Brothers of Star and Sword

Ripped from the nightmare's coil, Ademar took one gasping breath and held still, listening.  He heard the crunch of boots, and the crack of drawn bolts echoed through the dungeon's stone corridors.   A chill of apprehension shivered across his skin.  It was always dark in the dungeons, but from the bite in the air he thought it was before dawn.  No one came here at this hour, not without some grim purpose.  

Ademar rose to his feet, brushing straw from his hair and tattered shirt.  The footsteps came closer.  He turned to face the door, forcing himself to stand straight though every bruise and weal protested.   Removed from the nest of straw he began to shiver.  Light seeped through cracks in the heavy wood blinding him.  He started to raise a hand to shield his eyes, but let it fall.  Instead, he stared at the glimmer of light; he would not let them find him cowering in the dark.  The footsteps halted.  He heard the murmur of voices and wondered who had come for him.

A key grated in the lock, and bolts thudded free.  Ademar felt his empty hands curl to fists.  Before they had thrown him in this cell he could not remember the last time he had gone unarmed.   Now he must face every harsh test without a sword, and he ached for the want.  The door edged open and light spread across the cobbled floor.  Ademar flinched from the glare; he could not help it.

Four men stood in the corridor, but none moved to cross the cell's threshold.  Blinking, Ademar saw they wore familiar midnight blue robes over glittering mail and carried long swords in plain leather scabbards.   All had cowls pulled close over their heads keeping their faces hidden.  His sworn brothers, knights of the Star and Sword, come for him in the dead of night.  He fought an urge to retreat from them.   One of the faceless men spoke.

"You will come with us." 

Ademar knew the voice; the contempt he heard in it kindled a flicker of anger.  "I will come with you, if it is the will of the King or Grand Master Tarmont."  

"What else would bring us here?"  The voice demanded, and torchlight flared on drawn steel.  "I have no patience for this.   Will you come freely or will we drag you like a cur?"

The anger burned through Ademar banishing chills and aches.  It drove him forward.  In two swift strides he crossed the threshold.   "Such brave words, de Morriand, when you lack the courage even to show your face." 

Geoffrey de Morriand laughed.  "This traitor dares speak to me of courage.  It seems he needs another lesson."   He raised his fist.  Ademar made no move to defend himself, understanding, too late, that it might be the excuse they wanted.  Why else were they here at dead of night.  Alive he was a stain on the brotherhood's honor; a dagger in his ribs would solve that problem.   But the blow did not fall.  A gauntleted hand caught Geoffrey's wrist wrenching it aside.

"He has been beaten enough.  That is not why we are here."

Shock drove Ademar back one step, and he collided hard with the wall.  His gaze fixed on the man who had spoken, faceless beneath the cowl.   "Edwin!"  The name echoed along the corridor, unanswered.  For a moment Ademar thought he was mistaken, but he remembered the gauntlets.  Edwin always wore them to protect his fine, long fingered hands more suited to the lute than the sword.   The silence lengthened until Ademar felt an ache in his throat. The anger drained from him.  He did not resist as Geoffrey shoved him forward.  When he stumbled a gauntleted hand caught his arm and steadied him, but it was withdrawn before he could turn.

They passed through a vaulted hall lined with wooden doors.  Torchlight flickered over the dank stone walls, and somewhere water dripped in chiming counterpoint.   Head down, Ademar paid no attention.  He had long since lost hope, but Edwin's presence was enough to rob him of that ease.  The chance he might have a friend here, at this last desperate hour, was almost too painful. Hope.  Friendship. He limped barefoot across the cobbles confused by such an ill-remembered sensations.  The knights flanked him.  Behind them darkness swallowed the cell doors, and only the skitter of rats and the scrape of chains broke the silence.  

At the end of the hall a gate led to a stairway.  Ademar came to a halt.  Two of the hooded brothers went first; he followed, with Geoffrey's sword at his back.   They climbed in silence, following the twisting stone steps endlessly upward until they reached a landing blocked by another iron gate.  Beyond the gate, a long room reeking of tallow and smoke, the walls decorated with fetters, branding irons and other grim implements.   Ademar knew the room well.  Trestle tables were stacked to one side, and at the far end a half dozen men huddled around a brazier. 

