The knights promenade around the field in kaleidoscopic array, their scabbards, lance butts, and shields painted with radiant colors, the crests of their helmets set with feathers, and their steeds attired in embroidered cloths. The marshals pay heed only to the lances, which must be blunted and made of brittle, light wood. Any in question, they call to the marshals’ stand and examine. Even with these precautions, physicians from every participating castle await in the lists.
Once the knights have completed their circuit, Gerald announces the first contest: "Assise de bataille—for the right of rule in the domain of Epynt, the Griffin of Lanfranc challenges the Swan of Valaise. Let the contending knights approach and be recognized."
Falan Askersund crosses the tilt yard on his camel flanked by Denis Hezetre and Harold Almquist and followed by Gianni Rieti on his white Arabian. The Swede wears a simple white headcloth and a Moorish tunic over a shirt of chain mail, while the others sport breastplates emblazoned with Swan devices, shoulder-guards, tassets over their loins, cuisses on their thighs, and lightweight salade helmets.
Falan touches his forehead and dips his head, and the others doff their helmets and nod to the marshals. All present their lances for close inspection, then retreat to the lists where a squire raises the banner of the Swan.
Behind the barroness’ champions come Guy, Roger, and William. They wear only breastplates with the Griffin ensign, cuisses, and salade helmets, brightly burnished and otherwise devoid of ornament. When their lances are approved, they take their places in the opposite lists, where their banner flies.
The pursuivants and jongleurs, one from each camp, grotesquely dressed in parti-colored mantles and bliauts, announce the contestants: "Here is the good cavalier, Guy Lanfranc, champion with Guillaume Longsword in his conquest of Ireland. Watch now his mighty deeds and those of his knights as they usurp this heathen warrior and his ingrate companions, who have dared to challenge his right as baron of Castle Valaise, earl of Epynt!"
The other pursuivant executes a cartwheel and a backflip to draw applause away from the Lanfranc camp; then he declares: "Here is Falan Askersund, good knight of Sweden, who journeyed to the Holy Land, found faith in Mahomet and yet put that alien faith aside to escort home the baroness Ailena Valaise blessed again with youth by the Holy Grail! Watch her cavaliers unseat these faithless knights, who spurn the miracle of the Sangreal!"
"Silence all boasts!" Gerald calls. "In the name of God and Saint David, do your battle!"
-/
Thomas Chalandon, seated in the lodges beside Rabbi Tibbon and dressed as a commoner in a brown jerkin, gray leggings, and crushed leather shoes, clutches a small crucifix. Surreptitiously, he watches the old Jew beside him. Is he perhaps a necromancer, as many Jews are purported to be? The old man’s lips continue to move in silent prayer—to Jehovah, or some Eastern demon like Azael or Baal?
The thunder of hooves and a mighty crash turn Thomas' head in time for him to see Harold Almquist fly from his horse at the tip of William Morcar’s lance. Harold crashes to the ground, shield broken.
Thomas looks to his sisters. Leora is on her knees, praying for her fallen husband, and Hellene places a consoling arm about her shoulders. When Harold is led off the field limping but alive, they hug each other.
The baroness lowers her face in defeat—but, Thomas notices, her rabbi has raised a grateful visage to heaven.
-/
Denis Hezetre advances from the list, seated tall in his war saddle. He had once told Guy that he would not contend against him or his knights in the tilt yard. How foolish, he thought at the time, for knights to injure themselves in mock battle.
So, also, was this the opinion of the three previous popes, as well as Innocent III, who needed all the knights they could draft to defend Christianity from the Muslims, and who had banned such contests. Yet, as soon as the Lady of the Grail announced that her right to rule would be decided in the tilt yard, he knew he would have to fight. He had sworn to protect her, and even if he has to fight Guy himself, he will not restrain his blows. Guy is beloved of his heart—but the baroness is beloved of God.
William Morcar ignores Denis' salute. The blond archer does not fault him: He knows William fights more for his son Thierry than for Guy. And though he and William have saved each other's life more than once while on raids with Guy against the tribes, Denis expects no quarter now.
