The Sword and The Swan

by Roberta Gellis

  The heralds blew, the chief marshal called, "In God's name, do your battle," and Rannulf sighted carefully above the center and slightly to the left on Sir Giles' shield. If the lance held, he would unseat his opponent; if the lance slipped off, it would go above Sir Giles' shoulder and do him no harm.

  The horses thundered across the turf, urged by the spurred heels of their riders, but the shock to a battle-hardened man was nothing. Neither rider had thrown himself forward into the impact; neither wished to harm the other. Rannulf's lance splintered; Sir Giles' slipped off between the bosses of Rannulf's shield.

  Two more encounters were equally formal and inconclusive, as both men intended them to be, and the watching crowd, sensing the restraint, was silent and disapproving. They had come to see serious jousting and a little blood spilled; this courteous mockery was not to their taste.

  The next opponent was a younger man, a claimant to a barony through inheritance but not yet invested. It would do him no harm to take a fall, Rannulf decided, and made short work of the young man on his first run.

  As the youthful knight arched over the croup of his horse, Rannulf wheeled past the royal lodge and brought his lance down and up in salute. The compliment might have been for the king and queen, but Rannulf meant it for Catherine. Unfortunately it did not reach her for she did not raise her eyes, but Rannulf was not much troubled.

  Exhilarated by the way events seemed to be molding themselves to his desires, Rannulf made a mistake against the third opponent. His lance had held through the previous encounter and, even though it still balanced correctly, and showed no sign of strain, he should have changed it. He did not.

  Wheeled on the end of the lists, Rannulf's destrier sprang forward without needing the touch of the spur. A quick glance showed the experienced fighter that this man carried his shield straight and well in over his body. Rannulf fixed on a middle point just right of center so that when the impact took place the iron tip would slip exactly into the slightly concave center of the shield and throw the horseman out of the saddle. About twenty-five feet from his opponent, Rannulf dug his spurs into his stallion.

  In the same instant that the beast leapt forward with renewed energy, the rider flung himself against the front pommel. He saw the lance tip hit just where he intended, heard the ominous creak of the wood before it splintered, and threw his left arm, bearing his shield, up and out convulsively. His opponent's strike, uncushioned by the holding power of his own lance, made him reel in the saddle.

  Desperately, Rannulf dropped his broken lance butt, grabbed for his reins, looped around his saddle pommel with his right hand, and wrenched his horse over toward his opponent. The change in angle was sufficient. The lance tip slipped off through the bosses and slid over Rannulf's right shoulder, but the shaft struck him hard on the jaw below the ear. A frantic jerk upward of his shield pushed the shaft higher and freed him totally. Rannulf bowed forward over his saddle, safe, but dizzy and shaken.

  Ten minutes to recover was all he needed, but he did not have two. The stallion, trained by long habit, turned without direction at the end of the field and trotted toward his own post. Habit, too, held Rannulf in his saddle; a man with his years of fighting experience would need to be more than half unconscious to lose his seat. To those watching, he seemed ready to run a second course against this man.

  Without a sound he took the new lance handed to him by his squire and fewtered it, but his eyes were glazed, and while habit still came to his aid and permitted him to hold the weapon steady, he could not see well enough to aim with any exactness. A second shock in which he was saved from being unhorsed only by the splintering of his opponent's lance dazed him still further. He managed to retain his seat even on the third encounter because the dizziness passed and he could control his body properly, but there was a weakness in his limbs and he ached with effort almost as he did after a hard day's fighting.

  Now Rannulf had his ten-minute respite while the fifth jouster came on to the field and made ready. He waited quietly at his barrier, pressing his arms against his body to still their trembling and licking his dry lips. It seemed to him at the moment that he would gladly have given the whole earldom of Soke for a goblet of wine, and he knew he had only to tell John to bring it, but pride kept him still. No man would say of him that Rannulf of Sleaford needed refreshment after four encounters with the lance.