One of the brothers called out to them.  "Open the gate."

A heavyset man in drab brown wool turned from the group.  With a word to a couple of the others, he left the fire, lifting a heavy cudgel from against the wall.   Three men followed silently, hands lingering near the whips coiled at their belts.  The jailer crossed to the gate and grinned through the bars.  "You found him then?"    

Geoffrey cursed.  "The key, and quickly, before I choke on the traitor's stench."

Ademar snarled and turned.  But Geoffrey was too fast, one swift movement and his sword touched Ademar's neck.  Geoffrey laughed a harsh, breathless sound.   "Oh, how you tempt me."  The cowl fell back exposing his pale, sharp-boned face.  Dark red hair curled to his shoulders.  Eyes narrowed, he pressed the blade closer.    

Pinned between the blade and the cold stone at his back, Ademar could not move. Good sense warned him to be silent.  But somehow, Edwin's presence changed everything.   He could not leave the slur unanswered.  Eyes locked to Geoffrey's, he drew a shallow breath and managed one word.  "Craven."  He thought it was done then.   But even as the blade bit into his neck, drawing the first warm trickle of blood, a figure moved swiftly from the shadows.  With one blow, Edwin knocked Geoffrey and the sword aside. 

In the narrow space, he stood between them his voice harsh as he called out to the jailer, "Open the damned gate, now." 

Geoffrey cursed him, muttering of traitors and lies, but he retreated to stand near the gate. He still held the sword but the tip of the blade dropped to rest on the floor.

Edwin ignored him.  He turned placing a hand on Ademar's chest, holding him against the wall.  "The Grand Master has sent for you.   If you want to live to see him have the sense to keep silent."   

As the jailer fumbled with the keys, Edwin pushed the cowl back.  Touched by a gut-wrenching moment of hope Ademar searched his face.   But beneath black hair, Edwin's grey eyes were guarded and weary.  The gate swung wide and Geoffrey strode through.  Ademar saw the jailer and his men waiting in a rough half circle.   He looked to Edwin seeking the right words.

Avoiding his gaze, Edwin caught him by the shoulder.  "Don't provoke him again."   

When Ademar limped into the guardroom, the jailer grinned and shook a pair of manacles at him.  The man looked to Geoffrey.  "You'll want him restrained, my lord, fetters and manacles?"

"Yes, see to it."  Geoffrey answered.  Ademar looked to Edwin, but he turned away.

Chained, with a sack pulled over his head, Ademar was taken from the dungeons through the door that led to the castle bailey.  He felt the sting of fresh air and the chill of frosty grass beneath his feet.   He lifted his head, cursing the sack that denied him a chance to see the stars.  After a while the grass gave way to cobbles, and he heard a door grate open.  Around him the footsteps echoed loud as in a vast space.   He knew then that they had brought him to the hall of the Star and Sword.  He pictured it in his mind, the tall pale walls, the high, narrow windows, banners and shields hung beneath them. It was a long walk across the stone worn to grooves by centuries of use.  Through the sack, he saw the glimmer of candles and caught the scent of fine beeswax.  A hand fell on his shoulder pushing him to his knees.   A moment later, the sack was pulled away.

Ademar raised his head, and met the hooded gaze of the Grand Master. Once glance and he knew the moment had come when he would learn the time and manner of his death.   Grand Master Gaspard de Tarmont showed no emotion.  He was not a young man; his dark hair was mottled with grey, and heavy lines pulled at his eyes and mouth.  He was seated in a high backed chair, before a table that held several half curled scrolls; the wax of broken seals blood red against the wood.   A vast cloth of midnight blue silk hung on the wall above the Grand Master. It was emblazoned with silver stars set around a golden sword rippled softly.  The device on Tarmont’s velvet surcoat mirrored it.

"Ademar de Berrison, once sworn knight and brother of the Star and Sword.  You are brought before me to hear the King's justice."   Tarmont's voice was harsh with distaste as he spoke the formal words, but his face betrayed nothing.  He studied the paper in his hands and let the silence lengthen as if unwilling to speak.   "The King, in his wisdom and mercy, has granted you the right of trial by combat."

