The Tournament of Blood aktm-11

by Michael Jecks

  Geoffrey had learned something about fighting, damn him. He was keeping a firm seat in his saddle and aiming his lance-point accurately. Not like he used to be. Useless, he had been, leaning back and letting his point waver all over the place. Now he sat rigidly and let his point find its mark. It was hard to avoid it.

  William swore under his breath. He had thought that this bout would be easy, just a swift clash of arms and then he would overcome Geoffrey and be pronounced the winner. In that way he would discredit Geoffrey and justify his marriage to Alice, proving his value by force of arms. Yet the bastard had not succumbed. It was frustrating. Even now Geoffrey was taking a fresh lance from a squire at his side. William saw that it was Andrew. Geoffrey was reluctant to take the lance from him. Probably thought the other man would stab him when his defence was down, William sneered.

  He contemplated the lists, wondering how to gain an advantage. Somehow he must show his superiority over Geoffrey, yet it was hard to see how he could achieve it. He absently stroked the token which Edith had dropped and which he had stuffed into his belt. In his heavy gauntlet he couldn’t feel it, and the fact depressed him.

  A squire was at his side with a fresh lance. William took it, holding it vertically and squinting up along its length. There was a bend in it and William snapped that he wanted a straight one. A curve made for a good display as it meant the lance would shatter gratifyingly into shards and splinters, but William wanted a good, solid strike, and for that he needed a straight lance. Soon the fellow was back and William hefted the new weapon critically. It was as straight as he could hope, but there was a curious feel to it. He rejected it and snatched at the third given to him. It was good.

  He released the vizor and it fell down heavily. Immediately his breath became stertorous in his ears, and the world was barred by the grille in front of his eyes. Leaning forward he could see the lists ahead and the King Herald. There was the signal! William slammed his heels back into Pomers’s flanks and felt the surge of power beneath him as the mount angrily leaped forward.

  The jolting acceleration made him feel he would fall from the back of his saddle, but the immense cantle supported him. Reckless now, he kicked again at the horse, urging the beast on, and Pomers responded. The rattling and squeaking of complaining metal and leather grew into a raucous din that deafened. Dust rose and filled his helmet, making his nose tickle and itch. He had to blink away the dirt from streaming eyes.

  His opponent was close. He could see Geoffrey’s shape lumbering towards him. William drew his lips back from his teeth in a snarl of defiance and allowed the point of the lance to begin its fall from the vertical.

  It was a fine calculation. Too early and the point would fall below the aiming-point; too late and the lance would miss the mark and slip past the enemy’s shoulder while William absorbed the full weight of Geoffrey’s own point. Unbalanced, William would have to fall and he had no intention of making himself look a fool before all these people.

  His horse was a stable base beneath him. He was assured of Pomers’s gait. The lance-tip fell gradually even as he caught sight of the approaching lance-point dropping slowly to point at him. It didn’t make him flinch. The thing was irrelevant. All that mattered was getting his own lance to hit well. He shifted his grip so that the butt was jammed under his armpit and took a deep breath.

  An explosion of noise; a slamming thud against his left shoulder; a rattling clamour of metal; a sharp view of a horse’s nostrils, then he was past. His arm was all right, he reckoned. Just hit hard. His shield was probably wrecked, but that was how it went in the tilt. Those were his first thoughts before he realised that something was wrong. He wasn’t settled properly in his saddle. Slowly he could feel himself sliding sideways.

  Hauling upon Pomers’s reins, he tried to regain his seat but it was too late. With a despairing wail he felt himself slip from the saddle and, through the grille of the helmet, saw the ground rushing up to meet him.

  Alice could feel her heart pounding as she saw her man spur his mount into the attack. It was terrifying, truly scary, but awesome too, and exciting. Seeing her husband preparing to risk his all like this made her want to scream with pride, especially when she saw that Geoffrey was wearing her token. It streamed out from his helmet like a feather, an ethereal statement of ownership: she owned him, he owned her. She could hardly dare watch as the two men spurred their mounts on, accelerating in a deadly, lunatic gallop towards each other.

