"Isn't he?" Halt asked sarcastically, and to his surprise the boy shook his head.
"No. Not really. Look at how he sits his horse. He's got dreadful balance. And he's already holding his lance too tightly, see? And then there's his shield. He's got it slung way too low to cover a sudden Juliette, hasn't he?"
Halt's eyebrows raised. "And what might a Juliette be?"
Horace didn't seem to notice the note of sarcasm in the Ranger's voice. He explained stolidly: "It's a sudden change of target with the lance. You begin by aiming for the shield at chest height, then at the last moment you raise the tip to the helmet." He paused, then added, with a slight tone of apology, "I don't know why it's called a Juliette. It just is."
There was a long silence between them. The boy wasn't boasting, Halt could see. He really seemed to know what he was talking about.
The Ranger scratched his cheek thoughtfully. It might be useful to see how good Horace really was, he thought. If things got awkward for him, Halt could always revert to Plan A and simply shoot the loudmouthed guardian of the bridge. There was one more small problem, however.
"Not that you'll be able to carry out any 'Juliettes,' of course.
You don't appear to have a lance."
Horace nodded agreement. "Yes. I'll have to use the first pass to get rid of his. Shouldn't be too big a problem."
"Sirrahs!" called the knight. "Yer merst enswer!"
"Oh, shut up," Halt muttered in his general direction. "So it shouldn't be a problem, should it?"
Horace pursed his lips and shook his head decisively. "Well, look at him, Halt. He's nearly dropped it three times while we've been sitting here. A child could take it from him."
At that, Halt had to grin. Here was Horace, barely more than a boy, declaring that a child could take the lance away from the knight who blocked their way. Then Halt remembered what he'd been doing when he was Horace's age and recalled how Horace had battled with Morgarath, a far more dangerous opponent than the ludicrous figure by the bridge. He appraised the boy once more and saw nothing but determination and quiet confidence there.
"You actually do know what you're talking about, don't you?" he said. And even though it was phrased as a question, it was more a statement of fact. Again, Horace nodded.
"I don't know how, Halt. I just have a feeling for things like this. Sir Rodney told me I was a natural."
Gilan had told Halt much the same thing after the combat at the Plains of Uthal.
Abruptly, Halt came to a decision.
"All right," he said. "Let's try it your way."
He turned to the impatient knight and called to him in a loud voice.
"Sirrah, my companion chooses to engage you in knightly combat!" he said. The horseman stiffened, sitting upright in his saddle. Halt noticed that he nearly lost his balance at this unexpected piece of news.
"Knightly cermbat?" he replied. "Yewer cermpenion ers no knight!"
Halt nodded hugely, making sure the man could see the gesture.
"Oh yes he is!" he called back. "He is Sir Horace of the Order of the Feuille du Chene." He paused and muttered to himself, "Or should that have been Crepe du Chene? Never mind."
"What did you tell him?" Horace asked, slinging his buckler around from where it hung at his back and settling it on his left arm.
"I said you were Sir Horace of the Order of the Oakleaf," Halt told him, then added uncertainly, "At least, I think that's what I told him. I may have said you were of the Order of the Oak Pancake."
Horace looked at him, a slight hint of disappointment in his eyes.
He took the rules of chivalry very seriously and he knew he was not yet entitled to use the title "Sir Horace."
"Was that totally necessary?" he asked, and the Ranger nodded.
"Oh yes. He won't fight just anybody, you know. Has to be a knight. I don't think he noticed you had any armor," he added as Horace settled his conical helmet firmly on his head. He had already pulled up the cowl of chain mail that had been folded back on his shoulders, under the cloak. Now he unfastened the cloak and looked to find somewhere to leave it. Halt held out a hand for it.
"Allow me," he said, taking the garment and draping it across his own saddle. Horace noticed that, as he did so, Halt took care to keep his longbow clear of the cloak. The apprentice nodded at the weapon.
"You won't need that," he said.
"I've heard that before," Halt replied, then he looked up as the guardian of the bridge called again.
"Yewer freund hes no lence," he said, gesturing with his own three-meter length of ash, surmounted by an iron point.
"Sir Horace proposes that you do combat with the sword," Halt replied, and the knight shook his head violently.
"No! No! Ah wull use my lence!"
Halt raised one eyebrow in Horace's direction. "It seems chivalry is all very well," he said quietly, "but if it involves giving up a three-meter advantage, forget it."
Horace merely shrugged. "It's not a problem," he said calmly.
Then, as a thought struck him, he asked: "Halt, do I have to actually kill him? I mean, I can handle him without going that far."
Halt considered the question.
"Well, it's not obligatory," he told the apprentice. "But don't take any chances with him. After all, it'd serve him right if someone did kill him. He might not be so keen to extort tribute from passersby after that."
It was Horace's turn to raise a pained eyebrow at the Ranger this time. Halt shrugged.
"Well, you know what I mean," he said. "Just make sure you're okay before you let him off too lightly."
"Seigneur!" the knight cried, setting his lance under his arm and clapping his spurs into his horse's flanks. "En garde! Ah am cerming to slay yew!"
There was a quick hiss of steel on leather as Horace drew his long sword from its scabbard and wheeled Kicker to face his charging opponent.
"I won't be a minute," he told Halt, then Kicker bounded away, reaching full stride in the space of a few meters.
15
F OLLOWING THE FAILED ESCAPE ATTEMPT, W ILL AND E VANLYN were forbidden to move more than fifty meters from the huts. There was no more running, no more exercising. Erak managed to find a new range of tasks for the two captives to undertake, from reweaving the rope mattresses in the dormitory to resealing the lower planks along Wolfwind 's hull with tar and pieces of frayed rope. It was hot, unpleasant work, but Evanlyn and Will accepted it philosophically.
Confined in this fashion, they couldn't help noticing the growing tension between the two groups of Skandians. Slagor and his men, bored and seeking distraction, had called loudly for the two Araluens to be flogged. Slagor, licking his wet lips, had even offered to carry out the task himself.
Erak, very bluntly, told Slagor to mind his own business. He was becoming increasingly weary of the sneering, bragging manner in which Slagor conducted himself, and of the sly way his men cheated and taunted the crew of Wolfwind at every opportunity. Slagor was a coward and a bully, and when Erak compared him to the two captives, he was surprised to find that he had more in common with Will and Evanlyn than with his countryman. He held no grudge against them for their attempted escape. He would have tried the same thing in their place.
Now to have Slagor baying after their hides for his own warped amusement somehow brought Erak closer to them.