Chivalry Read online

  CHIVALRY

  Gavin G. Smith

  NewCon Press

  England

  NewCon Press Novellas

  Set 1: Science Fiction (Cover art by Chris Moore)

  The Iron Tactician – Alastair Reynolds

  At the Speed of Light – Simon Morden

  The Enclave – Anne Charnock

  The Memoirist – Neil Williamson

  Set 2: Dark Thrillers (Cover art by Vincent Sammy)

  Sherlock Holmes: Case of the Bedevilled Poet – Simon Clark

  Cottingley – Alison Littlewood

  The Body in the Woods – Sarah Lotz

  The Wind – Jay Caselberg

  Set 3: The Martian Quartet (Cover art by Jim Burns)

  The Martian Job – Jaine Fenn

  Sherlock Holmes: The Martian Simulacra – Eric Brown

  Phosphorous: A Winterstrike Story – Liz Williams

  The Greatest Story Ever Told – Una McCormack

  Set 4: Strange Tales (Cover art by Ben Baldwin)

  Ghost Frequencies – Gary Gibson

  The Lake Boy – Adam Roberts

  Matryoshka – Ricardo Pinto

  The Land of Somewhere Safe – Hal Duncan

  Set 5: The Alien Among Us (Cover art by Peter Hollinghurst)

  Nomads – Dave Hutchinson

  Morpho – Philip Palmer

  The Man Who Would be Kling – Adam Roberts

  Macsen Against the Jugger – Simon Morden

  Set 6: Blood and Blade (Cover art by Duncan Kay)

  The Bone Shaker – Edward Cox

  A Hazardous Engagement – Gaie Sebold

  Serpent Rose – Kari Sperring

  Chivalry – Gavin G. Smith

  First published in the UK by NewCon Press

  41 Wheatsheaf Road, Alconbury Weston, Cambs, PE28 4LF

  August 2019

  NCP202 (limited edition hardback)

  NCP203 (softback)

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Chivalry copyright © 2019 by Gavin G. Smith

  Cover art and internal illustration copyright © 2019 by Duncan Kay

  All rights reserved, including the right to produce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  ISBN:

  978-1-912950-27-0 (hardback)

  978-1-912950-28-7 (softback)

  Cover art and internal illustration by Duncan Kay

  Cover layout by Ian Whates

  Minor Editorial meddling by Ian Whates

  Book layout by Storm Constantine

  One:

  The Tourney

  Sir Thornto Jeness’ world was the narrow slit in the great helm, the tip of the lance, the point on the chest of the other knight galloping towards him. He couldn’t hear his charger’s hoof beats pounding on the tourney field, only the sound of his own breath. He ignored the point of his opponent’s lance. This was his secret. Too many knights shifted their shields at the last moment and threw their own aim off. He concentrated on striking true. This was why he was riding against Lord Phillipe Duranton, the ‘Red Earl’ of Shoffington, tourney champion and hero of the Never Ending War in the final, having already vanquished those other knights.

  Everything slowed down. Became quiet. Now all Sir Thornto could see was the surcoat that covered Lord Phillipe’s breastplate. He struck home. His arm went numb. In his periphery he saw his lance bend and crack. Then he felt the impact and found himself looking up at the clear blue sky, being bounced around by his still-galloping horse. He couldn’t breathe. There was no pain but the left side of his body was numb. The horse slowed and he was aware of voices, hands pushing him upright in the saddle.

  He heard the horse’s screams first. He tried to turn round but couldn’t move his head. Then the crowd drowned out the cries of the pained horse and he could breathe again. With breath came the pain. He suspected that the upper left side of his body, his shoulder, and his upper arm, were one big bruise. His shield had buckled and the Red Earl’s already broken lance must have slid off it and into his chest. It was a good blow and on the second pass it would mean that the Red Earl had won the tourney unless Sir Thornto had unhorsed him. The sound of a suffering horse was a worry, however. It was deeply dishonourable to attack an opponent’s mount.