 For a moment Ademar could not believe he had heard right.  Then there was a hiss of anger from Geoffrey standing close by.   He stepped forward now.  "Why?"  His angry cry was echoed by other voices through the hall.  "This traitor deserves no such honor.  He murdered three sworn brothers."

"To protect the boy," Ademar cried.  His gaze was locked to the Grand Master's but the words were for Edwin, somewhere at his back.

"Liar."  Geoffrey spat.  "You killed three sworn brothers and let an accomplice flee."

"No."  Ademar shook his head.  "The boy was no killer but they would've killed him.  I wanted only to..."   A dozen voices drowned his words.

"Be silent, traitor."  Geoffrey's was the loudest.  He strode across the room.  "His tongue is poison.   I will not listen to it."  He raised a booted foot.  Before Ademar could react, a kick to the shoulder sent him sprawling.  He heard the hiss of steel as Geoffrey drew his sword.   The blade swung down in a vicious arc.  Defenseless, Ademar flung up his arms using the chains to foul the blade.  Sparks flew and Geoffrey cursed as he dragged the steel free.   Before he could strike again Edwin was between them, blade drawn.  Ademar rose to a crouch gripping the chain between his hands.

"Enough," the Grand Master banged a fist against the table.  He sounded annoyed or perhaps disappointed, Ademar could not tell.   "The King has spoken, we will obey."  He stood, shoving the carved chair back.  "Put up your blades."  He waited until both swords were sheathed, then he looked to Geoffrey.   "The King's justice will be championed by the brotherhood.  Already a score of brothers have come to me begging for the honor.  If you are so keen to avenge the fallen by killing him, add your name to the list."  

"Gladly," Geoffrey said.  "Who will choose our champion?"

"I will."  The Grand Master returned to his desk and lifted another paper.  "By the King's writ.  The trial will take place two days from now at the Ascension Day Tournament.   I must take the name of the brother chosen to the King by midnight tomorrow."  He glanced down at Ademar.   "You have received the King's justice."  He gestured to the waiting brothers.   "I'm done with him.  Take him back to the cells."

As the cell door slammed and darkness closed around him, Ademar sank to his knees.  Reaction left him dazed and shivering.  The right to trial by combat, a chance to prove his innocence, was an undreamed of boon.  But it was a tainted gift.  The King had given it a twist, a gibe meant for the brotherhood to make a mockery of their oath.   The King's choice of champion meant that Ademar must kill one of his brothers if he was to prove his innocence.  Once he would have sworn that nothing would make him raise a sword against one of his brothers, but now...

The true memory of that winter afternoon was blurred; he had relived it too often in his nightmares.  He remembered it was growing dark when the boy came to the guardroom crying for their help.   Later he wondered why the boy had not called for the King's guard; the distance to their hall was no greater.

Six brothers had been on duty with him that day Brandon, Louis, Ricard, Xavier, Hugo and Philippe.  In the darkness of the cell, their faces floated before his eyes.   They had all followed the boy, running through the castle's stone passages to the Gold tower where the Lord Treasurer had rooms.  They found the door wide open.  Inside a bald headed servant stood trembling.   He waved them towards another room.  Ademar followed his brothers into the wood paneled solar.  A flagon of wine lay overturned among the rushes.  The room stank of it and something else, sickly sweet and foul.   It was a small room with one narrow window.  Beneath it, there was a table with documents stacked in neat piles.  The Count was slumped over them, one hand grasping at empty air. Dark blood oozed from his nose and mouth.  His fine grey velvet robe was stained with wine and vomit. 

 After the first moment's frozen shock, Xavier ran to find the King's physician.  Then they noticed the boy was gone.  A shout drew them to the window and they saw him crossing the narrow courtyard below.  Leaving Hugo and Philippe to watch over the body, the rest of them went after him.  Ademar could not remember who gave the order.  

 They caught up with the boy as he made for the postern.  Seeing them, he turned aside and darted through a door into one of the towers that flanked it.   They followed him down a short flight of steps to a passage that led out to a cobbled courtyard. 

