Well, Marek thought, there was at least a chance that Chris would survive.
:
Chris could not see much of anything. Lurching wildly in the saddle, he had only blurred views of the stands, the ground, the other rider coming toward him. From his brief glimpses, he could not estimate how far away Guy was, or how long until the impact. He heard the thundering hoofbeats of his horse, the rhythmic snorting breath. He bounced in the saddle and tried to hold on to his lance. Everything was taking much longer than he expected. He felt as if he had been riding this horse for an hour.
At the last moment, he saw Guy very close, rushing up to him at frightful speed, and then his own lance recoiled in his hand, slamming painfully into his right side, and simultaneously he felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder and an impact that twisted him sideways in the saddle, and he heard the crack! of splintering wood.
The crowd roared.
His horse raced onward, to the far end of the field. Chris was dazed. What had happened? His shoulder burned fiercely. His lance had been snapped in two.
And he was still sitting in the saddle.
Shit.
:
Marek watched unhappily. It was bad luck; the impact had been too glancing to unseat Chris. Now they would have to charge another time. He glanced over at Sir Guy, who was cursing as he pulled a fresh lance from the hands of the pages, wheeling his horse, preparing to charge again.
At the far end of the field, Chris was again trying to get control of his new lance, which swung wildly in the air like a metronome. At last he brought it down across the saddle, but the horse was still twisting and bucking.
Guy was humiliated and angry. He was impatient, and did not wait. Kicking his spurs, he charged down the field.
You bastard, Marek thought.
:
The crowd roared in surprise at the one-sided attack. Chris heard it, and saw that Guy was already galloping toward him at full speed. His own horse was still twisting and unruly. He jerked on the reins and at that moment heard a thwack as one of the grooms whipped his horse on the hindquarters.
The horse whinnied. The ears flattened.
He charged down the field.
The second charge was worse—because this time, he knew what was coming.
:
The impact slammed him, streaking pain across his chest, as he was lifted bodily up into the air. Everything became slow. He saw the saddle moving away from him, then the horse’s rear flanks revealed as he slid away, and then he was tilted back, staring up at sky.
He smashed onto the ground, flat on his back. His head clanged against the helmet. He saw bright blue spots, which spread and grew larger, then became gray. He heard Marek in his ear: “Now stay there!”
Somewhere he heard distant trumpets as the world faded gently, easily into blackness.
:
At the far end of the course, Guy was wheeling his horse to prepare for another charge, but already the trumpets had sounded for the next pair.
Marek lowered his lance, kicked his horse, and galloped forward. He saw his opposite, Sir Charles de Gaune, racing toward him. He heard the steady rumble of the horse, the building roar of the crowd—they knew this would be good—as he raced forward. This horse was running incredibly fast. Sir Charles charged forward, equally fast.
:
According to the medieval texts, the great challenge of the joust was not to carry the lance, or to aim it at this target or that. The challenge was to hold the line of the charge and not to veer away from the impact—not to give in to the panic that swept over nearly every rider as he galloped toward his opponent.
Marek had read the old texts, but now he suddenly understood them: he felt shivery and loose, weak in his limbs, his thighs trembling as he squeezed his mount. He forced himself to concentrate, to focus, to line up his lance with Sir Charles. But the tip of his lance whipped up and down as he charged. He raised it from the pommel, couched it in the crook of his arm. Steadier. His breathing was better. He felt his strength return. He lined up. Eighty yards now.
Charging hard.
He saw Sir Charles adjust his lance, angling it upward. He was going for the head. Or was it a feint? Jousting riders were known to change their aim at the last moment. Would he?
Sixty yards.
The head strike was risky if both riders were not aiming for it. A straight lance to the torso would impact a fraction of a second sooner than a lance to the head: it was a matter of the angles. The first impact would move both riders, making the head strike less certain. But a skilled knight might extend his lance farther forward, taking it out of couched position, to get six or eight inches of extra length, and thus the first impact. You had to have enormous arm strength to absorb the instant of impact, and control the lance as it socked back, so the horse would bear the brunt; but you were more likely to throw off the opponent’s aim and timing.