  Sir Thornto controlled his own mount as he drew in ragged breaths, turning the horse round to get a better look at the tourney field. The earl’s horse had crashed through the tilt barrier that ran between the two opponents in a joust to avoid collision. The horse had broken a leg and was clearly in some pain. The earl was standing close to his wounded mount in his red plate armour, his left arm hanging limp at his side. A running squire reached him and handed him something. The earl knelt down next to his mount and pushed the misericord through a gap in the warhorse’s chanfron. The horse bucked once and was still. Then the earl stood up and turned to look at him.

  A spike of pain shot through Sir Thornto as he leaned forward to get the attention of one of his grooms.

  “You there, did I do that?” he asked.

  “You did not strike the horse, sir,” the groom told him, “you caught him a good blow high on the right. Unhorsed him. The horse reared. A bad thing, sir, a bad thing.”

  He felt a palpable sense of relief, not just that he had won the tourney but more importantly he hadn’t struck the earl’s horse. Though this should have been obvious from the reaction of the crowd: the peasants cheering, the nobles, in their stands, applauding. He smiled through the pain. With his performance in the melee and his victory with the broadsword, that meant the tourney was his. With his victory over a hero such as the Red Earl, he was well on his way to becoming one of the most celebrated knights on the Iron Island.

  Sir Thornto knew there was more to it than just the glories of the tourney field, however. He looked up at the section of the wall that towered over the coastal tourney field. Built from the ruins of the old world, the wall ran all the way around the coast, keeping the fortress island safe from its continental enemies for a thousand years. Beyond it a narrow channel and the Harlanian Empire, where heroes like the Red Earl fought to retain the Iron Island’s holdings there. He knew to be complete, to truly gain favour at court, he must serve in the Never Ending War.

  “Sir?”

  Sir Thornto glanced down at the groom who had spoken.

  “The third tilt, sir.”

  The knight tried to nod but couldn’t.

  “Bring me a lance,” he told him. The groom nodded and rushed to obey. Sir Thornto rode an honour pass, the lance pointed straight up in salute to a worthy opponent. The Red Earl, standing next to the corpse of his warhorse, just watched him ride by.

  Roswalda threw herself into Thornto’s arms as soon as he walked into the family tent, eliciting a cry of pain.

  “Oh thank you!” she cried. Sir Thornto smiled; it seemed that Roswalda was pleased at being named the tournament’s Queen-of-Love-and-Beauty, though it had been a close run thing riding against the likes of the Red Earl. Slender, with high cheek bones that made her look positively regal, his betrothed was particularly beautiful today in a powder blue dress, her fair hair hanging down to her waist in a complex braid. Only a second cousin, Sir Thornto’s renown had helped his father convince Roswalda’s reluctant father that that he was a worthy match for her. He knew he was marrying a little above his station. It helped that she loved the tourneys.

  “Is that entirely appropriate behaviour?” Lord Lucas asked, though he was smiling one of his rare smiles. Sir Thornto’s father was an older, more thickly built version of himself. Though his once dark hair was greyer now, he still kept it shoulder length, his beard short and neatly trimmed as was the fashion with most knights.

  Roswalda let go of Thornto and backed away, and bowed.

  “I am sorry, Lord
Lucas, you are of course correct. Sir Thornto, I must congratulate you on a fine victory today. You rode and fought magnificently,” she said, keeping her eyes down until his father wasn’t looking, at which point she flashed Thornto a grin. He couldn’t wait to be alone with her again. She was teaching him exciting things that could be done before the actual wedding night bedding.

  He turned to his father.

  “You did very well, Thornto, well done,” Lord Lucas told him, but there was something behind the words. Thornto could never quite shake the feeling that his father was unimpressed by tourneys. Lord Lucas had ridden and fought in tourneys as well when he’d been younger, though not as successfully as Thornto. Now, however, Thornto sensed that his father found them a waste of time and effort. Lord Lucas had made a name for himself in the Never Ending War, which was why Thornto found his father’s reluctance to let his him go and fight so strange. After all, his father’s war exploits had elevated their family.

