Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  At length the heralds’ trumpets blasted out the signal to cease hostilities and a rest period was called. Both teams withdrew to their own ends of the field.

  The hot, stifling helmets were torn off with gasps of relief and the panting knights, their hair matted with sweat, eagerly glugged down fresh, cold spring water that was brought to them in jugs by servants. Field repairs on battered armour were attempted, while physicians did their best to treat minor wounds and abrasions. Dismounted knights took the chance to catch riderless chargers.

  Squires evacuated incapacitated casualties from the middle of the tournament arena. John Talbot was severely dazed and did not know where he was. He was helped off to his tent to receive the attention of a physician. Two other unconscious knights were also carried out of the lists. One, Magnus FitzGerald from Dublin, had incurred a potentially dangerous wound when a lance had pierced his armour. Alain FitzWarin retired from the fray with a broken arm.

  The Venans’ team had taken three prisoners: Henry Copeland, and the two Byssets. The home team likewise had three prisoners. Both teams were now down to ten a side. Savage listened while William Bottelier gave a brief rallying speech.

  ‘Men,’ he began. ‘We are doing well. It’s pretty even at the moment so our first aim is to free our three captured team members so we’ll gain the advantage of numbers. I expect every one of you will do your best but if we put in that little bit of extra effort we’ll have the beating of this lot. Watch each other’s backs. We can’t afford to lose any more men so if you see one of our lot in trouble, help him if you can. You all know what we have to do, so let’s do it.’

  The knights all nodded grimly. Glad of the brief respite, they took the opportunity to get their breaths back while the spectators took the chance to relieve their bladders, place more bets and get some food and drink either from their hampers or from the various merchants, hawkers and vendors in the arena.

  All too soon the trumpets announced that the contest was about to begin again. The knights lined up once more at opposite ends of the arena. Spectators took their seats, their excitement barely contained as they began shouting and cheering even before the action began.

  The second blast from the trumpets unleashed the full roar of the crowd and the knights surged forward to do battle once more. Screaming bloodthirsty battle cries they converged in the centre of the arena, swinging great blows at their opponents.

  Suddenly in the thronging battle a horse stumbled and everyone went down, each charger tripping over its neighbour. Horses screamed and armoured knights were sent tumbling as a horrified gasp burst from the crowd. Savage saw the calamity but with Curoi charging at full speed he could not avoid it. His charger fell and he was launched forward over Curoi’s head. Feeling his body turn right over in the air he clenched his teeth in expectation of the bone-breaking impact.

  By sheer chance Savage landed on the soft flanks of a fallen horse. The mount gave a startled whinny and thrashed beneath him, bucking him off. His fall but not his bones broken, he struggled back to his feet.

  Utter confusion reigned. A tangled mass of bodies – horses and men – writhed on the ground, attempting to extricate themselves from each other. Savage stumbled out of the mess and looked around desperately for Curoi. The horses got to their feet, all except three who would never rise again. There was a chorus of moans from the injured men who could not get up either.

  One of Savage’s team, his shoulder dislocated in the fall, lurched out of the arena for medical attention.

  The battle erupted once more, this time on foot. The danger was heightened as confused, riderless horses cantered aimlessly among the fighters. Swords, maces and blunted axes battered against shields, helmets and armour as the struggle for supremacy continued. Savage caught sight of Montmorency and Patrick de Lacy frog-marching a dazed William Bottelier – clearly beaten into submission – away from the fray towards their prisoner corral.

  Savage abandoned the search for Curoi and set off to attempt a rescue. Adrenaline raced through his veins as he ran across the arena, dodging horses and avoiding fighting knights. The strange exhilarating ecstasy that takes over fighting men – excited by the mixture of fear, anger, injury pain and hair’s-breadth escapes from death – ignited in him. Without thinking he screamed the old Templar battle cry: ‘Beauséant!’

  Montmorency’s head whipped around at the sound, just in time to see the onrushing figure of Savage before he crashed into him. The impact knocked the Knight Hospitaller sprawling onto his back. Savage kept going and ran over the top of him, planting a mailed foot directly on the Hospitaller’s chest on his way over, pausing only slightly to kick the Hospitaller’s dropped sword out of range of his grasp.

