The Blue Falcon Read online

  “Three years past, you were the young squire to pull us out of a slimy marsh that would have been a grave, and from that time we’ve ridden only in your company. Your own purse bought a new set of clothes, and horses for us to ride,” Mallory said. “And you know we are grateful and would repay you with our lives.”

  “Your company has not hindered my way, but helped,” Conan insisted. It was true that while Theodoric was his teacher and the best he could have had, Mallory and Thurwell were not only skilled but worldly wise. They had been his closest friends. “You repaid the price of a horse and set of clothes in your first year with me. You saved my hide more times than I care to remember. I am indebted to you.”

  “There is no debt, Sir Conan,” Thurwell said. “Nor shall there ever be. You gave us aid when our luck was low indeed, and that score has been settled. Hence, any act is an act of friendship and there is no tally. Now we’ll leave you for a time, but we’ll return.”

  Conan did not show his disappointment. “I won’t hinder your passing, but you will send word of your whereabouts?”

  “In blood, if it pleases ye,” Mallory laughed.

  “We go first to Canterbury and from there to whatever tournament boasts great prizes. We will send word.”

  “By your call we are here,” Mallory assured him.

  Conan snorted. “I rue the day I pulled you from that mire. Had I left you I would not be plagued with your womanish concern.”

  “Womanish!” Thurwell croaked.

  Mallory ignored the jesting. “On this very day, Conan, show Tedric his master. Do not take his challenge lightly. I’ve seen his likes before. Tedric will throw down his sword early and find his power in cunning.”

  “Your worry outpaces your wit, Mallory.”

  “Nay, Conan. Tedric is the youngest of many and his inheritance is bleak indeed. Your success and your wealth leave him bitter. I heard him speak to his brother last eventide. He hates you, Conan. It is not a boyish fancy. It burns in him.”

  “I grieve for Theodoric,” Conan said. He had long found it an aggravation that Tedric disliked him and often sought to make him look the fool, but in respect for Theodoric he had not complained or badly bruised his childhood rival. “Be assured I will keep a watchful eye turned to Tedric.”

  “A watchful eye and more, Conan,” Mallory said. “And all loyalty to Theodoric aside, if Tedric threatens your life, you must kill him.”

  The thought of it made Conan’s blood run cold. “These are fine parting words,” he told his friends.

  Mallory shrugged. “The young knight has come home, and the lists are his plaything. The maids bring him ribbons and roses to carry close to his breast, and his lordly father waits impatiently to fit him with a castle to tend. Aye, Conan, it will be hard for you to think ill thoughts today when all your future looks so bright, but much of what is ahead is unpleasant. And mark me, one day you will have to deal with Tedric as a man would, not with the ease of a contest of arms.”

  The three stood silently for a moment, contemplating Mallory’s words. Finally Thurwell broke the silence. “Lord Alaric puts out his best to break the fast. The hall is crowded with men, none so hungry as I.”

  “I’ll be along,” Conan told them, turning again to Orion. He looked over his shoulder to watch his friends depart for the hall. He could not imagine the years ahead without them ever at hand. They had promised they would ride off one day when some adventure called them, but he had not really foreseen this parting of ways. They would return, he assured himself.

  A squire ran up, bowed briefly and took up Conan’s mail. Without giving much thought to his actions, Conan allowed the lad to help him don the burdensome garment. A coat of bright blue was held up for him to shrug into, and his gauntlets were handed to him.

  Conan removed the hood from Mars’s head and fed the bird a piece of meat. Like his falcon, Mallory and Thurwell hungered for freedom. And Conan, so like his father, needed the thick walls of some manor to give him ease. To ride out to some adventure made his heart pound and his blood race, but only because he knew he could ride home to the secure walls of his father’s house--his house. Thurwell and Mallory would spend their life’s blood to escape such ties. Conan would willingly spend his life to secure them.

  “Would that I could make them a hood like yours, my friend,” Conan said to his bird. “I would hide the thought of wandering from their eyes and keep them ever near me.”

