The Champion (7 page)

The knight in the red and yellow caught the bridle of the nearest destrier and rode away to deposit his prize. At Alexander’s side, the youth had ceased to shout, his eyes dark with shock. The unhorsed man slowly rolled over and started to crawl toward the enclosure. Biting his lip, the youth sped out to help him. Alexander’s hesitation was brief. He did not have the ability to passively observe, half the reason his monastic career had foundered. Ignoring Hervi’s strictures concerning remaining in safety, he grasped the spare spear for protection and darted out to do what he could.

Together he and the youth took the knight’s arms and dragged him towards the enclosure. They were paid scant attention, for the fighting was concentrated down at the far end of the field, and they had almost reached safety when the competitor in the red and yellow returned to claim the ransom price from his victim.

‘Duredent!’ he bellowed, the sound a muffled boom emerging through the vent holes in his jousting helm. He swung the flail around his head, threatening the boys, his stallion plunging close.

Without pause for thought, Alexander grasped the spear in both hands and thrust it at the whirling flail. The shaft caught in the chain, and with a violent jerk, the momentum was suspended. The spear tore out of Alexander’s grip almost dislocating his arms, but that same force and the sudden clumsiness of the trapped spear unbalanced the man in the saddle. His horse reared, and he was thrown, thudding down heavily at the horrified Alexander’s feet.

Appalled, feeling sick, Alexander retrieved Hervi’s spear, the flail still wound around the head socket, and retreated behind the barrier where the knight he had run out to rescue was now removing his helm.

The warrior in the parti-coloured surcoat sat up and stared around, his breathing stertorous through the slits in his helm. Then he lumbered to his feet, and drawing his sword, advanced upon the withy enclosure. Alexander backed, the spear braced. The knight ducked beneath it, closed his fist around the trapped flail and yanked it free. Then he seized a fistful of Alexander’s tunic, lifted him bodily off his feet and slammed him down on his back.

‘You want to fight, boy?’ he snarled. ‘I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll not forget.’

‘This is sanctuary!’ Alexander yelled through the pain. ‘You can’t touch me in here!’

‘That’s right, le Boucher, you can’t!’ declared one of the spectators, a stocky man wearing a stained apron, one eye hidden behind a large leather patch. ‘You know the rule.’

The knight stared round the compound at the gathered, uneasy crowd of onlookers. He returned his sword to its sheath and nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. Stooping, he grabbed Alexander by the scruff and hauled him back out on to the field. ‘Now he’s not in sanctuary; I can do as I choose with him.’

Alexander struggled against the bunched fist holding him captive. He was aware of the stunned faces watching from the enclosure, but no one was prepared to go beyond words to help him. Once more he was flung to the ground, and the huge knight stood over him.

‘I doubt you’re even worth the bother, vermin, but I’m going to lesson you anyway.’ Eudo le Boucher drew the flail through his hand in a gesture that was almost sensual.

Across the battlefield, Hervi disengaged from his opponent to gain his breath, and glanced around. The eye slits in his tourney helm did not yield a good view of the field, but at least it was not dusty, as it would be later on in the season when visibility was frequently nil. To his right, Arnaud had just defeated one knight and beaten off another in a rare display of pure aggression. Usually Arnaud’s performance was laconic, but today there seemed to be a burr beneath his buttocks.

There would be a ransom to share now, a good omen since the tourney was less than an hour old and there was still plenty of opportunity to reap the field. Hervi signalled to his companion, indicating that they should retire to the enclosure and take a brief respite before the next assault. His throat was parched and he needed a drink.

The two men started back up the field at a modest canter, their senses alert for a sudden attack. Then Arnaud swore, shook Hervi’s sleeve and pointed towards the sanctuary. What Hervi saw made his blood run cold. He slapped the reins down on Soleil’s neck, drove in his spurs and thundered up the field like a fury.

Alexander rolled away from the thud of the flail against his ribs a scream ripping from his throat, his knees doubling up. He heard the jink of the chain, the whistle of the iron end swinging through the air, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, tears wringing on to his lashes. The blow never descended. In its place he heard the snarl of his brother’s voice.

‘Strike again, le Boucher, and it will be your last act on God’s earth!’

‘Why should it concern you, de Montroi? Keep your face out of this!’

‘He is my brother, my youngest brother, and I will know why you are beating him!’

