“The most noble and puissant Lord Archibald Douglas, Earl of Moray, hereby challenges to single combat ahorse and afoot, any soever for the honour of a favour from the fair Countess Margaret of Douglas and Galloway. Who takes up my lord of Moray’s challenge? Who takes it up. I say?”
“The fool!” Will exclaimed hotly. “What does he think he is at? Archie is no champion. He has spirit enough — but too little wit? He is either in drink, or his earldom has gone to his head!”
Margaret smiled. “Perhaps none will dare take up the puissant Earl of Moray’s challenge?”
“Would I could think so.”
He had barely spoken before a horn blew, and it was announced that the valiant knight, Sir Patrick Hamilton of Dalserf, would fight.
Will groaned, as a loud cheering arose. “He, of all men! I might have known it. Oh, the fool!”
When presently, the two champions rode out from opposite ends of the enclosure, none could fail to remark on the differences between them. Archie was much the better mounted, and clad in magnificent black engraved armour, inlaid with gold, with a splendid and elaborately moulded, extravagantly pointed helm crested with tossing plumes in the Douglas colours. His surcoat was richly gold-embroidered and the red Douglas heart sparkled with garnets. By contrast, Hamilton’s armour was plain steel, dented, almost rusty in places, his surcoat tattered, the Hamilton ermine cinquefoils on red only painted on breast and shield, the plumes of his helmet already shorn off in the previous fight. Coming together, they bowed side by side to Margaret, one with a flourish, the other stiff and stocky.
After saluting each other with their lances, they turned and cantered back to their respective bases, to the plaudits of the crowd. Then, at a single trumpet blast, they dug in spurs and hurtled towards each other. This was to be no contest in brute strength like the earlier affray. As they came close, both earl and knight sought to outwit the other. Archie threw up his lancetip, so that it aimed at the older man’s gorget. Then, suddenly he dipped it, far down, so that it might slide in well below the great shield and in between the right thigh and saddle. Inserted thus, at speed, a sudden jerk could unseat a man and send him crashing. The Hamilton saw it, of course, but had only instants in which to take avoiding action. The classic recourse to such move was to slew the charger hard round to the left, so that the lance would be taken broadside on by the horse’s armoured side or hindquarter, with little likely effect. But Sir Patrick reacted otherwise. Instead, he flung his mount as hard to the right, plumb in the path of his opponent, and too late for the other to change his own direction.
It was a dangerous manoeuvre, for the oncoming horse would have the major impetus behind it, and in a collision the man who tried it might be apt to have the worst of it. But cunning entered into it, as well as impetus. Faced with such drastic collision, and without time for thought, most riders tended automatically to drag back on the reins, if they could not avoid, at least to lessen the impact. Only the experienced and very cool-headed would instead dig in their spurs the harder.
Archie Douglas was not cool-headed. Fiercely he reined back. His high-spirited mount, alarmed itself, strove to reduce speed. Its forefeet scoring long weals in the turf, it all but sat on its haunches, and as the savage pressure on its bit maintained, reared high, forelegs pawing the air.
It was a moment of real danger for the Hamilton, lashing hooves within inches of his head. But wrenching his own mount still further round to the right, out of the way, he performed a most difficult feat of horsemanship and bodily contortion, in his constricting armour. As his charger swung away rightwards, so he swung himself in the opposite direction — and, with himself, the lance couched at his right side. Leftwards the lance swept round in a great arc, with all the man’s strength behind it. Striking first the rearing horse’s armoured head, it drove on to smash, at three-quarters of its length, just below the gorget, where Archie’s helm joined his trunk. The wood snapped like a dead branch. But the sideways force behind it, allied to the younger man’s precarious seat on a rearing horse, was irresistible. Over Archie Douglas was flung, convulsively trying to cling to the saddle, hampered by stiff unyielding armour. He failed. Down his mount’s right side he fell, to crash to the grass.
