The Metal of Victory

By J.S. Mawdsley

Sir Quin Porcher is hard up for cash, but the newly announced Grand Trahernian Tournament might be the answer to all his problems. And there is Gloria Weekes, daughter of the most famous tournament expert in the world. She has her own theories on how to create a tourney champ, and she quickly realizes Quin is just the man to help her prove them. But when the tournament is under threat, can their friend, Fransis Sigor, save the day?

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.S. Mawdsley
• Release date: Jul 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201743376

J.S. Mawdsley

We’re a husband and wife novel writing team and have been since about a month after our marriage in 2007. He’s a teacher of education law. She’s a Librarian. Being able to write together so happily once made a friend remark that we are as mythical as unicorns. J.S. Mawdsley live in Ohio, where they share their house with half a dozen dying houseplants, and their yard with a neighborhood cat named Eugene, a mother deer and her fawn, affectionately known as the Countess and Cherubino, and a couple of blue jays, Henry and Eleanor. 

Book preview

Map of Myrcia

The Trahernian lands

Chapter 1

299 M.E.

As the overnight ferry arrived at the Southport of Rawdon, Quin Porcher kept his eyes fixed on the looming white dome of the Prince’s Palace. The other passengers grumbled and swore as they had to squeeze past him at the rail, but he ignored them. He continued admiring the dome as he came down the gangplank, rather than watching where he was going, and would have stepped off into the cold autumn waters of Lake Newlin if one of the sailors hadn’t shouted to warn him.

The sailor called him an idiot. If Quin’s younger brother weren’t the owner of the ferryboat, the sailor would probably have called him other, less polite names, but Quin didn’t care. He was too excited to worry about what anyone said, and too nervous to be angered by insults.

He stopped in the shade of the old brick customs house, where a pile of gold and yellow leaves was starting to gather, and checked to see that his clothes and armor were straight. He had on his green cape with the fierce-looking red boar that his sister, Eloise, had embroidered on there for him. He had the big steel pauldrons, which he had spent several days carefully polishing until they gleamed like the scales of a river trout straight from the water. He adjusted how his mail lay over the quilted wool gambeson, which wasn’t proving nearly as warm as he had expected on this late October day. Finally he tightened his sword belt.

The belt and gambeson were new, although the sword, like the pauldrons and a lot of his other armor, had come down to him from his distinguished grandfather. It all very nearly fit him.

He left the Southport and walked north past the wall and high iron railing that protected Llanhir Park, the private park of the Duke of Newshire. A block away, at the main gate, a pair of guards in the blue and white livery of the duke stood with long poleaxes. They bowed, apparently willing to grant him admittance simply on his appearance as a knight and a gentleman. That made him feel good. But he stopped and asked them where he could find the office of the duke’s chamberlain. Better to look a fool now in front of a couple sentries than wander the vast palace with no idea where he was going.

As instructed, he entered the lower level of the palace, under the big, grand front stairs, and found the chamberlain in a small office near the wide, echoing marble rotunda. The chamberlain was in the middle of writing something in a ledger and held up a finger for silence as he finished a line.

When he was done, he looked at Quin over a pair of halfmoon spectacles and said, You must be Sir Quintilian Porcher. His mouth settled in a thin line that gave no sign of approval or disapproval.

Quin bowed. Yes, sir. I have an appointment with his grace. We have, um, exchanged letters, if you recall. Is...is this a good time?

The chamberlain blinked. His grace is very busy, Sir Quintilian. But then, he is always very busy, so this time is neither better nor worse than any other time. He picked up a silver bell on his desk and rang it.

A few moments later, a boy appeared in a long blue tabard with a silver eagle, the arms of the Dukes of Newshire. He was a remarkable looking fellow, more than a foot shorter than Quin, but with shoulders nearly as wide. It gave him a squared-off appearance that made him seem fat, even though he wasn’t.

This is the duke’s second squire, Edgar, said the chamberlain. Edgar, this is Sir Quintilian. Take him to the library and see if your master has time to deal with him now.

The boy bowed and, with long, lumbering strides, led Quin from the chamberlain’s office, around the high, sunlit rotunda, and down the long corridor beyond. Quin took in all the tapestries and armor and weapons on display. He had an odd feeling there was something he had forgotten, or something he ought to have noticed, but hadn’t. No one had ever accused him of being the fastest horse on the course.

Then he remembered, and it brought him up short in the hall, nearly stumbling in the inch-thick Sahasran carpet. He had heard a rumor back home in Lanwit that the king was sending his second son, Prince Edgar, to be a squire to the duke.

The boy paused at a big, highly polished door and looked back at Quin standing in the middle of the hall. Quin hurried over to join him and bowed. Um...thank you, your royal highness.

Prince Edgar shrugged his big shoulders. You don’t have to call me that when I’m on duty, actually. Then he knocked on the door.