  William Bottelier took the chance of having one arm freed and shoved de Lacy away to free his other. De Lacy went after Savage with his sword. Bottelier grabbed Montmorency’s fallen sword from the ground and began attacking the fallen Hospitaller.

  Savage was just turning to face the danger when de Lacy caught him a powerful blow across his right shoulder. Savage staggered at the impact but his chest plate held. He struck back, swinging the great sword of war towards de Lacy’s torso. De Lacy jumped back to avoid the blow, but the length of the blade was such that he could not get far enough away in time. The blade smashed into de Lacy on his left side, somewhere near the ribs. He gasped as the wind was driven from his lungs. Savage took advantage and struck again, swinging overhead and hitting de Lacy on the helmet. De Lacy went down, dazed and winded. He dropped his weapon and vaguely raised his hands to show he surrendered.

  Montmorency was a fearsome warrior, but unarmed and on the ground, Bottelier had total advantage and soon forced him to surrender.

  Bottelier and Savage led their prisoners back to the corral.

  ‘What was that battle cry you were shouting, Savage?’ Montmorency hissed.

  Savage ignored him.

  When they got to the prisoner corral they found Henry de Thrapston, who was feeling very silly. He had attempted to rescue one of the Byssets only to have been captured himself by Percy de Troye, the knight who was guarding the corral for the Venans’ team.

  ‘Come on,’ Bottelier shouted to Savage. ‘We have them!’

  ‘I’ll come too,’ Percy de Troye said. ‘They don’t have enough men left to try to rescue any of our prisoners.’

  He was right. Of the original thirty men, only thirteen were still capable of fighting. Five of the Tenans’ team knights were left, who were struggling with five of Savage’s team. Savage, Bottelier and de Troye would make an extra three-man advantage.

  Despite aching muscles they charged back into the fray, screaming like furies. Almost immediately one of their teammates fell and their advantage was cut by one. Percy de Troye attacked his assailant while Bottelier joined Tristan FitzPatrick in his battle against another Ulster knight. Savage joined Percy de Troye and they were both soon knocking their opponents backwards.

  Suddenly Savage was knocked to the ground. John Bysset had rendered his opponent unconscious and dashed over, dealing Savage a powerful blow with his deadly mace. Savage hit the ground and turned over onto his back to see Bysset standing over him, swinging the mace down at him. Desperately, Savage rolled to his right. The mace head sunk into the turf with a soft thunk. While Bysset freed his mace Savage frantically scrambled to his feet.

  He had just made it when Bysset took another huge swipe at him. Savage brought both hands up, inverting the pommel of the sword of war so the mace shaft hit the sword blade and blocked the blow.

  Savage spun round in the opposite direction, the great sword sweeping an arc. Bysset saw this and blocked with his shield.

  Bysset struck again, swinging his mace at Savage’s head. Savage blocked the blow again but this time only succeeded in slowing the blow down before it hit the faceplate of his helmet. The heavy iron head of the mace smashed the helmet in, thumping into his left cheek and bursting a gush of blood from his nose and split lips.

>   Savage staggered backwards, hundreds of little twinkling stars spinning before his vision. Bysset went for him again. Savage managed to dodge sideways and Bysset missed. The weight of his miscarried blow set him off balance and made him stagger.

  Savage took advantage and sprang away from his opponent to take up a defensive stance facing Bysset, ready for his next assault.

  Suddenly there was a bang and Savage felt something strike his chest. The impact made him stagger backwards. Confused, he looked about him. No one was near enough to strike him. For a second he wondered if he had imagined it. Perhaps the blow to his head had befuddled his senses?

  He looked down: an arrow was lying at his feet, its shaft broken and the long, thin head – designed for piercing chain mail – was bent almost double from the impact with his plate armour.

  Savage looked about wildly. Someone had shot at him.

