from Chapter Eight: The Warriors Enter     

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     One hundred warriors competed in the festival’s tournament, no more and no less. Even in the darkest days when the kingdom was at war and most of the knights were fighting at the battle front, squires not more than a few months into service gasped and panted under the weight of their master’s armor in order to fill the required number of participants. The number was derived from the legendary battle that King Edmund and 99 other knights fought against an invading army of Celts from the north that numbered in the thousands, although the actual number was unknown and exaggerated for patriotic effect. Nevertheless, this brave 100, encamped in their mountain fortress, withstood a siege that lasted throughout the winter and then defeated the invaders after the spring rains came over the mountains. King Edmund was reported to have seen Weylin, the wolf protector, in a vision the morning before the decisive battle. It was from this victory that the annual festival was born, and the tournament of military prowess followed to commemorate the 100 that fought for the kingdom.

     There were no real rules for tournament participants, other than if there were more men who wanted to fight than there were slots in the tournament, the eldest son of the family was granted entry. Past winners were also prevented from entering, although none had ever asked. Quinn hadn’t participated since he won the year before he was married, which was now six years ago. Kane always fought with vigor, and most of the folk who gathered to wager on the winner were placing their malcolms on the king’s second son. He was skilled and smart as well as vicious and ruthless. He fought without mercy or fear. Had his father’s kingdom been at war, he would have been hailed as a hero, a fact that further grated over and over again in his mind. Dylan was determined that this year would be his last.

     The warriors came from every kimdom, and a few came from other kingdoms that were friendly to Llanfyllin. They lined up single file beginning on the far side of the city and marched through the streets, hailed with cheers and showered with coins, ribbons and other tokens of esteem from the cheering crowds that lined the route. The largest entourage was from the youngest son of the Kim of Gwynedd, another of the king’s nephews. He was resplendent in shining silver armor without spot or blemish. One squire marched before him, proudly carrying the flag with the crest of Gwynedd, and no less than 24 squires and servants followed his enormous chestnut stallion.

     Each warrior wore armor—most wore metal in various states of shine, although some of the armor was so battle-scarred that no amount of polish would ever bring back its original gleam. Yet the young men who wore such armor, passed down to them from father or uncle, wore it with well-deserved pride. A few brave souls wore simple chain-mail armor and in a couple of cases, heavy leather, which would result in broken ribs from the melee, the first event. Those poorer participants had one or two servants with them and were the longest of long shots, at least as far as the gamblers were concerned, and yet they held their heads high with pride for being able to take part in the tournament.

     As each man reached the castle gates, he passed through, dismounted from his horse in the large open area below the sight of the king and the kims, and then removed his helmet and bowed in respect and homage to the king. At this point, the minister of state, who had been given the name of each warrior in the order they proceeded, would call out the warrior’s name and the land from which he came. The privilege of being first was afforded to the 18-year-old son of the Captain of the Guard at Llandrinded. “Entered into the tournament as knight-at-arms, Ian Aberdare, son of Ludlow, of the kimdom of Llandrinded,” the minister bellowed. The surrounding crowd cheered as if he had been declared the winner by default, and so it went throughout the morning. The introduction of the warriors took several hours, yet no one tired of cheering each of the men as they were introduced.

     The last twenty or so warriors were the ones who had no real chance of winning the tournament. Most were mere boys, some barely big enough to wear the armor. Nobody begrudged them their place in the tournament, though; every warrior had fought in his first tournament as a boy. It was valuable experience that helped them grow into wise men and valiant knights. Although the crowd had thinned somewhat, and the cheers were nowhere as enthusiastic, each boy took his place with the others with anticipation and pride.

     Finally, the last warrior rode through the castle gates. This one caught everyone’s attention, and not because he was the last. He wore black armor, polished as dark as a moonless night sky. The onlookers could see their reflections cast back at them. His helmet was tapered back and rounded, like a wasp’s tail, and the visor was pushed down. What would have made him more impressive was if his size had matched the quality of his armor. Even on horseback, it was clear that the young warrior couldn’t be more than 13 or 14 years old. Whoever he was, he had inherited an impressive suit of armor.

     He brought his horse to a stop, slid off with catlike grace and speed, and stood in the open area where the others had bowed to the king. The minister of state unrolled the last scroll with the black knight’s name and kimdom. He took a breath to read the scroll, and then stopped, as if he thought he had misread the name. He looked up at the king’s balcony, raised an eyebrow, cleared his throat and said, “Entered into the tournament as knight-at-arms, Siannon O’Riordan, daughter of Michael, from the land of Wicklow across the sea.” Siannon took off her helmet, and her hair, black as her armor and tied in a ponytail, fell down her back. Unfazed by the gasps from the crowd, she curtseyed to the king as gracefully as any courtier ever did.

     The crowd around her whispered to each other. The whispers grew to mutters and spread out through the crowd like fire through dry summer grass. The mutters became interjected with shouts and jeers, then the whole din grew to a roar, all directed at the young woman standing alone in the castle courtyard. Siannon stood erect, not moving, not breathing, never averting her eyes from the king’s balcony overhead.