Brothers of Star and Sword
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.