by Jason Vail
After that, he put on the padded gambeson. This was just like putting on a jacket, for it laced up the front. Then came the harder part, the mail shirt. It slipped over the head like a woman’s dress, but laced up the back from a point between the shoulder blades to the collar. A proper knight had a squire to help with this part. In the beginning, Stephen hadn’t had a squire. He’d had to arm himself, like most poor men-at-arms. Early on, he had learned the trick to it. He threaded the laces through all the ties so that he had only to reach behind his head and tie the laces at the back of his neck. With some careful squirming, Stephen managed to get the shirt on and laced up the first time.
The surcoat came next. It was soft, almost luxurious linen, white on the inside and solid blue, the family color, on the outside. Over the surcoat he belted on the sword, and made sure the dagger was secure at the small of his back. He hefted the strap of the shield over his shoulder, put his coif and arming cap in his belt, and picked up the second sword which would go in a scabbard on his saddle. Last, he found his helmet. It was a big, solid, flat-topped affair that looked rather like a barrel. When he was a child and such helmets had started to come into use, he had laughed at seeing all the knights wearing barrels on their heads. Now he had one. Once it had been painted blue, but the paint had largely worn off. It was a good helmet, but looked a bit forlorn and cheap, all dented and missing its paint. He tucked the helmet under his arm and turned toward the door.
Stephen’s appearance, as he jingled down the stairs into the hall, caused some consternation among the guests, who were assembled for breakfast. It was unusual to see an armored man. Even knights and men-at-arms rarely armored up to go about town or the countryside, because it was so uncomfortable and threatening a thing to do. At most they might carry their weapons about, although that normally was frowned upon if not forbidden outright in some towns.
Jennie and Edith met him at the bottom of the stairs. Edith wore a disapproving face; Jennie looked worried.
Gilbert came in through the door to the yard. He was wearing a sword. The wide sword belt looked odd wrapped around his rather large girth and made him appear broader than he was. Stephen hadn’t known Gilbert even owned a sword.
“You be careful,” Edith said.
“I’m never careful,” Stephen said with a smile. “Haven’t you understood that yet?”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t come?” Jennie asked anxiously.
“No. No need for a crowd. It’s a private affair.”
He said goodbye and went out the door into the yard. Gilbert followed.
In the stable, he was surprised to see that Gilbert had already saddled the stallion. He checked the girth, tightened it a notch, and mounted. The stallion stamped about, as if ready to run. Gilbert climbed on the mare instead of his customary mule and, carrying Stephen’s lance, they rode toward the gate.
“You’re old for a squire,” Stephen said.
“If any of them laughs at me, I’ll split his head,” Gilbert said.
Stephen laughed. “The only thing that’s missing is my box.” Often the participants at formal duels brought coffins made for them, just in case.
“There wasn’t time,” Gilbert said. “I’ve commissioned a hole dug ‘specially for you in the Ludford churchyard, however. It should be ready by the time we arrive.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Your servant.”
Bell Lane was well awake, off to the start of a perfectly normal day. The old woman, Jermina, emerged from the cobbler’s shop to sweep off the stoop. Alric’s apprentice followed her and began to fold down the window shutters to make counters, signifying the shop was open for business. They exchanged nods and good-days. Inside, Alric laid out a sheet of leather on the cutting table and set a pattern upon it in preparation for cutting a shoe. Mistress Bartelot’s upper window was open, as it usually was in the mornings so she could take the sun, but she was nowhere in evidence, although a cup of steaming cider sat on the sill as if she had just put it down.
Broad Street was already filled with people hurrying up the hill toward High. They passed a pretty girl carrying a basket with a cover over its contents who was followed closely by a pair of grim-faced friars in dirty black robes and bare feet. The girl swung her head to watch Stephen, but the friars acted as if he did not exist. Two boys who had been playing ball gaped at Stephen in his armor and ran alongside the horse almost as far as Broad Gate. He ignored them, although he worried how the stallion, always excitable, would react to this.
