Blood Lance: A Medieval Noir

by Jeri Westerson

  The tassets were next, articulated plates hanging over his privities and backside. Then his arms, then the gauntlets, the padded arming cap for his head, and then the mail coif over that with its wide camail that flowed across his chest and over his shoulders. He felt light-headed. Was he being choked to death by the very armor that served to protect him?

  Thomas approached him with the helm and Crispin—feeling stiff and unfamiliar in the constricting armor—could only watch as the knight lifted it like a coronation crown, and lowered it over him. Time seemed to stop. Ears already padded by layers of cloth, batting, and a mesh of steel were further chambered by the helm. His vision was now relegated to trim rectangular slits. His breathing was harsh and loud within the confines of the steel encasing him and smelled of oiled metal. Thomas pushed the visor up and Crispin breathed freely again, at least as freely as the weighty breastplate would allow. It seemed heavier than he was used to, but ten years separated the last time he had worn any kind of armor, so he knew his memory was frail at best.

  Thomas strapped the belt with its decorated scabbard about Crispin’s metal-clad waist. He walked over to the fallen sword and took it up. Thomas did not move, looking at it for a long moment. He had meant to take his life with it. Crispin wondered what was going through Thomas’s mind as he returned to Crispin and essentially surrendered it to him. His eyes met Crispin’s briefly before he rested the tip at the opening of the scabbard before shoving it in.

  Crispin huffed a muffled sound deep in his chest. Was it a laugh? Was it relief? Here he stood, dressed as the knight he used to be, sword at his side. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment. Dammit, if he were to die today, then he’d much rather end his life like this, dressed as he was born to be.

  Eyes still closed, he rolled his shoulders experimentally. The leather squeaked. His muscles rippled under the sussurating mail. The plates of armor clacked over the others. Yes. He remembered. He moved his arms, bending and extending them. He raised each leg in turn, felt the solid metal encasing him. He reached over to the scabbard—just where it was supposed to be—and closed his gauntleted hand over the sword hilt. With a hiss of steel, he pulled it free and swung it, satisfied with the expected whistle through the air.

  He couldn’t resist looking at Jack. There was still terror in his eyes, but there was now something more. His mouth parted in what looked like awe. He realized that Jack was seeing him for the first time as he should have been. Walking toward his apprentice, armor clanking, he smiled at the novelty of the armor moving with him. Sheathing the sword, he rested his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

  “Well, Jack. Here I am at last.”

  The corners of the boy’s mouth curled up in a fond smile and in a whispered voice he said, “You don’t look no different to me, Master Crispin.”

  Suddenly, all that Crispin wished to say gathered as a knot in his throat. He opened his mouth but could not speak. Instead, he nodded and slowly closed the visor with a solid click.

  Thomas peeked out the tent flap. “They are coming.” He grabbed Crispin’s hood and thrust it over his own head, pulling it low as he moved into the shadows, dressed as Crispin had been.

  The squire near the entrance stopped the men from approaching, but Thomas cried loud enough for them to hear, “I’m coming out!”

  He nodded to Crispin and Crispin nodded once to him. He curled a gauntlet into a fist and lightly tapped Jack’s chest with the steel knuckles before he took a deep breath, grabbed the tent flap, and stepped outside.

  23

  THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT being clad in armor again that washed away all his fear. He felt more alive than he had for a long time. Even though his face was covered and his eyesight limited by the visor, he seemed attuned to everything. To the clatter of the horses trotting nearby; the people moving in the stands; even the sound of the distant flapping pennons. Every color was deeper, every sound magnified. And then, as if waking from a deep sleep, his heart warmed with the simple truth that he would be able to do it. He would win. He knew it with certainty.

  He laughed, looking around, and brusquely strode toward the stands where King Richard sat with his quiet wife, the lady Ann.

  His squire, that is, Thomas’s squire, met him and gave him a solemn look. “Shall we, my lord?”

  Crispin nodded.

  “God watch over you this day, Sir Thomas,” said the squire as they walked forward.