Almost instantly, the door opened, revealing another, much taller boy in the same blue and silver tabard. Oh, hello, Edgar, he said. When he noticed Quin, he bowed. Welcome, sir. Brandon Dryhten, first squire to the duke, at your service.

So this boy was the son and heir of a different duke, the Duke of Leornian. Quin felt like he’d wandered into a fairytale by accident. The prince quickly explained who Quin was, and the older boy said he would go see if the Duke of Newshire was available. Looking as if it gave him real pain, he added that, I’m not sure his grace has time.

He hurried away, but he left the door open, and Quin had a view into the great library, lined with books all around, except for the far wall, which consisted of tall glass doors that led out onto the beach and overlooked Lake Newlin. Quin heard voices, and although he knew he shouldn’t try to eavesdrop, he did take a few steps to one side, giving him a better view down the room.

Two men stood at a wide table, looking at a wooden model of some kind of building or structure. Quin guessed it might be an arena or a theater. Tacked to a board behind them, in front of the windows, was a long, long scroll, hanging to the floor, covered with row on row of tiny shields in a wild array of colors. They were coats of arms, he realized, though at this distance he couldn’t make out which ones they were.

One of the men, wearing a silver dressing gown with long gold tassels, was leaning over with his hands behind his back and studying the model. He had dark hair, going silver around the edges, and a broad, handsome face that was starting to develop jowls. With a start, Quin recognized Egbert Sigor, the Duke of Newshire himself. He had only ever seen his grace from a distance on grand public occasions, and he felt slightly embarrassed to see the man in his dressing gown.

The other person, looming in the background, was even larger than the duke, and the duke was not a small man. This fellow, in a tunic and trousers of eye-searingly yellow silk, had blond hair and bright blue eyes that seemed to twinkle and dance as he watched his grace take in the model. He carried a small notebook and a gold pencil in his big hands, and every few seconds, he would make a quick mark or note and then return to observing the duke.

Brandon Dryhten, the elder squire, slid smoothly up to the duke’s side and whispered in his ear. The duke’s eyebrows shot up, and he answered the squire in a few clipped sentences before returning to his study of the model. Quin’s heart sank. The duke was clearly too busy today to see him.

When Squire Brandon returned, however, he was smiling. His grace will be a moment, he said. Edgar, if you would please, take Sir Quintilian to the duke’s study and give him something to drink while he waits.

So the young prince led Quin back up the hall to a different, identically polished oak door, which opened on a large study, lined with even more bookshelves. The paneling in here was of darker wood, almost black, and the room would have seemed a bit oppressive if it didn’t have those same tall glass doors along the far wall, letting in sunlight and the muted sound of the waves.

Edgar deposited Quin in a huge, deeply-cushioned leather chair and went to a sideboard, where he poured a glass of dark red wine. Quin didn’t usually drink in the morning, but he took the glass all the same. Partly because he didn’t want to be rude, but mostly because he needed something to steady his nerves.

A prince of Myrcia is serving me wine, he thought. I can’t believe this is happening. But he would have to get used to this sort of thing. If all went well today when he spoke to the duke, this would become everyday life to him.

Out of nowhere, the young prince said, Do you like tournaments?

Um, yes, said Quin. I think most people do.

Do you compete?

Yes. Or I used to. It’s been a few years.

Edgar nodded thoughtfully. He was quiet again for a minute or two, then he blurted out, I like Sir Amund Linwood the best. How about you?

Quin thought of the reports he had read about tourneys around the kingdom. Reports he had studied far more obsessively than he would have ever admitted to anyone else. Sir Amund is very good, he agreed.

If Sir Amund Linwood fought Sir Nico Xylander with one hand tied behind their backs, who do you think would win? I can’t decide.

H’m...that is a tough one, said Quin. Let me think....

He was saved from having to express a firm opinion on the question by the arrival of Duke Egbert. His grace had abandoned the silver dressing gown and had on a red quilted tunic with a fur collar. It looked very warm.

You gave him wine, observed the duke, raising an eyebrow in the young prince’s direction. At ten o’clock in the morning. Very well, I’ll have a glass, too.

Edgar, blushing to the tips of his ears, poured another glass and put it on the big mahogany desk as the duke sat down. Then the duke, with a kindly smile, dismissed the boy.

A bit early, said his grace, raising his glass, but to your health, Sir Quintilian.

Quin took only a small sip, not wanting to look like a drunk. The duke reached into a drawer of the desk and pulled out a small letter on gray parchment. Quin recognized his own handwriting.

Now what precisely can I do for you? asked the duke.

Well, um.... Quin cleared his throat and tried to sit up straight, though the deep, well-worn cushions of the chair resisted his efforts. Your grace, I was hoping that you might accept me into your retinue.

