He collected the sack, surprised at its weight, and peered into it.
It contained a crested helmet, a beautifully worked, silvered steel hauberk complete with hood and mittens, a dyed doe-skin gambeson, soft and supple, and a folded silk tabard, decorated with brilliant green leaves on the sleeves and borders. Frowning at such a practical display of generosity – the hauberk alone was worth a prince’s ransom – he straightened up to thank her. She had gone, leaving him with his armour. Well, he thought, now I have been dressed by two women.
* * *
There were no banners or pennants in evidence, no fruit stalls or palmists’ booths, no jugglers, acrobats, monkey men or fabliaux tellers. Dogs and children ran excitedly about the stamped earth bailey, aware that the day’s routine had been interrupted without caring why. The children, offspring of servant girls, soldiers’ wives and camp followers, were anxious to show off their speed and agility before the growing number of spectators. They ran better, they felt, if they screamed, so they opened their lungs, inspiring their friends to shriek and the dogs to snarl and worry their ankles. Around the perimeter of this noisy play-pen the adults assembled: off-duty soldiers and their women, civilians from the lower town, workmen who had managed to slip away from the armouries, or bakeries, or mason’s yard. The garrison captains, Azo and his cousin Aegelric, were there – ‘Pray God that Saladin does not attack us now!’ – plus a group of Syrian traders who had stopped off on their way to Damascus – ‘Is it not better that we pay the Lord of al-Kerak the toll he demands than risk losing the entire caravan?’ And there were the members of Reynald’s household: maids and jongleurs, clerks and troubadours, cooks and interpreters. Some had brought blankets and cushions and had settled down on the steps and in doorways. Others stood on the battlements, their backs to the sloping merlons, or sat with their feet dangling over the inner edge of the wall. They were dressed in warm working clothes, and those who had thought ahead refreshed themselves with wine and meat-in-muslin.
The combatants had not yet appeared. Reynald was being dressed in an anteroom beneath the Great Hall, while Humphrey was left alone in a storehouse, above which were the lofts that held Kerak’s messenger pigeons. The young man’s armour – taken from him when he was first locked in his chambers – had been dumped in the storehouse. Fortunately, no one had inspected the contents of his sack, and he placed it beside his own stained gambeson and much-repaired hauberk. The storehouse was damp and unlit, the floor spotted with pigeon droppings and slippery with rotted straw. He stood for a moment, listening to the noise from the inner bailey, then undressed and took the doe-skin shirt from the sack. Without help it was difficult to don the silvered hauberk, but he managed it, laced the tabard at the shoulders, then reclaimed his sword and cingulum. He buckled the decorated belt, fumbled in the darkness for the polished, crested helmet and tried it on. As with the rest of Stephanie’s presents, it fitted well. He suspected that the overall affect was patchwork – his boots, sword, scabbard and belt were old and worn – but he was glad that he had supplied some part of his outfit.
He searched for the door, then remembering Isabella’s brooch, went over to his cast-off clothes and unpinned it from the pelisson. He fixed it to the silk tabard, changed his mind – the tabard might be ripped and the brooch lost – and pushed the pin through one strap of his sword-hanger. If the brooch was magicked – If? Of course it was magicked; – perhaps its rays would reach his horse and saddle.
He heard a roar of acclaim from the crowd and guessed that Reynald had appeared in the yard. The sound frightened him and he laid his palms together and whispered a short, uncertain prayer:
’Sweet Jesus, aid me. If I am to die, help me do so as a man. If not, give me the strength to oppose him – that’s my Lord Reynald, I’m to fight him – so I don’t disgrace myself or the House of Toron. I don’t want this day. You know that, but he gives me no choice in the matter. Praise be to God the Father and Christ the Son. Amen.’
Then he found the storehouse door and rapped on it. A guard opened it and motioned him out.
* * *
The dogs and children had been chased from the bailey, and a solid-looking quintain erected near the west wall. This structure consisted of a tall oak post, the lower end of which was driven deep into the ground, while the upper supported a bracketed cross-bar. A captured Moslem shield had been nailed to one arm of the cross-bar, a bag of sand tied to the other. The weight of sand equated that of the wood and leather shield, so that the balanced beam would revolve laterally if the shield was struck.