  He nodded again to the young man and strode stiffly toward the stands. A page walked ahead and carried a staff with a banner rippling above it. Crispin remembered all those distant days when he strode out to the lists just like this, with his banner above him. But instead of the red dragon he expected to see of his own arms, Thomas’s were a bright green and white on the fine material.

  It was a wonderfully clear day. Crispin caught the deep blue of the sky out of the eye slits, inhaled a bit of the scent of sweet fresh hay through the holes in the long pointed snout of his helm. It was a good day for a victory.

  Out of the corner of his vision, Crispin noted another knight approaching. Ah, the king’s champion. His armor was similar but at this angle, Crispin could not see the blazon his page carried. Crispin wondered if he knew the man. It was a shame to have to kill him.

  Another man approached, coming from the direction of the stands. He was vested in a surcote and wore a wide-brimmed roundel hat with a lengthy liripipe trailing over his shoulder. Crispin assumed this was the Chevalier d’honneur, the judge of the bouts. He would insist that the jousters observe the rules and make a judgment about the victor should it be called into question. Crispin wasn’t certain what would be allowed, but since this was a judiciary joust, he assumed that a tilt to the death might be expected. After all, if Sir Thomas had lost, he would be hanged immediately.

  But of course, this was no longer Sir Thomas’s neck on the line. It was Crispin’s. Yet for the life of him, Crispin could not muster the idea of any other outcome but a victorious one.

  When the Chevalier d’honneur turned, Crispin could plainly see that it was Geoffrey Chaucer. Damn.

  King Richard looked down on both of them with quiet grace. He tilted forward slightly, waiting for Chaucer to make his announcements. In a loud, clear voice, Geoffrey declared, “Your grace—” He bowed to the king, “—my lords, we are gathered here on this spot for a solemn occasion. Sir Thomas Saunfayl has been called forth to face the charges of cowardice and desertion from my Lord of Gaunt, his grace the duke of Lancaster’s service.” He was interrupted by the jeering of the crowd. Crispin raised his helmeted chin and faced them. After all, if he was to play the part of Sir Thomas, he would do it justice. “He denies these charges,” Chaucer cried louder, hushing the masses, “and has accepted the judgment of the Wager of Battle to settle the charge against him in this unusual spectacle. Because the charge is against a knight and challenges his knightly valor, the Earl Marshall’s court has determined that this judicial conflict will be decided with a joust. They will tilt until one is wounded, killed, or one or both are unhorsed. If there is no clear winner, then combat will commence on foot. The opponent is the king’s champion, Sir Osbert de Troyes.”

  Crispin snapped his head over, encumbered by the helm. Osbert! That whoreson! Yes, there were the colors on his banner. So, the king’s champion, was he? Looking back toward the stands Crispin could just see Suffolk beside the king. No doubt the choice for Sir Osbert had been de la Pole’s.

  But Chaucer had continued and Crispin turned his ear again. “… justice done this day. If the defendant is overpowered and yields the lists, he will be conveyed to the gallows and hanged. Now. The both of you must swear you are free of any sorcery or witchcraft. You must swear that neither of you have eaten, drunk, nor have upon your person neither bone, stone, feather, nor any enchantment, sorcery, or witchcraft whereby the law of God may be abased, or the law of the Devil exalted. Do you so swear?”

  Osbert, in a voice Crispin clearly recognized, cried out, “I swear by Almighty God
.”

  Crispin, disguising his voice as something coarse and roughened, declared, “I, too, so swear.”

  Osbert angled his helm at Crispin and seemed to stare a long time before Chaucer motioned for them to take their places.

  Crispin was marched toward the horse waiting beside a groom. The horse was a destrier, chestnut brown with a glossy coat under the colorful green and white caparison. His fetlocks were adorned in long feathers, elegant as the long train on a lady’s gown.

  The squire bent with his hands interlaced below the stirrup to give him a boost up. Crispin stepped into the lad’s hands and launched himself onto the saddle while the squire helped him fit his armored feet into the stirrups. Each little gesture jarred a memory of long ago. As dangerous as this situation was, he could not stop himself from smiling.

