Chapter 8 – The Great Melee

“Fifteen percent!” thundered a voice across the square where Parliament was being held. Duke Alessandro Devereux of Southwatch stood upright, his gaunt face reddened with indignation. “His Majesty’s Lord Treasurer demands a fifteen percent increase in military taxes! As if gold instead of grain grew on our lands!”

Valentina took her place two steps behind the duchess as the lords of the realm engaged in a passionate and yet very formal debate about the proposed measures. The ladies, wives, daughters, and ladies-in-waiting sat in a separate area as silent observers. They were allowed to listen, but not to speak.

Duke Cosimo rose smoothly from his seat. “The Duke of Southwatch makes a valid point,” he said in his deep, resonant voice. “But let us also consider the cost of inaction. Three merchant ships taken by pirates this month alone, two of them owned by merchants from Southwatch, I might add. Is that not also a tax we are already paying?”

Valentina watched her patron at work, and he was a master at what he did. His eyes constantly scanned the room, registering who nodded, who frowned, who leaned over to whisper to their neighbor.

“The pirates are a problem for the Coastal Lords,” countered the Marquess of Coldby. “Why should the Marcher Lords bleed for your ships?”

“Because the goods on those ships also go to the marches,” replied Marquess Merrick Ashbourne calmly. “Or do you think the wine for our men, the coal for our forges, and the cloth for our coats grow on trees on our cold mountainsides?”

A restrained laugh rippled through the ranks. Farnsworth snorted contemptuously but sat back down.

Lady Beatrice, who was sitting next to Valentina, leaned slightly toward her. “His Grace is taking careful note of every objection,” she whispered, barely audibly. “By tonight, he will know exactly who he still needs to convince.”

The debates dragged on as percentages, deadlines, and exact conditions were argued over. Valentina sensed the duchess next to her growing impatient, even though her face gave nothing away.

Finally, Lord Chancellor John Blazen rose. “Gentlemen, the sun is approaching its zenith. Parliament will adjourn until tomorrow so that we may attend the tournament.”

A collective sigh of relief rippled through the ladies’ section. Duchess Rosalind rose with flowing grace. “Come, ladies. We have little time to change.”

The return journey to the Greystone townhouse was made with all the haste that decorum allowed. No sooner had they arrived than everyone hurried to their chambers.

“The dark blue afternoon dress, Margaret,” Valentina instructed her maid. “Something lighter for outside.”

While Margaret deftly removed the heavy court dress, the younger maid Alice chattered excitedly: “The kitchen is betting on Lord Tristan Whitehall, Milady. But the stable boy swears by a certain ‘Tower’ – he’s supposed to be a real giant!”

“Tower?” asked Valentina as the new dress slipped over her head.

“A Marcher knight, I’ve heard. Fights like a madman.”

Half an hour later, everyone gathered in the small dining room for a hasty meal. Lady Beatrice dabbed her lips with her napkin. “I saw the Tower fight last year,” she said casually. “He is quite remarkable. You’ll see, his participation will certainly make the tournament more interesting.”

“A bully, I suppose?” asked the duchess, raising an eyebrow.

“A very efficient bully,” Beatrice corrected with a mischievous smile.

The journey to the tournament grounds took them through streets overflowing with people. Everywhere, citizens in their finest clothes were jostling their way toward the tournament, and merchants were loudly touting their wares.

“Hot pies! Fresh ale!”

“Favors for your knights! Show your loyalty!”

The noise was deafening, the smell of roasted meat, sweat, and horse manure overwhelming. Valentina greedily took it all in – she had never seen a real tournament before.

“So much effort for a bit of organized violence,” Vyxara remarked amusedly.

The tournament grounds themselves were breathtaking. Massive wooden structures rose from the field, banners fluttering in all the colors of the realm. Towering above it all was the large, covered pavilion grandstand for the nobility, from which they would watch the spectacle.

“There,” Lady Beatrice murmured, pointing discreetly. “We’re seated to the right of the royal family, with the other ducal families.”

Valentina followed the duchess up the narrow steps, past the lower nobility in the back rows, until they reached the privileged front seats.

The royal family sat enthroned in the center of the front row. King Edmund sat back relaxed, Queen Beatrice to his right, their children to his left.

“This way,” Lady Beatrice murmured, leading them to the Greystone seats.

Duke Cosimo and Lorenzo were already there, engaged in lively conversation with the Duke of Southwatch. The duchess took her place next to her husband, while Valentina positioned herself two steps behind them, but it was still an excellent seat.

“Look two sections to the left,” Vyxara whispered in her head.

Valentina didn’t need to look to know who she would find there. The Ashbournes were seated there. The marquess upright and alert, his wife leaning back elegantly, and Innogen…

Their eyes met across the space between them. Only for a heartbeat, but it was enough to make Valentina’s pulse race. Innogen wore a dress in a deep emerald green, her golden hair pinned up in an intricate braided hairstyle. She looked stunning – and unhappy.

A fanfare snapped Valentina out of her thoughts. A herald in royal colors entered the field.

