The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [49]
Still, he ought not to enjoy himself.
He heard shouting, and realized that the man in the road didn’t care to be ignored in favor of the sky.
“I’m sorry,” Neil called back, in the king’s tongue, “but I can’t understand you. I am not educated in the speech of Vitellio.”
The man replied with something equally unintelligible, this time addressing one of his squires. At least Neil guessed they were squires, because he reckoned the shouting man to be a knight. He sat upon a powerful-looking horse, black with a white blaze on the forehead, and it was caparisoned in light barding.
The man also wore armor—of odd design, and awfully pretty, with oak leaves worked at the joints, but lord’s plate nevertheless. He carried the helmet under his arm, but Neil could see that it was conical in shape, with a plume of bright feathers arranged almost like a rooster’s tail. He wore a red-and-yellow robe instead of a tabard or surcoat, and that and his shield bore what might be a standard—a closed fist, a sunspray, a bag of some sort—the symbols meant nothing in the heraldry familiar to Neil, but he was, as he had been reflecting, very far from home.
The knight had four men with him, none in armor, but all wearing red tabards with the same design sewn on them as the shield. A large tent had been erected by the side of the road, flying a pennant with the sunspray alone. Three horses and two mules grazed in the pastures along the side of the rutted red road.
One of the men shouted, “My master asks you to declare yourself!” He had a long, bony face and a tuft of hair on his chin trying to pass for a beard. “If you can do so in no civilized language, then speak what babble you will, and I shall translate.”
“I’m a wanderer,” Neil replied. “I may tell you no more than that, I fear.”
A brief conversation followed between the knight and his man; then the servant turned back to Neil.
“You wear the armor and bear the weapons of a knight. In whose service do you ride?”
“I cannot answer that question,” Neil said.
“Think carefully, sir,” the man said. “It is unlawful to wear the armor of a knight in this country if you do not have the credentials to do so.”
“I see,” Neil answered. “And if I am a knight, and can prove it, then what will your master say to that?”
“He will challenge you to honorable combat. After he kills you, he will take possession of your armor and horse.”
“Ah. And if I am merely masquerading as a knight?”
“Then my lord will be forced to fine you and confiscate your property.”
“Well,” Neil said, “there is not a large difference in what I call myself then, is there? Fortunately I have a spear.”
The man’s eyes went round. “Do you not know whom you face?”
“I would ask, but since I cannot give my name, it would be impolite to require his.”
“Don’t you know his emblem?”
“I’m afraid I do not. Can we get this over with?”
The man spoke to his master again. For answer, the knight lifted his helmet onto his head, couched his lance beneath his arm and lifted his shield into position. Neil did the same, noticing that his own weapon was nearly a king’s yard shorter than his foe’s.
The Vitellian knight started first, his charger kicking up a cloud of red dust in the evening sun. Neil spurred Hurricane into motion and dropped the point of his spear into position. Beyond the rolling fields, a cloud of blackbirds fumed up from a distant tree line. For a moment, all seemed very quiet.
At the last moment Neil shifted in the saddle and moved his shield suddenly, so the enemy iron hit it slantwise rather than straight on. The blow rattled his teeth and scored his shield, but he swung his own point to the right, for his enemy was turning in a similar maneuver. He hit the Vitellian shield just at the edge, and the whole force of his blow shocked into the knight. Neil’s spear