The Champion (29 page)

Le Boucher saw it too, for after a couple of missed swipes he stopped, and looked at Alexander with hands on hips. ‘You do not know, or you will not tell?’ he demanded across the space between them.

‘I do not know, and that is the truth,’ he said through his teeth. ‘Indeed, if you were not blocking my way, I would be seeking her even now.’

Le Boucher narrowed his eyes. ‘We settle this with a joust,’ he said decisively. ‘One to one upon the slope with witnesses. Winner takes all that the loser possesses or claims to possess.’

In a distant corner of his mind, Alexander knew that he should decline, but le Boucher’s sneering contempt and his own wounded fury were too potent to be rationalised. He found himself nodding his consent, derision curling his upper lip. ‘Yes, let it be settled, and to the victor the profits.’

‘Within a candle notch,’ le Boucher said. ‘Be there. If you are not, I will come after you.’ And he strode away.

Alexander’s hands were trembling as he reharnessed Samson and repaired to his tent to don mail and weapons. His fingers were so clumsy with shock and rage that he could scarcely buckle his sword belt or shorten his shield straps, and there was no one to ask for aid. No grey-eyed girl with nimble, efficient fingers, no brawny man with heavy-handed humour and the wisdom of experience. Their absence was his fault, and the only presence to keep him company was the accusing shade of Arnaud de Cerizay.

When he emerged from the tent and mounted up, it was to the sound of the crack of lances on the flat ground before Vaudreuil’s walls. The shouts of men in effort and pleasure drifted towards him, but this time there was no answering exhilaration in his gut, only dread.

He collected a lance and rode to join their company. Le Boucher was already waiting, sitting his large bay stallion amongst a group of young knights. A cool evening wind rippled across the open land beneath the fortifications and chilled the sweat on Alexander’s body. His grasp on the lance was slippery. He wondered if le Boucher’s was too. It was all too easy to imagine the man as an invincible Goliath. And yet once, with no more skill at his fingertips than a peasant, Alexander had unhorsed him. Tonight he must do so again.

Le Boucher rose in his stirrups and waved his lance in the air. He filled his lungs and his huge voice bellowed forth. ‘I hereby declare a joust
à l’outrance
between myself and Alexander de Montroi. Let all bear witness that this be a fair fight – to the yielding or to the death!’

It was not the first time that le Boucher had issued this kind of challenge. He took offence at the slightest provocation, be it real or imagined, and because he was strong and skilled in the arts of war, he usually killed or maimed his victims unless they had the good sense to run away first. Some of the onlookers sympathised with Alexander. Others could not believe his stupidity.

Alexander gripped his lance as William Marshal had taught him, and prepared for the charge. Time and again he had practised his moves at the quintain until they were a matter of instinct, not conscious thought. Time and again he had ridden victorious from the tourney ground and kept himself whole in battle. But on this occasion he had no choice of opponent, could not disengage and ride away, or rely on Hervi to deal with any difficult blows.

The torchlight against the darkness of a starless sky made vision difficult, but it would be the same for le Boucher. Alexander muttered a silent prayer to a God with whom he was on uneasy terms, and trotted Samson to the far end of the designated tilting ground. The turf was hard, but not dry, the conditions underfoot ideal. He tugged the stallion’s black ears in encouragement and gathered himself. Samson snorted, small quivers of excitement rippling through his body. Against his neck, the reins rubbed a creamy line of foam.

At the other end of the tilt, le Boucher turned his bay, and without warning, drove in his spurs and hurtled across the ground at a thundering gallop. Even as Alexander responded, he knew that le Boucher had gained the first advantage, his impetus that much greater. If the lance should strike true, then Alexander would either be hurled from his saddle or skewered like a fowl on a spit.

At the last moment possible, when all that filled his vision was the oncoming horse and rider, Alexander twitched on the right rein. Le Boucher’s lance head struck his shield, but on the outer edge, the full impact diminished to a glancing blow by Samson’s sudden change of position. Of course, Alexander’s own strike was no more than a token rap of lance on shield, a tit for tat, but at least he reached the far end of the tilt in one piece, and on the second run, le Boucher had no opportunity to steal an advantage of speed. Alexander yelled in Samson’s ear and dug in his heels. The black stallion pounded towards le Boucher’s bay. Yells of encouragement from the watchers filled the air and went unheeded by the combatants. Alexander had kept his lance tip low on the approach to give himself a good view of his target. Now he raised it and struck, pushing into the blow with all his strength. This time it was le Boucher who was slammed back against his cantle, a grunt of pain forced from him as his shield arm took the shock and his own strike went wide.