“Noble lords and ladies!” his voice carried effortlessly across the square. “The great melee begins! Eight teams of twenty knights each will fight for glory and gold! First the first four against each other, then the second four against each other. The winning teams from both rounds will then fight for victory. The rules are very simple – the last team with fighters still standing wins. The weapons are blunt, but,” he paused dramatically, “injuries are to be expected and will not be accepted as a reason for interruption!”

A bloodthirsty murmur rippled through the crowd of commoners pressed tightly against the barriers.

“The winning team will receive fifty gold crowns to share!”

The first three teams entered the field to the cheers of the crowd. Knights in shining armor, adorned with colorful favors, raised their swords and waved to the crowd. Most were of similar stature, quite tall and broad-shouldered, but within normal proportions.

Then the fourth team entered the field, and Valentina forgot to breathe.

He indeed towered over his teammates like a keep above huts. The Tower. She immediately understood why he was called that. His armor was simple, without embellishments, but it must have been almost twice as expensive as conventional armor in terms of material value alone to encase his massive frame. While the other knights nodded to the crowd and waved their swords, axes, hammers, or maces, he simply strode to his position. No gesture, no greeting, no acknowledgment of the raucous spectators.

“By all the flames of the Martyr,” Lady Beatrice exclaimed beside her. “He’s even taller than I remember.”

“Who is that?” asked a young countess in the row behind them.

“Sir Gulbert Woundsworth,” replied an older lord. “From the Western Marches. They call him the Tower.”

Valentina couldn’t look away. The way he moved was astonishing. Despite his size, every movement was controlled, economical, supple and almost elegant. No wasted steps, no superfluous gestures.

A strange feeling spread through her abdomen, a heat that caught her completely off guard.

“Oh ho,” Vyxara purred amusedly. “Someone’s reacting very enthusiastically.”

“Be quiet,” Valentina thought desperately as she blushed.

The signal sounded, and the battle commenced.

Eighty knights collided in the middle of the field. The crash of metal on metal was deafening. Most of the fighters engaged in elaborate sword fights, trying to outdo each other with sophisticated techniques and athletic maneuvers.

The Tower fought differently.

His first opponent, a knight in the colors of House Warrenfield, attacked with an elegant combination, feinting to the left, then a quick cut to the right. The Tower moved only once, a brutal horizontal blow that knocked the man off his feet and literally hurled him aside. The knight lay motionless.

The second attacker tried to take advantage of the Tower’s momentary distraction. But the Tower simply turned, grabbed the man by his breastplate, and lifted him, a fully armored knight, as if he were a child, and simply threw him off the field. The man landed with a crash in front of the barriers, much to the delight of the cheering commoners.

“He’s quite strong,” Vyxara remarked with amusement.

Valentina watched with fascination as the Tower methodically plowed through his opponents. While other knights were already breathing heavily and sweating, he seemed to show little effort.

A brave young knight, Lord Tristan Whitehall, as she recognized from his coat of arms, attempted a coordinated attack with two comrades. They circled the Tower and attacked from three sides at once.

The Tower moved like a force of nature. He caught Tristan’s sword with his armored hand, simply wrenched it from his grip, and knocked him unconscious with the pommel. The other two attackers bounced off his massive frame like waves off a rock. One was sent to the ground with a backhand blow, the other was incapacitated with a kick to the stomach.

“He calls that swordsmanship?” Duke Alessandro Devereux snorted contemptuously. “That’s just brute force.”

“But damn effective brute force,” Duke Aldwin Whitehall murmured appreciatively, seemingly unconcerned that his own son had just been struck down. “We need men like that for real wars, not these peacocks prancing around.”

The noble ladies reacted… in various ways. Some fanned themselves vigorously, obviously shocked by the brutal demonstration. Others whispered behind their hands, their eyes following every movement of the massive warrior.

“Is it true what they say about him?” Valentina heard a countess ask her neighbor.

“That he cut a man in half lengthwise? I don’t know, but at least three witnesses swear to it.”

“No, I meant… the other thing.”

An embarrassed giggle. “My cousin swears she couldn’t walk properly for three days.”

Valentina felt her cheeks burn, but she also couldn’t look away. The way he moved, that controlled violence, the raw power… A throbbing sensation between her legs forced her to change position, to press her thighs together more tightly.

“Try not to squirm too conspicuously,” Vyxara teased. “The duchess just looked at you.”

Indeed, Duchess Rosalind had turned her head slightly and was looking at Valentina with a knowing little smile. Valentina hastily lowered her gaze, her face burning with embarrassment.

On the field, the situation had cleared up. Of the eighty knights, perhaps thirty remained standing, and most kept a respectful distance from the Tower, who still seemed barely out of breath. His plain helmet turned slowly, as if trying to choose who to strike down next.

“A Marcher Knight,” Marquess Merrick Ashbourne said to one of the Marcher Lords, his voice carrying to Valentina’s position. “From Coldby. They breed them tough out there on the border.”

