by Simon Hawke
The galleries were all set up, as were the lists, which were nothing more than several fences running parallel to each other, forming tracks down which knights would hurtle toward each other from opposite ends, colliding as they passed. The battleground was in a small valley with the stands erected on a rise, a little hill that would afford the spectators an unobstructed view of the proceedings. On either side of the small valley, pavilions had been erected: tents with pennants flying from their peaks, the colors identifying the knights who occupied them. Some of these pavilions matched the colors of their pennants, revealing which of the knights were among the more well-to-do. As was the custom, one side of the field had been assigned to the hosts-or the home team as Lucas thought of them-the other to the challengers or visitors. Lucas had the purse which Wilfred had obtained by mugging some poor priest, so he gave it to Hooker and sent him off with instructions to secure a pavilion for themselves. "Make sure it's one of the cheaper ones," he said. "It's still early in the game and it wouldn't hurt to economize." When Hooker returned, he told him that they had a pavilion at the far end of the valley, out of the way of the center of activity, but close enough to enable them to observe the goings-on from within its shelter.
"Good enough, squire Poignard," said Lucas. "Let's go. Oh, and pick up a couple of those chickens that vendor's cooking over there. No point to jousting on an empty stomach."
Lucas stood just inside the tent flap, munching on a drumstick and watching the opening ceremonies. Hooker had collared one of the local lads and for a small price, they had a play-by-play announcer. Or blow-by-blow, as the case may be, thought Lucas. Under the circumstances, it was not an unusual thing for a knight to do. It was a large tournament and there were competitors present from all over the country. It was entirely within reason that a stranger to the land, especially one who had come from far away, would not be familiar with all the colors and heraldic devices. Lucas sat down on a crude wooden cot inside the tent, in a position so that he could see outside, yet at the same time appear to be resting for the time when his turn came. Hooker stood just outside with the boy, a youngster of about twelve who seemed to know everyone concerned, just as a modern kid would know all the players in his favorite sport.
"Describe everything to me in detail," Lucas told the lad. "I wish to close my eyes and rest awhile."
Then, while the boy stood outside and described what was happening in great detail, just as he was told, Lucas shifted his position so that he could see clearly everything the boy described. He could be forgiven for not recognizing all the colors, but it would look a little strange if he did not know any of them.
It was nearing midday and all things were in readiness to begin the tournament. It could have started hours ago, save for the fact that it was necessary to wait for the arrival of the nobility, who showed up in dribs and drabs, each delaying their arrival by a degree of lateness according to the positions they fancied themselves to hold in the social pecking order. Lord Bluenose couldn't possibly arrive at his seat before the Earl of High and Mighty. Finally, everyone was seated except for the prince and his retinue. They arrived with many fanfares from the trumpets, which sounded too much to Lucas like the braying of Hannibal's elephants. He was not, in the least concerned about the passage at arms. Having been charged by a bull elephant, Lucas felt that an armored knight on horseback seemed rather tame by comparison.
John rode in on a handsome charger, surrounded by his knights. Priest's young announcer called them off to him, identifying each by their colors and the devices on the shields carried by their squires. There was Maurice De Bracy, riding at the head of a group of his Free Companions, which translated as mercenaries. De Bracy was all decked out in gold, which Lucas thought appropriate, and his shield bore the emblem of a flaming sword. Riding on John's left hand was the warrior priest, the Templar Brian de Bois-Guilbert. He was dressed in the black and white colors of his order, his shield emblazoned with a stylized raven, wings outstretched, holding a skull in its claws. Beside him rode Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, a bullish looking knight whose appearance suited his name. He was in blue lacquered armor with a bull's head on his shield. Somewhat behind them, attired in brilliant blood red with a fleury cross upon his shield, was a knight the boy identified as Andre de la Croix. And in the vanguard was the prince himself.