  Three more courses, that was all he needed to withstand; then he could rest. Briefly, Rannulf considered putting off the melee until the next day. Actually that was the normal procedure, the jousting in a tourney taking place on one day and the melee the following. However, since only five jousts had been planned, Rannulf himself had insisted that the entire event take place at once and be done with. The thought was only a passing one. The same pride that kept him from asking for a drink would not permit him to request an even greater concession.

  The fifth jouster, to compound the trouble, was the strongest of all with a seat in the saddle so secure that unhorsing him would be well-nigh impossible. One pair of lances was fairly broken, and Rannulf, returning to his barrier, felt nauseous with fatigue.

  One little ray of hope lightened his trouble. The jouster opposing him apparently counted on his offense to protect him. He carried his shield poorly, tipped inward toward his body, a dangerous practice. Rannulf did not wish to kill or seriously injure one of his new vassals, his desire to show off having passed, but he was not sure he could take two more fair shocks from a rider of the strength of this one. He spurred his horse, which was also tiring, fewtered his spear, then with a fervent prayer that the beast would not stumble, wrenched him inward toward his opponent's horse at the last moment.

  His lance, caught on the inside of the jouster's shield, slipped through the bosses. Rannulf flung his body against it and, with a low cry of relief saw it slide through under the man's arm, tearing his mail and the flesh of his chest.

  Rannulf reined his horse so sharply that the beast nearly sat on his own haunches, turned, and rode back to steady the bleeding knight with his own hands.

  "How badly are you hurt?"

  "Not—it is little more than a scratch."

  The face that looked into Rannulf's was not much older than that of Geoffrey, his eldest son. "Is this a jest?" he roared, enraged and ashamed. "Have they sent boys against me? Who are you?"

  "I have my spurs," the young man answered faintly. "I am Sir Andre Fortesque, Sir Giles' youngest brother. Am I not a good jouster?"

  "Would you be in the condition you are if you were a good jouster?" Rannulf said in exactly the same tone of exasperated fury he would have used to his own son. "How comes it that your brother has not told you of the abominable way you hold your shield? I hope you have learned. Go to—can you ride?"

  "Yes, I think I can. I am sorry I did so ill." The young face became bitter with disappointment. "I had hoped if I rode well enough that you might find a place for me in your household. I am a great charge upon my brother, and if I do not find a place now that I am knighted—"

  Rannulf laughed harshly. "If you think you would win my favor by laying me in the dirt in front of all my vassals, you have peculiar notions."

  He swung himself off his horse at the barrier and helped the young man down, supporting him with one arm and beckoning to the herald with his free hand. "Here," he said to the herald, "hold him and see that he receives the best care." Then he turned to Sir Andre and said, "Go nowhere. I would have a few words with you when this is over."

  But as Andre pushed back his helmet and his expression became more apparent, Rannulf shook his head and said more kindly, "You did none so ill. Except for your brother, who was holding back, you were the strongest jouster indeed. If you desire service—well, you are in no case to talk now."

  Remounting, Rannulf was again conscious of his weariness, but also of a strong sense of satisfaction. After a rest and some food and drink, all would be well. It was a necessary formality that he return to the barrier to stand forth
in case of an additional challenge, but he had no expectation that anyone would look for trouble, especially after what had happened to Sir Andre.

  The herald called once, repeating the challenge. Twice. Rannulf was just about to drop his rein and allow his mount to move forward as the third and last call rang out, when a large man in a gray surcoat lavishly embroidered with gold came to the opposite barrier. He leaned down from his destrier to speak to the herald.

  "Lord Rannulf, hold," the herald called. "Sir Herbert Osborn is here to prove that you, not he, has lied. That the countess of Soke, your wife, is falsely wed to you, being first promised to him, and that she dare not avow this out of fear for her life at your hands."

  A gasp arose from the lodges. Stephen rose to his feet, a frown marring the usual good nature of his countenance. "What brings you so late to answer this challenge, Sir Herbert?"