He nods to Gerald. When William's fresh lance has been approved by the marshals and he has taken his position, Gerald cries out, "Laissez aller!" Denis slaps his visor down, dashes his spurs into the flanks of his horse and rushes at full gallop toward William, who charges at full tilt toward him.
Their lances strike shields, and William’s skids off with a shriek. His body twists, exposing him to the full of Denis' thrust. The blow dismounts him, his limbs seem to scatter with the jarring impact, and he flies into a black pit.
Sound returns slowly, echoey. A squire removes William's helmet, and a glossy light surrounds the heads of the sergeants peering down at him. Am I dying? Their smeared faces congeal to hard smiles, and, with a bitter tang in his throat, he knows he will live.
-/
Roger Billancourt salutes the marquess and gazes with prolonged intent at the Pretender. She stares back at him with such benign contempt that, for an instant, he is convinced she is in truth Ailena Valaise. He slams shut his visor, mumbles a curse, and, at Gerald's command, charges at Denis.
Their collision shatters both of their lances.
"Fairly broken!" shouts the marshal. "A noble course!"
They wheel about and dismount to do foot-battle. Cries of "Remember the Grail!" and "Be worthy of your ancestry!" fill the air as the pursuivants hoot and cry above the bawling of the spectators.
Roger, wearing less armor, dismounts and draws his sword more quickly. Denis has barely unsheathed his weapon when Roger drops a double-handed overhead blow on him.
Lifting his sword just in time, Denis deflects the blow from his head, but the force of it wrenches the sword from his grip and heaves him onto his back. With adroit malevolence, Roger places the tip of his sword between Denis' breastplate and helmet.
When he looks in triumph to the lodges, the baroness has lowered her face. The warmaster knows then, for sure, she is not Ailena, who never once dropped her gaze, not when her knights fell in combat, not even when her cruel husband, his old lord and master, beat her.
-/
Gianni Rieti prays earnestly before he mounts his Arabian stallion and takes up his lance. His prayer is still on his lips as he rushes forward to meet Roger. Louder than the pounding of the hooves and the bellowing of the crowd, his prayer fills him with supernal strength and breaks from him with all his breath as his shield splinters and the lance tip strikes him over his heart.
Gianni floats inside his armor like a vapor. When his helmet is pulled away, he fears he will dissipate into the sky. Oddly, the sky does seem to plunge closer—until he realizes he is being lifted by the sergeants. Every visible observer in the lodges and along the fence appears frozen, their jeers tiered to the heavens like a hymn.
-/
Roger lifts his visor and blatantly stares at the Pretender, not even bothering to reach for a new lance until she will look at him.
When she does cast him a feeble glance, he shows her his brown teeth in a triumphant grimace. She has one knight left, and he, without breastplate or even helmet, cannot hope to stand against him or his lethal protege. He recognizes the fear in her countenance, and his grin fills his whole body.
Rachel is afraid—but not for herself. Her imminent defeat means mortal danger for her grandfather. Already, she is considering how to transport him south without jeopardizing his health. When she looks to him, he seems pleased, his gray head held high, a beatific smile in his beard.
At his age, she knows, death is not his concern but life, her life—and if she loses here today, she will leave here with him, even if that means his dying. At least he will die on
the way to the Promised Land, she comforts herself.
Falan has mounted Gianni's white stallion. His headcloth covers his face except for his blue stare. He salutes Rachel, and out of the hushed crowd, insults hurtle: "Heretic!"
"Dung-eating traitor!"
Roger raises his lance to the lodges, and a heroic cheer roars from the gathering. He lowers his visor and trains his weapon on his veiled opponent.
As they charge, the warmaster cannot take his eyes off that strange visage. His lance bounces off Falan's shield, and a powerful blow kicks Roger into the air. When he hits the ground, he is still seeing that blue gaze, which now is as wide as the sky.
-/
Guy Lanfranc's guts burn molten with impacted rage. No one will stand between him and what his father has taken.
"Do not look at his face," Roger groans as the sergeants carry him into the lists.