‘He attacked me first, with a spear. Was I supposed to smile and pat his head? God’s eyes, I won’t tolerate whelps like him darting in and out of the sanctuary, making a mockery of true knights!’

‘I wasn’t,’ Alexander croaked from the ground. ‘I was trying to help a fallen man.’ He stared up at the mask of Hervi’s helm. Below it, the broad shoulders rose and fell rapidly. ‘He was going to strike him with that flail, so I stepped in.’ He sat up, his arms folded around his ribs which felt as though they were on fire. It was impossible to draw breath except in short stabs.

‘Let him go, le Boucher,’ said Arnaud, manoeuvring his bay between Hervi and the standing man. ‘Alexander does not know the rules; he’s a green boy. It won’t happen again. Is your pride worth so much to you?’

‘He denied me a man’s ransom!’ Le Boucher jabbed a forefinger at Hervi. ‘I’ll have the payment out of your own purse!’

‘You will have no such thing!’ Hervi’s voice was raw with fury.

Alexander hung his head, feeling sick, knowing that this was all his fault. And yet he could not have just stood by and watched.

The knight whom he had rescued limped out of the enclosure, clutching his side. He had removed his helm and there were streaks of rust on his brow and cheeks where sweat and iron had met. He was in his early twenties, with light-brown hair, and a sparse ginger beard hugging the point of his chin. ‘Call it even,’ he panted. ‘The lad unhorsed you, le Boucher, and if he had known the rules, he’d have put that spear to your throat and demanded a ransom of you.’

Hervi’s helm swivelled in Alexander’s direction. ‘You unhorsed him?’ He pointed at le Boucher.

Alexander nodded. ‘I put the haft of your spear through the flail’s chain and pulled him off his destrier.’

Hervi turned to le Boucher. ‘I would forget the incident if I were you,’ he said. ‘Any claim you press can be met with a counter claim.’

‘You would not dare!’

‘Can you afford to try me?’

There was a taut silence. Le Boucher’s mail mitten tightened around the handle of the flail. Hervi’s dun stallion sidled.

From the far side of the field, but galloping up fast, came a group of three riders, their lances couched, signalling a challenge.

The tension broke. Eudo le Boucher ran to catch his mount’s bridle and swung into the saddle. ‘Bold words, de Montroi,’ he sneered. ‘Yes, I can afford to try you to the end of your luck, but I doubt that you can pay my price!’ Yanking the horse around, he rode away across the field.

Hervi cursed and turned Soleil. ‘Get back inside that sanctuary!’ he snarled at Alexander. ‘And even if you see me dragged off my horse and killed, do not so much as lift your buttocks off the turf, understand?’

‘Yes, I didn’t intend to …’

‘Go, curse you, I haven’t the time to listen to your paltry excuses!’ Without waiting to see if Alexander obeyed, Hervi couched his lance and spurred forward to meet the rapidly approaching challenge. Arnaud circled round and spurred with him, one man going hard left, the other to the right.

Alexander remained where he was long enough to see Hervi batter aside his opponent’s shield, knock him off his horse and turn to deal with the man in the centre, then retreated to the enclosure.

‘That was a brave act, lad,’ said the competitor whom he had saved. ‘I am grateful to you, even if no one else is.’ He extended his arm. ‘My name is John Marshal. If ever I can be of service to you, do not hesitate to seek me out.’

Alexander shook the proffered hand. He was tongue-tied by embarrassment and still too shaken to give a coherent reply.

John Marshal smiled. ‘And you are called?’

‘Montroi, sir. Alexander de Montroi.’

‘I won’t forget you, I promise.’ The knight withdrew his hand, nodded pleasantly and with his squire in tow, walked off across the enclosure.

Alexander stared after him and clutched his aching ribs.

That evening, Alexander and Hervi dined a second time at the de Cerizays’ fire, and there was much to talk about. Hervi and Arnaud had had an excellent day upon the field and taken several ransoms. Their enthusiasm was full-blown and every move and tactic, strike and counterstroke had to be discussed in detail. Also talked to death was Alexander’s encounter with the scourge of the tourney field, Eudo le Boucher.

‘I still cannot believe that you unhorsed him!’ Hervi declared, his earlier fury at Alexander’s insubordination mellowed by the day’s triumphs and the excellent wine he was drinking. ‘Jesu, he’ll never live it down. Pulled off his horse by a green youth straight out of the monastery – David and Goliath!’

‘He’ll never live the grudge down either,’ warned Arnaud, who had drunk more than Hervi, enough to become a trifle morose. ‘He’s a known killer.’