Fortunately, the gate was clear when they neared it. The warden on duty gave them the once over, top to bottom, but remained speechless on his stool, open mouth revealing his toothless gums.
A few feet away, Harry also gaped at the sight. “Where you going?” he asked.
“Gilbert needs a lesson in manners. He’s been so rude lately.”
“I can’t believe that — not fat old Gill.”
Gilbert swung the lance around and leveled its point at Harry. “I’m in a rotten mood, so you watch it.”
Harry threw up his hands. “Careful with that thing. You might hurt yourself.”
“The pointy end is toward you, my friend. You watch out.”
Harry did not reply and they crossed through Broad Gate and trotted down the street toward the bridge.
When they were some distance away, Harry yelled, “Careful you don’t fall off that horse, you old fart!”
Gilbert didn’t turn around, but he made an obscene gesture in the air.
“You wouldn’t believe that he was once a man of God,” Harry said to the warden. “What’s the world coming to?”
“Don’t know,” the warden said slowly. “Been going to hell since I was a boy.” He swatted at a fly.
Otherwise, it was a quiet normal morning on Broad Street.
“It seems he’s changed his mind,” Gilbert said.
“So it seems,” Stephen said, scuffing the dirt of the path with his good foot.
They were standing in the shade at the churchyard of the Ludford parish church. It was nearly dinner time. They had been waiting four hours and Nigel Fitzsimmons had yet to appear.
“Do you think we should go?” Gilbert asked.
“No, we’ll give him more time. Perhaps he got lost.”
“Lost his nerve, more likely,” Gilbert muttered.
“I’ve a feeling he’s got more than enough nerve.”
A babble of voices became audible from the direction of the bridge. A fairly large group of people must be approaching, but it couldn’t be Fitzsimmons.
And it wasn’t. It was Edgar and Pris at the head of a party of two dozen people. At the sight of them, Hamo shooed off his pupils and came across the yard, waving greetings. He had obviously been expecting them.
“Looks like a wedding, I’d say,” Gilbert said.
“A bit rushed, though, don’t you think?” Stephen said.
“You’re surprised?”
“No, I wouldn’t waste any time, if I were them.”
Gilbert nodded in the other direction. “Looks like mother has found out. Here she comes.”
Johanna and Clement emerged from a lane across the wide street that ran along the south side of the churchyard. They hesitated at the sight of the large party accompanying the bridal couple, which allowed Edgar, Pris, and their friends to enter the gate first. The bridal party trooped through the yard, Molly hanging on Hamo’s arm looking triumphant. They stopped at the church door, the usual place for weddings. Johanna and Clement passed the gate and followed, the pair throwing nasty looks in Stephen’s direction.
“I believe she’d cut your heart out, given the chance,” Gilbert said.
“I have another engagement, and I think that’s him at last.” Stephen turned to the west. A body of horsemen was approaching at an easy trot on the road from Richards Castle. Fitzsimmons was at the head, mailed, armed, and followed by six knightly retainers. They halted by the gate.
Stephen went out to speak
to Fitzsimmons, who scowled. “Odd place for a duel,” Fitzsimmons said, crossed forearms resting on the pommel of his saddle. “We can’t have something more . . . private?”
“I like it here,” Stephen said. He kept his voice nonchalant.
Fitzsimmons grunted in reply.
“How would you like your satisfaction?” Stephen asked, although he already knew the answer.
“To the death,” Fitzsimmons spat.
“It’s your misfortune. We can start in the street here.” Stephen pointed to the place. “I have only one lance, so if you’d be so kind as to limit yourself likewise.”
“Of course,” Fitzsimmons said with cold courtesy. “I prefer the sword in any case.”
“Good, then. It’s late. I can’t see any reason to delay any longer. Let’s get started. No need to appoint a referee, I think. Do you?”
“The sooner this is over the better.” Fitzsimmons wheeled his horse and trotted about thirty yards off. There he changed to his warhorse and put on his helmet.
Stephen put on his own helmet, slipped his hands into the mail mittens on the ends of his armored sleeves, and mounted the stallion. Gilbert handed him the lance, and Stephen walked down the street to his own starting place about a hundred yards from Fitzsimmons.
