Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘And you must wear mine, John,’ Alys de Logan said, taking off her sleeve.

  ‘You’re sure that there’s no one else you’d rather give it to, my dear?’ Bysset swaggered. ‘There’s poor Syr Richard there with no one’s favour to wear but an old married woman’s! Whatever will people say?’

  They all laughed, except Savage.

  ‘Syr Henry, we need to organise ourselves for the tournament.’ Montmorency addressed de Thrapston. ‘Syr Richard, if you don’t mind, we’d like to talk tactics.’

  This was Savage’s cue to leave. ‘I’ll go and join my own team,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll find them at the south end of the lists,’ Montmorency informed him. ‘Oh, and watch out for any invading Scotsmen, won’t you?’ he added with a chiding laugh.

  ‘I’ll see you all in the arena,’ Savage said. He turned and went to find the knights he would be fighting with.

  The Venans’ knights from out of town had gathered at the southern end of the arena. Savage introduced himself and was told that he would fight in the vanguard. Briefly the tactics were outlined. There were fifteen knights on each team and the two teams would line up at opposite ends of the arena, facing each other. The opposing teams would then attack each other in a confusion of combat known as a melee. At each team’s end of the arena was a tall pole surrounded by a small roped-off corral area. The idea was either to beat your opponent senseless or, if he surrendered, take him to the corral where he was honour-bound to stay, either until the end of the tournament or until one of his team rescued him. To prevent the latter, two of Savage’s team were assigned to stay back and guard the corral once prisoners had been taken. This rear guard consisted of two Dublin knights, Tristan FitzPatrick and Magnus FitzGerald.

  The man who was to lead the side was the justiciar’s son, William le Bottelier. He wore magnificently burnished armour that reflected the sunlight like a dazzling steel mirror. The Bottelier arms were proudly emblazoned on his surcoat and on the horse he led by the reins.

  Servants brought the other knights’ horses forward and they all mounted, struggling to fit themselves into the heavy wooden war saddles that would hold them upright on their steeds. The knights then hung their shields around their necks by the strap.

  ‘Right,’ William Bottelier said, tersely. ‘Let’s show this lot what we can do.’

  Squires brought forward each man’s weapons. Savage slung the big sword of war across his back by a leather thong. Each knight then rode his horse forward and collected a lance from a stand, before forming up at their end of the lists.

  Trumpets blared and a hush descended on the crowd. A herald stepped out into the middle of the arena, just in front of the canopied stage, which held the most prestigious spectators: the Red Earl and his wife the Countess Margaret, the justiciar Edmund Bottelier and the seneschal – Thomas de Mandeville – and his wife Elizabeth. In a loud, ringing voice the herald announced the rules of the tournament. No missiles of any kind, neither arrows, darts nor throwing knives, were to be brought into the arena. No short swords, knives, daggers or stabbing weapons were allowed and all blades must be blunt. The penalty for breaking any of these rules was death.

  The knights donned their final pieces of armour. They drew on heavy, chain mail gauntlets then pulled padded leather skullcaps onto their heads. Over these they put cumbersome, flat-topped iron helmets that had a slit to see out of and holes punched in the front to allow breathing.

  The herald left the arena and it was almost time to begin.

  As he breathed in through the grill of his helmet, Savage could taste the acrid taint of iron in the air on his tongue. For him, this was the worst part, the last few moments before the melee began. There was nothing else to occupy the mind, nothing more to prepare, nothing to do but wait for what was to come.

  He surveyed the opposition who were lined up facing them one hundred yards away at the other end of the arena. Montmorency was in front, the leader of the team. Dressed in black armour, the Hospitaller’s surcoat was a simple white with a black cross on it. Behind him lined out the other fourteen knights that made up the Ulster team. In garish red armour was John Bysset. Beside Bysset Savage recognised John Talbot’s green and blue surcoat. Savage also recognised the coats of armour of Patrick de Lacy, a Copeland and two more Byssets, Alain FitzWarin was there, as of course was Henry de Thrapston. The identity of the other six knights he could not be sure of.