  She couldn’t watch. As if some premonition warned her, she closed her eyes and covered them, praying as the lances lowered and the two men aimed their weapons at each other.

  A sudden silence in the crowds, as if all were holding their breath. Then the appalling din of the collision.

  It was like an anvil being struck with a large, flat-headed hammer, then a thousand horseshoes hurled onto a sheet of steel. A sigh went up from some people in the audience, while from others there was a hoarse cry of cruel delight.

  And opening her eyes she saw that her husband was fallen. Even as she felt the disappointment grip at her throat, Alice realised that something was very wrong. Usually a man would struggle to regain his feet, would roll to clamber to his hands and knees preparatory to levering himself upwards. That was what William was doing, raising himself upwards and tugging at his vizor.

  But Geoffrey remained lying on his back, and her fists rose to her mouth as if to smother a scream.

  A herald was cantering towards his body. It was the man Odo. Alice had met him earlier during the procession, but now her attention only registered him in passing. She was staring in horror and terror at her man.

  Odo rode to Geoffrey and swung down from his mount with both feet out of the stirrups. He landed before the horse had fully halted, and darted to Geoffrey’s side. All men-at-arms knew that the first thing to do was to let the poor fellow breathe.

  The helmet was a complicated one and it took some time to work loose the hinged clips. Then he lifted away the vizor and was about to begin to pat Geoffrey’s face and try to waken him, when he stopped. Beneath the neck of Geoffrey’s tunic there was a blossoming crimson stain. ‘Jesus!’ Odo muttered in shock. Then, ‘Someone find a priest and a physician. Quickly!’

  In the distance he thought he heard a woman wailing, but he had no time to concern himself over the feelings of a girl. He busied himself with the squire’s armour, ignoring the slow movement towards him from the stands. There was nothing new in a crowd wanting to see the dead victim of a bout.

  Edith smothered her cry as she saw William fall. Her heart literally stopped. She was literally frozen with horror. She’d never felt like this before. It was terrible. She couldn’t believe it. Her William, poor William was dead.

  Without further thought, she darted from the ber frois and ran through the loungers who stood contemplating the scene. ‘Oh, William,’ she cried.

  He knelt dazedly, his vizor open, but bent after the impact. It must have been hard for him to focus, from the way he peered about him. ‘My head… Is he all right?’

  ‘I don’t know. Oh William, I was so scared you had been killed,’ Edith said and burst into tears, dropping to her knees at his side to the delight of the throng about them.

  William spat blood. When he hit the ground the jolt had slammed his jaw closed and a tooth had snapped. He wanted to rinse his mouth. ‘You didn’t bring any wine, did you?’ he asked plaintively.

  Odo gestured for the other heralds to help and pushed men back. ‘Give him space. Do you want to kill him? Give him space!’

  The muttering groups of men withdrew unwillingly and Odo was pleased to see Mark Tyler leading a dark-clothed physician towards him.

  ‘How is he?’ the physician asked.

  ‘I don’t know. He looks dreadful and he snores like a sleeping man. There’s blood here and… ’

  Odo withdrew as the physician crouched and began his examination. A hand caught at his shoulder.

  ‘Sir, will he die?’

&
nbsp; ‘Lady Alice, I do not know,’ he replied heavily. ‘He took a bad fall.’

  ‘He can’t die. He mustn’t!’ Alice declared, distraught.

  ‘Your husband is in God’s hands,’ Odo told her compassionately.

  ‘Geoffrey!’ Alice wailed, and fainted.

  Odo caught her, but as he looked about him, he saw only the shocked expression on Squire William’s face.

  Edith had seen her father’s eye on her as she wept at the side of her lover. There was no concealing her feelings and she hadn’t even considered his, but now she was worried that he would have something to say about her rushing to William’s side. Probably quite a lot, she feared.

  Even though she was convinced he was being unreasonable about William, she hated upsetting him; she loved him too much to see him sad. The trouble was, he didn’t seem to realise she was a woman now, not some baby. Christ Jesus! Edith was old enough to wed and bear children. How much more proof did he need?