Without a referee there was no one to tell them when to start. So for a long moment they sat there looking at each other.
Stephen began to feel lightheaded. He dug a heel against the horse’s side, asking for an immediate canter. The horse burst forward, eager to run. Fitzsimmons came forward as well. Before they had started, they’d seemed far apart; now there seemed to be hardly any space at all between them, and that little bit rapidly diminishing. They had only a moment to take each other’s the measure, to read intentions from posture, the tilt of the shield, the slightest rise or droop of the lance — to gauge the other’s determination or cowardice and to guess how he meant to attack.
Stephen angled to make the first pass on FitzSimmon’s left.
But Fitzsimmons veered more sharply to get to Stephen’s right, thinking no doubt that without a left stirrup, Stephen could be throw more easily from the saddle if struck from that direction.
Fitzsimmons rose in the stirrups and leaned forward, lance point steady on Stephen’s face like, the perfect marriage of horse and man.
The horses thundered on the hard-packed surface of the street, their hooves throwing up clods of dirt. The members of the wedding party had abandoned the church doorway and lined the fence along the road, their mouths open and moving as if they were shouting. But sound seemed to have gone from the world, which had shrunk, as if to a mere tunnel containing only Fitzsimmons in his black and white tabbard and the sinister spark of sunlight off the tip of his lance.
Stephen let his point sag into the boar’s tooth guard, then snapped it up at the last instant, intending to deflect Fitzsimmons’ lance while at the same time striking his own blow. But Fitzsimmons must have seen through the trick, because he brought his point down toward Stephen’s body and leaned upon the pole with his shield so that Stephen felt like he was striking a tree limb. Fitzsimmons’ lance slithered along the length of Stephen’s and crashed into his shield, which he swung across the saddle at the last moment to take the hit.
The impact was like a hammer blow to Stephen’s arm and drove the shield hard against his chest, and for a moment he thought the arm was broken. He fought to remain in the saddle, gripping hard with his knees. Had it not been for the high cantle, he would have fallen.
Then they were past each other and the horses were wheeling as if on their own, Fitzsimmons casting away the remains of his lance, which had shattered at the impact, and drawing his sword.
Fitzsimmons spurred his horse to close the gap. Stephen shortened his grip on his lance and stabbed underhanded as Fitzsimmons drew up, but his point met only the air, for Fitzsimmons set it adroitly aside with his sword.
And then they were side to side. Stephen tried to hit Fitzsimmons with his shield, but the other man ducked, grasped the top of Stephen’s shield and pulled him from the saddle. Lacking a stirrup on the left side, Stephen had nothing to prevent his fall, and he crashed to the ground.
Stephen rose to his knees with difficulty. He gasped for breath. His helmet had come off. He groped for it, caught it and looked up to see Fitzsimmons leaning over, his sword held high and about to descent on Stephen’s head. Stephen threw himself to the right, rolled between the legs of his own horse and stood up, keeping his animal between himself and Fitzsimmons. He tried to put his helmet on. His left hand barely obeyed him. His right shook so much that he banged his teeth hard on the helmet’s rim.
Sound had returned to the commons, but only as a sigh of wind among the tops of the elms and the flutter of wings as a crow flew across the road. There was no shouting. Open mouths and shocked expressions showed among the would-be celebrants along the fence. Fitzsimmons’ men watched grimly, professional squints in every eye.
Fitzsimmons impatiently whacked Stephen’s warhorse on the flank with the flat of his sword to get him out of the way. The horse charged to the end of the commons where Gilbert ran to retrieve him. For a moment, the two men regarded each other, panting hard.
Stephen hefted his shield with his numb hand, the feeling slowly returning to it. He tried to draw his sword, but for some reason it would not come out smoothly. After he tugged and tugged, the scabbard finally released it. To his horror, he saw that it had bent sharply in the fall.
Then Fitzsimmons was on him, dealing powerful blows with the sword. They slammed against Stephen’s upraised shield, and more than a few thudded against his helmet with stunning force.