The four of them cornered him there.  He remembered someone shouting, "He has a dagger, ware poison."  But he could not match the voice to a face.   In the fading light it was enough to make the boy a threat.  Looking back, it seemed a madness came over them.  Swords were drawn.  Through a fog of rage, Ademar heard the boy cry out, heard his terror and knew there was no dagger.   There was no time to think; he leapt to stand between his brothers and the boy.  In a blur of blades he blocked the first cut and shouted at them to put up their swords.  They did not listen, and somehow the next flurry of steel left Brandon on the ground, bleeding.   Ademar knew his sword had been unbloodied then.  But the cry went up against him, and after that he fought to survive.  When it was done Louis and Ricard were dead, and Brandon unconscious, bleeding from a deep wound to his side.   The boy was gone. 

Brandon died that night without waking.  The Lord Treasurer was dead, a poisoner loose and the castle in uproar.  The court seethed with rumor and suspicion.   The King's fury fell on the Brotherhood.  Suspicion always fell easily on the Brotherhood; they were feared as much as they were needed.  An elite band of knights, rich and dangerous, many thought the order held too much power.   And the evidence of some complicity was strong.  Unable to disprove it, Grand Master Tarmont defended the Brotherhood with ruthless efficiency.  He chose a living scapegoat over the dead, his choice made easier by the history of bad blood between their families.   Ademar was thrown into a cell before he could understand what had happened, or why. 

The Brotherhood bound men by honor and friendship, and blood oath.  He had not thought such bonds could be easily broken.  Despite the torture and beatings, he held to his story, believing the truth would be enough.  But the truth had not saved him.  In the end even he doubted it.   He had thought on that long and hard.   Locked away he had no voice to answer the lies.  Tarmont professed himself satisfied, likely he did not think an investigation worth the risk, and the chance to learn the truth of what had happened was lost.   The brothers accepted his word.  At first Ademar had felt only anger, but with time he came to understand.  Words could be twisted, no matter the truth of them, and doubt, once sown, spread like rust.   It tainted then rotted away trust.  Where trust failed hatred soon filled its place.  He understood too well, it was easier to face betrayal that way.   

Ademar curled into his nest among the straw.  He had not believed it was possible to be more wretched but now they forced him to this mockery.   It might have been better to let his blood wet Geoffrey's blade than play out this bitter game.  The thought drove him to his feet.  What loyalty did he owe Geoffrey de Morriand, or the others like him?   Would it be so hard to fight against men who so eagerly sought the chance to kill him, who claimed is as an honor?  Ademar began to pace.  Slowly the flame of anger kindled within him.

Two mornings later they took him from the dungeons.  Four brothers escorted him to a room in the East tower.  He was treated with frigid respect, but when he asked when he was to fight and against whom, they would not answer.   They brought him water to wash and fresh clothes.  A breakfast of roast fowl, bread, honey and ale was laid out.  Ademar ate sparingly, unused to such rich fare.  The morning passed slowly.   He knew the tournament would be underway, jousting in the morning, the melee in the afternoon.  He asked again when he would fight but they would not answer.

The noon bell tolled before they brought the armor and offered it for his inspection.  It was plain but of good quality.  The brothers helped him dress.  Finally they brought his sword.  Ademar reached for it but they would not let him touch it.  They showed him the blade and tested it to prove it was sharp and true.   Then they retreated and left him to wait, in silence.  The bell struck twice more before a page came to summon them.  It was a short walk down the stairs and across the bailey to the barbican, but it left him breathless.   He felt numb, his thoughts clouded and uncaring.

He had not yet been given a helm.  He had wondered about that, but as he stood in the shadow of the barbican looking out onto the tourney grounds, he understood why.   Crowds hemmed a narrow walkway, waiting for him, and he was not to be allowed the shelter of a helm for this first ordeal.  He stepped out into the sunshine.  Above his head scarlet pennants cracked in the breeze.   Ademar flinched.  He had made this walk a hundred times, and it had never held any fear for him.  Injury, even the possibility of death, had not scared him.  But of course this was different.   The familiar smell, a mix of crushed grass and horse sweat, mingled sickeningly with roast meat and ale from the stalls that edged the lists.  He heard the sudden roar of the crowd, at first it sounded familiar.   But then he saw the faces.  Hate twists a face like nothing else. 

