Chapter 34: Chapter 34: Maybe he is a disgraced knight

Adhemar's POV ***

 

Count Adhemar sat in his tent with one leg raised over the other. There was a stick of incense burning nearby to keep the flies away from him. Outside the tent was a world grey, wet, and black with mud. The seasons had changed and it was time for the rain to rule.

 

He rose to his feet, aware that he was now lighter than when he first joined the battle. The tunic he wore was dirty and stained with mud, and the stench was enough to start a plague. But so was every other person in the camp, every other soldier had the same dirty outfit on them.

 

He stepped out of the tent into the cold shower; it wasn’t over yet. Adhemar cursed bitterly; he’d have preferred if the rain came down at once like the blade of a guillotine.

 

“My count,” said Germaine, approaching him. All the style was gone from the herald, and one time, count Adhemar had heard him cursing in the horse accent of the other soldiers. He wondered if Germaine would still be a worthy herald when he returned to the lists to tilt.

 

“Germaine,” he said, “have you brought the report I asked you to?”

 

Germaine brandished a thick roll of scrolls in his hand.

 

“Tournament reports for the last two years sir,” said the herald, handing them over to the count. “And they are accurate, I got them from the earls that hosted each tournament.”

 

Count Adhemar nodded and took the scroll from Germaine. He turned back into his tent, away from the mindless spray of water floating about like droplets of snow.

 

Once he was in the shelter of the tent, he grabbed a lantern nearby and unrolled the scrolls on the table littered with maps.

 

“Here,” he said to Germaine, “hold the light up for me.”

 

The herald obliged and took the lantern while his master studied the maps.

 

“What is this?” Count Adhemar snarled, checking the next scroll and the next. “Are these correct?”

 

“Yes, my count,” said Germaine, “I took them from the—”

 

“Earls! I know,” Count Adhemar snapped. “But earls can be such stupid fool. Did you ascertain the authenticity of the records?”

 

“Each were stamped by the master-of-arms after the events,” said Germaine, pointing at a stamp at the bottom of the top scroll.

 

Count Adhemar's face darkened to a hostile grim. He returned his gaze to the records again. On each scroll was a pyramid of shields that showed how knights at the list battled each other from the first stages to the final. However, at the top of each pyramid on the scrolls was the same shield with a charcoal phoenix with green around it standing with its winds spread.

 

“Noem, Bellacrux, Faroedale…” Count Adhemar called after each record. “HOW COME HE WINS AT EVERY EVENT?!”

 

“He must be bribing the officials, sir,” the herald suggested quickly.

 

“Nonsense,” Count Adhemar spat. “Did he bribe the knights that fell off their horses as well? Look, he won at the championship at Noem, in my OWN COUNTRY!”

 

“Th – that is… he does all this because you are absent sir,” said Germaine, in a trembling voice. “You beat him the last time you met.”

 

“Yes,” said the count, baring his teeth. “But that was more than two years ago and he was just starting out. Who would believe Adhemar, count of Anjou, did not win because Ulrich the poor was only a novice when they met? He claims glory while I fight and rot on the battlefield.”

 

“Which is strange sir,” said Germaine, “I assume that a knight like him sworn to a house would have been called by his liege to defend his home and country or at least gone back to train some troops, and who is managing his estate while he roams from country to country? It's rather strange he has never missed a single tournament till date. That is a luxury only free knights can experience. His liege lord must favor him greatly to grant him such freedom.”

 

Count Adhemar’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “He is from Gelderland, no?”

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“Yes, my count,” said Germaine, bowing his head.

 

“And is Gelderland not fighting off the Marish invasion?” asked count Adhemar, “bring that light over!”

 

He grabbed the records and began to skim through them in a quick succession.

 

“He was present at all the tournaments,” said the count, “However he never tilted once in Gelderland. Now tell me, Germaine, what sort of lord not parade his liege knight for the glory of the house? Especially, a knight as accomplished as Sir Ulrich.”

 

“None, my count,” said Germaine, “Noble houses can’t resist showing off their most valiant and skilled knights.”

 

“Verify that Sir Ulrich’s has never fought in Gelderland in the last two years,” said Count Adhemar, “In fact, he has never been to Gelderland, for it will take months to travel and he has competed at least once every two months.”

 

“Maybe he is a disgraced knight making a living off tilting?” Germaine suggested.

 

“Ah, yes, that might explain why he hasn't accepted to be sworn to another house,” nodded Count Adhemar, snapping his fingers. “That is possible; banished from his homeland, he seeks to make a living by tilting against other knights who have no time to practice.”

 

“But my count, you practice every day,” said Germaine.

 

Count Adhemar’s hand landed hard across Germaine's face a split second later. Satisfied that the herald’s hand is glued to his burning cheek, the Count pressed on.

 

“We have to explore the possibility who we have is a disgraced knight trying to make a living,” adds the count, “You will travel to Gelderland—”

 

“But that would take months!”

 

“Interrupt me again and it will take years before you are able to speak another word,” Count Adhemar said, coolly. “You will ask everyone possible what it is they know about this rapscallion. Ask from Gelderland to Borish, Messers and all the countries he has ever tilted in. Grease palms, use the knife I don’t care, but make sure you return with everything there is to know about him. Begin with the house he is sworn to in Gelderland, do you understand?”

 

“Yes, my count,” said Germaine, bowing.

 

Count Adhemar opened the scrolls again, half in hopes that he might be mistaken, that the shields he saw dominating the charts did not belong to that vile Sir Ulrich.

 

“Take what you need and leave immediately,” said Count Adhemar, breathing heavily. “Now, Germaine.”

 

Germaine bowed and made for the exit, but he turned around just then and tilting his head, he said, “Would you like me to drop a letter with lady Jocelyn? It has been a year since you last wrote her.”

 

“Do what you must,” said the count, “but after you have ran my errands for me.”

 

“I understand, my count,” said Germaine.

 

Count Adhemar paced in his tent restlessly. He wondered and wondered if he was still relevant in the world of lances and horses, wondered if when he stepped into the list with his steed people wouldn’t murmur to each other in wonder because they no longer remember who he was.

 

He pulled a dagger from his boots and stabbed the thick wad of scrolls on his table.

 

“I am coming for you, Sir Ulrich,” he said, breathing like a tiger after a failed hunt. “I am coming for you.”

 

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