Fifty yards.
Sir Charles still held his lance high. But now he couched it, leaning forward in the saddle. He had more control of the lance now. Would he feint again?
Forty yards.
There was no way to know. Marek decided to go for the chest strike. He put his lance in position. He would not move it again.
Thirty yards.
He heard the thunder of hooves, the roar of the crowd. The medieval texts warned, “Do not close your eyes at the moment of impact. Keep your eyes open to make the hit.”
Twenty yards.
His eyes were open.
Ten.
The bastard raised his lance.
He was going for the head.
Impact.
:
The crack of wood sounded like a gunshot. Marek felt a pain in his left shoulder, stabbing upward and hard. He rode on to the end of the course, dropped his shattered lance, extended his hand out for another. But the pages were just staring at the field behind him.
Looking back, he saw that Sir Charles was down, lying on the ground, not moving.
And then he saw Sir Guy prancing and wheeling around Chris’s fallen body. That would be his solution, Marek thought. He’d trample Chris to death.
Marek turned and drew his sword. He held it high.
With a howl of rage, Marek spurred his horse down the field.
:
The crowd screamed and pounded the railings like a drumbeat. Sir Guy turned, and he saw Marek coming. He looked back down at Chris, and kicked his horse, making it move sideways to stomp him.
“Fie! Fie!” the crowd shouted, and even Lord Oliver was on his feet, aghast.
But then Marek had reached Sir Guy, unable to stop his charge but sweeping past him, shouting, “Asshole” as he struck Guy’s head with the flat of his sword. He knew it wouldn’t hurt him, but it was an insulting blow, and it would make him abandon Chris. Which it did.
Sir Guy immediately turned away from Chris as Marek reined up, holding his sword. Sir Guy pulled his sword from the sheath and swung viciously, the blade whistling in the air. It clanged off Marek’s blade. Marek felt his own sword vibrate in his hand with the impact. Marek lashed out in a back-swing, going for the head. Guy parried; the horses wheeled; the swords clanged, again and again.
The battle had begun. And in some detached part of his mind, Marek knew that this would be a fight to the death.
:
Kate watched the battle from the railing. Marek was holding his own, and his physical strength was superior, but it was easy to see that he did not have the expertise of Sir Guy. His swings were wilder, his body position less sure. He seemed to know it, and so did Sir Guy, who kept backing his horse away, trying to open space for full swings. For his part, Marek pressed closer, keeping the distance between them tight, like a fighter staying in the clinch.
But Marek could not do it forever, she saw. Sooner or later, Guy would get enough distance, if only for a moment, and make a lethal blow.
:
Marek’s hair was soaked with sweat inside the helmet. Stinging d
rops dripped into his eyes. He could do nothing about it. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. It didn’t help much.
Soon he was gasping for breath. Through the slit of the helmet, Sir Guy appeared tireless and implacable, always on the attack, swinging repeatedly in a sure, practiced rhythm. Marek knew that he had to do something soon, before he became too tired. He had to break the knight’s rhythm.
His right hand, holding the sword, already burned from constant exertion. His left hand was strong. Why not use his left hand?
It was worth a try.
Spurring his horse, Marek moved closer, until they were chest to chest. He waited until he had blocked one swing with his own sword, and then with the heel of his left hand, he punched upward at Sir Guy’s helmet. The helmet snapped back; he felt the satisfying thunk as Guy’s head struck the front of the helmet.
Immediately, Marek flipped his sword over and slammed the butt of the handle against Guy’s helmet. There was a loud clang, and Guy’s body jerked in the saddle. His shoulders slumped momentarily. Marek struck again, banged the helmet harder. He knew he was hurting him.
But not enough.