Humphrey had tilted at a quintain before, but at the simpler man-on-a-pole version. He understood the purpose of the crossbeam and hoped he could duck in time. Otherwise, he risked being caught by the sandbag and knocked forward from his horse. He shrugged and walked out into the bailey.
The crowd saw the silk tabard, the flash of silvered steel, the bright blue horsehair on the tufted crest of his helmet. They applauded wildly, convinced that Humphrey himself must have raised the money for his armour, selling and saving in preparation for this day. They welcomed such a display of confidence – God knew, Humphrey of Toron was a feeble soldier, but he was a likeable enough young man – and a few of them dared to wish him well. He did not respond to the cheers, but continued across the yard to where Reynald waited with horses, weapons and attendants. When he reached his dully armed stepfather he bowed and said, ‘I see you still want to work me into a warrior. Then go to it. These people have waited long enough.’
In the time it had taken for Humphrey to cross the bailey, Reynald’s emotions had swung from bored disdain to blazing animosity. He was dumbfounded by his stepson’s appearance. He had seen Humphrey’s armour as it was being dumped in the storehouse and had remarked on it at the time, making much of the theory that the rusty hauberk would probably fall apart during the first contest. He knew, too, that Humphrey had been under close guard for several weeks, and that there was no way by which he could have obtained new armour. Yet he had managed it somehow. And not merely new armour, but one of the most expensive outfits he had ever seen. Hell’s fangs, how had the bony bookworm fixed that?
He cleared his throat and charged, ‘Where did you get it? Your petty resources don’t stretch this far. Who advanced you the money?’
‘Nobody, Lord Prince.’
‘Liar! You stand there, dressed like a coin, telling me—’
‘I tell you that no money passed hands, either way.’
Reynald slapped the back of his mailed hand against Humphrey’s chest. ‘Then I ask you again. Where did you get this finery?’
‘It was a present.’
‘Now, now,’ Reynald warned. ‘The silk and silver make you uncommonly insolent. Nobody gives you presents these days. Not if they value their life.’
The crowd could not hear the words and muttered impatiently. Reynald rounded on them, glaring up at the walls and balconies. The noise diminished. Evidently the Lord of Kerak had not yet completed his instructions.
‘Nevertheless,’ Humphrey said, ‘it was a present.’
‘From whom?’
The young nobleman had already decided to lie. The truth would bring a welcome delay in the proceedings, but if Reynald learned that his own wife was responsible he might accuse Humphrey of more than military ineptitude. Stephanie would have to appear blameless, an unwilling pawn in some devious game. It was well within Bloodhead’s compass to bring a charge of incest and blackmail against him, and once the court had valued the silvered hauberk they would find it easy to side with their prince. So he kept the name to himself and said, ‘I don’t know who gave it. I found it in a sack outside the chapel. Perhaps Gabriel—’
‘Blasphemous pander! You found it, so you stole it!’
‘It was marked out to me.’ Hastily he embellished the lie. ‘It was written on ribbon: “To Humphrey of Toron, that he may look the part.” That’s what it said.’
‘Where is the ribbon?’
‘What? O
h, I don’t know. I didn’t keep it.’
‘Listen to me,’ Reynald snarled. ‘You know who gave you your clothes, but you think fit to swallow his identity. You’re mistaken, because you’ll cry out to tell me before you leave the bailey. Unless of course, you take the name with you to your grave. Now get on your horse.’ He raised his voice. ‘Sergeant-at-arms! Pass out the lances. Man the quintain. I want three clear strikes. Do you hear me, Toron?’
Humphrey nodded, then mounted awkwardly in the unworked mesh. He realized that it would be some time before the stiff, link-mail hauberk allowed any ease of movement. Forcing his arms this way and that, he murmured, ‘God grant that it’s I who make you malleable, not some new recipient.’
Reynald called again, ‘Give him a lance!’ and Humphrey stopped exercizing as the sergeant handed it up to him.