  Margaret and Baldwin were approaching her now. Edith had waited while William was given some wine, then helped away. Geoffrey had been removed from his armour and carried off on a stretcher, and now Edith stood in a thinning crowd desperately trying to avoid glancing in her father’s direction. She knew what she would see in his eyes: angry confusion at her behaviour, and hurt.

  Baldwin would make a good father, she thought. Solemn, true, but understanding. He had been around the world, seen cities, met strange foreign people; when he was young he had joined the last Crusade, Simon told her once. He was old, she thought critically. Someone so ancient was practically in the grave, although she could understand why Jeanne found him attractive. He had something about him, especially with that scar on his cheek. It added a sort of hint of danger.

  Even as the word sprang into her mind she recalled the terror she had felt on seeing her champion on the grass. Ah, it was such a relief when he moved. If he had been killed, she would have died too. At the least she must have swooned, overcome with emotion like that other girl. And Edith’s love for her dead champion would have become common knowledge, and men and women all over Europe would have heard about her fidelity, and minstrels would have sung about her and her William.

  It was a lovely thought, and made her quite light-headed. If she could be sure that she would die on his death, she must surely be in love. It was consoling – and sustaining.

  Inspired by this to a spirit of rebellion, she met her mother’s eye boldly, but when she saw Margaret’s sad expression, she felt her resolve melting. She hated hurting her mother. Sometimes she did so when her temper flared, but she always regretted it even when she couldn’t bring herself to apologise.

  Margaret merely said, ‘Do you love him?’

  Edith felt her composure crack like glass. ‘Of course I do, Mother.’

  ‘Then,’ Margaret sighed, ‘if you are sure, we shall have to convince your father.’

  Sir Edmund had left his pavilion with a distinct sense of grievance. His mail had gained a faint dusting of rust where it had been insufficiently oiled and there was a rip in his tunic that had not been mended. Both should have been dealt with by his squire, but Andrew was nowhere to be seen. Usually Sir Edmund would not mind, but today he was tense after seeing Lady Helen Basset last night.

  She was as beautiful as ever, he reflected. The thought that she had married that brutish man of hers was enough to make him want to puke; the idea that he would be pawing at her body after she left Edmund made him shudder with jealousy and disgust. Andrew had led her away, protecting her from unwanted attention, and now Edmund desperately wanted to speak to Andrew, to hear what he thought of her attitude, but he was nowhere to be seen. Where in hell’s name had he got to! Andrew was a good man generally, an experienced fighter and loyal servant, but recently he had become quite lax. Sir Edmund wasn’t sure why, but thought it was since they had come down here to Devon after Boroughbridge. In fact, now he thought about it, it was ever since Andrew had met Odo the Herald at the feast. Afterwards Sir Edmund often saw Andrew eyeing the herald with many a sidelong glance.

  Sir Edmund had met Andrew in Béarn at a tournament, shortly after Sir Edmund had fled England to seek his fortune. Being beaten by Sir John had ruined him and he needed to win some tournaments and accumulate some money. With neither horse nor resources, he found himself watching other knights fighting in the lists, unable to participate. He had no armour, no squire, nothing.

  It was there that he also met Sir Roland de le Puy, a cheery old man who saw his gloom and offered to loan his own horse and armour. Unable to believe his fortune, Sir Edmund accepted with alacrity. But he needed a squire, a man on whom he could trust to protect him. He found Andrew – and after that, the two had travelled widely through France and the English King’s territories, visiting all the tournaments. Within a year they had won for themselves more than forty Knights Bachelor and one Count. The ransoms made them wealthy and led to their being noticed by others. Soon they had a new lord, a vassal of Earl Thomas, and when they returned to England it was only natural that they should in their turn become vassals to him.

