"Are you mad?" Galbert de Garsenc cried out.
"That," said Ranald gravely, "is the second time that question has been asked of one of your sons. In fact, I think it is true of neither of us." He turned to Rosala. "Other accusations may fairly be made against me. I will hope to have a chance to address them after."
She met his glance but said nothing, stern and proud, Lisseut thought, as some yellow-haired goddess of the north. But that, she realized immediately after, was idle fantasy: they didn't allow goddesses in the north.
Ranald turned back to Ademar. They all turned back to Ademar. The king of Gorhaut, past the first surprise of this, was smiling; only with his lips though, his eyes were hard as stone.
"We are in a foreign county and at war," he said. "You are a commander of my army. You are now proposing that we fight each other because your wife, whose flight from your home is the cause of our being here, alleges that I expressed a desire for her. Is this what I understand from you, my lord of Garsenc?"
It sounded absurd, mad indeed, when put that way, but Ranald de Garsenc did not quail. He, too, was smiling now, a smaller man than the king but as easy in the saddle. "You might not remember it," he said, "but I was in that room in Cortil with my father last autumn when you came in and demanded that Rosala be brought back. Back to you, you said." They saw the king's expression change. His eyes flicked away from Ranald's, and then returned.
The duke went on. "I should have made this challenge then, Ademar. You have been using Rosala's flight from me as your excuse for war—my father's idea, of course. You aren't nearly clever enough. She didn't fly from me, Ademar, I think I dare say that. She left her husband and put our child at terrible risk because of you and my father. I think I am seeing things clearly for the first time in a great many years. If you have any honour or courage left in you, draw your sword."
"I will have you arrested and then gelded before burning," Galbert de Garsenc snarled, pointing a gauntleted finger at his older son.
Ranald actually laughed. "More burning? Do what you will," he said. "The king might well be grateful for that protection. I will not, however," he added, still with that unnatural calm, "speak further to procurers." He had not even bothered to look away from Ademar. To the king he said: "There have been allegations of treason thrown about freely here. At my brother, by my brother at my father, at you. I find it all a game of words. I prefer to name you what you are, Ademar: a dupe, and a coward hiding behind his counsellor, unwilling to use his own sword in a matter of honour."
"Ranald," said Ademar, almost gently, "Ranald, Ranald, you know I can kill you. You have done nothing but drink for ten years—that is why your wife fled south. I doubt you have given her a night's satisfaction in years. Do not deceive yourself before you go to the god."
"This means, I take it, that you will fight."
"He will do no such thing!" Galbert snapped.
"Yes, I will fight," said Ademar in the same moment. "The sons of my High Elder have finally grown too tiresome to endure. I would be done with them."
And the king of Gorhaut drew his sword. There came a sound from among the armies north of them, for the light was brilliantly clear and all men there could see that blade drawn. Then the sound changed, grew high-pitched with surprise, as Ranald de Garsenc drew his own blade in reply, and moved his horse apart from the others by the lake. Ademar followed him. As he lowered the visor of his helmet, they saw that the king was smiling. To the west, not far away, the stones of the Arch of the Ancients gleamed, honey-coloured in the light.
"Well?" Lisseut heard Bertran murmur under his breath.
"Ten years ago," said Fulk de Savaric softly, "it might have been a match. Not now, I am sorry to say."
Blaise said nothing, though he had to have heard that. He was watching his brother with something hurtful in his eyes. Rosala was watching too, but there was nothing to be read in her expression at all. Ranald, Lisseut noted, had not bothered to lower his helm.
"It will make no difference, you know that," said Galbert de Garsenc heavily, speaking to the Arbonne party. "Even if Ademar dies we will destroy you tomorrow. And he will not die. Ranald has been drinking all day. He would never have done this otherwise. Look at his face. He is about to meet the judgment of the god, sodden and disgraced."
"Redeemed, I should have said." Blaise's voice was hollow. He did not take his eyes from the two men circling each other now on the roadway by the strand.
And what they saw then, as the long, bright swords touched for the first time, delicately, and then again with a sharp, wrist-grinding clash, was indeed redemption of a kind. There is a grace here, thought Lisseut suddenly, resisting the thought. She had never seen Ranald de Garsenc before and so she had never seen him fight. He had been King's Champion of Gorhaut once, for Ademar's father, someone had told her. That had been a long time ago.
For a moment it seemed not to have been, as he pivoted his war horse using knees and hips and rang a hard, quick downward blow against Ademar's side. The curved armour caught the blade and deflected it, but the king of Gorhaut swayed in his saddle, and there came a rumble again from the armies. Lisseut looked over at Blaise, she couldn't help herself, but then she turned away from what she saw in his face, back to the two men fighting in the road.
Blaise didn't even see Ranald's first blow land. He had actually closed his eyes when the combat began. He heard the clang of sword on armour, though, and looked up in time to see Ademar rock in his saddle before righting himself to deliver a slashing backhand of his own. Ranald blunted that with a twist of his sword-arm and sidled his horse away from Ademar's attempt at a cut back the other way.
It was that horseman's movement, the instinctive, almost unconscious product of a lifetime in the saddle with blade in hand, that took Blaise back, in a blur and rush of time, to his childhood and those first clandestine lessons his brother had given him, at a time when Galbert had forbidden Blaise to touch a sword. Both boys had been whipped when the deception was uncovered, though Blaise hadn't actually known about Ranald's punishment until long after, and then only because one of the corans had spoken of it. Ranald had never said a word. There had been no more lessons though. Galbert had had his way. He almost always did.
Blaise looked over at his father then, at the smooth-cheeked, commanding features. The furrow of concern on Galbert's brow had gone; he was actually smiling now, a smug, thin-mouthed expression Blaise knew well. And why should he not smile? Ranald was ten years past his fighting days, and Ademar was very possibly the strongest warrior in Gorhaut. The result of this had been assured from the moment the challenge was made, and Galbert, Blaise understood in that moment, cared nothing at all for the life of his son. Ranald's death would even simplify matters. He had become almost irrelevant to the High Elder, except, as here, when he became a nuisance and a distraction, or even a threat to Galbert's power over the king.
In fact, if Rosala's story was true—and of course it would be true—the honour or dignity of Garsenc had ceased to be important to Galbert in any way that signified. All that seemed to matter to the High Elder was his control of Ademar and this great burning in Arbonne that was allowing him. Ripened fruit of his long dream. That was what mattered, and one thing more: Cadar. His grandson was also a part of Galbert's cold stalking of power in Gorhaut and Arbonne's obliteration.
He must not have him, Blaise thought.