The quintain detail stationed themselves behind the wooden cross and the spectators leaned forward, waiting for the first rider to make his run. Humphrey scanned the crowd for Stephanie, then saw her with two of her maids on the steps that led up to the Great Hall. He wanted to signal to her, to show his gratitude for the contents of the sack, but before he could think of a way Reynald called out, ‘Our young Lord of Toron, grandson of the great warrior Constable, will ride first. Remember Gilboa, Humphrey, as you tilt.’
‘And remember to duck!’ somebody shouted, bringing laughter and free advice from the crowd.
I’ll remember, he thought. That’s all I’ll remember. I’ll forget Mother and Reynald and the flies up there on the wall, and I’ll concentrate on the task. Strike the shield. Duck. Pull away to the left. God help me do it. God help me – now!
He pressed the lance tight against his body and spurred forward. The crowd watched, suddenly impassive. Stephanie watched, her fingers twisted together. Astride his horse Reynald watched, grinning.
Humphrey neared the quintain. He swerved to correct the line of approach, raised the tip of the lance and hit the round leather target almost dead centre. It was a perfect blow, but as the blade buried itself in the shield he knew he had been tricked. The arm did not swing away. The ten-foot pole was torn from his grasp and, already bent forward to avoid the swinging counterweight, he crashed full- tilt into the immovable shield. His helmet hit the end of the crossbar, while the edge of the shield caught his right shoulder. He was wrenched upright and hurled from his horse. He fell heavily, tried to rise, then fell back beneath the quintain.
The crowd stayed silent until they saw Reynald shake his head in feigned despair. Then they realized it was a practical joke and howled at the unexpectedness of it. The cross-bar had been nailed to the centre post! Of course! It was Prince Reynald’s way of testing his stepson. He was simply illustrating a cardinal rule of warfare; never underestimate the guile of the enemy.
The quintain detail waited for a signal from Reynald, then came forward to assist Humphrey. He was stunned and bleeding from a long cut on his forehead. For a few moments he could neither see nor think straight, so the soldiers dragged him over to the quintain and left him sitting there, with his back against the centre post. The crowd enjoyed that and called down, ‘Have you lost your way? You go right for Shield Street! Left for Sand Street!’
He heard them, but felt too sick to do more than mumble senseless imprecations. Blood ran into his left eye and he used the hem of his tabard to wipe it away. He made a clumsy, ineffectual job of it, smearing more blood over his face and the curled green leaves of the tunic. His back and right shoulder were stiff and raw, and he was unable to stop his limbs shaking. He realized how foolish he looked – no more so than he felt – and gazed down at Isabella’s silver brooch. He no longer believed her claims and was tempted to unpin it when a fresh wave of comment made him look up. Reynald had crossed the bailey and now stood over him, one hand outstretched.
‘Find your feet,’ he said. ‘You have yet to make three strikes.’ In a low, hard voice, intended only for Humphrey, he added, ‘It’ll go easier if you name your benefactor. Who armed you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You know, and you’ll tell. But no hurry. You’re affording too much enjoyment for it to end so soon. Now, get up and make your marks.’
Humphrey closed his eyes, ignored the proffered hand and twisted up, using the post for support. His legs threatened to buckle under him and he staggered as he went to reclaim his lance. Reynald offered no further assistance, but turned on his heel and strode back to his horse. He had expected Humphrey to reveal the name, and did not like the bookworm’s stubborn attitude. He was laying a dangerous path for himself, was skinny young Toron. The next time he was thrown from his mount he’d find no hand outstretched to help him.
The quintain detail removed the nails that had immobilized the cross-bar and Reynald took his turn. He struck cleanly, ducked and pulled the horse away as the counterweight swung round, spilling sand from a split seam in the bag.
Humphrey tried, hit the shield square on, but ducked too slowly.
The beam sliced round and he lurched, vomiting across the neck of his destrier.
‘No strike!’ Reynald shouted, spurring forward for the second time. Again he tilted faultlessly and again eluded the bar.
Humphrey struggled to keep his senses. The last blow would have broken his neck but for the unusually low rim of his new helmet. As it was, blood still poured from the gash in his forehead, while his nerves screamed with every movement. He was nearly finished, and knew it. If Reynald wanted the name of his benefactor he would not keep it from him. This time he had only to ask.