  “Prince Sieber was very impressed,” Roswalda said casting a meaningful look in Thornto’s direction. She knew and supported his desire to fight in the war and Prince Sieber, second in line to the throne, was the commander of the Iron Island forces on the continent.

  Lord Lucas turned to look at his future daughter-in-law. It was clear to Thornto that his father was not taken in by the ruse. He turned back to his son.

  “No,” he told him.

  “But Lord Lucas...” Roswalda began.

  “Lady Roswalda, will you excuse us please?” The tone of his voice made it clear that he wasn’t really asking.

  Roswalda opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again. Thornto knew that she was too well bred to argue with his father. Her pique as she bowed and left the tent was obvious, however.

  “That was rude, father,” Thornto said, moving to the long table and pouring himself a goblet of wine from a jug.

  His father sighed and moved to the table as well, sitting down on a high backed chair and also pouring himself some wine.

  “An argument could be made that conspiring with your betrothed to challenge my authority on this matter is not only rude, it is the sin of disobedience.”

  “Did the prince notice me?”

  “Of course, and I’m sure he’s impressed with both your skill and the courage of your style, but the prince understands the difference between this –”

  “Go on say it...”

  “– and what happens on a battlefield. If you knew what you asked I can guarantee that you would not be so eager.”

  “Father, I will look a coward. Just another tourney knight unwilling to risk his life to serve the queen and the Light.”

  “You know that Harlanians believe the Light is on their side as well?” his father asked.

  “Falsely so. Is our war not just?” Even to his own ears he sounded a little naïve.

  Lord Lucas did not answer. He just looked uncomfortable. More than once Thornto had come to suspect that his father did not approve of the war, though to voice such an opinion would be considered disloyal at best, treasonous at worse.

  “If you are worried about being a tourney knight then come home, learn to manage the estate with me. You’ll find little glory, but there’s honour in living up to your obligations and duties. Believe me you’ll see fighting enough when the Tribes raid, or hunting ghouls and dog packs in the ruins.”

  Sir Thornto shook his head at this, leaning over the table.

  “If we do not advance then we will fade and disappear.”

  His father laughed.

  “Trust me, nobody disappears when the taxes are due, or the levy is called, but if fading means a warm hearth, a full belly and a full granary for our people, then that is more than enough for me. Aren’t your vows supposed to include humility?”

  “And service to one’s liege!” He was getting angry now. It was the same argument they’d had time and time before, and his father’s position made no sense. “You had your chance!”

  “And it cost me,” his father said quietly, looking down into his goblet.

  “There’s barely a scar on you!” Thornto cried. He was starting to suspect that his father’s military exploits, all of which he’d learned from his still living uncles, had been vastly exaggerated. “Is this how you honour your father?”

  His father’s head jerked up.

  “That war took my father before he could teach me good sense, and you are behaving like a child!”

  Thornto straightened up, eyeing his father warily. Lord Lucas rarely got angry but when he did it was a thing to behold.

  “I am ready,” he told his father.

  His father looked back down at his goblet of wine.

  “Nobody is ready,” he muttered quietly.

  “M’lord?” Thornto turned to see his father’s captain of the guard peering into the tent looking profoundly uncomfortable.

  “What is it Wat?”

  “Lord Duranton’s squire is here. The earl requests the presence of the young sir here,” Wat said. Thornto hated being called the ‘young sir’ and wished his father would do more to discipline his retainers.

  “Thank you, Wat. Tell Lord Duranton’s squire that my son will attend him presently.”

  Wat nodded and disappeared through the slit in the tent.

  Thornto turned back to his father.

  “Peace,” his father said patting the air, “when I am dead you can do whatever you please and then the Light help us all.”