  The warhorse shifted beneath Savage. A massive creature, the knight’s charger was itself a weapon, used for battering and crushing enemy troops. Weighing close to a ton, the horse was trained to respond to the rider’s vocal commands. In the clamour of war when the hands were occupied with fighting, a knight could not always grip the reins. Savage had been assured by de Thrapston that this horse, Curoi, who was from de Thrapston’s own stables, was excellent and reliable. He hoped de Thrapston was right as his own personal safety now depended on it. De Thrapston had told him that Curoi was so intelligent he understood commands shouted in French or Irish. Savage had replied that he did not care if the horse understood Arabic, as long as it did what he told it to.

  The heralds raised their trumpets. The knights lowered their lances into charging position. Last-minute nerves sloshed around Savage’s stomach like cold soup. The heralds sounded loud blasts. The crowd erupted into bloodthirsty cheers.

  The melee began.

  19

  On the hill above the tournament arena, another group of men were also preparing for combat. At the edge of the tree line where the meadowland swept steeply upwards to become heavily wooded hillside, sixteen men were changing out of linen shirts and pulling on chain mail armour, coifs and padded leather jerkins while they made final checks of their weapons. Spears, knives and swords were sharpened and crossbows test-fired. Their leader was tall and muscular, his chest and arms crossed with scars that told of previous battles. His hair was long and dark brown, tied back out of the way behind his head.

  ‘Look at them: their lordships playing at war.’ He spoke in Gaelic, his voice heavy with contempt as he looked down on the knights lining up for the tournament below. ‘We’ll give them a real one soon enough.’

  ‘King Domnall, why don’t we attack now while they’re at play, and kill as many of them as we can?’ one of the warriors asked as he struggled to pull on a blue hooded tunic over his chain mail. ‘I don’t like lurking around up here. They say these woods are haunted.’

  Domnall mac Brian Ui Neill, King of the Clan Eoghan, smiled. ‘Diarmuid, if they are, it’s the ghosts who should be scared of you, not the other way round. I admire your courage and fighting spirit, though. But even though you are my best warriors, hand-picked for this mission, there are far too few of us to take on fully armoured knights. No, men, we’ve been given a special task by King Robert of Scotland, crucial to the success of the coming invasion that will sweep these foreigners off our land and into the sea. That’s why we’re here, and that’s why I, your king, chose to accompany you on this dangerous but glorious mission.’

  ‘Why do we have to wear this foreign war gear?’ another of the warriors grumbled, a trickle of sweat running down his face. ‘It’s too heavy. We won’t be able to run or move. If we’re killed wearing this no one will know we are warriors from the Kingdom of Tyr Eoghan. There won’t be much glory in it for us.’

  King Domnall chuckled. ‘That, Aodh, is precisely the idea. If we are caught or killed, no one is to know who we are or where we came from. That would destroy the surprise. When the Scottish army lands on the eastern shores of Ulster our army will attack from the west at the same time. We want them as unprepared for that as possible. But do not worry about posterity, my fine warriors. That’s why we have brought this man along with us.’

  The king slapped a large hand on the shoulder of the pale, thin man standing beside him. Like the others he had crawled into chain mail and hooded tunic but his slight frame barely filled the armoured vest, leaving it hanging in folds around hi
m. Clearly no warrior, he had a steel helmet on his head that was too big for him and sat at an awkward tilted angle, making him look ridiculous.

  ‘My king, I was wondering what use I will be on this mission,’ the man said, pushing the helmet back so he could see properly. ‘I am your chief poet. I’m no use in a fight.’

  ‘And I don’t want you getting into one, Suibne,’ the king replied. ‘Men, our task is to sow terror and confusion throughout the earldom so they’re in disarray when the Scottish army arrives. That job starts today. King Robert has agents down at the earl’s jousting tournament. Their job is to kill a few of the key people who are likely to get in the way of the Scots. We will provide cover for them and make sure they escape. Your job, Suibne, is to witness everything that happens, and record it in poetry for posterity. If King Domnall Ui Neill falls today disguised as a foreigner and miles from his home, I want to make damn sure everyone knows what happened. So if there is any fighting, Suibne, you hide. Watch what happens, but don’t get involved. You’re no use to anyone if you don’t survive to tell the tale of what we did and the part we played in Edward Bruce’s war for our freedom.’