“Tough is an understatement,” replied the other lord. “The man is a walking siege weapon.”

Another knight, perhaps driven by courage or stupidity, charged alone toward the Tower with his sword raised. The Tower waited, waited… then, at the last moment, stepped aside and delivered an almost casual blow to the back of the rushing knight, sending him face first into the mud.

The commoners roared with excitement. Even some of the nobles couldn’t help but laugh.

“Imagine those hands on you,” Vyxara purred suggestively. “He could break you like a twig… or do other, more interesting things.”

“Vyxara!” Valentina protested in her mind, but the images conjured by the demon only intensified the throbbing desire between her legs.

She forced herself to breathe deeply, keeping her hands calmly in her lap. She was Valentina of Palewood, Essence Weaver, lady-in-waiting to the Duchess of Duskenshire, and mistress of a Duke. She couldn’t allow herself to be thrown off balance in public by a brutal Marcher knight, no matter how massive he was, no matter how alluringly his muscles rippled beneath his armor, no matter how needily her abdomen contracted as she watched him effortlessly overpower yet another opponent…

“You’re drooling,” Vyxara giggled.

The crowd roared as the Tower sent another opponent to the ground, but Duke Cosimo seemed barely aware of the spectacle because he was busy working on the Duke of Southwatch.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Cosimo pointed to the melee, where the Tower was fending off two attackers at once. “Brute force has its appeal.”

Devereux, a gaunt man with sharp features and skeptical eyes, nodded curtly. “If you’re into that sort of spectacle.”

“Oh, I’m not just talking about sport.” Cosimo’s smile was as casual as it was deadly. “Sometimes direct action is exactly what you need. Like with those damn pirates plaguing your trade routes.”

Valentina, just a few seats away, forced herself to concentrate. Her body was still vibrating from watching the tower, but she was also eager to hear what Cosimo was discussing with the Duke of Southwatch.

“The pirates are a local problem,” Devereux replied stiffly. “Nothing that would require a large-scale naval operation.”

“Local?” Cosimo laughed softly. “Last week they sank three ships from Mirkshire. The day before yesterday, two from Duskenshire, and even up north, near Redpool, they’re causing problems now. Wasn’t there that unfortunate incident involving your son-in-law’s ships?”

Devereux’s jaw tightened. “Lord Garrett lost some cargo. Nothing more.”

“Cargo worth two thousand gold crowns, I heard.” Cosimo leaned back as the Tower hit a knight so hard that his helmet rolled several feet across the ground. “Imagine how grateful your daughter would be if her husband gained fame and booty, perhaps even land, in a successful campaign against this plague.”

“He’s just cunning,” Vyxara sounded appreciatively in Valentina’s mind. “He’s wrapping him around his little finger so thoroughly that he can’t help but agree.”

Nearby, Marquess Ashbourne and two other Marcher lords were also discussing in hushed voices.

“The fortifications in the Summercrest Range need to be reinforced,” said a burly lord with scars on his face. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving the western marches unprotected if war really breaks out on the continent-“

“When, not if,” Ashbourne interrupted dryly. “The signs are clear.”

“King Hugo won’t live much longer,” whispered the third lord. “There’s talk of a stroke last-“

“Silence!” hissed the marquess sharply, looking around. “Such words have no place here.”

Valentina quickly lowered her gaze as Ashbourne’s eyes swept over her.

“The question is,” Ashbourne continued more quietly, “whether we can recruit enough Essence Weavers. It’s easier for Clairmontine, since they can recruit on the continent without any problems.

Cosimo had meanwhile turned back to Devereux. “Just think of the possibilities, my friend. A united fleet under the royal banner. Your ships at the forefront, your coat of arms on the sails. And of course,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “the trading rights that would be redistributed after a victory.”

Devereux’s resistance visibly crumbled. “I would need guarantees. Written assurances about Southwatch’s share.”

“But of course.” Cosimo’s smile was that of a wolf that had tasted blood. “We are civilized men, after all.”

A cry from the crowd drew Valentina’s attention back to the arena. The Tower stood as one of only four fighters left on the field, surrounded by fallen opponents and the herald announced a pause to clear the wounded from the field.

“Excellent entertainment,” remarked the Marquess of Eightwood from his seat. “Almost as insightful as a Parliament session.”

The knowing laughter that followed told Valentina, she wasn’t the only one who had noticed the political maneuvering going on.

On the tournament field, The Tower still stood upright, his massive chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly as exhausted knights were carried away on stretchers around him.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I must excuse myself for a moment,” she murmured to the duchess.

The older woman nodded knowingly. “Of course, my dear.”

“The latrines are behind the pavilion,” whispered Lady Beatrice.

Valentina made her way through the crowd of noble ladies who were stretching their legs and calling for refreshments. The air was thick with perfume and sweat, tinged with the metallic smell of battle wafting over from the field.

After relieving herself, she stepped out of the shadows back into the bright afternoon sun and squinted against the light as she turned the corner of the wooden structure.

And almost collided with Innogen.