Bertrice Small - Lara

Lara had snatched up a dark cloak so that she might remain anonymous as she hurried through the streets. Already the citizens were gathering to witness this rare event. Reaching the square she pushed herself to the front of the crowds, but no one seemed to mind. Her slender form was no more than a breeze as it brushed by them all. She saw her father standing in the long line that already stretched halfway across the square. Listening, she heard comments of the onlookers. They seemed to know most of the applicants either by name or by reputation.

John Swiftsword felt his heart pumping with excitement. Looking about him he decided that he was the best dressed of all the applicants, and he smiled at the prevalence of white plumes. Susanna had told him the story of shopping at the feather merchant’s, and Sir Ferris’s comment when he had visited the hovel. He tried to calm himself for the interview ahead. He didn’t want to sound like a bumbling idiot. It wasn’t just the honor of belonging to this order that thrilled him, it was the opportunity to truly serve Hetar.

The Crusader Knights were retained by the High Council as a deterrent against savages and chaos. They had always been, and they would always be. While there had been no great wars in many years, and Hetar was a peaceful kingdom, only the presence of the Crusader Knights protected Hetar from those in the Outlands. The Outlanders were barbarians with no rule of law, and he often wondered why the Celestial Actuary had created them at all.

The sun rose over the square, and the chill of the spring morning was warmed by its rays. Then suddenly John Swiftsword found himself facing a Crusader Knight, and his attempt to step into a better world began.

The knight behind the table looked him over very carefully. “Name?” he barked.

“John Swiftsword of the Mercenary Guild.” Was his voice squeaking?

The Crusader nodded and wrote it down. Then he said, “Turn about, please.”

John swung around slowly.

“Appearance, excellent,” the Crusader Knight said, and checked off a small box on the parchment application. “Place of origin?”

“The Midlands.”

“Father’s occupation?”

“Farmer.”

“How long a mercenary?”

“Since age fifteen.”

“Your age now?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Married?”

“Yes.”

“Children?”

“Two.”

“Have you sired sons or daughters?”

“A son with my wife, and a daughter with a Faerie woman,” he replied.

“And you desire more sons?”

“Aye!”

“Who is your sponsor, John Swiftsword?” the Crusader Knight asked.

“Sir Ferris Ironshield,” he replied. His throat was getting dryer by the minute.

“Any secondaries?”

“Sir Ajax and Sir Iven.”

“First battle skill?”

“The sword,” was the proud reply.

“Secondary skills?” the Crusader Knight demanded sharply.

“Lance, mace and axe.” Was that sweat running down his back?

“You are a talented soldier,” the Crusader Knight said with a small smile. “Your application is accepted by the tournament committee, John Swiftsword. What colors will you wear when you fight?”

“Green and gold,” John said. Green for Lara’s eyes, and gold for her hair. He would honor his daughter in this fashion.

The Crusader Knight marked it down on the application, and then wrote in large letters across the face of the parchment, ACCEPTED. “I shall look forward to seeing you on tournament day. You will draw a number now to determine the day upon which you will do battle.” He held out a velvet bag to the applicant.

John plunged his hand into the bag and drew out a tile. He handed it to the Crusader Knight. “It says one,” he noted.

“Then you fight on the first day. That is good. You will have time to rest up for the final battle. Congratulations! Step aside. Next!”

He stepped away from the table half-dazed, and walked into the crowds pressing in about the square. Suddenly he felt a small hand slip into his, and he knew at once it was his daughter’s. “Were you able to see?” he asked, not even bothering to look at her.

“I was right up front, Da. You looked so lordly, and your voice was so strong and sure. I was very proud. I’m sorry Mikhail wasn’t old enough to see this day, but you will tell him about it when he is, won’t you?”

“Aye, lass, I will. And I will tell him of his half faerie sister whose beauty made it all possible,” John Swiftsword said softly. “I have not said it before, Lara. Thank you.” Then stopping, he bent and kissed her smooth forehead.

“I am not unhappy, Da. I know my mother broke your heart. But the beauty I have inherited from her will atone for her sin, and we will both begin new lives. I am happy.”

“You are certain of that, Lara? I could not bear if you were unhappy. Aye, Ilona broke my heart, but your loving sweetness has healed my hurt long since.”

“I am happy, Da, I swear it! And besides,” she teased him, “it is too late to go back now, for I doubt the mercer would accept your tunic in exchange for his cloth.”

He laughed. Lara could always wheedle him from the deepest doldrums, and he had been very torn over these last months. He had fretted like an old woman, but now he must release all his crochets and fears. Lara was right. It was much too late to go back. He must clear his mind and heart of all darkness. In six days the tourney would begin. And while everyone was certain that he would win his place among the finalists, nothing in life, John Swiftsword knew, was ever a certainty.

BUT HE DID WIN as they had all predicted. He had slept little the night before, but from excitement, not from nervousness. He rose early, bathed and then he had gone off to the tournament field where Sir Ferris, Sir Ajax and Sir Iven awaited him in a small tent. He had checked his weapons, and lifted each of Aristaeus’s hooves to be certain they were clean, and free of stones that might impede the animal’s performance. The three old knights had helped him to dress. The call to the joust had sounded, and he had mounted his warhorse, ridden out and prevailed over all his opponents. It had been, he thought, shockingly simple. There had been no time to look for his wife and family in the stands. He would not have known where Gaius Prospero’s box was anyway.

When she awoke on the morning of the tournament, Lara had found her father already gone. Her stepmother was weeping softly in a corner by the fire. “What is the matter, Susanna?” she inquired anxiously.

“What if he loses?” Susanna said sobbing. “Then it has all been for naught!”

Irritation pricked at Lara’s nerves, but she restrained from shouting at Susanna for even considering such a thing, and bringing bad luck on her father. “Da will prevail,” she told her stepmother. “Do not think to bring ill fortune on him, Susanna. Now we must bathe quickly. Our litters will be here shortly, I am certain.”

No sooner had they finished bathing than Mistress Mildred arrived to help them with Mikhail. She was dressed in her finest gown, for Susanna had invited her to accompany them. “Go about your business, my dears,” she said. “I will dress the laddie and have him ready. You’ve nursed him, Susanna?”

“Aye, he’s content,” Susanna replied. She hurried to don the beautiful gown Lara had made for her. It was of lilac silk brocade with wide flared sleeves with dagged edges. The waist was high, and beneath the bosom Lara had embroidered a band with a swirling design of silver and gold. The neckline had a simple white silk collar. It was elegant, but not overdone. On her dark head, Susanna would wear a heart-shaped headdress. Her hair was done up beneath a crispinette of fine gold mesh.