  Suibne the poet sighed and was quiet for a few moments.

  ‘King Domnall,’ he eventually said. ‘As your court poet, by ancient rite I have a certain… licence to say what others dare not. That is true isn’t it?’

  The king nodded, but his grin became fixed. He was not the sort of man who appreciated any form of contradiction of his authority. People did what he told them and that was the way he liked it.

  ‘Well using this fool’s pardon,’ Suibne continued, ‘I feel there are a few things I should ask.’

  ‘Go on,’ King Domnall said, his tone of voice suggesting more threat than encouragement.

  ‘Why are we in league with the Scots?’ Suibne the poet asked. ‘If Edward Bruce succeeds, won’t we just swap one lot of foreign overlords for another lot?’

  King Domnall shook his head. ‘Surely you know that our enemy’s enemy is our friend? Besides, the King of Scotland holds the most holy treasure, the sacred vessel. Is that not an unmistakable sign that God favours King Robert Bruce? If God is on his side, do you want to be against God? Let’s not forget too that the Scots speak our language, share our culture. They’re our cousins, not strangers. Edward Bruce is Earl of Carrick – the heartland of Alba’s ghaeltacht. This will be the foundation of a great Gaelic alliance that will sweep the English out of this island. Perhaps more.’

  Suibne gave a sly smile. ‘True, my lord,’ he said. ‘Edward and Robert de Bruce have Gaelic blood on their mother’s side, but on their father’s side? They’re no different from our own French-speaking foreign overlords down there.’

  King Domnall grunted. ‘Well I’d rather have an overlord that was half a Gael than all English. We and the Scots have much in common. Hundreds of years ago, before they went across the sea to claim Alba, the Scots lived in Ireland. Their Stone of Destiny is Irish sandstone, taken by the Kings of Dal Riada across the Moyle Sea to their new kingdom when they founded Scotland. Now they are returning to their former home to help their cousins.’

  Now it was Suibne’s turn to laugh. ‘I know that very well, my king,’ he said. ‘As court poet, part of my training was to learn the history and lineage of the Ui Neill kings, stretching right back to Niall of the Nine Hostages himself, and even beyond to the time before time and the coming of the Milesians to Ireland.’

  ‘So you know I speak the truth,’ King Domnall stated.

  ‘But those Scots you speak of have always been our enemies, my king. The Ui Neills have fought their kingdoms of Ulidh and Dal Riada for centuries. It was your noble ancestors who drove them out of this island to Scotland. Now you are inviting them back.’

  King Domnall took a step closer. His muscular frame towered over the much smaller poet and he glowered down at him.

  ‘Suibne MacDunlevy,’ the king growled in a low voice. ‘As you say, your position as court poet keeps you safe from harm. Ancient rite states that the king cannot harm his bard, and his bard is free to speak his mind. So he acts as the king’s conscience. I cannot touch you if you displease me. But if you really displease me, I can always remove you from your position as court poet, and then—’ he said with a thoroughly unpleasant smile ‘—then you will be fair game.’

  Suibne swallowed hard. The king held his gaze for a few moments, then he turned to his warriors to see that they were now all prepared.

  ‘Right men,’ the king said. ‘Let’s get back into the trees and wait for the killing to begin.’

  20

  Spurs dug into horses’ flanks. Steeds surged forward. Starting at a slow trundle, the chargers soon reached full thundering gallop as the knights rushed towards each other. In the crash of metal on metal, the whinnying of horses and screaming of battle cries they crunched together.

  Montmorency and John Bysset both charged towards Savage.

  Savage knew Talbot’s reach advantage would be dangerous if he got close, so aimed at him with the lance. At full gallop, he veered past Montmorency and Bysset, whose lance missed him by inches.

  Talbot saw him coming and levelled his lance at Savage’s chest. At the same time he grasped his shield handle, raising it to cover himself. Savage also grabbed his shield but pushed it away from himself as Talbot’s lance struck, masterfully deflecting the harmful point. His own lance point struck Talbot’s shield dead centre. Talbot was carried clean off the saddle of his charger and flipped head over heels. Savage’s lance shivered then shattered at the impact, leaving him with a four-feet long stump in his hand.