  The great bird flapped his wings and turned his head in full circle as if in protest. “Yea, you are wise, Mars. They would not serve me so tethered.” The hood was replaced on the falcon’s head, and with Mars riding his arm, Conan walked toward the hall to join his friends.

  Chapter 2

  The blue and red of Anselm took on a new meaning now that Sir Conan was home. Conan’s victories in contests of arms had become as well known as his love for birds, Mars in particular. His shield was blazoned with the blue falcon’s image, and he was often called the Blue Falcon. And the deep midnight blue of the huge falcon that rode his arm or shoulder cast an eerie shadow when Sir Conan entered a crowded hall.

  Much of what belonged to Lord Alaric de Corbney could be seen from the six outer bastions of Anselm’s great outer wall. Of course there was other land, smaller keeps and farming villages, but Anselm was the largest and strongest possession of this respected family.

  This harvest in the year 1187 was to be celebrated with food, drink and frivolity. Masses had been paid for and sung with copious devotion, and those squires to be knighted had confessed, prayed and fasted. Now the harvest would reach an unusual culmination: Lord Alaric would host a contest of arms.

  Anselm housed every patron of mentionable birth or honorable station, but word of the tournament had spread even throughout the common folk in neighboring towns. In the hamlet, the villagers leased any vacant corner to travelers. Crude tents and meager shelters crowded the land beyond the outer bailey for those unable to find housing within and for serfs eager to see the contests but unable to pay the price for the humblest lodging.

  Banners of many colors and repute crossed the drawbridge to enter Anselm and take part. Knights whose prowess in battle was well known but who lacked wealth in lands and influential family traveled in search of tournaments, when they weren’t hiring out their battle skills as mercenaries. If they were successful in the joust, they could demand ransom for the horse and armor of the knight beaten. Should the landless knight lose himself, he would forfeit the articles of his profession--his horse and armor--unless perchance the victor or some visiting dignitary offered the sum of his ransom in exchange for the knight’s service.

  On this day, Conan de Corbney would show his battle skills in the joust and melee. Lord Alaric was not worried about paying ransom for his eldest son. Rather, Conan would add monies of his own to his father’s purse. And, if the day was well spent, some damsel in the gallery would catch his eye.

  This son had been the life and breath of Alaric. At the age of fifty-seven years, Alaric would witness his son’s skill on the field of battle. His manhood had fully arrived, and the time had come for him to live by his oath: service to God and his king, and the promise to uphold the chivalric code, living by the virtues of piety, honor, valor, courtesy, chastity and loyalty.

  Alaric smiled to himself as he noticed the young boy beside Conan’s pavilion. It was Galen, his youngest, a son who promised one day to be as powerful as Conan.

  “What is your business here?” Alaric asked Galen as he approached.

  “I was only looking at his things, my lord,” Galen answered, blushing slightly as if he had been caught doing something wrong.

  “Conan prizes his possessions. He would be grateful for help in guarding and caring for them.”

  Galen’s grin was quick and bright. “Yea, my lord,” he replied. And from that moment on, Galen stayed near Conan’s tent, serving him in any possible way.

  Red and blue pennants and streamers flew over the center gallery. The
fair and beautiful Lady Udele sat before all others as the Queen of Beauty. Deep rose was the color of her woolen gunna, and a soft pink kirtle showed beneath, matching the length of sheer pink cloth that fell from her headpiece to cover her hair. When the tournament was over, she would be the one to present the prizes to the victors.

  Beside her was Lord Alaric, his hulking frame erect and proud as he waited for the opening ceremonies. His thick hair was white and his beard full and snowy, but one look at the powerful lord’s eyes would quell any thoughts that he was weakening with age.

  To the left of Alaric’s pavilion flew a pennant bearing the fish. Medwin sat there with his daughters. Medwin had no sons, but he was not lacking in strength. Many knights in service to him were present, and Medwin had the funds to back them. His strongest holding was Phalen Castle and its surrounding lands. That alone made him a rich man indeed, but he also held the picturesque hamlet of Cordell and its modest castle on the sea, which had been dearly loved by his late wife. In dedication to her, his banner flew the fish.