John of Anjou was a dandy, dressed in the height of fashion, complete with a fur-trimmed short cloak and boots with turned up toes. His black beard was neatly trimmed and pointed and his hair hung down to his shoulders, curled at the end in a style that reminded Lucas of the way women wore their hair in the period following World War II. He flourished a small mace as he rode, a peculiar thing with a triangulated head that seemed more for show than for fighting. To top off the ensemble, John wore a velvet cap set at a rakish angle.
He took his small parade through the lists and around in front of the stands, preening before the crowd, which greeted him with some enthusiasm. Perhaps he was a tyrant, but he was the patron of the festival and the people seemed grateful for what small favors they could receive. Still, there were those in the gallery who were conspicuous by their refusal to applaud His Majesty. Richard still commanded some loyalty and, of course, the Saxons had little reason to love John. The prince seemed far less interested in them, however, than in their women. He took his time riding past the stands. He paused in front of the section where there had been the least applause and Lucas shifted his position slightly to see what had captured his attention. It turned out to be a pretty blonde.
"The prince gazes boldly on the fair Lady Rowena," said the boy, somewhat testily, betraying his strong Saxon pride. "This will ill please the noble Cedric."
Lucas got up and moved closer to get a better view. So this was his supposed sweetheart and his father. So much for my revealing myself at this tournament, he thought. He had no desire for a family reunion. As he watched, John moved closer to Rowena and Cedric, evidently displeased at this attention or at something John had said, interposed himself between the sovereign and his ward. John said something to De Bracy and Lucas saw the knight stretch forth his lance, as if to give Cedric a sharp poke in the ribs. The burly Saxon's response was to whip out his sword and, with a quick chopping stroke, knock the point off De Bracy's lance.
"Well," said Hooker, "things are getting interesting."
For a moment, De Bracy stared stupidly at his amputated lance, having been caught unprepared by the quickness of Cedric's blow. Then someone called out, "Well struck!" in a loud voice and the crowd burst into cheers and laughter. De Bracy turned beet red and grabbed for his sword, but found a gloved hand covering his own. He looked up and saw the smiling face of the red knight, who had ridden up beside him.
"You find this amusing, de la Croix?" De Bracy snapped.
"No, somewhat predictable, given Cedric's character," said Andre de la Croix, suppressing a chuckle. The two knights conversed in French, as did all Normans when they weren't addressing Saxons in the mixed tongue of lingua franca.
"Remove your hand," said De Bracy, very evenly.
"I will," said de la Croix, "only remember that this passage at arms has been arranged to curry favor with the motley masses, the better to enable them to forget, for a time at least, their empty purses. It would prove somewhat contrary to the purpose were you to skewer Cedric, who has their affection."
Sullenly, De Bracy loosened his grip on the pommel of his sword and de la Croix removed the restraining hand. John, meanwhile, had missed this interplay, having been preoccupied with his indignation at the man who had set off the outcry and the laughter by calling out, "Well struck!"
" You!" He pointed his truncheon at the offender. "What is your name?"
"I'm called Grant the Tinker," said the man.
"I don't like your face," said John. "Step forward!"
Bobby Johnson ducked beneath the railing and stepped up to the monarch's horse. He inclined his head in a small and totally inadequate bow.
"You
are insolent, Tinker."
"I was merely carried away in my enthusiasm at seeing a blow that had been struck so well," said Bobby, casually omitting any use of honorifics in his address of the prince.
"What would a tinker know of such things?" said John, contemptuously.
"It's true that I'm no knight," said Bobby, "but I'm a fair hand with a bow and I can appreciate the skill one man displays in that which he does best."
"You fancy yourself an archer, then? Why would a common tinker concern himself with such a martial art?"
"These are hard times in which we live," said Bobby. "Bandits are abroad and a man must learn to protect himself."
"The man is insolent beyond belief, Sire," said Front-de-Boeuf. "Let me run him through and we'll have done with him."
"No," said John. "I am of a mind to have some sport with this rude peasant. We shall put him to the test. We'll see how well you shoot, Tinker, if your arrows fly as true as your mouth runs ready. Marshal, prepare the butts. We will begin with archery today. And if you do not prove to be as expert as you are rash, my loutish friend, I'll see you lashed for your impertinence."