  Savage roared: ‘Arretez!’

  For his size and considering the momentum he had gathered, Curoi reared to a halt amazingly quickly, so quickly that Savage nearly fell off.

  Grabbing the reins he pulled the horse around through a full turn so he was facing back the way he had come. Montmorency and Bysset had also halted their charges and turned around and both were now charging at him again. Either they were out to get him or they saw him as a threat to their team. Montmorency had obviously been lying when he mocked Savage.

  Savage could not fight both of them at once. Neither had he time to speed out of the way.

  Talbot, dazed from his tumble, got to his feet but suddenly staggered backwards into the path of Montmorency. The Hospitaller’s horse smashed into him and Talbot disappeared beneath the hooves. Savage, dismayed, hoped Talbot’s armour would save him from serious injury. He had seemed a decent man.

  Savage dug in his spurs and Curoi began lumbering forward. Montmorency and Bysset’s rapidly approaching lance points were converging on Savage’s chest. Suddenly Savage dug his spurs in deep and screamed the order to charge: ‘Foncez!’

  The horse started violently to a gallop and Savage slipped between the lances, escaping through the tight gap between Bysset’s and Montmorency’s horses.

  Amid curses, his attackers reined their chargers to a halt, both stopping simultaneously. Montmorency turned his horse left. Bysset wheeled his horse right. They collided in mid turn and Montmorency was knocked off his mount.

  Savage saw none of this as it happened behind him, but laughed with glee at his success in evading them. He slowed his horse, but did not see another of the Tenans’ team, Henry Copeland, closing rapidly on him from behind. Henry Copeland’s lance had been shattered in another combat and he now brandished his second weapon: a morning star. This horrific instrument was a wooden stick with a chain attached, on the end of which was a lethal iron ball. Copeland swung it around his head then struck at Savage as he rode past.

  The ball impacted Savage on the back, just below his ribs, smashing the plate armour and sending a sharp pain through his body. The force of the blow knocked him forward and if not for his automatic reaction of grasping his horse’s neck he would have fallen off.

  Copeland slowed his charger and turned around to attack Savage again, this time from the front. Savage heaved himself back into an upright
position, the shattered back plate armour falling off as he did so. He saw Copeland coming and realised he had no time to draw his sword. Copeland swiped once more.

  Savage held up the broken lance stump in line with his face where the morning star was aimed. The chain hit the lance and the iron ball chain harmlessly wrapped itself around it. Savage wrenched the lance and tore the morning star out of Henry Copeland’s hand. Unwrapping the morning star would take too much time so Savage dropped both lance and star and grabbed Copeland’s knee as he rode past. Savage heaved upwards and Copeland, completely surprised by this unexpected move, toppled sideways off his horse.

  The pain from Copeland’s attack provoked Savage’s anger. He dropped his shield to hang from its strap and tore the thongs off his sword pommel and ripped it from its place on his back. The fallen Copeland, struggling to his knees, only had time to raise his shield to protect his head before Savage began a vicious rain of blows on him from above. The massive sword blade crashed relentlessly onto the upheld shield. Copeland was unable to raise himself any further. With a crack Copeland’s shield gave way and came apart. The bindings unravelled and handles fell off, leaving Henry Copeland totally unprotected. He howled with dismay and looked up in horror to see the terrifying sight of Savage on his horse above him, the huge sword raised to bring down another deadly blow.

  Copeland screamed out his surrender.

  Savage accepted Copeland’s surrender. He led his prisoner to the corral where the battered remnants of the heraldic crest on his shield were hoisted onto the tall pole to show everyone he had been captured. Seeing that it was one of the Tenans who had been captured, the local crowd jeered.

  Savage charged back into the thick of the fighting.

  The frantic combat continued. Pieces of shattered lances and broken armour littered the ground. Swords flashed in the sunlight as they hacked up and down. Helmets were hewn and sheared. Knights sported wounds and bright red blood splashed across their armour. Men on horseback fought other riders or mercilessly swung at men on foot. Dismounted knights fought each other or did their best to knock riders off their steeds. Casualties mounted, as did the numbers of prisoners taken.