Page 5

The tournaments this year had not thus far covered him with glory. He had not lifted the victor’s trophy since Rogets Ford in March. Even that win had not been as sweet as it should, for he had wanted a rematch with the so-called king’s champion, Roland Vawdrey, to regain his honor. Instead, the bastard had ducked out to dance attendance on his pregnant wife! Konrad shook his head and slammed his tankard down on the table.

They didn’t make competitors like they used to. Even Orde, who had been as grim and cheerless as you could wish in an opponent, had now taken to parading his wife about the tournaments like she was attached to his hip. He turned to Jakeman who was refilling his cup. “You’d better do the rounds,” he growled. “Find out who’s arrived and who’s rumored as a no-show this year.”

Jakeman gave a murmur of agreement. In truth, he didn’t need the direction. He’d been with Konrad for nearly five years now. The fellow was efficient, discreet, and unfailingly polite. Sometimes Konrad wondered how he could stand to be around such a perfect paragon of a servant, but there was a lot to be said for employing someone who had never known him before the war.

As far as Jakeman was concerned, his employer had always borne his grievous scars and been blind in his left eye. Old family retainers were wont to flinch and wince when they saw what the fifth Baron Kentigern had been reduced to. The sensation prompted by their horrified glances flayed his temper and put him in a worse humor than even nature intended.

His pilgrimages back to Vettel were few and far between, avoided wherever possible. Only the solstice would see him drag his carcass all the way north to the ruined spot where his estate once stood. Confiscated now by the Crown for their family’s role in the late war, Bartree Castle stood a blasted and blackened shell. Some might say its master was a similar ruin of his former self.

His elder sister Magnatrude lived there still in the old lodge house, and Konrad was forced to pay a handsome sum for the privilege. It mattered not what he said; she would not budge an inch from the spot where the degradation of their old home would be ever present in her mind. Trude wrote him long letters filled with bitter recriminations, and small wonder, for she was forced to bear witness every time another piece of masonry fell from the roof of Bartree Castle and shattered on what was left of the flagstone floors below.

He had another such letter in his pack even now and had it these past two days without so much as breaking the seal. He knew what it would contain, nothing but misery and woe. Trude would become a bitter old woman with a mouth full of nothing but ashes. There was nothing he could do to stop the rot. Last winter solstice, he had sat opposite her at table and realized she took a strange sort of pleasure in the sharp misery of her life.

Kentigern scowled and banished all thought of family and home. Bad enough that he was back in Caer Lyoness. The summer capital always put him in a foul mood. The prosperity of the winning side struck a pointed contrast with the hardship and deprivation still experienced in parts of the north. He didn’t want to think about what had once been.

Tonight, he would fling Trude’s letter onto the fire and drink himself into oblivion. Battle, winning, lifting the victor’s cup; that was what got him through his days, and he needed for nothing else.

Konrad spent the next two days settling into his new routine. He arranged the care of his destrier Actaeon with the ostlers at The Jennet Treeand spent both days training in the extensive palace grounds. The southern field had been roped out and set up with training equipment, quintains, and blunted lances. Everything had been made ready for the best knights in all the land.

Having finished his exercise on the second day, he stripped Actaeon of his trappings and rubbed the horse briskly down. The bond between them was strong, and even though his manservant was more than capable, Konrad still liked to do this himself on occasion. Only once he had finished did he relinquish him to Jakeman to lead him away to feed and water.

Konrad unbuckled his chest plate and leaned against a convenient stall. Squires ran about the place giving it a bustling air, though he did not spot many of his fellow knights as yet. One young sprig passed by in brand new armor which did not bear so much as a dent. He gave Konrad a wary nod, and Konrad returned the gesture. For a minute he had thought it was Farleigh, who for some unaccountable reason had taken of late to seeking out his company.

In fairness, Farleigh had been on the circuit for nearly two years now, and his armor did not look as pristine as all that. Most of the knights competing would take up quarters at the palace, but he could never bring himself to do this. Even when he had gladly bowed his knee to the king in the north, he had been no courtier.

Old King Magnur was dead, the last king from the royal house of Blechmarsh. The Argent King had rendered his only heir, the Princess Una, powerless by marrying her off to a southern scoundrel of low repute. Konrad had not had the stomach to attend the tournament two months ago that had seen her hand bestowed so disgracefully on that dog Armand de Bussell, but he had heard of what had transpired. The news had made him sick to his stomach.

His sister had written to him imploring him to enter the May Day festival and save ‘the rightful queen of all Karadok’ from a fate worse than death. Konrad had thrown her letter into the fire, wondering if his sister desired them both to perish a traitor’s death. If that letter had been intercepted, it would have been considered evidence of treason. Had Trude really not seen enough bloodshed in the northern cause?

In any case, he wondered impatiently, how could she have expected him to marry a princess of the blood when he had precisely nothing to offer her? His lands and monies were all gone, confiscated by the Crown. His face disfigured, half his vision gone, only his name and reputation were left to him these days. How could any woman be expected to share such a fate? Let alone an ill-omened princess. His sister must be mad.

Instead of attending, he had retreated to a bolt hole to lick his wounds. He couldn’t even seek oblivion in the arms of a woman these days, not since the terrible scars the Battle of Adarva had given him. What woman would want his face looming over her in the dark? He would give her nightmares.

He glanced toward the mellow stone edifice of the summer palace, with its soaring towers standing proudly against a blue sky. Had it been on a day such as this that Princess Una had watched as her future was thrown away on a whim of King Wymer’s? He was roused from his thoughts by a discreet cough behind him.

Konrad swung around and saw a stout figure dressed in a sage green robe stood nearby with his hands folded neatly in front of him. He looked rather like a friar, though the gold clasp that fastened his tunic looked too fancy for one under vows of poverty.

“If you will pardon my forwardness,” the man said politely. “May I make so bold as to enquire if I am addressing Lord Kentigern?”

Konrad regarded him stonily for a moment. “You are,” he answered shortly. He failed to see how anyone could mistake him. Southerners were always so fussy about their address.

“My name is Bryce,” the other continued mildly. “I wonder if I might be permitted to have a moment’s private conversation with you, my lord?”

Konrad felt himself stiffen with irritation. “If this is some administrative matter, my servant Jakeman will see to it.”

“It is not,” Bryce answered swiftly. “It is of a far more personal matter that I wish to speak with you, my lord, and not one for which you can deputize.” He hesitated a moment before drawing some missive from his wide sleeve and holding it out to him.

Konrad lowered his brows, regarding the newcomer balefully. “What is all this?” he asked with a glower.

Bryce coughed. “My lord, it is an invitation for you to dine with the king and some other select few guests for the feast of St. Drogo.”

Konrad could not have been more surprised if it had been a challenge to arms. “Why does this southern king invite me to his table?” he demanded.

This was a step too far even for the polite messenger. “King Wymer is sovereign of all Karadok,” he pointed out primly.

He had guts to say that to him, and Kentigern was forced to concede, looking over the plump little man in his monkish robes. “What was your name again?” he rumbled.

“It is Bryce, my lord.”