  A man with so much should have sired only sons, but to Medwin came three daughters. Edwina, the eldest, would one day bring Phalen to her marriage. Laine, the middle child, was promised to the convent at an early age. And Chandra, the youngest, would take Cordell.

  On Alaric’s other side, the banner flew the fox. Sir Theodoric sat there proudly. This was a man of wealth and wisdom, Conan’s master for many years. He sired seven sons, all grown and knighted. That a man would bring so many successfully through boyhood was a tribute, for of all children born alive, nearly three fourths died in their youth.

  In this contest, Tedric, the youngest of the seven, would show his skills. Other sons’ successes were highly sung, but for this youngest, Theodoric had no great ambitions. Tedric had never shown a great love for battle and had proven himself poorly. In this contest, he could have ridden at the right hand of Conan in the melee, but Tedric would not. Instead he insisted on challenging the obviously stronger knight. The outcome was inevitable, and Tedric’s action raised Theodoric’s ire no small bit. There was no valor in foolishness, and Tedric would draw the ransom from his own purse.

  Among all the prestigious families present, with their banners rippling in the wind against the clear blue sky, these three men were considered to be the most powerful, if not in wealth, at least in arms and influence. They brought their best, and the money to back them.

  Scattered below the gallery on the grass were hundreds of peasants eager to see the matches. The contest promised more than good sport and victories; there would be a feast of colossal proportions. Inside the great keep, special delicacies were being prepared for the gentry, while outside, the spits were turning to roast venison and boar. Huge quantities of cider, mead and ale stood ready to be consumed.

  The trumpets sounded and the crowd cheered. From opposite ends of the field the knights rode together, their helms still held in their hands or resting on the pommels of their saddles. They met in the center of the field and rode toward Lord Alaric and Lady Udele. Their shields told their identity, and spectators craned their necks to have a good look at the procession.

  Garrett the bastard bore his shield proudly. The bent, sinister, and black, rose that once suggested his lack of belonging was now his symbol of success, for he was one of the mightiest. In the midst of this throng was the scarlet dove, the shield of Sir Byron, another brave knight of seasoned experience. And the wolf on a pelt of green. The serpent mounted on an arrow. The black hawk against the blue sky.

  Quarrels broke out among the common folk as they pointed to their favorites and predicted the winners. Occa­sionally Lord Alaric’s men-at-arms, who patrolled the lists to keep order, would have to drive a lance between those who were wont to take their differences too seriously. But none placed such credence in their choices as the young maids who leaned over the palisade to wave a length of sheer cloth or a flower at the powerful knights, crying out the names of their favorites.

  Alaric smiled every time he heard a soft, feminine voice praise the Blue Falcon.

  Order fell over the crowd when the knights had returned to opposite ends of the fields. A squire in colorful chausses and tunic approached the palisade and announced the first com­batants in the tilt. At the sound of the trumpet, two huge war horses tore up the field as they charged toward each other. Their lances were braced and ready to reach across the tilt, each knight hoping to jar the other from his horse. A crash of metal sounded at the impact, but the crowd moaned as both knights escaped still horsed. They passed, returning to the ends of the fields, and charged again, the thumping of heavy hooves preceding the sound of smashing metal. Both knights were thrown and took up the battle on foot with heavy broadswords. The crowd delighted with each powerful clash of metal.

  “Perhaps our choice will be made easy, lady,” Alaric whispered in Udele’s ear.

  Udele followed her husband’s eyes and watched as Conan approached the gallery, his great steed picking its way through the peasants almost daintily. She began to smile, thinking him proceeding toward her, but she stopped short when he paused before Medwin’s box. His helm still in his hand, he pulled the cream-colored fabric from around his neck and showed Chandra that he wore her token. Chandra leaned over the rail and touched his arm. Her golden hair tumbled from beneath her veil, and her cheeks glowed with a rose flush as she laughed with him.

  “I could not have chosen better,” Alaric remarked.

