Knight's Honor (31 page)

"Hsst, stop," Herbert whispered. "Tell Sir Alan that someone is coming. If they bring us food and water, ask him, should we try our first plan?"

The question was passed back while the men waited, silent, in
the dark. They could hear the outer door of the tower as the bar shot back and it groaned on its unoiled hinges. Herbert bit his lips. If Sir Alan did not reply quickly, every chance was gone, but it never occurred to him that he could act without Sir Alan's permission even in such desperate straits. Meanwhile Alan of Evesham struggled back from the thin edge of oblivion. He had not even sufficient strength to be angry that he had been reawakened to pain and fear. He fought hard to understand what the man bending above him was asking so urgently, but he could make out only a few words. Those few his mind turned over, mixing them with matters from the past dizzily until one particular word caught his attention.

"Out," he managed to murmur through swollen, unwilling lips, "yes, out."

The men sighed with relief and drew back against the walls. They were even weaker now, but six of them should be able to manage two men encumbered with a bowl of slop and a leather of water. They knew what would happen. The door would open and close and the man or men would take a step or two into the room, cast down the burdens, usually spilling most of the food into the filth on the floor, and leave. The men tried to swallow and lick their lips, tried to banish from their minds the desire for one taste of that water. There was no time to drink; they must kill and go at once, all of them now. There would be plenty of water outside, they told themselves, plenty of water, and with nothing crawling about in it.

There were steps entering the outer chamber, bodies tensed, waiting. "No!" Herbert whispered tensely, "lie down, it is a whole armed troop."

"Let us go," Walter of Hereford said harshly to his brother. "They are lowering the drawbridge. It is time."

"Ay," Roger replied, smiling rather rigidly as the lust to fight and kill rose, temporarily blocking his fears. "Ay, let us go."

The contending parties reached the field at approximately the same time, Radnor's men holding their mounts well back toward the west end of the wall as the men filed out of the keep. Hereford alone moved forward close enough to make sure that one of the women who rode with them was Elizabeth. He should have still been furious with her; his life was at stake because of her behavior, but at the moment he felt nothing but an overwhelming gladness to see her again safe and sound and a desire to hold her again in his arms. His men were there too, some on foot, some slung across the backs of pack animals like sacks of grain. Hereford's expression hardened. That was no way to treat honorable enemies. He wheeled his horse and set spurs to its side to gallop back to his end of the field.

The preliminaries were very brief, for this was no formal contest to be judged upon nice points. There were no rules, no bright colors and graceful pennants. Hereford's arms and surcoat were rust-stained and mud-splattered, and both men's shields were so battered with hard wear that the devices were all but obliterated. The combatants' own strength and skill were judge and jury; they would fight until one of them yielded, was incapable of fighting any longer, or was dead.

The field was dead silent except for the soft sound of the horses' hoofs on the scorched turf as Hereford and de Caldoet drew apart and an occasional creak of harness as one of the watchers' horses shifted position. The men faced each other and slowly fewtered their spears, each watching the other. Hereford settled his lance firmly between his arm and his body. It lay straight and steady at the proper angle in his light grip, the well-sharpened iron tip gleaming slightly, but his heart was pounding so that he could hear it and his mouth was dry and tasted foul. For him, this was the moment of greatest danger. If he could last through these three passes unhurt, he would have a better than even chance of beating de Caldoet. If … He was far lighter and needed a longer run to gain greater thrust.

Hereford raised his legs and drove his spurs viciously into his gray stallion's sides. The horse leapt forward into full gallop. A split second later de Caldoet was also moving. Above the roar of the pounding hoofs there was a sharp crack of splintering wood, which covered the grunts of the men as the air was forced out of their lungs by the impact. Hereford's spear had caught de Caldoet fairly in the near center of his shield, but de Caldoet was immovable and the shaft gave way. De Caldoet, a little too sure or simply amusing himself, had been careless. His point, landing off-center above the metal bosses of Hereford's shield, had slipped harmlessly over Hereford's shoulder.