Even then he was unfortunate, for it was no simple fall, from which, though shaken, he might have been able to continue the fight on foot. Somehow his right foot jammed in the heavy steel-encased stirrup. Head and shoulders struck the ground heavily, but he remained suspended by the right leg. His horse, crazed with fright and the blow received, pounded off to the other side dragging its rider with it. Bumping and clanking horribly, the young Earl of Moray was carried away from his opponent, who sat still, holding his broken lance. Fifty yards on, Archie’s foot was jerked loose. A crumpled heap he lay still, the gold in his armour reflecting the afternoon sun.
“I knew it! I knew it!” Will cried out, smashing a clenched fist on his gallery rail.
The roar of excitement from the spectators swelled and maintained. Used as they were to sudden endings to joustings, it was seldom indeed that in single combat one contestant should be laid completely low at the very first clash.
Margaret had risen to her feet at Archie’s downfall. “He is . . . he will be . . . well?” she asked breathlessly.
“He will be sore!” his brother declared callously. “And wiser may be! But . . .”
He was interrupted by the imperious shrilling of another trumpet. A voice followed it. “The right noble and puissant Lord Hugh Douglas, Earl of Ormond, challenges Sir Patrick Hamilton, or any other, for the honour of the Lady Margaret’s favour! Does any take up my lord of Ormond’s challenge?”
“Dear God!” Will croaked. “Hugh! Hugh, now! Bare sixteen! No! No, I say!” He swung on Jamie, who stood with Fleming behind. “Go, man — stop him. Is he bewitched? Stop him, Jamie. Tell him I forbid it.”
Out in the centre of the area the victorious Hamilton was shaking his broken lance in obvious acceptance of the new challenge. An esquire rode out with a new lance.
Before ever Jamie could have delivered his message another fanfare heralded the appearance of the next champion. Notably smaller than Archie, he was not so grandly turned out, but he was very fine, for all that, every item of his equipment new and shining. When he reined up beside the veteran, he looked almost too trim and polished to be real.
For Will to have stepped in and stopped the fight now would have been to humiliate his brother unbearably. If he was old enough for the King to belt as earl, he could scarcely be handled like a child before the said King. And with the unfortunate Archie now being led unsteadily off the field, all Douglas credit would be laughed to the winds.
“Does he know how?” Margaret asked. “He can joust?”
“We have all jousted since we were bairns,” Will told her shortly. “But only against others such as ourselves. Not . . . this. Hugh will make a fighter one day. But . . .”
Hugh Douglas was not entirely foolhardy. He at least had learned a lesson from his brother’s fate. When the pair drove at each other in the first charge, he made it clear that he perceived at least two advantages — his own youthful energy and his lighter, nimbler horse. A tired opponent could be halfway to being beaten. So he twisted and turned, jinked and darted, dodging and feinting as much as was possible for a man and a horse both encased in full armour. The other, of course, quickly saw the intention, and sought merely to stand his ground, only touching up his mount this or that at the boy’s darting thrusts. So might a rock face the sea’s foam and swirl.
“He’s too wily for that, laddie!” Will muttered. “You waste your own strength.”
Hugh seemed to perceive that, presently, for he pressed home one of his waspish attacks instead of sheering off as before. He drove in low and to the side, with his lance. Whether the other was taken by surprise or not, Hamilton was a trifle slow in his reaction, and in consequence took a blow on his steel-clad thigh. But it was a glancing stroke, and slid off along the hor
se’s protected rump. But at least Hugh was past and out of harm’s way before his opponent could bring his own lance to bear on this flank.
It may be that this taste of success made the boy careless; or it could have been just an error of judgment. But whatever it was, Hugh swung his beast round in the tightest turning circle possible, and bore back in, to repeat the manoeuvre while still the Hamilton was shaken from the blow received.
This was where experience told. The older man well knew the danger period after a numbing blow, and was not to be caught so. As his attacker came in, he seemed to be unready, but at the last moment he reined his mount violently round and backwards, so that the brute’s frontal armour took the lance-point with major force. But it was the heavy charger that took the impact, not the man, and in that stance it had little effect — save to shiver and split the wood right up its length. And as Hugh reeled, all but unseated by the recoil of his own blow, carefully, almost insolently slowly, the veteran’s lance selected its own target and drove in, like a javelin thrust. Struck full in the chest, the youngster was lifted right out of the saddle, and fell like a stone.