  Osborn rode forward. "Foul play, sire, and it does not need great thought to discover whose. My wine was drugged, and I could not be wakened. Had I been a lesser man, I would not have wakened at all."

  Another gasp passed through the lodges. One man would not survive this encounter, so much was clear. The crowd of common folk shrieked with excitement. This was what they had come for. Now they would see a duel in earnest; now there would be sword and mace play, and blood would truly flow. Sir Andre's mishap had just whetted their appetites, and they roared their enthusiasm for the coming show.

  Rannulf could not make a sound. He did not at first even feel angry, so impossible did it seem to him that anyone could accuse him of such a deed.

  Numb with surprise, he listened to the herald calling aloud the formal phrases of permitting God to decide the right of the quarrel until the enormity of the slander became clear.

  "Have done," he choked at last. "Get him on the field before I burst."

  The slow-rising rage was of benefit to him for it gave strength to his tired body, but even spurs dug deep enough to draw blood could not revive his mount. Sir Herbert had not underestimated himself, although he had made a mistake in infuriating Rannulf, and the shock threw not Rannulf, but the tired horse.

  As the beast went down, Rannulf was still in the saddle. The crowd howled appreciation and excitement, but again long experience came to the rescue. Many horses had gone down under the master of Sleaford in considerably worse circumstances than faced him at present. By the time Osborn had wheeled his horse about, Rannulf was free, sword in hand.

  The decision that faced Sir Herbert was not an easy one, and there was little time in which to think about it. If he stayed in the saddle, he would have an almost insuperable advantage over the heavily armed man on foot. On the other hand, it was an unchivalrous action that would make him odious to the men he wanted to convince to follow him, and an action that would be impossible to explain away.

  Sure he could beat his shaken opponent, he too leapt clear of the saddle, and the cry of approval, not from the crowd but from the lodges, showed that he had done right. They would be more likely to believe the tale of the drugged wine now.

  The men approached each other warily, Osborn quite apparently carrying his weight of mail more easily than his older opponent. They circled, eyeing each other like hostile cats, and with the swiftness of a cat Osborn brought his sword across in a sidelong slash. It was stopped on Rannulf''s blade with a clang that rang clear through the field while in the few seconds that the swords hung together, Rannulf thrust forward and upward with his shield, hoping to stun his adversary.

  The thrust was beaten back; the swords were free. Now Rannulf raised his weapon and brought it down. It caught on Osborn's shield, but sliding down struck his cheek. Even though the main force of the blow was spent, the flesh was laid bare to the bone. It was a small advantage since in the same moment Rannulf felt the searing heat of a blow on his hip and the less burning but more dangerous warmth of blood trickling down his thigh.

  The battle continued, slash, thrust, and parry, the combatants too evenly matched for much advantage on either side. In twenty minutes both were bleeding freely from several minor wounds and both were breathing heavily enough to back off mutually and lean, resting, on their swords.

  The lodges cheered, the men calling advice and the women urging their favorites to greater endeavor. Only the front bench was silent. Stephen was angry. He was not a very clever man, but he had known Rannulf too long to credit the ugly slur cast upon him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew there was something more than a simple rivalry for the earldom involved. Someone high up in the court must be behind Osborn or he would never have dared insult Rannulf.

  Maud guessed far more than her husband of the truth of the situation, but she would say nothing. She could not even decide whom she desired to win this combat. Rannulf was an old friend and a loyal vassal. Maud knew the civil war was not over and knew too that Rannulf would be most valuable to her and her husband, but perhaps his destruction would ease Eustace's heart and wash away his restless dissatisfaction.

  Beside her Eustace bit his lip in equal indecision. He clung to his hatred of Rannulf, because Rannulf had shamed him and because he wanted to believe Rannulf a traitor. Still, it was a dreadful thing to see a man like Rannulf of Sleaford die at the hands of a cur like Osborn.

  Catherine alone thought only of one man on the torn grass of the field. She prayed for her husband and feared for him because she loved him, but she was filled also with a bitter resentment because she was sure he did not love her.

