When Ceryd had reached the nineteenth year of his age, and the day of his crowning drew nigh, there arose, as though fated, a strife betwixt the house of his sire and the Blodwins of Dregrove. The seed of this enmity sprouted from the deeds of a young nobleman of that lineage, whose pride was the herald of discord.
Madrot Blodwin, the youngest child and only son of the House of Dregrove, journeyed unto Gruen for the solemnities of Ceryd’s accession, which were ordained upon the day of the summer solstice. In the stead of his father, Mendo, Reik of Dregrove, who by age and lingering maladies was sorely enfeebled, Madrot was received with all courtesy due his blood. He purposed to sojourn in Gruen for a fortnight and so took his ease within the halls of the rex.
Though scarce past twenty winters, Madrot was harsh of visage and lacking the grace to charm the hearts of maidens or inspire the deference of men. His hair hung lank and thin, falling lifeless and straight upon his shoulders. His ruddy complexion bore the stain of roughness beyond his years, and his wild, unruly brows with bulging eyes lent him an aspect most sinister.
Throughout the days of jubilation, contests of arms and feats of manly prowess were proclaimed. Many hundreds gathered within the plaza to behold the spectacle, and Madrot, eager to display his mettle, entered three: a bout of grappling, a duel with swords hewn of seasoned ash, and the noble joust. By skill and sinew he triumphed in the wrestling-pit, yet in sword-play he tasted defeat beneath the steady hand of Ceryd— though some whispered that it appeared he permitted the rex to win. The third contest, the joust, set him against the handsome and vainglorious Gedain, the heir of the House of Welf.
Sol shone radiant, and the multitude that thronged about the list murmured like a rising tide. Madrot entered first, breast plated in grey steel. Removing his helm, he scanned the assembly to acknowledge their cheers—but found instead that their voices rose only for Gedain, who entered behind him in gleaming harness bright as silver. Gedain doffed his helm, unveiling his comely face to the swooning maidens, and grinned with the boldness of one accustomed to worship. The acclaim swelled. With a flourish he gestured toward Avarlon, who shone surpassingly fair in her silken gown of crimson.
The combatants re-helmed their heads and were led to opposing ends of the arena. Their squires brought forth the lances. At the lowering of the pennon, both warriors spurred their coursers. Gedain charged with a flourish of silver, his confidence brimming near to arrogance; Madrot rode straight and measured, like an arrow loosed. Their lances struck, Gedain’s blow rattled upon Madrot’s shield, yet glanced away; Madrot’s lance smote Gedain’s helm a glancing but telling blow, knocking it askew upon his head. A murmur rippled through the crowd. Gedain wrestled vainly with the helm, his curses betraying the sting to his pride. Madrot, circling back, lifted his visor to receive the due honor— but the throng had eyes only for Gedain’s vexation.
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“I demand another round!” Gedain cried, his voice sharp with choler. “This time I shall not be confounded by this wretched helm.”
“Certainly,” replied Madrot with calm courtesy.
The heralds signaled assent, and the crowd stirred with eager whisperings.
On the second charge, Gedain thundered forward too eagerly; his lance shattered upon Madrot’s shield in a wasteful spray of splinters. Madrot answered with a firm, centered strike to Gedain’s breastplate, denting the metal and near unhorsing him. Gedain reeled, clinging desperately to the saddle. Gasps broke from the assemblage. In fury he tore the helm from his head and flung it aside, demanding another. His squire darted off at once to retrieve one.
Fia, Regent-Mother and Madrot’s elder sister, stood reserved upon the dais, yet a faint and knowing smile betrayed her inward approval.
“One more!” Gedain snarled.
“Art thou certain?” said Madrot. “I have already claimed the victory.”
“To hell with thy victory! One more!”
Madrot took up his lance anew. Gedain’s squire returned with another helm, adorned with an extravagant transverse crest of purple-dyed horsehair. Gedain cursed the choice yet donned it all the same. Subdued laughter rippled through the crowd at the absurd visage. Avarlon clasped her hands together, her brow knit in dread. The squire stepped back. The murmurs faded to silence.
The trumpets blared. The horses leapt. The dust rose like smoke from a smoldering fire. At the moment of meeting, Gedain’s aim wavered again, his lance veering wide. But Madrot’s stroke landed true, a mighty blow beneath the rim of Gedain’s shield. The silver knight was hurled from his saddle like a child’s toy, crashing upon the earth with a thunderous thud. The crowd gasped as one, then all fell still as Gedain rolled about attempting to regain his breath.
Madrot reined his steed with modest grace and saluted the onlookers, though little of their admiration turned toward him. Only Fia, his sister, bestowed him a nod and a proud smile.
Avarlon climbed over the barrier and ran to Gedain’s side. With the aid of his squire she lifted him, half-conscious and groaning, from the dust. Yet ere he limped away, Gedain found strength enough to curse and spit upon the steed that had also “betrayed” him.
Ceryd, who watched with Kethu from beneath the awning, turned to him for his thoughts. Kethu answered softly, eyes on Madrot, “Beware the victor robbed of triumph by a loser’s vanity.”