I see. The duke looked down at the letter, and at some other papers on his desk. You squired in Stansted, like your grandfather before you. I know Earl Fenwick quite well. This reference from him is quite glowing.

Thank you, your grace.

And then you were knighted and you went home to Lanwit. If you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t you stay in Stansted and serve Earl Fenwick?

My father died, your grace. I had to take over the family estate, you see.

My condolences, of course. I think I remember your father. Sir Myron, yes? Yes. The duke smiled and leaned back in his chair. I certainly remember your grandfather, Sir Hugo. I remember my father saying that your grandfather went twenty years without being unhorsed a single time.

He was the first person to teach me to ride and hold a sword, your grace.

Lovely. Lovely memory, I’m sure. The duke sighed. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Sir Quintilian. I don’t have room for another knight in my retinue right now. Under normal circumstances, I might consider taking you on, anyway. But I’m looking at some rather large expenditures. For a good cause, to be sure, but...well, that’s neither here nor there. He folded his hands over Quin’s letter. The truth is that I really only agreed to this interview out of respect for your grandfather’s memory.

Quin felt like he’d been slapped. Oh. Oh, um...I see, sir.

The duke frowned. Perhaps that came out wrong. What I meant to say is that your grandfather made a great and glowing name for himself in the annals of chivalry. In better circumstances, I might take you on the strength of that reputation, in the hopes that you might turn out to have inherited some of that skill. But at the moment, I cannot. I am sorry.

I see. Yes, of course, sir. Quin looked down at his hands. There was still dirt under the nails.

I’ll tell you what, though, said the duke, in a cheerier tone. I might be able to give you a commission in one of the Newshire militia regiments. I don’t think we need any officers right now, but I can certainly put your name down in case a vacancy opens up. It might be six months or a year. Trust me, it’ll seem like no time at all.

Yes, of course. Thank you, your grace. Very kind of you.

Quin left the room in a horrible daze. Where was he going to find money now to support the estate? How much more money could he borrow from his brother’s business? He couldn’t wait six months. He probably couldn’t even wait two or three months before last year’s bills started coming due. And then he would have to start selling off land.

As he plodded through the big rotunda, he became aware of footsteps at his side.

Can I fetch your horse, Sir Quintilian? Prince Edgar asked brightly.

Um, no thank you, said Quin softly. I...I didn’t bring her.

Can I order you a carriage?

No thank you. I’ll just...walk.

Chapter 2

Gloria put her hands over her ears, trying to block out the clash of steel from the courtyard below. She needed to concentrate on the stack of letters in front of her.

Sir Duncan,

I cannot begin to tell you how much I enjoyed the most recent issue of the Quarterly. The feature on the Five Most Common Problems With the Sword Grip was just the sort of thing my young squire, Smedley, needs to read. Many thanks.

You’re welcome, muttered Gloria.

I marvel at you, my good sir. How can you produce so many articles and still have time to gather such exhaustive statistics on all the tournaments in the Trahernian lands?

He has his daughter do it, said Gloria.

With a sigh, she looked at a different stack of papers on a table near the window, trapped under a blunted old battle axe head that she used as a paperweight. Those were the results from the Haydon Squires and Under-20 Tourney, and she wanted to get them compiled and recorded before lunch. But first she had to answer her father’s fan mail.

The next letter might have cheered her up, since it was a complaint. But it claimed Sir Duncan had gotten his math wrong in the article on the draw weight of Sahasran laminate bows. And since Gloria was the real author of the article, she knew damn well the math was right. Even so, she spent ten minutes redoing all her figures so she could write, I believe it is you, sir, who are mistaken, in good conscience.

Below in the courtyard, the clanging of steel on steel grew louder, and then louder again. And above it all, there was her father’s voice, calling out, Yes, yes, your lordship. Precisely right! Be aggressive. There’s no substitute for aggression.

Except skill, thought Gloria. Or practice. Or a good defense.

Setting her pen aside, she stood and walked over to the big leaded glass window, which she had cracked enough to let in some fresh air. Outside, a stiff breeze sent bright orange and red leaves swirling around the courtyard. In the center, under the big maple, her father stood with his hands clasped behind his back and his head thrust forward, jaw set, glasses perched low on his nose. She thought of this as his coaching posture.

In front of him, a young boy in a blue quilted tunic hacked with all his strength at a suit of empty armor hanging on a wooden post. The boy’s dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat, but he was smiling. He was Jeffrey Sigor, younger son of the Duke of Newshire, and Gloria knew her father was inordinately proud that his grace was paying for these private lessons.

She was about to return to the letters, possibly after finding some tufts of cotton to stuff in her ears, when a bell rang below, and Betty, the chief housemaid, came up to say a visitor had arrived in the livery of the duke. Gloria tried (and failed) to wipe the ink smudges from her fingers, and then hurried down the back stairs after Betty.