  How strange, she thought, her eyes resting on the panting men, that she could not love her first man who had deeply adored her. Now that she had a man whom she considered worthy of her love, he did not care for her. It was a judgment upon her for her dissatisfaction and selfishness, but if he came alive out of this she would show him that she, too, could be indifferent. The bloodstained warriors moved toward each other, and Catherine resolutely closed her eyes and began to pray. "Ave Maria, Gratia plena, Dominus tecum. . . ."

  Less blindly angry now, Rannulf had considered his position carefully while he caught his breath. There was no point in deceiving himself; he was not strong enough to rush Osborn and bear him down. The man was his equal in strength and was fresher, but it was also plain that Osborn was not his equal in experience.

  For the next half hour Rannulf waged a strictly defensive battle, making no effort to hide his weariness, but allowing Osborn to exhaust himself in fruitless attempts to cut through his guard. He was losing blood, but not much and, although weaker, felt with satisfaction when Sir Herbert again withdrew to breathe, that he could have continued to fight longer without danger.

  A swift glance at the sun gave him more cause for satisfaction. It was too late now to start the melee; he would have the night to rest before he needed to exert himself again. Now when the lying cur attacked, he would take him.

  Osborn, puzzled, furious, and a little frightened, stared at his drooping adversary. It seemed impossible from moment to moment that Sir Rannulf could parry another stroke. His shield hung lower and lower; his sword moved more and more slowly. Yet, each stroke was parried, and Osborn felt as if his head and chest would burst with the effort he was making. This must end it, he told himself; the man can barely stand upright. I need only try once more and the more swiftly the better. He drew one more deep, slightly shuddering breath, and charged.

  Slowly Rannulf backed away. One mighty downward blow he took on his raised shield. The sword rebounded, was turned swiftly in Osborn's hand and brought round in a slashing sideswipe. Rannulf countered with his sword, retreating again. Another blow and another were caught and fended off, but those blows were weaker.

  The gray eyes on either side of the shining nosepiece grew keener and more calculating; they were nowise glazed nor did they waver, Sir Herbert saw with a sudden choking sensation of panic. His strokes became wilder and, when Rannulf's hard lips parted in a merciless smile, he began to sob.

  Once more Sir Herbert raised his sword above his head, but this time
Rannulf did not content himself with guarding against the blow. This time he leapt forward, using his favorite thrust of the shield, trusting to being too close to his opponent for Osborn's stroke to touch him. At the same time he swung hard and low with his own sword. He felt metal bite metal and then cleave something softer; he heard Osborn's scream as the tendons of his thighs were cut and saw him topple.

  Catherine heard the cry. Her eyes sprang open. She nearly screamed herself before she recognized the arms of Soke on the shield and on the surcoat she herself had made for Rannulf. Terror washed over her again when she saw how much the cloth was bloodied, but as Rannulf easily lifted his sword and she realized he was not badly hurt, Catherine suffered another revulsion of feeling.

  Doubtless he had been enjoying himself while she had been near fainting with fear for him. Well, she could not help loving him, but he would never know it. If it killed her, she would not again display the love for which Rannulf had only contempt.

  The battle was over. To strike the sword from Osborn's hand was the work of a moment, and in that moment Rannulf decided to pardon the slander upon himself and redeem his promise to Catherine by permitting Sir Herbert to live. There was no particular point in killing the man, if he was willing to admit that he had lied both about Catherine and the drugging. In all likelihood he would never fight again—cut tendons did not heal well and, in any case, Osborn's lands would be forfeit. Rannulf set his point at Sir Herbert's throat; preparatory to telling him to yield and confess his falsehood.

  "Do not slay me, my lord," Sir Herbert sobbed. "I will confess all. It was the prince, Eustace, who set me to this deed. I did complain that I had offered for Lady Catherine and, though I thought she favored me, her father would give me no answer. It was Eustace who bid me write that letter, and he who took the seal of Soke from the king's strongbox to seal it. I will tell the world, if you desire, that he—"