  This was completely against the rules of the tournament. No darts, arrows or shooting weapons were allowed, on pain of death. There was no one in the arena who could have shot at him, and surely no one in the seats would have. A brief movement caught his eye and he saw a figure up on the roof of the stands where the spectators sat. Savage shaded his eyes with one hand to get a better look and got a brief glimpse of a man on the roof. He was wrapped up in a large heavy cloak and was slinging a bow over one shoulder. Within moments the man had disappeared out of sight.

  At that moment, Bysset attacked him again. Savage caught sight of a movement out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively he leapt backwards and put enough distance between himself and Bysset’s mace that the intended blow glanced off his chest plate.

  Savage growled and swung his great sword overhead, smashing it down onto Bysset’s upraised shield. Savage felt cold rage flowing through his veins. His nostrils flared and his eyes took on an empty aspect. He now intended to finish this.

  Bysset desperately tried to defend himself as Savage commenced a merciless onslaught of blows that forced him staggering backwards. Savage struck again and again, smashing with his sword until Bysset’s shield fell apart. Savage continued to rain blows on Bysset, striking now at the helmet. He kept on hitting until the helmet burst asunder to reveal Bysset’s startled, blood-streaked face.

  As this final blow landed, however, the disintegration of Bysset’s helmet caused Savage’s sword to twist and fall out of his grip.

  Bysset, despite his glazed eyes, saw Savage had lost his weapon and raised his mace.

  Savage had only one weapon left.

  He slammed his mailed fist into Bysset’s handsome face, smashing his nose, splitting his lips, breaking one tooth and knocking another out completely. Bysset fell to his knees, his eyes rolled wildly then he pitched forward, unconscious, landing face first in the dust.

  The immediate danger removed, Savage’s own fatigue and grogginess took over. His muscles ached. His back and shoulder hurt from the blows he had received. His face was numb and he could taste blood in his mouth. Encased in his armour, he was unbearably hot. His vision swam and he staggered, about to fall.

  William le Bottelier suddenly appeared beside him and grabbed his arm, steadying him. Savage could hear excited cheers from the spectators.

  ‘It’s over Savage!’ de Troye exclaimed. ‘We’ve won!’

  Savage’s eyes closed and he collapsed.

  21

  Slowly, painfully, Savage opened his eyes. His head was sore and his body ached. For a second he wondered what he was doing lying in a hammock in a tent but then the memories of the tournament flooded back.

  He was back in Henry de Thrapston’s tent, still clad in the battered remnants of his armour, the hilt of his sword still grasped in his right hand.

  ‘So here is the King of England’s lion!’ The voice of William Bottelier burst through the tent flap as he entered. With him was his father, Edmund, the Justiciar of Ireland, and the Seneschal of Ulster, Thomas de Mandeville.

  Savage struggled to raise himself but the justiciar waved his hand.

  ‘Don’t bother getting up,’ he said, smiling. ‘You deserve a rest after your exploits today. The crowd was calling you a second John de Courcy. How are you?’

  ‘A bit groggy,’ Savage mumbled through bruised lips.

  ‘You did magnificently,’ Edmund Bottelier praised. ‘When you rescued my son it turned the whole melee around. The Ulster Tenans’ team did not stand a chance after that. Look.’ He pointed at the sword still grasped in Savage’s hand and addressed the other two: ‘They couldn’t even take his sword from him when he was passed out.’

  ‘Where’s Henry de Thrapston?’ Savage asked. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Oh he’s all right,’ the seneschal commented. ‘He’s getting stuck into the wine with the rest of the losing team. They’re drowning their sorrows.’

  ‘What about that man Talbot?’ Savage wondered. ‘I saw him get hit by Montmorency’s horse.’

  Everyone nodded seriously.

  ‘He took a nasty blow, but the physician says he should recover,’ Thomas de Mandeville said. ‘He’s resting in his tent at the moment. I see you’ve won yourself another lady’s favour,’ he commented with a sly smile. ‘Edith de Thrapston will be jealous.’

  Savage was initially perplexed as to what the seneschal was talking about, but then he saw that wrapped around the pommel of the sword in his hand was the ragged green sleeve of a woman’s dress. It must have become entangled on his weapon when he was battering the helmet of one of his opponents.