With a surprising turn of speed now, Sir Patrick jumped down to the grass, tossing away his lance and drawing his sword. He stood, watching the prostrate boy-earl.
Slowly Hugh, on his back, stirred and strove to raise himself, but could not. He rolled painfully over on to his stomach, and, sadly lacking in dignity, lifted himself on one steel elbow, then on two, on one knee, then on two, and so managed to get stiffly to his feet. As he stood, swaying, he was tugging out his own sword.
The other let him get the heavy blade right out, though the weight of it seemed almost too much for the dizzy youth. Then, quite casually, Hamilton raised his weapon and brought it down with a resounding clang on the top of Hugh’s plumed helmet. The boy buckled at the knees and crashed like a log, to lie still.
A great shout of laughter and acclaim went up.
Will was cursing with a fierce intensity — had been, throughout. Margaret, even in her distress for his brother, knew real fear of this man she had married, so savage did he look and sound — more especially when, down in the area, Sir Patrick opened his visor and shouted hollowly, to demand whether any more Douglas heroes cared to cross lances with Hamilton.
The knight had not long to wait for an answer. From the main gate to the lists, the herald made announcement. “The right doughty knight, Sir James, Master of Douglas, will cross a lance with Sir Patrick Hamilton, for a favour of the most fair, gracious and excellent Countess Margaret!”
“In the name of all that is holy — this is beyond all!” Will exploded. “What am I cursed with? A clutch of brothers, or a brood of braying asses! Jamie, now! Less a fighter than any of them! Was there ever such folly? What has got into them? . . .”
“Oh, my lord!” Margaret cried. “Will . . . will Jamie be hurt?” Her sweet calm and assurance was gone. “That evil man! Jamie . . . he could be striken. Slain!” That was a wail. “You must stop it. You hear? You must stop this wickedness.”
Will groaned. “How can I, girl? Look!” He pointed. Jamie was already riding on to the field while his young brother was being carried off. Whose armour he had been borrowing while Hugh fought was not evident, but the only Douglas symbol was the heart on the shield.
“You must! You are master here. You must save Jamie. He is not as the others. He is gentle. Mild. Kind. He cannot fight this wicked violent man! He must not!”
“Would you have me shame him? In front of all?”
“You could concede the contest. Declare Hamilton victor. Now. Before they start. Say that overmuch time has been spent on this . . .”
He shook his dark head. “All would esteem it but base cowardice. Jamie would be a laughing stock. I cannot . . .” He shrugged. “There they go.”
The two antagonists were galloping out from their bases. What tactics did Jamie think to use, where his more pugnacious brothers had so lamentably failed?
Will Douglas did not wait to see. He turned, to tell Rob Fleming to stay with Margaret. But that man was gone. Only young John, new Lord Balveny, was there now, biting his lips and looking nearly ready to run. “Bide here with her, Johnnie,” Will jerked, and without glance at wife, King, or other, slipped away down the steps.
He hurried, almost ran, through the crowd, round the perimeter of the great enclosure, few so much as glancing at him, with all interest fixed on the drama being played out in the arena. At the entry to the lists, there was a long robing-tent, divided inside into booths, where contestants in the games could change from their festive attire into armour, or garb more suited to the ring. Even before he reached this tent, Will could hear upraised voices within.
Pushing past the guards at the entrance, he found a group of men, some in armour, some not, disputing fiercely at the far end. Sir Robert Fleming was amongst them; esquires were buckling armour on to him.
Will strode up. “You can take that off Sir Robert!” he commanded the esquires grimly. “And quickly.”
“My lord! . . .” Fleming protested.
“Quiet, Rob! I know what you’re at. But this is not for you.”
“I am a Douglas vassal. Your lieutenant. And no child with a lance!”
“Nevertheless, you shall not fight. You are not a Douglas.”
“We told him so, my lord.”
“Aye, we need no Fleming to fight our battles for us!”
“Let me get at the Hamilton! I will show him Douglas mettle!”
“You! I was fighting when you were at your mother’s paps!”
“I tell you, I have ridden more tourneys than either of you! Than any here. It was wicked mischance that my beast stumbled in that first affray . . .”