Alexander’s lance head drove into the shield and the shaft shattered beneath the strain of impact. As he reached the end of the tilt, Osgar ran out and presented him with a fresh spear. ‘Go on!’ he declared, his small eyes glittering. ‘For Hervi, nail the bastard!’

Alexander spun Samson, and once more thundered down the tilt towards le Boucher. The previous two passes had given him the confidence to believe that he might actually survive. At the other end of the tilt, a furious Eudo le Boucher was contemplating the fact that he might lose and thus become a laughing stock at the hands of a youth barely out of tail clouts. He clapped spurs to his destrier’s flanks and howling a battle challenge, charged to meet his enemy.

The ferocious crack of lances upon shields rang across the night. Both horses were set back on their hocks by the impact, and both men were thrown. Alexander hit the ground, the air driving from his lungs, his shield arm totally numb. He wanted just to lie where he had landed and let the world go away, but he knew that he had to get up while he had the advantage. Le Boucher, being the heavier man, would have landed with a greater impact. Alexander crawled to his knees, and then precariously gained his feet, at the same time drawing his sword. Le Boucher lay motionless, his body spread-eagled. Warily, Alexander circled him, alert for any sudden moves, but the knight remained as still as a corpse. Alexander began to think that he had killed him. With the tip of his boot, he prodded le Boucher, and when the man did not respond, stooped to roll him over.

Le Boucher’s limbs suddenly filled with life and he sprang upon Alexander with the lean power of a lion and struck the sword from his hand. Alexander doubled his knees and kicked upwards, landing a solid blow in le Boucher’s ribs, but with his shield arm still tingling, he was no match for the mail-clad man seated crushingly upon him.

‘Yield,’ le Boucher snarled at Alexander.

‘Never,’ Alexander panted, black stars bursting before his eyes as he fought to breathe.

‘Yield,’ le Boucher repeated.

‘Never!’

The pressure increased, and suddenly there was no breath left in Alexander to deny. No air even for life itself and he felt himself slipping into darkness. He was very vaguely aware of a burning sensation at his throat as the cord of the gold and amethyst cross was ripped away.

‘Everything,’ le Boucher said. ‘I claim everything.’

Alexander opened his eyes upon a patched canvas ceiling and for a moment stared at it in total bewilderment. His left shoulder was so stiff and painful that he could scarcely bear to move it, and it hurt to breathe. Very gingerly he sat up, and found himself looking at the interior of a tent not dissimilar to Hervi’s in the days before Monday had taken to caring for them. On the empty pallet beside him lay a pair of female hose and a garish green silk garter, together with two cups bearing the lees of what might have been hippocras.

His memory fell rather disjointedly into place. He remembered being brought here after last night’s disastrous joust by a sympathetic but scolding Osgar. ‘You should have known better than to fall for that old dead dog trick,’ he had said scornfully. ‘Christ knows, Hervi taught you better than that.’

‘But I thought he
was
dead,’ Alexander groaned.

‘Aye, well you’re the one lucky not to be.’

Alexander grimaced. He did not feel particularly lucky at the moment – possessing life, but far from alive, and without the wherewithal to live it.

Alys poked her head through the tent flap. ‘Ah, you’re awake,’ she said, and disappeared. He heard her shouting to Osgar, and moments later the stout knight appeared, Alys hovering at his shoulder. He was wearing his mail, his sword at his hip; and outside, Alexander could hear the sounds of the camp being struck.

‘We’re moving position,’ Osgar said, gesturing over his shoulder. ‘I’ll need to pack up soon.’ He put his hands on his hips and studied Alexander. ‘You’ve been a right fool, haven’t you? Christ, le Boucher was yours for the taking last night if you’d only used the wits God gave you.’

‘I know, there is no need to grind salt into my wounds.’

‘Hah! If it weren’t for my generosity, you’d have been sleeping in the open last night, you stupid whelp. Everything to that swine means everything.’ Shaking his head, Osgar advanced further into the tent, and held out to Alexander the gilded leather sword belt that had been John Marshal’s gift, and secure in its scabbard, the pattern-welded sword from Lavoux.

