The Tournament of Blood (30 page)

‘The laws are as our great King Edward, our King’s father, laid down in his
Statuta Armorum
,’ the King Herald continued, glancing at a roll of paper in his hand.
‘All men are hereby adjured to hold the King’s peace. Only rebated weapons are to be used
à plaisance
and no weapons of war are to be allowed in the ring. Knights are
only permitted to have three men to support them. Any knight or baron participating in the tournament who has more than this must tell the excess men to leave the field.’ At this point he
glowered at the crowds as if daring them to bring in more men.

‘Grooms and footmen are not permitted to wear pointed swords, daggers, long knives, clubs or other offensive weapons of any sort. If a knight falls, only his own men may help him up again.
Spectators are not
at any time
to interfere! And at any feasts the Lord decides to host, only a knight’s personal squire may enter the hall in order to serve his lord. All others
must remain outside.’

He went on to dwell at length on the punishments and fines which would inevitably fall on the head of any man who sought to infringe the rules, sternly reading each and staring at particular
knights or men-at-arms as he did so. Simon wondered after a while whether each of these men had been guilty at some time of infringing these rules and was being reminded not to repeat the offence.
At last the apparently interminable list was done and the King Herald sniffed and cleared his throat.

‘But today, to open the celebrations, we have a special
béhourd
to warm us all up. Certain squires shall show their skills and run against each other.’

There were many more details, but Simon’s attention had wandered and the words flowed over and past him.

Opposite, he noticed, his wife sat with Baldwin. Edith was between them. Edith looked quite lovely, he thought with a pang. Much as her mother had when he had first met her in her father’s
farmyard, a slim girl with a lazy smile and laughing eyes. He could remember her as she had been still more clearly whenever he looked at his daughter. Their faces were similar, if Edith’s
was a little wider, their eyes the same shape, their mouths and chins identical. If he was twenty years younger, he would make the same choice again.

The thought made him give a cynical grin. God help the man who chose Edith as his wife, though.

At that moment, the first pair of squires appeared before the stand and the heralds departed to the ends of the lists, apart from the King Herald, who remained before the Lord to witness the
meeting of the two.

At a signal from the King Herald, there was a sudden pounding of hooves, and the two squires, both unrecognisable under mail and their coats-of-arms, charged headlong. Simon felt his heart
thunder as if in time to the hoofbeats, which almost, but not quite, drowned out the din of metal clashing against metal. It was like listening to a kitchen in which every pot, pan and plate was
being systematically beaten while chains were rattled unceasingly. From here he could see the whole tilt area, and as the two men came together, he almost felt the crash.

One lad’s helm was hit by the lance of the other. The lance struck the chin-piece and there was a great crack, then the helm was flying through the air. Simon almost expected to see gouts
of blood from the lad’s neck where his head had been, but he smiled at his fancy. The helm’s lock had sheared, which was the cause of the loud noise, but the boy was all right, although
he twisted his head this way and that, as though his neck had been badly wrenched.

Both trotted to the far end of their lists and prepared to take their second run. A squire ran to the middle and picked up the heavy helm. Simon could see it was a modern one designed to protect
the wearer from lance or sword – a massy, riveted piece of headgear weighing ten pounds or more. The thought of carrying that on his shoulders made him wince.

Once it was again set upon the lad’s head, the King Herald repeated his signal and the two charged. Again the thundering of hooves, sods of earth flying through the air, mud from a puddle,
the clatter of metal against metal and then the loud crash of the collision. One lad, the other, was reeling, his shield wearing a great dint where the lance had struck. Men ran to him, but he
waved them off and took up a fresh lance. A last mad race, and both struck the other’s shield before riding back to the centre to receive the judgement of the King Herald.

‘One hit for both on the last ride,’ he said while a clerk sitting before Lord Hugh scribbled his record on parchment, ‘one course Squire Humphrey won by knocking his
opponent’s helm from his head, but the next was won by Squire David. I declare that both have matched each other’s score.’

There was applause at that, for both were held to have shown exemplary skill. Simon himself was quite impressed with the proud manners of the two. They sat mounted, both with their helms under
their arms, both young, neither yet in his twenties, but on the decision being announced, both bowed first to Lord Hugh, and then to each other, before trotting off together, laughing merrily with
relief that they hadn’t made themselves look foolish.