  Giselle’s words slashed through Udele’s mind and ripped her composure to ribbons: And so he shall have the young beauty with flaxen hair... though her fortune is meager, in her many strengths she knows wealth....

  “She is too young,” Udele said.

  “Nay, lady, I think not. And I have wished for him to take one of Medwin’s daughters. I have long treasured his friend­ship.”

  Udele’s mind spun recklessly as her fears suddenly became very real. So, she was there, under his hand, available to him when he would see. There were other women present, many fine potential brides spotting his travels, but he had found none he desired. Giselle’s prediction had promised a woman-child whose means were not impressive. Udele knew quite well what Medwin would be leaving his daughters. To the oldest, Edwina, there would be Phalen Castle, a piece of property that was not poor, but neither did it compare to Anselm. And for Chandra? The simple farming and fishing village of Cordell.

  The sound of another trumpet brought Udele out of her musings, and she noticed Conan braced and ready for the contest. Opposing him was Tedric, and she relaxed with easy confidence: Tedric was simply no match.

  The great destriers bore their riders toward each other with astonishing speed. Lances ready and heads down, Tedric and Conan smashed together with powerful force. The crowd seemed to rise as one in mute horror as Conan’s lance splintered and broke, and he fell roughly to the ground.

  Conan’s breath left him in one great whoosh as he hit the turf. He lay stunned for a moment, but instinctively he rolled and gained his footing, showing his foe he was still able and determined to fight. He drew his broadsword, sheathed to protect his opponent in the games, and stood ready to meet Tedric on foot.

  Orion moved quickly away from his master. Conan was not at ease as he waited for Tedric to dismount and meet him on the ground. As Tedric drew out his mace, Conan nearly chuckled, but his amusement at Tedric’s move vanished as he watched the lesser knight. Tedric had maneuvered his horse to the opposite side of the tilt as if meeting Conan astride for a second time. In spite of the roar from the knights and the crowd, Tedric spurred his horse and charged the fallen knight.

  To dive and miss the weapon never occurred to Conan, for so strong was the fury at being unfairly attacked that his better judgment failed him. Instead he threw down his sword and braced himself. When Tedric drew near, Conan stepped toward the swinging mace, ducking slightly, and grabbed the offending weapon just behind the spiked ball. He felt the bones in his hand crack and yield, but he did not. With one
tug, he brought Tedric to the ground with a crash of metal and a surprised yelp from the victim.

  For a moment Conan’s vision failed him, the pain in his hand was so severe. It took as long for Tedric to begin to regain his senses and find himself looking up into the victor’s blue eyes, which seemed to glitter like the wrath of God. Dimly, Tedric saw the great spreading wings of Mars as the bird glided low over his head and came to rest on Conan’s shoulder.

  “You are bedeviled,” Tedric gasped.

  “I should have killed you for what you would have done,” Conan said through gritted teeth. “But better you should bear your shame alive. You have dishonored yourself--and your father.”

  “I could not see you were down! I knew your lance was destroyed, but I did not reckon you’d lost your horse. There is a splinter here, in my eye! I would have met you astride even with my injury!”

  “You lie!” Conan’s voice dropped low, barely above a whisper as he heard Alaric’s mounted men coming to the field. “Would you have chosen a mace instead of a sword thinking me astride? You may stay your father with your winsome tale, for he is too tolerant with you, but I am the one to know. Your aim was far too accurate. It belies your blindness.”

  As the men came closer to take a look at the situation, they heard Tedric’s words. “I humble myself to you, Conan! Even now I cannot see you clearly!”

  Conan shook with rage as the men-at-arms helped Tedric to his feet. “Sir Theodoric has ordered you from the contest,” one guard reported.

  “But I have broken no tournament rule,” Tedric argued.

  “By the eye of God!” Conan roared. “I will kill you the next time you dare so much!” And with that he turned and walked toward his pavilion. It did not occur to him to stride valiantly toward Medwin’s box and collect a kiss from the fair Chandra in reward for his success. Outside his tent his squires were bent over the splintered remains of his lance, with Thurwell and Mallory looking on.