But Reynald was away, impatient to make his third strike. He tilted cleanly, leaving the cross-bar to spin and catch nothing. The crowd applauded what they had known all along; Reynald of Chatillon was a horse soldier par excellence. He rode into the centre of the bailey, pointed a mailed finger at Humphrey and called, ‘Match that if you will, Toron. Three strikes, and the lance is still unbroken.’
A sycophant echoed, ‘Three out of three!’ The onlookers cheered anew and made bets among themselves. How many attempts before Humphrey hit the shield and escaped the sand? How many before he made three clear strikes? Before he was knocked from his horse again? Before he splintered his lance? Before Reynald took pity on him and let him go?
Many of those who wagered lost their money.
The young knight realized that he would never match Reynald blow for blow – the Red Wolf was too experienced – and that he could not successfully mimic the older man’s style. Reynald held himself upright as he tilted, pushed his body down at the last instant, then rose again as he wheeled his horse. It looked splendid; the Christian warlord riding triumphantly away while the cross-bar spun in confusion, spilling sand like a man’s blood. It was a magnificent display, but surely it was not the only way to beat the quintain.
Pleased with the progress of the course, Reynald removed his helmet, pushed back the hood of his hauberk and rubbed a mittened hand through his red hair. Almost as an after-thought he waved Humphrey forward. He had now given his stepson to the people of Kerak. Let the bookworm amuse them for a while.
Humphrey wiped around the slowly closing cut, manoeuvred his horse in line with the shield, then couched the lance and bent low in the saddle. The crowd stared in amazement, then threw their laughter into the yard. A knight riding crook-back! What next? Foot soldiers going into battle on their knees? What on earth did young Humphrey think he was doing?
He knew full well what he was doing and spurred his horse at the ragged leather shield. The leaf-blade caught it to the left of the central boss and glanced off. The beam swung round and the counterweight sliced harmlessly above his head. He wheeled his horse, drew erect and circled the bailey. The quintain detail walked forward to control the cross-bar, but Humphrey would not wait. They saw him crouch again and spur the horse and they scattered as he galloped in to hit the target while the beam was still moving. The lance struck home and he pulled the horse aside, clear and safe.
The spectato
rs were on their feet, yelling, tossing caps, gloves, even wraps and cushions. The incredible had happened. Of all the proud, iron knights who had lodged at Kerak, none had shown such invention as the skinny Humphrey of Toron. Now they were on his side. Now they wanted him to make his third strike. They shouted at the soldiers, ‘Stand back! He doesn’t need you! He’s able.’ A dozen of the watchers stamped their feet and the rest caught the rhythm and chorused, ‘Hum-phrey! Hum-phrey! Hum-phrey!’
He brought his horse round, checked it for an instant as the shield arm swung past the wall, then urged the destrier toward the widening target. He almost forgot to crouch, threw himself down in time and drove the lance as hard as he could into the target. It held, swung back with the beam and circled the centre post, its thin shadow sliding over the ground, along the wall, across the scattered garments and up again on to the limestone blocks.
Reynald watched and said nothing. Humphrey straightened in his saddle, wiped a persistent rivulet of blood from the side of his face and patted his horse, gentling it as Kerak roared approval. In his own time he sought out his stepfather. He, too, said nothing, but held up his right hand, three fingers protruding. He had made his strikes, and created his own magic.
* * *
There was to be no respite. Reynald was diplomat enough to allow the onlookers their moment of exaltation and when the cheers had subsided he was suddenly fulsome in his praise of Humphrey. He spoke in a voice that could be heard on the balconies and ramparts; only his stepson and nearby attendants saw the hard, angry gaze that belied his words.
‘You did well, Toron. Even I, who claim to know as much about these things as anybody, might learn from your, well, unusual technique. It would have been sufficient for you to scar a stationary target. To tilt while it moved showed a pretty courage. It’s a shame you were not so perfect at Gilboa.’ He opened his hands, dismissing the defeat. ‘But that’s past. Now you are a proven warrior—’ He paused, then concluded, ‘with a horse, and with a lance. I wonder, are you so nimble on foot, armed with a long-sword?’
The Knights of Dark Renown Page 11