  Ever since, even after the disaster at Boroughbridge, Andrew had been a perfect servant, but recently he had grown slack, as though losing interest. Sir Edmund hoped he had not become over-religious. It happened sometimes that a man who had lived too long in the secular world could seek to hide himself in a convent. Sir Edmund knew that well enough himself – but he hoped Andrew wasn’t heading that way. A good squire was hard to find. Still, the fellow would have to be told to mend his ways. Sir Edmund could not tolerate having his own schedule dictated by his squire’s. Sir Edmund left his archer oiling his armour, muttering rebelliously, and strode purposefully towards the jousting.

  Entering the field, he had to stand back while a pair of galloping men-at-arms shot past, great clods of mud and grass thrown up by their mounts as the riders whooped and cheered them on. Sir Edmund cast an eye over his light velvet tunic to make sure no dirt had been flung upon him, then carried on to the stands in the middle of the field.

  As another pair of opposing riders hurtled towards each other, he looked over the field for his man. He was not at either end where the racks stood filled with lances. At each were huddles of squires waiting to pass fresh ones to their friends. There was a lot of laughing and joking in the fair-day atmosphere but Sir Edmund’s face was not softened by the sounds of other people’s enjoyment. He had seen Sir John.

  The last time they had met in a tournament was when Sir Edmund had been unfairly captured. Sir John had not been a part of the mêlée but he had joined in for profit. And as a result, more people had died. Sir Edmund could have saved some if he had been able to keep Sir Walter off Sir Richard. He had seen the hooves flailing, had seen the bodies.

  He was at the side of the stand now, and a trembling in the ground made him halt. Any man who had fought in a battle would recognise that brutal drumming: warhorses. Over his shoulder he could see the first one approaching, gradually building up speed, lance held point high, so that the unwieldy weapon was balanced vertically. That was the trouble with lances, as Sir Edmund knew. The things were long and heavy, impossible to hold on target from a bouncing saddle, so they could only be lowered at the last moment.

  This fellow was experienced. His point was still up as his horse cantered on, although it had dropped halfway to the horizontal by the time he entered the enclosed fighting area. Once there, it kept falling until the rear end slipped beneath his armpit and the whole massy pole was pointing at his enemy. Sir Edmund held his breath, waiting for the inevitable crash of metal on metal, and sure enough there it was, a terrible hammer stroke that almost seemed to explode inside his ear drums. Then the audience were clapping, one or two drunks roaring their approval, and a riderless horse cantered past Sir Edmund, stirrups flying. A mounted herald overtook it and snatched at the reins to hold it before it could enter the tented area and cause havoc.

  Meanwhile, Sir Edmund could see that in the list
s heralds and squires were running to the assistance of the fallen man. There were enough people there. One more would just get in the way, Sir Edmund thought philosophically.

  Where was Andrew? He cast a careful look over all the spectators, but the squire was not there. He walked along between the stands to the other end, but there was no sign of him there either. This was growing slightly worrying. Andrew could have gone to visit the town, but he usually asked permission, as he should, before leaving his master. Besides, Andrew was a keen martial artist and would not miss an opportunity to watch fighting.

  There was laughter and giggling from the riverbank. Sir Edmund wondered whether Andrew could have found a woman, and headed towards the sound. There was thick gorse lining the bank except at the ford which Baldwin had used, but in a clearing Sir Edmund glimpsed a young woman with her man, a youth little more than a boy. He left them and continued along the bank, listening to the soothing noise of the water. The jousting appeared to have ended for a space.

  A flash of blue gleamed to his right and he turned in time to see a kingfisher dart up to a branch, a streak of silver gripped in its beak. Sir Edmund admired the silken beauty of the creature, thinking that he should catch and kill one, and use the feathers for decoration on his hat. Idly he wondered how he could trap one. Probably easiest would be to pay some peasant to spread birdlime on branches along this stretch of river.

  It was while he mused on the feasibility of capturing and killing the bird that he noticed the rooks squabbling. His attention was caught by the pair as they hopped down and pecked among the tall fronds of ferns that lined the bank farther away. At first he watched without interest, but then a grim conviction began to form in Sir Edmund’s mind and he slowly made his way to them,