Stephen ducked, weaved, and danced, but nothing took him safely out of range of those awful blows. The horse and the man moved as though they were one being. They matched his every step. He could not escape.
Before long, he was so battered that he felt he could not resist the end. He sensed it coming, as if the herald of death had grasped his shoulder. The relentless blows at last caused his shield to split, and it was now only a few boards held together by splinters. He stripped the blasted remnants from his arm as he backed away.
And tripped over the broken shaft of Fitzsimmons’ lance.
Fitzsimmons took immediate advantage of his fall and spurred the warhorse to trample him as he lay on the ground.
Stephen grasped the broken pole and rolled desperately away from those enormous hooves.
As he rolled, he came to his knees and swung the pole like a bat against the horse’s forelegs.
The horse screamed and backed away.
Stephen stood up. His breath came hard and fast, creating droplets of moisture on the inside of his helmet that dripped down the front of his surcoat. He was about at the end of his rope.
Fitzsimmons could see victory in the exhausted droop of Stephen’s shoulders. He spurred the horse forward and raised his sword, confident that this blow would bring the end.
Stephen waited for him, the pole held low and behind, a picture of defeat . . . waiting . . . stumbling a little . . . oddly the stumble brought him around to Fitzsimmons’ right, a gift to his adversary for there the death blow would be strongest . . . waiting . . .
. . . for the moment when the blow fell.
Fitzsimmons’ sword, that shiny ribbon of steel, which glittered in the morning sun like liquid lightning, rose to a great height and then swept downward with a swift song toward Stephen’s shoulder.
Now was the time — now!
Stephen met Fitzsimmons’ blow with one of his own aimed at Fitzsimmons’ hand, as he slipped to the side and under the sword.
There was a sharp crack as the spear pole collided with Fitzsimmons’ wrist. The bright sword spun through the air. Admirably, Fitzsimmons did not cry out as he cradled his arm to his chest. Stephen ran for the sword.
He turned and tapped the blade against his leg. He could feel the sword’s fine temper as the blade shivered.
�
�I say, Nigel,” Stephen said with far more nonchalance than he felt, “you’ve lost your sword. Would you like to continue?”
“Allow me another and I’ll be glad to go on.”
“You’re sure? It appears you’re hurt.”
“I can play as well left handed as right.”
“You’ve fought well. There’s no shame in stopping.”
“This isn’t over yet.” Fitzsimmons slipped from his horse and cast away his shield.
“As you wish.” Stephen motioned for Gilbert, who came as beckoned, looking puzzled. “I’ll need to borrow our sword,” Stephen said.
Hesitantly, Gilbert handed the blade over.
Stephen tossed Fitzsimmons’ sword back to him. Fitzsimmons caught it with his left hand and stood ready in the plow guard. He held the wounded arm against his chest.
“Thank you, Gilbert. If you will kindly move back and give us some room . . .”
Stephen assumed the left tail guard, the safest of all the guards when caught without a shield, and waited, partly to give himself more time to recover and partly to see what Fitzsimmons would do.
For Stephen had no intention of killing Fitzsimmons. A dead Fitzsimmons was no use to him.
For his part, Fitzsimmons had no such merciful intentions. And he was not so worn out or battered. He launched an attack, lunging with the point. Stephen cut upward in an effort to set it aside. But the thrust was a feint. No sooner than it was launched than it pulled back and became a solid cut to the shoulder, aiming to break bone beneath the mail. Caught unprepared and out of position, Stephen ducked. The blow clanged against his helmet, knocking it askew. He could not see anything but the side of the helmet which should have faced his ear. Stephen sensed that Fitzsimmons was close, very close. A glance at the ground — there were Fitzsimmons feet — told him they would close enough to touch chests!
It was suicide to try to back away — but this close to a man with only one arm! It was a gift! Stephen dropped his sword and grabbed Fitzsimmons around the waist. Just a little lift and the throw would be his, and Fitzsimmons would be defeated!