  ‘Although not half as jealous as John Bysset will be,’ de Mandeville added. ‘That’s the favour Alys de Logan gave him.’

  Savage’s face flushed.

  ‘Get some rest. We’ll see you later,’ the justiciar said as they all began to file out of the tent. ‘Well done, Syr Savage.’ He stopped and pressed a hand on Savage’s shoulder, locked eyes and added in a low voice: ‘Seneschal de Mandeville and I have spoken. You and I will talk seriously later, once you have a chance to recover from the tournament.’

  Savage nodded to show he understood.

  They all left and a fussing physician arrived. He was a small, fidgety, nervous man who helped Savage out of his armour and examined his injuries. Savage’s shoulder was badly bruised, as was the point below his ribs where the morning star had hit him. His left cheek was battered and swollen and his lips were split, but his nose was not broken. The physician applied compresses of lavender and sage that were held in place by bandages around the body. After he had administered his treatments he left, telling Savage to rest.

  Stiff and sore as he was, Savage did not feel like resting. Now he was alone, he reached into his undercoat and retrieved the encrypted message the mad preacher le Poer had given him earlier.

  It took some time, but luckily Savage was not disturbed for long enough to work out the hidden meaning of the message. It read:

  Syr Richard Savage,

  King Edward – your king – sends you greetings and urges that you report to him on the situation in Ireland as soon as you can. The Scots Parliament has gathered at Ayr and a very large fleet has been assembled there also. The king requires whatever information you have that may be of help. Syr John Talbot of Carrickfergus is a trusted knight who can safely relay messages. I will tell you all I know when we meet later.

  Guilleme le Poer

  Carefully and deliberately, Savage tore the message into tiny, irretrievable pieces. He then got up, dressed and left the tent, deciding he would pay a visit to John Talbot. Hopefully he was not too badly injured.

  The people in the tent opposite de Thrapston’s gave him directions to Talbot’s tent and he set off, weaving his way between the tangle of colourful marquees and busy, happy people. At last he came to the tent bedecked with Talbot’s blue and green heraldic colours.

  Savage swept open the tent flap to enter.

  A harsh, Northern Irish voice stopped Savage in his tracks. ‘Someone’s killed him.’

  Crouching just inside the tent was Connor M
acHuylin. He seemed to be examining the ground. Savage looked past him to see John Talbot lying in his hammock. Talbot’s eyes were open, as if staring at the roof of the tent, but he was most definitely dead. Bright crimson blood still oozed from a stab wound to his heart and dribbled from a long, smile-like gash beneath his chin. His white shirt was soaked in gore and the blood dripped from the hammock into a dark puddle on the ground beneath.

  ‘There’s tracks here at the tent entrance and from these footprints I’d say there was two of them,’ the Irishman announced, rising to his feet. Savage found himself looking up at MacHuylin who was about a head taller than him.

  ‘How do I know you didn’t do it?’ Savage challenged.

  The galloglaich glanced at Savage with a look of annoyance similar to one he would give to a pestering fly or midge.

  ‘Wise up,’ he said, brushing Savage aside and leaving the tent.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Savage persisted. ‘Who killed him?’

  MacHuylin turned to face Savage. ‘I think we’d better start trying to find that out, don’t you? I saw Talbot take that tumble in the tournament and came to see how he was. I found him like you saw him. Now, while we’re standing here blethering, whoever killed him is getting away. Are you going to help me or are you going to get in my way?’

  ‘We should ask the people in the tent opposite if they saw anyone enter or leave this tent except you,’ Savage suggested.

  ‘Bit of a hero today, weren’t you, Savage?’ MacHuylin commented as he marched off to the tent opposite. Sitting outside it were the wife and manservant of one of the knights in the tournament.

  ‘Hallo there,’ MacHuylin began. ‘Have you been sitting here long?’

  ‘Since the melee finished,’ the woman replied.

  ‘Did you see John Talbot being brought back to his tent?’ the Irishman enquired.