Her father, informed of the visitor by one of the footmen, was already in the back parlor, standing at a mirror and trying to make his graying, windswept hair lay flat again. She took the brush from his hands and did it herself, while he polished his spectacles on a handkerchief.

A messenger from the duke, he whispered excitedly over his shoulder. I wonder if he wants Lord Jeffrey to be my permanent squire.

Do you really think you’d have time for that, Father?

Time? He frowned. Of course I’d have time. You can start taking on more of my duties.

She bit her lip and thought, "Start taking them on? Start? Really, Father?"

Apparently thinking his hair looked good enough, he pushed away her hand and the brush and led the way down the passage, through the armor-lined great hall, and into the little blue front parlor.

To Gloria’s surprise—and her father’s, too—the visitor was no mere servant or messenger boy. He was Lord Brandon Dryhten, first squire to the Duke of Newshire. More importantly, he was the eldest son and heir of the Duke of Leornian, even though, like Lord Jeffrey, he hadn’t been formally knighted yet.

Sir Duncan, said Lord Brandon, dropping into a low, elegant bow. My master, his grace the duke, sends his greetings.

Gloria’s father bowed as low as he still could manage. Lord Brandon, please convey my most profound good wishes to his grace, your master. And may I say what an absolute delight it is to have so promising a young squire as yourself flatter my humble abode with your presence.

Um...thank you, sir. Lord Brandon looked around the room, no doubt taking in all the gilded furniture and the ornate presentation weapons from half a dozen monarchs and the dozens of tournament trophies.

Can I offer you refreshment? Coffee? Tea? Fortified wine, perhaps? Glazed almond cakes? Turning, Gloria’s father snapped his fingers practically in her face. Gloria, see to some refreshments for—

No, thank you, Sir Duncan, said Lord Brandon. I am here to ask a favor of you for his grace, and once I have your answer, I should return as quickly as possible.

Very well, my lord. Gloria’s father puffed out his chest. What humble service can I do your esteemed master?

The duke has been approached by an Immani promoter named Pascal Courtois Clementus, who—

Oh, I know him, said Gloria’s father. Gloria, he’s the one who did that big naval tournament at the Proedrian Straits two years ago.

Yes, Father. I remember.

As I say, Lord Brandon continued, Mr. Clementus has approached the duke with the idea for a Grand Trahernian Tournament. It would be nearly a year long, and it would take place in at least four or five different cities, with all sorts of different events. The goal would be to crown a single Trahernian champion—the greatest knight in the world.

Ah, and naturally his grace wants to consult with me as to the arrangements for this tournament. Gloria’s father beamed. This was far more prestigious than taking the duke’s second son as a squire.

Yes, sir, said Lord Brandon. In fact, he wishes to engage you for the entire length of the tournament as a special consultant. All the events will be scored according to the Weekes Scoring System, naturally.

Naturally. Gloria’s father snapped his fingers again. Gloria, cancel all my appointments! I will return to the palace this instant with young Lord Brandon.

You were supposed to meet Harris Evans at The Broken Lance for lunch.

Her father scowled. Harris? Oh, you can meet him for me.

Ten minutes later, once Gloria’s father had changed into a much more expensive and ornately-embroidered silk tunic, he and Lord Brandon left for the palace, and Gloria was left to undertake her father’s social obligations for him. Not that this was the first time she’d been obliged to do so, of course. And she didn’t mind seeing Harris Evans. In fact, it promised to be the highlight of her day.

The weather was perfect for autumn—cool and sunny. Gloria put on her best green wool riding dress and walked from her father’s house on Cuthbertstryde, near the river, down to The Broken Lance on East Marrethstryde. The tavern was one of her father’s favorites, as it stood across the square from the Prince Piers II Memorial Amphitheater, and it catered to athletes and their admirers. Harris was waiting at a corner booth in the back. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see her, rather than her father. He had known them both a very long time, after all.

A well-weathered older man with a neat gray beard and a permanently cocked eyebrow, Harris greeted Gloria in his usual fashion. Have a drink, he said. This round is on you.

She laughed and fetched two mugs of spiced mead. Harris was always easy to keep happy.

I finished the article on the development of the Annenstruker saddle, he said when she returned. He pushed some papers across the table. Do you think anyone actually reads this crap?

Judging by the correspondence I get, yes, they do, she said, slipping the article into a worn leather bag she had brought, just in case.

Gloria wrote easily half the articles in Weekes’ Quarterly, her father’s famous tournament newsletter. Of the remainder, Harris wrote at least two thirds. He was an agent, matching up knights with noblemen who wanted to sponsor them in tournaments, and the commissions he earned in doing this made him wealthy. But he never looked quite so happy as when Gloria paid him for an article.

She counted a pile of silver shillings into his palm. He giggled