Guy mounts his destrier and concentrates all his vehemence into his lance arm. At Gerald’s call, he bolts forward, screaming, "Lanfranc!"
Robe billowing, Falan attacks, shouting, "Allah Akbar!"
The two collide with an enormous crash, woods splintering, steeds thrown back upon their haunches, casting up great clods of earth. Each knight flourishes broken lance butts, and across the shield of each rips a long jagged mark.
Guy plunges from his mount, drawing his broadsword in midleap. Falan drops off his stallion and unsheathes his scimitar, skipping nimbly to the side as his opponent descends on him. Saber whirling above his head like a stream of light, the Muslim warrior dances about Guy, baffling his every blow without once touching swords.
In fierce frustration, Guy hacks away at the elusive Swede, spending all his strength in futile blows. At last, he throws off his helmet, his pug-face blustery red, and charges, swinging his broadsword in a wide arc.
Falan retreats, feints to the left and daringly leaps to the right, sending Guy off-balance. The scimitar whistles, and Guy's topknot flies into the air. The Muslim catches it with his free hand and waves it at the lodges and the shrieking crowd.
The baroness is on her feet. The marquess and the earls, stunned by what they have witnessed, follow a moment later. The contest is over.
But Guy will not relent. He continues to chop and slash at the spry-footed cavalier, until his sword becomes too heavy to lift.
Falan approaches him with casual grace and, with the razor-tip of his saber, pricks the gasping knight’s Adam's apple.
A titanic shout bursts from the crowd—the pursuivants throw to the ground the Griffin banner and raise the Swan supreme.
-/
"Unfair weapons!" Guy bawls again and again until the delirious assembly hears him. Hoots and shrill cries of mockery greet his protest.
Rachel looks to David, and he acquiesces in her victory with a smile and palms upturned to heaven. She has won them a place among the gentiles, where he can gather his strength. In the spring, when he has fully recuperated, they will pilgrimage to their true home.
Abruptly, the crowd noise dims. From out of the lists come uninvited guests who have approached unnoticed during the heat of the contest: a band of wild Welsh in their tatterdemalion armor, brindle-bearded, big-boned Erec Rhiwlas at their head.
Sergeants rally to oust the intruders. Rachel waves them off and signs the Welsh forward. The spirit of the baroness looms closer, roused by the sight of the people her father had taught her to respect and she had come to love. "The Servant of Birds welcomes you!" Rachel calls out, jubilant with her victory.
"Servant of Birds, Erec Rhiwlas is here to champion you!" Erec announces in Welsh.
"Who is this barbarian knave?" Guy shouts, stepping between the Welsh and the lodges.
"Guy, don't you know Erec the Bold when you see him?" Rachel asks with a laugh in her voice. This is the moment Ailena's ghost has awaited! And Rachel can feel her shining in the dark of her mind, luminous with her son's defeat and humiliation.
The marquess touches Rachels elbow. "You will admit barbarians to your contest?" He shakes his head. "Bad form."
Rachel wrinkles her nose at the old knight’s crabby frown. "In Epynt, under my rule, it is bad form to regard the Welsh as barbarians. With all deference to you, sir, these Welsh warriors are my guests."
The marquess' eyes sparkle at the baroness' feisty reply, and he defers with a smile from one half of his face.
"Let me champion you, Servant of Birds," Erec calls again.
"My day is already won," Rachel answers. "Yet, you may join in the many contests to follow."
"Only one contest interests me. I vie for you and you alone."
He points to Falan and says, "Your day is won—but by a heathen! Give me the right to win your honor by my own hand. Let a Christian fight for you."
The challenge translates quickly through the crowd. Angry shouts fling out of the gathering from the Normans, offended at the presence of the uncouth barbarians. But most of the crowd is disgruntled that a heretic has carried the day. Shouts for Erec drown out the protesters. The marquess urges the contest with a seigneurial wave of his hand. And when Rachel looks to Falan, the Muslim nods agreement.
