Лайон Спрэг Де Камп Array - The Incomplete Enchanter

She also lent Shea her own shield cover. She explained that Paridell’s engrailed green bars would cause any of half a dozen knights to challenge him to a death duel on sight.

They had eaten the last of their provisions at lunch. Shea had remarked to Chalmers on the difficulty of getting a bellyful of adventure and one of food on the same day. So the sight of Satyrane’s castle, all rough and craggy and set amid trees, held a welcome promise of food and entertainment. Unlike that of Caultrock, it had portcullis and gate open onto the immense courtyard. Here workmen were hammering at temporary stands at one side.

The place was filled with knights and ladies, most of them familiar to Britoniart and Amoret. Shea quite lost track of the number he was introduced to. In the hall before the dinner trumpet he met one he’d remember: Satyrane himself, a thick bear of a man, with a spade beard and huge voice. «All Britomart’s friends are mine!» he shouted. «Take a good place at the table, folks. Hungry, not so? We’re all hungry here; like to starve.» He chuckled, «Eat well, good squire; you’ll need strength tomorrow. There will be champions. Blandamour of the Iron Arm has come, and so have Cambell and Triamond.»

At ten the next morning, Shea came out of the vaultlike castle and blinked into the morning sun. Armour pressed his body in unfamiliar places. The big broadsword at the side was heavier than any he had ever handled.

The stands were finished and occupied by a vocal swarm of gentlemen and ladies in bright clothes. At their centre was a raised booth under a canopy. In it sat an old man with frosty-white hair and beard. He held a bundle of little yellow sticks.

«Who’s he?» asked Shea of Britomart, walking just a step ahead of him across the wide courtyard to a row of tents at the opposite side.

« Sssh! The honourable judge of the lists. Each time one of the knights scores a brave point he shall notch the stick of that knight, and thus the winner will be chosen.»

They had reached the row of tents, behind which grooms held horses. A trumpet blew three clear notes and a mounted herald rode right past them. Behind him came Satyrane on a big white horse. He had his helmet off, and was grinning and bobbing his head like a clumsy, amiable bear. He held a richly carved gold casket. As he reached the front of the stands, he opened it up and took from it a long girdle, intricately worked and flashing with jewels. The trumpeter blew another series of notes, and shouted in a high voice:

«This is that girdle of Florimel which none but the chaste may wear. It shall be the prize of the lady judged most beautiful of all at this tourney; and she shall be lady to that knight who gains the prize of valour and skill. These are the rules.»

«Some piece of rubbish, eh, folks?» shouted Satyrane and grinned. Shea heard Britomart, next to him, mutter something about «No manners.» The woodland knight completed his circuit and came to a stand near them. A squire passed up his helmet. From the opposite end of the lists a knight came forward, carrying a long slim lance, with which he lightly tapped Satyrane’s shield. Then he rode back to his place.

«Do you know him?» asked Shea to make conversation.

«Nay. I ken him not,» replied Britomart. «Some Saracen: see how his helmet ends in a spike and crescent peak and his shoulder plates flare outward.»

The trumpet sounded again, two warning notes. The antagonists charged. There was a clang like a dozen dropped kettles. Bright splinters of wood flew as both spears broke. Neither man went down, but the Saracen’s horse was staggering as he reached Shea’s end of the lists and he himself reeling drunkenly in the saddle, clutching for support.

Satyrane was judged winner amid a patter of applause. Shea caught sight of Chalmers in the stands, shouting with the rest. Beside him was a heavily veiled woman, whose slender-bodiced figure in the tight gown implied good looks.

Another knight had taken his place at the opposite end of the lists. The crowd murmured.

«Blandamour of the Iron Arm,» remarked Britomart. as the trumpet blew. Again came the rush and the whang of metal. This time Saryrane had aimed mole shrewdly. Blandamour popped out of his saddle, lit on the horse’s rump, and slid to the ground amid a shout of applause. Before he could be pulled aside another knight had taken his place. Satyrane rode him down, too, but came back from the encounter with his visor up, calling «Givors!» and shaking his head as though to clear it.

A squire hurried past with a cup of wine. Britomart called at him: «Am I needed yet?»

«No, my lady,» he replied. «Ferramont is to ride the next run.» Shea saw a little dark man with a black triangle on gold across his shield climb aboard his horse and take Satyrane’s place. The pace of the jousting began to quicken. After Ferramont’s second trip down the lists, two knights appeared at the opposite end. A page pushed past Shea calling for someone whose name sounded like «Sir Partybore» to join Ferramont for the defenders.

This time there was a double crash from the lists, which were getting dusty. Sir Partybore, or whatever his name was, went down. But he got up, clanked over to his horse, and pulled a big broadsword from the saddle bow. He waved it at the knight who had overthrown him, shouting something muffled in his helmet. The other turned back and dropped his broken lance. He drew a sword of his own, and aimed from the stirrups a blow that would have decapitated an elephant. The defender turned it easily with upraised shield. The man on foot and man on horseback circled each other, banging away with a frightful racket. Ferramont had downed another opponent in a cloud of dust, and new knights from either side were preparing to ride.

Shea turned to Britomart. «Aren’t you going to get in?»

She smiled and shook her head. «Those are the Lesser knights of either side,» she said. «You must know, good squire, that it is the custom of these tourneys for one or two knights of good report to ride at the beginning, as Satyrane has done for us and Blandamour for them. After that, those younger men have their opportunity to gain reputation, while such as we the Companions remain aside until needed.»

Shea was about to ask who chose the sides. But Britomart gripped his arm. «Ha! Look! With the gyronny of black and silver.»

At the other end of the lists Shea saw a big blond man ducking into a helmet. His shield bore a design of alternating black and silver triangles all running to the same point, which must be «gyronny». «That is Sir Cambell and none other,» continued Britomart impressively.

* * *

As Britomart spoke, the big man came storming into the press. One of the lesser knights on foot, attempting to stop him, was knocked down like a nine-pin, rolling over and over under the horses hoofs. Shea hoped his skull had not been cracked.

Ferramont, who had secured another lance, was charging to meet Cambell. Just before black-and-gold and black-and-silver came together, Cambell dropped his own lance. With a single clean, flowing motion he ducked under the point of Ferramont’s Lance, snatched a mace from his side and dealt Ferramont’s a terrific backhand blow on the back of the head. Ferramont clanged heavily from his saddle, out cold. The stands were in a bedlam, Britomart shouting, «Well struck! Oh, well!» and shifting from foot to foot.

Near by Shea saw Satyrane’s face go grim and heard his visor clang shut as Cambell turned back into the mкlée, laying furiously about him with his mace and upsetting a knight at every stroke. Shouts warned him of Satyrane’s approach. He turned to meet the chief defender and swerved his horse quickly, striking with his mace at the lance head. But Satyrane knew the answer to that. As the arm went up, he changed aim from Cambell’s shield to his right shoulder. The long spear took him right at the joint and burst in a hundred shivering fragments. Down went Cambell with the point sticking in his shoulder.