“Quiet, I say!” Will shouted harshly. At least eight Douglas knights and lairds were there, experienced warriors, each demanding that he should be allowed to redeem the honour of the name. Clearly Will’s brothers, youthful as they were, had each had to flourish his rank and standing in order to precede all these. Now Fleming was at the same game. But, at least, the latter was roughly Will’s own build. “That armour,” he said, pointing to the esquires. “Put it on me, see you.”
“Will! My lord!” Rob cried. “You! You cannot do this. Not you. Not today!”
“I can. And shall. Quick, now. Jamie will not last long, I fear. Hurry!”
“But . . . on your wedding-day! Bridegroom! You cannot do it. What of the Countess? And you are host. To all. To Hamilton. Master of the games. You cannot do it, Will. It is against all usage, all form . . .”
“I shall not do it as host. Or master. I ride just as Douglas. Any Douglas. A plain helm. A shield, with only the Red Heart. Get me horse, used to the lists. A God’s name — hurry fools!”
Despite all protests and doubts, Will had his way. The esquires strapped him into Fleming’s armour, over all his bridegroom’s finery, but the other’s crested and plumed helmet he discarded for a plain and dented casque. A heavy charger was selected for him from the group outside. The last buckles were still being fastened as he strode out to it. A great and almost hysterical shouting from the crowd seemed to tell its own tale.
As Will was hoisted up into the saddle, they heard a herald declaring that Sir Patrick Hamilton prevailed.
“Rob — go tell that herald. Another Douglas challenges Hamilton. No name. Just a Douglas lance. Stay — tell him to say that if Sir Patrick is weary, he will fight any other, on his behalf. Say that. Any soever. You have it? Quickly!” To the others he spoke. “No word of who rides, see you. Just a Douglas. I charge you.” He snapped down the rusty visor.
So, a minute or two later, Will Douglas trotted out into the arena, a plainer figure even than Patrick Hamilton, wearing no surcoat at all over the armour, no plumes, no distinguishing mark save the heart painted on the shield. His opponent, of course, had not availed himself of the offer to use a substitute; he was not going to forfeit the glory of being supreme champion, at this stage. Will saw Jamie b
eing aided, limping, off the field. His horse lay still, presumably having been sore injured, and despatched. At least Margaret could swallow her anxiety, now, he reflected, as he drew up at Hamilton’s side, to bow to her.
Later, as he thundered forward in the first charge, Will knew what he must seek to do. He was no expert with the lance, any more than were his brothers — and obviously Hamilton was. There was no indication however, as yet, that the other was as proficient with the sword. He might be. But he was an older man, and might well be less swift. Especially on the ground. To get rid of the lances, then.
So as they came up, lances couched, Will quite deliberately pulled his mount out to the right. No doubt it looked a most evident shirking of the clash. He drove by, at a tangent, just too far off for either lance to engage. There was a corporate sigh of disappointment and disapproval from the throng. But even before they were past, the younger man’s mount was being wrenched back, with the most savage dragging at its mouth, back and aside, left-handed now, the head forced round. Up on its hind-legs it rose, a good horse abused, fore-hooves waving. Almost it tipped backwards, so abrupt was the reversal of movement, so far round was its head hauled. Half a dozen strange paces forward the brute staggered, on two feet, its rider standing in the stirrups, lance high — but when its forefeet did come down, they were forty-five degrees round from the former direction of advance, and still the fierce pressure was maintained, aided by rowelling spurs, armoured knee, and beating steel gauntlet. Cringing from the attack — for that is what it was — the animal bore round, round, in ungainly, scrabbling panic. But it had made the ninety-degree turn in shorter time than any one there had ever seen at a jousting. It was the sort of turn that a hill-pony required to make if it was, for instance, in the close proximity of a charging wild bull. Everywhere, folk were suddenly holding their breaths.
Will was kicking the beast violently ahead now. Directly in front Sir Patrick was reining up, to pull round in orthodox fashion. Because of the narrow visor-slits in his helm, he could have seen nothing of his opponent’s astonishing manoeuvre. Unaware of what was bearing down on him from behind, he was turning left-handed in a wide arc.
Black Douglas (Coronet Books) Page 20