Too late, he saw Guy’s sword hiss in a broad arc, toward his back. Marek felt the brutal sting like a whip across his shoulders. Did the chain mail hold? Was he hurt? He could still move his arms. He swung his own blade hard against the back of Guy’s helmet. Guy did nothing to ward off the blow, which rang like a gong. He must be dazed, Marek thought.
Marek swung again, then wheeled his horse, coming around; and he swung broadly for the neck. Guy blocked it, but the force of the impact knocked him backward. Reeling, he slid sideways in the saddle, grabbed for the pommel, but could not prevent his fall to the ground.
Marek turned, started to dismount. The crowd roared again; looking back, he saw that Guy had leapt easily to his feet, his injuries a sham. He swung his blade at Marek while he was still dismounting. Marek, with one foot still raised in the stirrup, parried awkwardly, somehow got clear of his horse, and then swung back. Sir Guy was strong, sure of himself.
Marek realized his situation was now worse than before. He attacked fiercely, but Guy backed up easily, his footwork practiced and quick. Marek was gasping and wheezing inside his helmet; he was sure Guy could hear it, and would know what it meant.
Marek was wearing down.
All Sir Guy had to do was keep backing away, until Marek exhausted himself.
Unless . . .
Off to the left, Chris obediently still lay flat on his back.
Marek swung at Guy, moving to the right with every stroke. Guy continued to move lightly away. But now Marek was driving him back—toward Chris.
:
Chris awoke slowly to the clang of swords. Groggy, he took stock. He was lying on his back, staring at blue sky. But he was alive. What had happened? He turned his head inside his black helmet. With just a narrow slit for vision, it was hot and stuffy and claustrophobic.
He began to feel sick.
The sensation of nausea built quickly. He didn’t want to throw up inside the helmet. It was too tight around his head; he would drown in his own puke. He had to get his helmet off. Still lying there, he reached up and grabbed the helmet with both hands.
He tugged at it.
It didn’t budge. Why? Had they tied it on him? Was it because he was lying down?
He was going to throw up. In the damn helmet.
Jesus.
Frantic, he rolled on the ground.
:
Marek swung his sword desperately. Behind Sir Guy, he saw Chris begin to move. Marek would have shouted to him to stay where he was, but he had no breath to speak.
Marek swung again, and again.
Now Chris was pulling at his helmet, trying to get it off. Guy was still ten yards from Chris. Dancing backward, enjoying himself, parrying Marek’s blows easily.
Marek knew he was almost at the limits of his strength now. His swings were increasingly weak. Guy was still strong, still smooth. Just backing and parrying. Waiting for his chance.
Five yards.
Chris had rolled over on his stomach, and he was now getting up. He was on all fours. Hanging his head. Then there was a loud retching sound.
Guy heard it, too, turned his head a little to look—
Marek charged, butted him in the breastplate with his head, and Guy staggered backward, fell over Chris, and went down.
Malegant rolled quickly on the ground, but Marek was on him, stamping on Guy’s right hand to pin the sword down, then swinging his other leg over to pin the opposite shoulder. Marek held his sword high, ready to plunge it down.
The crowd fell silent.
Guy did not move.
Slowly, Marek lowered his sword, cut the laces to Guy’s helmet, and pushed it back with the tip of his blade. Guy’s head was now exposed. Marek saw he was bleeding freely from his left ear.
Guy glared at him, and spat.
Marek raised his sword again. He was filled with rage, stinging sweat, burning arms, vision red with fury and exhaustion. He tightened his hands, prepared to swing down and cut the head from the body.
Guy saw it.
“Mercy!”
He shouted, so everyone would hear.
“I beg mercy!” he cried. “In the name of the Holy Trinity and the Virgin Mary! Mercy! Mercy!”
The crowd was silent.
Waiting.
:
Marek was not sure what to do. In the back of his mind, a voice said, Kill this bastard or you will regret it later. He knew that he must decide quickly; the longer he stood here, straddling Sir Guy, the more certain he would lose his nerve.