‘God’s life, the lad isn’t likely to tangle with him again!’

‘No, but we are.’

‘Oh, close your mouth on your cup!’ Hervi grinned indulgently and tilted the wine flagon towards his friend. ‘Last one. We’ll need to be sober for the morrow.’ He glanced sidelong. ‘How are your ribs now, Alex?’

‘Sore,’ said Alexander ruefully, and rubbed his hand over the tight linen bandaging in which he had been wrapped for support. The pain had been mitigated by John Marshal’s presentation to him earlier that evening of a very fine gilded sword belt in token of his gratitude. ‘For when you win your spurs,’ the knight had said with a smile.

John Marshal, Hervi had discovered by asking around, was the nephew of the great William Marshal, lord of vast estates scattered throughout England, Wales, Ireland and Normandy, and a baron in high favour with the ruling Angevin dynasty. In his youth he had been the greatest jouster ever to level a lance on the tourney field. In his mid forties now, he was still a formidable warrior. That Alexander had brought himself to the attention of a member of the Marshal clan was another reason why Hervi had gone lightly on his younger brother.

‘You can stay in camp tomorrow,’ he told Alexander. ‘There’s harness and armour to be cleaned. For all your prowess on the field, I shall feel safer knowing you’re nowhere near the conflict.’

Alexander gave a careful shrug. His ribs hurt too much for him to protest, and after today’s adventure, he was not averse to spending a day by the fire.

Monday stooped to remove the empty flagon from between the men. The scent of woodsmoke and lavender drifted across Alexander’s nostrils. Hervi’s eyes narrowed on the girl and then filled with indignation. ‘You’ve put her in a wimple!’ he said accusingly to Arnaud. ‘And she has such lovely hair!’

‘It was time, and past time.’ Clemence emerged from the tent where she had been fetching some sewing. ‘You are not the only man to notice her hair, Hervi. She is a young woman, not a child any more, and this is a decent household.’

Hervi was startled by the prim note in Clemence’s voice. ‘Of course it is.’ He recovered swiftly. ‘I was just taken by surprise … and regret, if the truth were known.’ He smiled at Monday. ‘I remember her when she was a tiny maid no higher than my kneecap. Time passes too quickly.’

‘Indeed it does,’ Arnoud agreed with a maudlin nod.

Monday tugged at the edge of her wimple. ‘It makes my head itch and it’s hot,’ she complained. ‘I hate it.’

‘You’ll soon grow accustomed,’ said Clemence. ‘After a few weeks you will feel strange without a head covering.’

‘Other girls don’t have to wear one.’

‘That has no bearing on what is fit for you.’ Her mother’s tone was sharp with warning.

‘Yes, it does, I …’

‘Monday, enough,’ Arnaud interrupted. ‘You are embarrassing our guests and shaming yourself. You wear a wimple because we have judged that it is time you did so. I will hear no more on the matter.’

The girl’s chin quivered. She compressed her lips and took the empty jug into the tent, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

With a rueful smile, Hervi rose to his feet, pulling Alexander with him. ‘Your own fault,’ he commented to lighten the moment. ‘Now you have two women on your hands when this morning you had only one.’

Arnaud snorted with reluctant humour. ‘She will come round in a while,’ he said. ‘Always stalks off in a temper, and then returns full of remorse.’

As Hervi and Alexander took their leave, Arnaud followed them to the perimeter of his fire. ‘Two women on my hands, and one of them with child,’ he announced. ‘Before Martinmas I am to be a father again.’

Hervi’s eyes widened. ‘Small wonder that you fought like a demon on the tourney field today!’ he exclaimed. ‘My heartiest congratulations to both of you.’ He belted Arnaud between the shoulder blades. ‘I will pray that the babe resembles its mother!’

Arnaud forced a smile. ‘As long as both are strong and healthy I care not.’ He gazed back at his wife with troubled eyes, and added, as if reassuring himself, ‘She has Monday to help her, and we are going to seek winter quarters early. It is not as though she has been worn out bearing a child every year. We have tried to be careful.’

Hervi’s expression sobered in the face of Arnaud’s obvious anxiety. He had no comfort to offer; he knew nothing of childbirth except that it was messy and fraught with danger. Those thoughts would be uppermost in Arnaud’s mind too. ‘If you need anything, you know where to seek,’ he said, and thumped him again, but more gently by way of support.