‘You are in my debt to the sum of ten marks,’ Osgar said gruffly. ‘I took a fancy to buy them off le Boucher. God knows why, I must have been drunk.’ He scrubbed his forefinger beneath his blunt nose, denying any finer feelings. ‘Take it, pay me when you can. Go on, before I change my mind,’ he added, his complexion reddening as Alexander stared up at him in amazement.

‘I do not know what to say, thank you seems not enough.’ Alexander took the sword belt and scabbard, his fingers closing around the supple leather like a drowning man clutching to the spar of a ship.

‘Then say nothing,’ Osgar answered brusquely. ‘It is not a gift.’

Alexander nodded and eased to his feet. He buckled the sword belt over the quilted gambeson in which he had slept, and immediately felt less naked. ‘You say that the camp is being struck?’

‘Aye, most of the tents are down.’ Osgar cast a glance around. ‘And this one too, in short order. Alys has saved you some bread and gruel, but best be quick about it.’

‘Where’s le Boucher?’

‘Gone ahead as part of the advance guard. He won’t be here to see you leave, if that is your concern.’

Alexander began to feel more optimistic by the minute. He emerged into the morning, cool with a hint of autumn, and took the bowl of gruel that Alys gave him. There was a sweetening of honey and a few early blackberries stirred in, giving the dish more flavour than usual. He decided that Alys must be feeling dreadfully sorry for him.

‘Where will you go?’ Osgar enquired as Alexander devoured the gruel and scraped the bowl clean.

‘To England, to look for Monday. There is a chance that she has gone to her grandfather at Stafford.’

Osgar sucked his teeth. ‘You have neither money nor horse,’ he said. ‘And it’s a long, long walk to the coast.’

Alexander smiled and set his bowl aside. ‘I was a fool last night, but not a complete one,’ he said. ‘There is enough silver sewn into the lining of my cloak to see me to the coast and pay for a packhorse. And when that runs out, I can hire myself out as a foot soldier or scribe … And then,’ he added, his smile fading, ‘I’ll return for Hervi.’

Osgar looked at the ground. ‘A bad business,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I will pray for you both … and I haven’t said a prayer in five years.’

Alexander swallowed. ‘I’ll pay you back, Osgar, I swear on the bones of St Martin I will.’

Osgar clasped Alexander’s arm. ‘I do not doubt it, lad.’

Alexander took his leave of Osgar, and then, because it would have been churlish to leave without thanking Father Ambrose for all that he had done, he went in search of the priest.

Their meeting was brief, for the young chaplain was busy with errands for the more senior members of the household, but he found time to brush aside Alexander’s gratitude with great modesty, and bid him Godspeed and better fortune than of late.

‘One thing,’ he added, tucking the two rolls of vellum he was holding more securely under his arm, ‘Eudo le Boucher has had no joy from that horse of yours. Three times he has been thrown – and kicked in the balls to add insult to injury. I doubt they will ever become a partnership on the battlefield.’ He smiled wryly as he spoke, but Alexander did not join him. While there was satisfaction in picturing Samson’s antics, he knew that le Boucher was full capable of destroying the horse to wreak his revenge.

In sombre mood, he bade farewell to Father Ambrose, and, rubbing his shoulder to ease the ache, walked across the camp towards the road. French banners fluttered from the walls of Vaudreuil where King Philip and Coeur de Lion were in parlance, trying to ease their differences without giving ground. Alexander turned his back on the keep, and slung the satchel Osgar had given him over his good arm. It contained half a loaf, a chunk of sausage and a leather bottle of cider. Enough to tide him through to the evening.

A shout of warning and the thunder of hooves caused Alexander to turn swiftly and regard with astonishment the loose black stallion pounding away from the castle, mane and tail floating like banners, reins flapping on its neck and saddle empty. A soldier was sprinting in hopeless pursuit.

Alexander pursed his lips and uttered a low whistle. The horse plunged to a halt, pivoted on his hind legs and trotted over to his former master, a deep nicker of greeting rumbling from his chest. Alexander caught the bridle and stroked Samson’s soft black muzzle and silky cheek. Then he looked over his shoulder at the pursuing soldier. It was one of le Boucher’s henchmen, and he was wasting his breath yelling something about dog’s-meat as he ran. Another soldier was struggling in a midden heap like a cast-over beetle.