He looked at the crowd lining the railing. No one moved; they just stared. He looked at the stands, where Lord Oliver sat with the ladies. Everyone was motionless. Lord Oliver seemed frozen. Marek looked back at the cluster of pages standing by the railing. They, too, were frozen. Then, in a move that was almost subliminal, one page raised a hand to midchest and made a flicking wrist motion: cut it off.
He’s giving you good advice, Marek thought.
But Marek hesitated. There was absolute silence in the field, except for the retches and groans of Chris. In the end, it was those retches that broke the moment. Marek stepped away from Sir Guy and extended a hand to help him up.
Sir Guy took his hand, got to his feet in front of Marek. He said, “You bastard, I’ll see you in Hell,” and turned on his heel and walked away.
31:15:58
The little stream wound through mossy grass and wild-flowers. Chris was on his knees, plunging his face into the water. He came back sputtering, coughing. He looked at Marek, who was squatting beside him, staring off into space.
“I’ve had it,” Chris said. “I’ve had it.”
“I imagine you have.”
“I could have been killed,” Chris said. “That’s supposed to be a sport? You know what that is? It’s a game of chicken on horses. Those people are insane.” He dunked his head in the water again.
“Chris.”
“I hate to throw up. I hate it.”
“Chris.”
“What? What is it now? You going to tell me I’ll rust my armor? Because I don’t give a shit, André.”
“No,” Marek said, “I’m going to tell you your felt undershirt will swell, and it’ll be difficult to take the armor off.”
“Is that right? Well, I don’t care. Those pages will come and get it off me.” Chris sat back in the moss and coughed. “Jesus, I can’t get rid of that smell. I need to take a bath or something.”
Marek sat beside him, said nothing. He just let him unwind. Chris’s hands were shaking as he talked. It was better for him to get it out, he thought.
:
In the field below them, archers in maroon and gray were practicing. Ignoring the excitement of the nearby tournament, they patiently fired at targets, moved backward, fired again. It was just as the old texts said: the English archers were highly disciplined, and they p
racticed every day.
“Those men are the new military power,” Marek said. “They decide battles now. Look at them.”
Chris propped himself on his elbow. “You’re kidding,” he said. The archers were now more than two hundred yards from their circular targets—the length of two football fields. So far away, they were small figures, and yet they were confidently drawing their bows toward the sky. “Are they serious?”
The sky was black with whistling arrows. They struck the targets, or landed close by, sticking up in the grass.
“No kidding,” Chris said.
Almost immediately, another thick volley filled the air. And another, and another. Marek was counting to himself. Three seconds between volleys. So it was true, he thought: English archers really could fire twenty rounds a minute. By now, the targets bristled with arrows.
“Charging knights can’t stand up under that kind of attack,” Marek said. “It kills the riders, and it kills the horses. That’s why the English knights dismount to fight. The French still charge in the traditional way—and they’re just slaughtered, before they ever get close to the English. Four thousand knights dead at Crécy, even more in Poitiers. Large numbers for this time.”
“Why don’t the French change tactics? Can’t they see what’s happening?”
“They do, but it means the end of a whole way of life—a whole culture, really,” Marek said. “Knights are all nobility; their way of life is too expensive for commoners. A knight has to buy his armor and at least three warhorses, and he has to support his retinue of pages and aides. And these noble knights have been the determining factor in warfare, until now. Now it’s over.” He pointed to the archers in the field. “Those men are commoners. They win by coordination and discipline. There’s no personal valor. They’re paid a wage; they do a job. But they’re the future of warfare—paid, disciplined, faceless troops. The knights are finished.”
“Except for tournaments,” Chris said sourly.
“Pretty much. And even there—all that plate armor, over the chain mail—that’s all because of arrows. Arrows will go clean through an unprotected man, and they’ll penetrate chain mail. So knights need plate armor. Horses need armor. But with a volley like that . . .” Marek pointed to the whistling rainfall of arrows and shrugged. “It’s over.”
Timeline Page 25