  Thornto had a quick wash and changed into his best tunic before following the earl’s servant through the city of tents. The squire had a pockmarked face and thin blonde hair. He was called Stephen and seemed a little too old, and a little too churlish to be a squire to Thornto’s mind.

  Lord Duranton’s tent was the second largest in the field and arguably grander than Prince Sieber’s himself. It was brightly lit, and, after defeating the Red Earl, Thornto was somewhat relieved to hear the buzz of merry conversation and laughter coming from within. He waited just outside whilst Stephen announced him before he was bid to enter.

  Stepping in from the newly fallen night, Thornto had to shield his eyes from the light of the many candles burning in the candelabra on the tent’s long banqueting table.

  “Sir Thornto, I’ll be with you in a moment,” the Red Earl told him. He was a handsome man in his forties, blue eyes, long unruly curly hair and surprisingly clean shaven. “You’ll have to excuse my inappropriate dress...” He was stripped to the waist. The left side of his body was as badly bruised as Thornto’s own, if not more so. His left arm was strapped into a long wooden box and he was gripping one end of a corkscrew-like apparatus that took up one end of the box. The other end of the corkscrew was held by a seedy looking villein with a long face, a mouth full of crooked teeth, and thinning, ratty hair of an indeterminate colour. The villein wore a leather apron with numerous sheaths for various surgical instruments sewn into the front of it.

  A tall, strong-featured woman, a little younger than the earl, was watching the proceedings intently. Thornto recognised her as the earl’s wife, Lady Imelda Duranton, the Countess of Shoffington. There were two children with the countess. The boy looked to be around twelve years old, the spitting image of his father as he watched on eagerly. The little girl was perhaps half the age of her brother and was trying to turn away but her mother held her head straight and forced her to watch as her father’s arm was relocated with a resounding crack. The duke cried out. His eyes went wide and then he grabbed for a bottle on the table and took a long swig from it whilst the chirurgeon unstrapped his arm. There were tears in the little girl’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Lord Duranton finally said, putting the bottle down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “My lord, your shoulder that was...” Thornto started.

  “No, no,” the Red Earl said, “old wound.”

  “We do not hold you responsible,” Lady Imelda told him. “My husband does this to himself and is far too
old for such nonsense. Though that in no way diminishes your victory today.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Thornto said and bowed. He smiled at the children; the girl smiled back through the tears but he couldn’t shake the feeling the boy was glowering at him.

  “Your horse, my lord,” Thornto started, “I did not intend...”

  Lord Duranton was already shaking his head.

  “My own fault. I saw what you were doing and leaned forward to try and strike first. When you hit me I twisted, brought the horse down.”

  “You were lucky you didn’t break your fool spine,” the seedy looking chirurgeon muttered. Thornto could not believe what he’d heard. The chirurgeon had sat down at the table and was helping himself to a cup of wine. The earl, his wife and the boy, all turned to stare at the chirurgeon. It took a moment or two before he finally realised that he’d spoken out of place. “Your pardons m’lord,” he said and bowed. To Thornto’s astonishment that appeared to be the end of the matter, the earl’s family turning away from the chirurgeon as though nothing had happened.

  “My dear,” Lord Duranton said to his wife, “will you leave us? We have some truly dull business to take care of and I know you hate to see me hand monies over.”

  “Philippe, sometimes you’re positively vulgar,” she told him.

  “Besides which I wish to impress this young knight with heavily embellished tales of my valour.”

  Lady Imelda rolled her eyes and made for the tent’s entrance with the children. Thornto stepped out of her way and she stopped by him.

  “Congratulations again,” she said, “And I do hope we will see you at the feast.”

  “Thank you my lady,” Thornto said and bowed as she exited the tent.

  Lord Duranton pointed after his wife.

  “They make it all worthwhile, don’t they?” he said.

  “I...” but Thornto couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “But of course you are newly betrothed, yes? Lady Roswalda of the Herewald, who you named the Queen-of-Love-and-Beauty today? You are to be congratulated.”