As the heralds proclaimed the beginning of the tournament, John and his retinue took their places in the stands in a section separated from the others by being somewhat elevated above them and enclosed on all sides save the front, giving those sitting within the most commanding view of the field. The archery butts were brought out and Bobby stepped forward to take his place among the ranks of the competitors. There were not too many of them, since challengers would have to shoot against John's Norman archers, who were famous for their marksmanship.
"Now look what you've done," growled Finn Delaney, who had gone along with Bobby to hold his quiver and his cloak.
"Now look what you've done, sir," said Bobby, grinning. Finn was old enough to be his father.
"Shit, give me a break," said Finn. He ran a beefy hand through his thick red hair. "This isn't funny. He wasn't kidding about giving you a whipping. You think they'll stop with just tearing some skin off your back? These bastards will keep at it till you croak!"
"That's assuming I lose this contest," Bobby said.
"Who do you think you are, Robin Hood?"
Bobby stared at him in astonishment, then broke up.
"Okay, very funny," Finn said, frowning. "But what if any of these characters are better than you?"
"Then I guess we'll be in trouble."
"We?"
"Thanks, Finn. I knew you'd stand by me."
"Jesus, you could at least have called him Sire or Your Majesty or something. You had to go and piss him off. What was the point?"
Bobby handed him his cloak and hat. "You're supposed to be Little John," he said, "and I'm supposed to be the fastest gun in Sherwood Forest, remember? If I win this shoot-out, they'll be talking about it all over the place. Can you think of a better way of establishing our credentials?"
"Give me a minute, I'm sure I can come up with something."
"Well, think fast, because they're about to get this show on the road."
The trumpets blared again and the herald announced that each man would have three flights of arrows at a distance of seventy-five paces. The moment that had been announced, seven of the competitors dropped out. That left only nine, including Bobby. Each man shot at will, taking as much time as he wished to shoot three arrows in succession. Bobby hit the gold with every shot with no apparent difficulty and, to most of the people in the stands, it looked like he hardly even aimed. Only two archers did as well, which eliminated everybody else.
"That wasn't bad," said Finn.
"I had to make harder shots in training," Bobby said. "Besides, this isn't entirely new to me, you know. Remind me to tell you about the time I took archery lessons from Ulysses."
They moved the targets farther back, to a distance of about one hundred yards. They shot again and this time one man was eliminated. That left Bobby and Hubert, John's champion archer.
"If Hubert doesn't beat this insolent braggart," John said, "I'll have his guts for garters."
The targets were now moved back to a distance of some hundred and twenty yards.
"You sure about this?" whispered Finn.
"Piece of cake."
Hubert was to have the first shot. He drew his long bow back to his right ear, aimed carefully, waited for the breeze to die down and then let fly. The arrow described a graceful arc in the air and landed directly dead center in the gold. A cheer went up from the stands.
"Hah!" John exclaimed, jubilant at Hubert's shot. "Let's see the Saxon bastard beat that shot! It can't be done!"
Finn's heart sank.
"Hell of a shot," Bobby said. "I'd give my left nut for a laminated Browning recurve with stabilizers right about now."
"What are we going to do?"
"The only thing we can do."
"Resign and run for it?"
"No, cheat."
He turned his back to the stands, taking a position so that Hubert couldn't see what he was doing. He removed an arrow from the quiver that was colored differently from all the others. He fitted the black arrow to his bow.
"A little something the ordnance boys whipped up for me, just in case," he said to Finn.
"What's the gimmick?"
"Look inside the quiver and you'll find a little black box. When I nock my arrow, the bowstring depresses the arming trigger. The moment I let fly, you hit the button on that box. Inside the shaft, there's integrated microcircuitry coupling a ferrous metal detector inside the bronze arrowhead with a limited trim system on the fletching."