  He settled on the saddle and shifted so that his back rested against the raised support. The armor felt good. Surprisingly so. This wedge shape to the chest for jousting, for deflecting hits, was ideal. He wished he had had something similar in his day. And yet, here he was, in sparkling new armor. He did not feel doomed. Quite the contrary. He would unhorse Osbert. Then he would take him down for the murdering coward he was.

  His musings had taken his attention away from the proceedings, for Crispin finally noticed the squire standing beside his horse with his shield and lance. Suddenly aware that the lad had been waiting patiently for some time, Crispin leaned over and took the shield first, pushing his left arm through the wide leather straps. Once it was secure, he leaned again and closed his right hand around the heavy oak lance shaft. The unfamiliar weight gave him pause. But he held it straight up, securing his hand in the conical vamplate and taking a moment to balance the weight of it on his stirruped foot. It was all coming back to him, bit by bit, as if he had never been away, as if an entire decade had not separated his time on the lists from this day.

  Inside the secrecy of the helm, Crispin frowned. Funny. He should be full of anxiety. For indeed, he had not held a lance, nor ridden on the lists, nor fought in armor for far too long. Something was amiss. He scanned the crowds uncertainly, the cheering, the jeering. He should be terrified. Any sane man would be.

  The squire led his horse to the end of the lists and they waited.

  A herald stood near the barrier. He raised a staff with a banner bearing the king’s arms to signal that the tilt was about to begin. Crispin pressed his legs tight to the horse’s belly. He grasped the reins in his left hand under the shield and steadied the lance in his right. He held his breath. Chanting in his mind was the unavoidable litany, Ten years since I’d ridden the lists.

  But it didn’t seem to matter.

  The banner dropped. He dug in the spurs. The heavy horse jolted forward. He slammed back into the saddle, and his gut wrenched from the sudden clattering of his armor. His breath came in rhythmic bursts, echoed back to him in the helm, clamoring along with the cadenced gait of the horse. He aimed the stallion to ride tight to the barrier and watched through the slits as Osbert bore down on him.

  Time slowed again and Crispin lowered the lance by increments, keeping it tucked tight under his right arm and close to his body. He mentally prepared for the shock though he knew full well that the body could never prepare enough. It all came back in a rush of memories. Raise your chin. Deflect a blow if it comes toward the head. Protect the eyes. A little higher. Yes. Now faster, boy, pick up speed. Don’t lower the lance too quickly. Lower. Lower. Lower. Now! The lance tip aimed toward Osbert’s head. One good blow would do it. How delightful it would be to watch that head tear loose and go spinning into the stands.

  It happened more quickly than he could have anticipated. Before Crispin could blink in surprise, Osbert’s lance missed the shield and crashed into Crispin’s chest. He was momentarily thrown back against the saddle’s high back. But the wedge design of the breastplate slid the lance tip away. Osbert dropped the twelve-foot spear on his way to the other end of the tilt.

  Crispin swayed, the breath knocked out of him. Careless. He should have been watching Osbert’s lance, not his. Well, it had been a long time.

  He tossed the lance down and shook out his hand. He hadn’t even scored a hit. Damned careless. He had barely pulled on the reins when the horse wheeled on its own. A well-trained beast, to be sure. He swiveled his head to assess Osbert. He was rolling his shoulders, but no worse for wear. Well, that was unacceptable.

  Crispin put his hand down for the next lance and a squire handed it up to him. He repositioned the grip several times and felt it mold better to his arm. Yes, that was it. Felt better. The horse seemed excited, too, and toed the ground. Crispin gathered himself and held his breath, waiting impatiently for the herald to take his place again with the banner.

  He gave the signal and the horse shot forward. Crispin rolled evenly with the ambling gallop, waited and watched for the best moment to bring his lance down to his target. Waited for that moment when time seemed to slow again, and this time, he focused on Osbert, only him. That shiny armored body tilting toward him. His own horse’s mane whipped with the wind but that, too, seemed to slow, like seaweed rippling in the waves.

  His fist tightened over the lance, tighter, tighter. Lower. Then like lightning, like a thunderclap, his lance slammed Osbert’s shield.