The Lord Treasurer had not been loved by the common folk.  Ademar wondered what they had been told to provoke such anger.  Among the screaming masks he saw one face, silent and sad.  Ademar looked away and kept his gaze averted, shocked to think that that one friendly face might have the power to break him.  He would not falter, not now with the chance for justice so close.   Searching for the anger he needed, he told himself they wanted to see him crumble.  The Anger grew slowly, building inside him with each curse and insult.  When he stepped into the open space of the lists the roar of noise hit him like a wave.   But after the first shock he hardly noticed.  Beyond the jousting barrier and its mangled turf, in the shadow of the royal stand an armored figure stood waiting, faceless beneath his helm.   Ademar kept walking.

The drums were beating an ominous tattoo.  Flanked by brothers, Ademar came to a halt beneath the royal stand, but he did not look up.   The King and his nobles, the Grand Master, they meant nothing compared to this one man.  Ademar stared hard at the armored figure, searching for some way of knowing him.  But his armor and sword were plain, his helm unornamented.   He wore a midnight blue surcoat emblazoned with the device of the brotherhood, but that told Ademar nothing. 

A herald stepped forward to call the challenge, first reading a list of Ademar's crimes.  The crowd fell silent while he spoke.  When the challenge was called one of the brothers handed Ademar a helm and then his sword.  He took it and his fingers curled around the hilt with easy familiarity.  The brothers and the herald withdrew leaving him alone on the grass.   He turned to face his opponent.  The armored man raised his sword and advanced.  At the first clash of steel the crowd bayed for blood.

Through the first cautious exchanges, Ademar studied his opponent's style.  But he learned nothing from the neat blade work.  He pressed harder, driving forward with heavy cuts.  The clamor of blades as he attacked whipped the crowd to a new frenzy.  But Ademar gained nothing, each attack thwarted by a deft and colorless defense.   A twist of unease cramped his guts, and anger came with it, driving him forward.  Sweat stung his eyes and trickled down his back.  His arms began to ache.  He landed blows denting and scoring his opponent's amour, weakening the joints.   He took blows in return and stumbled twice, but somehow he did not fall.  To fall meant certain death.

A strange fancy took him that he fought a ghost, a relentless ghost.  Ademar felt his strength fading and fought harder.  Neat sword work gave way to grunting slashes and hurried, desperate blocks.   They were both tired and bruised now.  A sweeping cut, deflected down, brought them close for a moment.  The disengagement left them circling warily.  The ghost raised his sword, long fingers flexing round the hilt, angling the blade as he stepped sideways.   Something in the movement jarred Ademar's memory.

He charged, twisting his body to give weight to the powerful slashing stroke.  At the last moment, he turned his wrist.  With a scream, his blade sheered the length of his opponent's.   Sword angled upwards Ademar stepped close, thrusting up with all his strength.  His blade struck the gorget protecting his opponent's neck.  A powerful blow, it sent the ghost stumbling backwards, for a moment choking and defenseless.   As Ademar drew back his blade and launched the blow that would bring his enemy down, the ghost grunted and threw out an arm in a desperate attempt to save his balance.

Ademar's sword carved down gathering speed.  Time slowed.  He watched the ghost struggle to raise his sword in time, a long fingered hand grasped at empty air.   Suddenly the ghost had a face.  With every last scrap of strength, Ademar wrenched the blade aside.  Agony burned through his shoulders.  The blade plunged to a jarring halt, cutting through grass and earth bringing Ademar to his knees beside it.   Sick and breathless, he looked up as a shadow fell over him.  "Why?"

"This was not my choice.  The Grand Master commanded it."

"Why, Edwin?"  It was all Ademar could manage.  The sword stood alone as his fingers slipped from the hilt.

"Your honor, or the Brotherhood."  Edwin stepped forward sword in hand.  "Which would you have chosen?"

Ademar did not answer, with clumsy fingers he lifted his helm and cast it aside.  He looked up to meet Edwin's gaze.