Finn grinned widely. "Now that's style," he said.
"I don't know about style," said Bobby, "but I've got a strong sense of self-preservation. The black arrows have shaped charges in the heads. Just stand between me and Hubert while I remove that, I don't want to blow up my target."
The whispered conversation with Finn was taken for hesitation on Bobby's part by Hubert, who began to grin broadly and act as though he had already won. Indeed, he had no reason to believe otherwise. When Bobby took his stance and drew his bow back, the crowd fell utterly silent. No one believed that there was any way the tinker could match the shot, much less beat it, but they respected his determination.
"He'll never best that shot of Hubert's," John said confidently. "I'll teach that Saxon cur a lesson in manners yet."
Bobby made a show of aiming, then let the arrow fly. The moment the shaft left the bowstring, Finn depressed the button activating the guidance system. The arrow was halfway to the target when the ferrous metal detector picked up the presence of Hubert's iron arrowhead just ahead of it. Fortunately, there were no other iron objects near enough to confuse the system and the arrow flew straight and true, the fletching adjusting itself imperceptibly until Bobby's arrow hit the end of Hubert's shaft precisely, splitting it right down the middle until it came up against Hubert's arrowhead with a shock that sent it halfway through the butt. There was a moment of complete, unbelieving silence and then the crowd roared.
Hubert's jaw dropped in astonishment. He could have sworn that the tinker's aim was off.
"By God, the man's a devil, not an archer!" John swore in amazement, forgetting his annoyance with the tinker. "Any man who can shoot like that, I'll have in my service!"
He would have made the offer, only a mob charged out upon the field to congratulate one of their own, thrilling in a Saxon's victory over a Norman. When the tumult died down and the crowd dispersed, the black garbed tinker and his friend in lincoln green had disappeared. They did not show up to claim their prize. Vexed, John pronounced the man a craven coward and said that he hoped his Norman knights would make a better showing than his pathetic archers. Hubert left the field, looking miserable.
John flourished his truncheon and ordered the jousting to commence.
The Saxon boy was quite impressed with the tinker's performance. He could not contain his joy. Lucas thought that Bobby had showed off just a
bit too much. It had been risky. Obviously, the last arrow had been a guided one. Lucas conceded that Bobby had no choice, since the Norman archer's shot would have been impossible to beat any other way, but still, he hadn't liked it very much. Fortunately, Bobby had been able to retrieve the arrow and melt away into the crowd. That, at least, had been prudent of him. The guided arrows were equipped with a fail-safe mechanism that would fry the circuitry inside the shaft if anyone was curious enough to examine them too closely, but he was still glad that Bobby had managed to get his arrow back and disappear. It had been an impossible shot. John might have decided to order him to duplicate it just to see if it was luck or skill. If it happened again, it would have been clear evidence of skill-superhuman skill. It was well to draw attention to themselves in order to curry sympathy with the locals and to flush out the renegade ref, but there was such a thing as carrying it a bit too far.
Now, his turn was coming up. Lucas decided to wait as long as possible to see how the competition shaped up. His nysteel armor would keep him fairly safe, but he could still be unhorsed and the whole idea was not to let that happen. He had no intention of risking a broken neck.
As the heralds announced the rules for the passage at arms, he sized up the other knights, watching as they were lifted up onto their horses. The rules were fairly simple. A challenger would ride through the lists to the opposing side and use his lance to touch the shield of the knight he wished to joust with. If he touched the shield with the butt end of the lance, then it was polite competition, lance points tipped with wood. It was still possible to be hurt, but at least the chances of getting skewered were somewhat diminished. However, if someone touched the shield of the knight he was challenging with the tip of his lance, then it was serious business. That meant either that he was bloodthirsty or that he had some personal grievance against the knight whom he was challenging, since then the joust would be carried out with untipped lances, like fencing with the buttons off the foils. For obvious reasons, most knights were polite to each other at tournaments. And for equally obvious reasons, the crowd simply loved it when shields were touched with tips of lances.