-/
Erec hoists his lance unfamiliarly, yet spurs his charger with all his might nonetheless. His lance slides off Falan's shield, and the Swede’s lance explodes against Erec's shield. The Welshman's muscles strain like leather straps to keep him in the saddle. As soon as he steadies his jolting steed, he throws down the lance and hops to the ground, longsword in hand.
Having witnessed Guy's frustrated attack, Erec does not waste his strength in a hacking assault. Instead, he charges his opponent with his weapon held low. At the last instant, as the scimitar arcs in, Erec relies on his massive arms to bring around the heavy sword.
Saber and sword clang, and Erec whirls about with surprising agility and kicks Falan's legs out from under him. As Falan collapses, Erec's sword comes down and stops with its edge across the Muslim's throat.
-/
Thomas' blood foams in his ears. The Jew beside him has sunk into himself and hangs on his bones like a man asleep, proving the ineffectuality of his prayers. God has championed the baroness, and Thomas clutches his crucifix so hard it bites into his hand. The excitement of the fighting has stirred him. He has not the strength or skill of these cavaliers, yet his faith, he knows, is as strong as anyone's. If God sent the Grail to his grandmother, would He not now send her grandson victory if he but dared to put all his faith where others placed their ferocity?
The crucifix, with its torn and healing figure, seems to beseech him, and he asks it with all sincerity, How? He looks to the lists, sees the knights, some leaning on their swords, and he laughs, imagining himself hefting such a weapon. And inside that laugh an idea opens, a spontaneous, laughable idea so unlikely it can only have been sent by God.
Thomas rises. He faces the central lodge, where the baroness has called her Swedish champion to sit beside her. "Grand-mère!" he shouts. "Give me leave to stand down this Welshman in hand combat for your honor."
Rachel looks with surprise at the seraphic youth. Mocking cries erupt from the assembly, and his mother Clare howls an objection: "He is an acolyte! He is forbidden to fight."
The marquess smiles with glee and waves the youth down from the lodges. Rachel turns to the old man and frowns. "He is not a cavalier, marquess. I am fain to risk his life."
"Come, come, Ailena. This is a contest, not a battle. Let him taste some humility. It will serve him well when he becomes a priest. And after such serious challenges, the lodges require some levity."
Rachel regards Thomas, who gazes at her with fervid intensity. She acquiesces. Clare bawls, the crowd cheers, and Gerald watches agog as his gentle son returns to the list for his weapons.
Raucous laughter swells from the assembly when Thomas emerges with a barrel top instead of a proper shield and, in place of a sword, a bucket.
"I am not to be clowned with," Erec warns, his thick face throbbing. He looks to the ba
roness. "Do not think to make me a fool because I am Welsh."
"Fight fair!" the marquess shouts. "No foolery here."
"No frivolity is intended," Thomas declares. "These are my weapons."
The marquess shows his gums in an amused grin. "Knock him down, Bold Erec, and the fight is over."
"Knock him down I will!" Erec yells, and lunges at the youth, sword held high.
Thomas spins about as the sword crashes down. He catches the flying sword-edge with his barrel top, which squeals as the metal bites into it.
Erec's sword lodges firmly in the tough, cross-grained wood, and when he pulls back to free it, it catches. Thomas clings to it with one hand and both legs, lifted off his feet by Erec's great strength. The sword begins to come free. Before it does, Thomas uses his free hand to slam the bucket over his opponent's head.
With one hand, Erec grabs to pull the bucket off, and the weight of Thomas's body pulls the sword free from his grip.
Swiftly, Thomas takes the sword, still embedded in the wooden barrel top, and places the tip at the base of Erec's neck.
The crowd roars. Erec jerks the barrel from his head and stares about, blustering with surprise. His own men roll on the ground, holding their sides, and when he sees them and the ingenuous relief in Thomas' face, his scowl flashes to a broad grin.
"The bards will taunt my ghost with this humiliation," he shouts above the howling of the spectators and knights, "but I'll not begrudge you your victory, Thomas." He slaps the youth on the back, bows to the startled baroness, and faces the gathering, joining in their laughter.
Thomas walks airily across the field toward where the marquess applauds, his parents and sisters cheer, and his grandmother watches him with a peculiar light in her young face.
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