There was a faint whisper of released breath from both groups of watching soldiers. Walter of Hereford licked his lips nervously. Lord Radnor muttered instructions and advice helplessly and uselessly under his breath. Elizabeth, almost as knowledgeable as a man in arms, seeing for the first time the kind of man Hereford fought, became frightened and began to pray. Alan of Evesham, sensing the cold air of spring on his face, dreamed gently of past days in the field, dreamed of the many times he had heard the crack of lances and the thunder of hoofs while riding behind a laughing, brilliant lord, dreamed that he had won free and brought his men away scatheless to his own and his lord's honor. Dreaming, with the wind cooling his fevered body, he slipped gently, gently, into oblivion, and gently, almost happily, he died.

Both men took fresh spears from their squires and returned to their starting points. Hereford tightened and relaxed his grip on the hand hold of his shield, trying to restore the circulation in his arm. De Caldoet's blow, even misdirected as it was, bad been powerful enough to numb his hand. One pass was over, but he took no comfort from that because it was plain to him that de Caldoet had been playing with him.

As if to prove him right, this time de Caldoet did not wait for him to start the course. The master jouster had been surprised by the slight man's strength, and his jaw was bruised where his shield had sprung back and hit it. Nonetheless he had no qualms about his ability; he was merely annoyed at having been careless. The horses thundered across the turf again. De Caldoet drew a steady aim, in spite of the rocking gait of his mount, on the right shoulder Hereford was forced to expose in order to hold his lance. He still had no desire to kill his opponent for Peverel, but it would be useful to disable Hereford's sword arm and reduce him to helplessness early. That would be simpler than fighting him to a standstill later.

In the instant before they met, Roger of Hereford took a desperate chance. Hazarding his life on the estimate he had made of de Caldoet's character, he threw his shield across his body, exposing his left side. He had guessed right; de Caldoet was stubborn and single-minded, incapable of swiftly reversing a decision he had made. His lance never wavered toward Hereford's naked heart; it hit his shield's edge and slid off once more without damage.

Hereford gave a low cry of triumph though he was shaken again by the blow. Two passes were over and he was still alive. Moreover this time it was no carelessness on de Caldoet's part, but his own ability that had saved him. It was true that he had not even touched de Caldoet this time, but his hopes rested on his swordplay and his blood was well up. Once more and the game would be his own, for he knew that de Caldoet's strength was no match for his quickness with the blade.

He was given no breathing space at all now. De Caldoet, thoroughly angry, whirled his horse at the end of the field and started back without taking a fresh lance or considering whether the one he bore was sound. Now there was nothing at all Roger could do to protect himself from the enormous shock de Caldoet chose to release on this last course. The lance caught the inner edge of Hereford's shield with the full power of two galloping beasts and de Caldoet's own huge strength thrusting behind it.

Irresistibly the shield turned inward and the point slipped between the bosses to slide against Hereford's breast. De Caldoet threw himself forward into the thrust; Hereford felt the point pierce his mail, felt the pain of his tearing flesh. With the clarity of vision that such an instant gives, he even saw the shaft bend under the pressure applied. With a crack that sounded loud as thunder to Hereford, the strained shaft gave. The point fell away, but nothing could stop that thrust and the broken truncheon struck him such a blow that he was unseated and fell heavily.

Fortunately Hereford fell to the left, away from de Caldoet who would have gladly ridden over him if he had a chance, but it was not all good fortune. His left arm was virtually paralyzed by the heavy shield, which dragged against the stirrup, and he could do nothing to ease his fall or to protect himself. He cried out with pain as he hit the ground, for something had broken in his left shoulder. There was no time to think of pain, however. There was no time for anything but to roll to his feet and draw his sword. Behind him he could hear de Caldoet's horse thundering down upon him again and he turned to face his enemy, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it from the mists that fogged his brain.

Tears poured down Elizabeth's cheeks unfelt as she watched her husband stand to be ridden down. She prayed no longer; she was capable of no feeling at all except the desire to close her eyes and her mind and blot out the sight and knowledge of what was happening. That power was not granted her, and she knew she deserved her punishment. For the rest of her life she would see it, over and over. Over and over she would see her husband die.

