardon, sir knight.”

“Yes he is!” Sir Richard fumed. “He's a bilious, bad-tempered beast. He cannot be ridden!” He raised his hand as though he meant to strike Indigo's rump. Katherine almost hoped that he would try it.

Harry wore his father's colors. They suited him—but then, so did everything. “I'm afraid that Indigo here threw Sir Richard, while they tilted at the quintain.”

Sir Richard Redhands screwed up his face, so that his mustache looked about to rise up into his flaring nostrils. He muttered something foul.

“And before that, he threw Sir Galien.” Wulfric slapped the back of one of the knights. “Tossed him hither and yon like a straw dummy, and—”

“And so, Katherine.” Lord Wolland held up a hand for silence. “I would like to put Sir Richard's claim to the test.”

He took Indigo's reins and held them out. Katherine knew what he wanted. She glanced around her—exposed, alone, a peasant girl in a humble, sweaty workdress, surrounded by the richest and most powerful men in the north. She felt like a pawn, a plaything, the butt of a joke.

She looked at Indigo. He raised his head, cocking his nose toward the jousting field.

She might never have the chance again.

Richard Redhands clenched a fist. “My lord, how can you defer to some peasant wench in a matter of—”

Katherine sprang up onto Indigo's back. She hiked the skirts of her dress to sit astride. Indigo shifted, twitching his ears toward the jousting field, but waited for her signal to begin.

“The horse does not seem quite so ill of temper as you say, Richard.” Wulfric exchanged a smile with his father. “Perhaps you were too free with the spurs?”

“Good. Yes, good.” Lord Wolland waved his hand. “Finish the show. Let us have you ride him down the lists.”

Katherine looked down. “My lord?”

Lord Wolland took the lance from Sir Richard's hand. He offered it to Katherine. “Show us. Charge at the quintain.”

Katherine hesitated, glancing toward the grand reviewing tent. She was in enough trouble already.

“A girl charge at the quintain, you say?” Lord Overstoke drained his goblet. “Ha! This I'd like to see!”

“So you shall, my lord.” Katherine touched her heel to Indigo's flank. Indigo trotted to the end of the jousting lists and sprang to a flying charge.

Wind threw Katherine's hair behind her. Indigo's hooves drummed upon the turf, shifting to a headlong gallop. Katherine nudged in her knee to correct their course over the bare grass of the lists. The quintain stood at mid-field, a tall cross with a battered old shield on one arm and a sack full of sand dangling from the other. The sight of the target roused her and made her forget her fluttering skirts. She steadied up her lance and passed within sight of the open front of the reviewing tent.

“What on earth—?” Lady Isabeau stood from her chair, gaping as Katherine hurtled past. The peasant folk of Northend hollered and cheered from the rope that marked the boundary of the lists.

Katherine lowered the lance to point at the target painted red on the boss of the shield. Exhilaration sharpened her, brought
her forward in the crouch. She matched the pull of her arm to the rise and fall of Indigo's pace, keeping the wobbling lance point on target. Twelve yards, six yards, two yards—yes. The lance struck square on the dot, sending a shudder back down her arm. The weight swung wide, shoved hard by the strike, spinning out high enough for her to duck under its whirling return. Indigo followed through at a canter, his strides the perfect coupling of power and grace, ready for his rider to draw her sword and fall in amongst the panicked enemy.

“Girl! How dare you?” Lady Isabeau's shrill exclamation was nearly drowned in the cheers from the peasants across the field. “How dare you!”

Katherine wheeled Indigo around. She trotted him back in front of the reviewing stand, as was custom. She dipped her lance in salute to lord and lady, and rode off the field. The noblemen assembled at the horse-tents might have thought her an oddity, perhaps even a joke, but they cheered for her all the same.

“Well struck, well struck!” Wulfric of Olingham bellowed and clapped. “By the cloven crown! That was straight on the dot.”

“My lord Aelfric!” Lord Overstoke leaned out to look at the reviewing tent. “My lord, why do you have this girl slaving in your scullery? She's worth three of my marshals, at the least!”

Lord Wolland held out his hand for Katherine's lance, acting for all the world as though he were her faithful squire. “I think our little dispute has been settled, then, yes?” He looked around him at the other lords and knights. “Good sir Richard, I fear that you owe my son Wulfric here an apology, and—what was the wager?”

“Two gold marks, Father,” said Wulfric. “But there is no hurry to collect on a man of honor.”

Richard Redhands turned to storm away. The other nobles hailed Katherine in a laughing roar, but she cared for their applause not a bit. She touched a hand down Indigo's flank, then stroked her fingers through his mane. He snuffled at her side. Riding him once more reminded her that she would never ride him again.

“He will be yours.”

Katherine looked up. Harry slipped around to her side of Indigo's great bulk. He glanced back at the nobles, then dared a step nearer. “I will find a way. He will be yours someday, somehow. This I swear.”

A groom came in between the horse-tents with a flask of wine. He bowed and started serving the noblemen assembled there. Katherine seized on the distraction to touch Harry's hand, squeeze his fingers once in thanks, then let go.

“So this is Elverain's great secret.” Lord Wolland took some wine, then stepped over by Indigo's proud head. “Old John Marshal and his maiden daughter, off on their little farm, turning out better steeds than anything I can acquire by coin or by craft.”

Harry winked at Katherine, then moved to join Wolland. “I regret to say, my lord, that they are not for sale.”

“I thought not.” Lord Wolland chuckled. “So, my boy, will we see you astride this fine beast in the tourney? You are well of age now.”

Harry stiffened. He hesitated. “No, my lord, I do not think so.”

“What? Why ever not?” Lord Wolland stared at him, the
very picture of honest surprise. He held forth a goblet full of rich red wine. “You are young and hale, Harry—drink from the cup of chivalry while you may!”

“It is not—” Harry stole an embarrassed glance at Katherine. “I can't.”

The lords and knights assembled by the tent smirked at one another and shook their heads. Lord Wolland exchanged a glance with Wulfric, one that Katherine did not like at all. She felt the urge to leave and to pull Harry away with her, but knew she had no power to do so.

“Oh, come now, come now.” Wolland placed the goblet in Harry's hands. “Only child you may be, but you cannot stay at your mother's skirts all your life. Do you wish to earn your spurs, or simply have them handed to you by right of your title?”

Lord Overstoke laughed, and the other nobles took it up in a burst of derision. “I have always said he was rather too pretty.” He nudged one of the knights, pointing at Harry, then Katherine. “You tell me, my lord—which one of them's the maiden?”

“An old man's child,” muttered Lord Overstoke. “His mother's son.”