  For a moment the man lifted from the saddle, head snapping back with the impact. Crispin stared at him as he passed, turning his head to watch. But though Osbert teetered precariously, he leaned forward and managed to keep his seat. He slumped, obviously in pain.

  Crispin was elated. He could do this. Now he had the sense of it again. Now he was in tempo. He slapped the saddle pommel with his fisted gauntlet and expelled an excited breath. But as he moved in the stirrups, pushing on them to reseat himself, he realized the jolt of the hit had done something to his armor. He could feel it. Something had shifted within the breastplate. But … how could that be? It was solid steel …

  God’s blood. The armor had been unusually heavy. Heavy because there were two sheets of metal, making a hollow space within. He rapped on it and heard it … and felt something shift again.

  “Good Christ,” he whispered. The Spear? It had to be. It had been there all along, embedded in the armor; the unique wedge shape had allowed it a secret reliquary.

  Suddenly, the overwhelming sense that he could do no wrong came crashing in on him. The Spear! But no. Crispin did not believe in the power of relics. He did not!

  And yet.

  Donning armor had made him feel whole again. But it could not bestow the undeserved confidence he felt. The Spear rattled around in the breast, taunting him.

  Was it true? Was the explanation from Abbot Nicholas possible? Would he be the victor only because of the power of the Spear?

  Osbert had recovered and was turning his horse. His squire handed him a lance.

  Crispin scanned the lists desperately. It was far too late. He could not escape. He had to see it through. For the first time, he allowed the sounds of the crowd to reach his hearing. There were equal parts cheering and heckling. The king moved restlessly on his throne. Had he recalled Crispin’s questioning of his faithful chancellor? Had he remembered the name Sir Osbert? He certainly looked as if he did. Discomfort was painted on his face. His wife, the queen, laid a gentle hand on his arm. He clearly doted on her, for at the merest touch, she enjoyed his full attention.

  Her golden gown shimmered in the October sun. Crispin caught more glints of gold and jewels among those in Richard’s box and from the stands surrounding him, the nobility of London. Perhaps even the sheriffs were there, watching, little knowing it was their favorite pet on the lists, masquerading as a sorrowful knight.

  It suddenly occurred to Crispin that he was going to have a devil of a time getting out of this, even if he did win.

  Didn’t think it through, did you? Oh, he had protested, but in the end he was dazzled by the armor, by the chance to be a knight once more. He heard himself chuckle in the visor. “Wel
l, whatever the outcome, it shall be spectacular.”

  He turned his head and noticed the herald getting impatient. He thrust out his hand for the lance and the squire placed it there. “Lord,” Crispin whispered into the helm, “if this is Your relic, the Spear that pierced Your side, then let its power wash over me. For I have been lost in my own pride. And though I am unworthy to receive Your blessing … I beg for it nonetheless.”

  He rode into position, the Spear rattling within the breastplate. He held the lance high. At least I am a knight again, if only briefly, he told himself. Richard can’t take this from me.

  Crispin let all his worries fall away. He closed his eyes and though he felt slightly foolish, he allowed himself to feel the presence of the Spear. He splayed his hand over the breastplate, trying to feel it through the cold metal. Would there be warmth? Would he sense its power?

  He waited a few heartbeats. A few more before he opened his eyes. He couldn’t stall forever. And he was feeling more foolish by the moment. Except that in the back of his mind was still the thrum of his utter certainty of victory. It reminded him all too keenly of the Crown of Thorns and how it had seemingly instilled in him a feeling of invincibility. He had performed many feats that day to escape the palace. He had dodged death more times than any mortal had a right to. But to this day he did not know if he could owe his life to the miracle of the thorns or to his own dumb luck.

  So why believe now?

  Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil. Were not relics to guard against evil?

  He ignored the loud cries and derision from the crowd. In the end, it wasn’t for him, but for Sir Thomas, his friend who could not muster the courage to even lift a lance in his own defense. A man who had tried to cast himself upon the sword that Crispin now wore at his side.

  Crispin had experienced many things in his life. He had jousted for the love of it. He had gone to war at Lancaster’s side for the same reason. But for once, he felt uncertain at the outcome.