Lord Radnor gripped his saddlebow with such strength that the ivory creaked protestingly and a carved figure broke off cutting his hand. He felt nothing. Through gritted teeth he groaned, "Jump, Roger. Wake up man. Jump."

Walter of Hereford neither moved nor spoke, for his personal agony was too great for outward signs. His hands had not tightened on the reins he held and his body had not tensed, for he was not mentally interposing his body between the combatants as Lord Radnor was. At the one moment when love and fear had submerged his hatred and envy of his brother, he was incapable of helping him. Walter of Hereford was frozen solid. The only moving thing about him was the blood that dripped down his chin staining his surcoat from the gashes he had bitten in his lower lip.

De Caldoet raised his sword to strike with a grin of pleasure. His lance had not held and he had not killed Hereford with that stroke as he intended, but he was better off, for he had apparently stunned his opponent. One good stroke should disable him completely; then he could dismount and bring Hereford to his knees to plead for mercy and promise anything to buy his life.

Hereford's breath rasped noisily. He was at a tremendous disadvantage on foot against a mounted man, but he did not hope even for an instant that de Caldoet would do the proper knightly thing and dismount also. With an almost unbearable effort he lifted his shield arm so that he could wind the fingers into the edge of his surcoat. If he could hold on, his body would be protected even though the arm was useless for any further movement.

Once more Hereford was going to hazard his life on a guess. Under normal circumstances, he would have counted on his quickness to dart in and attack the rider, being able to defend his head and shoulders with his raised shield. Now that course was impossible. It was not honorable to hurt a horse willingly in combat, but he had no choice. Every motion now caused him pain, and that clogged his swiftness; worse, he could not use his left arm at all. He stood perfectly still, allowing de Caldoet to bear directly down on him, his sword lifted a little, pointing upward.

Trembling, Roger of Hereford ground his teeth, repressing the impulse to jump aside. His mouth was full of the bitter slime of fear and his stomach was heaving with it. Agonizingly he swallowed, gasped for breath, took one long swift step, thrust—and finally leapt sideways. The scream of de Caldoet's horse was music to his ears, and the crash as the beast fell was a door opening to life. Now, unconscious of the grinding pain in his left shoulder, he could run, hoping to catch de Caldoet still on the ground.

He was not swift enough for that, but the big man was not fully erect nor completely on guard. Hereford launched a blow that could have cut de Caldoet in half, but the older man was too experienced to be caught by that. Even half dazed he thrust the sword away and continued the upward swing so that the edge of his shield caught Hereford on the temple. Roger could feel the side of his face grow warm as blood ran down it, but he had no other sensation of discomfort. He leapt aside to avoid de Caldoet's counterstroke; he could not chance taking the blow upon his shield, for his fingers were growing steadily more numb and might lose their hold. That would expose his left side to de Caldoet's sword, but worse, it would expose his weakness to de Caldoet's mind.

Hereford was sick with pain and bleeding now from two minor wounds, but he was no longer afraid. His heartbeat was hard and fast, but it was steady, and if his mouth was dry, it was only from gasping air through it because of his exertions. His eyes were alight with blood lust, and his mouth was curved in the hard, merciless, fixed smile of the victor. He knew that all was not well with him; he knew that he could not continue to fight indefinitely, hurt as he was; he knew also that he would not need to. From de Caldoet's stance and behavior, Hereford could see that his opponent was the one who was now afraid, and he knew that that fear was better than two armed men at his back. Roger of Hereford knew men of de Caldoet's type; he knew that, unlike himself, de Caldoet was not used to doing his duty in the face of his fear. Terror could not break Roger of Hereford, but it had already destroyed Ralph de Caldoet.

De Caldoet swung his sword at Hereford and missed. His breathing was uneven and his timing was off. Hereford's blade slipped under his shield and nicked his hip; his fear grew. Never had de Caldoet jousted against an opponent he so plainly overmatched in strength and skill and failed to make his point exactly as he had intended. He knew that he had seriously underestimated Hereford, and now he exaggerated his ability, confusing luck with supernatural aid.