It was during the fourth joust of the day that Simon noticed the girl who had led the procession. Clearly a little older than his daughter, Alice was watching one of the combatants with an
especial attention. Simon followed her gaze and caught a fleeting glimpse of a solemn but well-formed face just as the helm was dropped over his head and left resting there. He took his lance from
the squire at his side and trotted regally towards the start point. Simon saw that from his helm trailed a piece of cloth. It looked like a woman’s sleeve, and when he glanced back at the
girl, he saw her wave, clench both fists and hold them up to her cheeks, standing in an agony of excitement.

‘Nothing new in that,’ Simon said to himself. He knew perfectly well that tournaments often held a strong erotic charge for women. Many would give tokens to their champions, some
would promise to marry their favourites after a particularly good bout. With casual amusement, he glanced over to see how his wife was reacting to the excitement.

Baldwin, he saw, was bored, while Margaret caught his look and smiled, but when he noticed his daughter, he groaned. She was biting at her bottom lip with every appearance of fearful
expectation, staring at the other squire.

Simon shrugged. At least she was setting her sights high enough, he thought, but then the signal was given and the two pelted down the alleyway, aiming at each other. There was a ringing
clang!
as they met, and then the two were apart once more. Simon watched the one his daughter had picked and credited her with a good choice. The lad had ridden well and survived the first
charge.

It was only after the second charge that Simon noticed the token at the lad’s belt. And as he recognised the scrap of cloth he gazed back at his daughter, realising why she had been so
argumentative last night. He was dumbfounded.

Geoffrey was aghast. The noise, the horrible sense of being trapped in his metal skin, the fear of an accident, all conspired to petrify him.

He need only survive this third bout to win his spurs, he told himself, trying to boost his courage. As soon as he had completed the three, he could claim his wife before his lord. Then his life
would change, for the better – provided that bastard Andrew didn’t denounce him as a coward.

To his right as he sat upon his mount, he could see Andrew. The squire stood arms akimbo, then went to the rack and selected a lance. With a mock-respectful bow, he passed it to Geoffrey. The
latter knew what Andrew thought of him: Geoffrey was a coward, a weakly man who would run from a real fight. Andrew had seen him run from the battle before Boroughbridge, a traitor, leaving his
companions to die.

The horse moved beneath him as he took up the lance, hefting it in his hand. What if Andrew taunted him – or worse, challenged him to a fresh bout? Geoffrey wasn’t sure he could bear
to be forced back into the saddle again soon after fighting with William.

William was busy selecting a fresh lance himself. Geoffrey watched him shortsightedly. It was bad enough facing William. If he must face Andrew in a challenge to the death, he would surely die.
Andrew was a killing squire, a man with experience of fighting in many battles; it would be suicide to face him.

Then, as the two squires prepared to move off, Geoffrey realised that there was only one way to show that Andrew’s accusation was false. With a sudden resolve he couched his lance,
determined to prove that he was no coward. He would ride his mount
directly at William’s
, not flinching, forcing the other youth to move from his path.

William reined in at the end of the field and rammed his vizor upwards to snatch a breath of air.

It was hot here. Damn hot. The sun was directly above and dust was rising up and clogging his nostrils. When he looked back through the lists, he could see a fine haze as of a thin fog which
showed where his horse had taken him. The mount was his father’s destrier, Pomers, and now the great beast pranced beneath him, eager to return.

In the space he saw men grabbing at the bits and pieces of the shattered lances and hurling them out of the way, so that they mightn’t turn a hoof and break a horse’s leg. William
didn’t care. He simply flung away the stub of lance in his hand and gestured impatiently for a fresh one.

Geoffrey had learned something about fighting, damn him. He was keeping a firm seat in his saddle and aiming his lance-point accurately. Not like he used to be. Useless, he had been, leaning
back and letting his point waver all over the place. Now he sat rigidly and let his point find its mark. It was hard to avoid it.

William swore under his breath. He had thought that this bout would be easy, just a swift clash of arms and then he would overcome Geoffrey and be pronounced the winner. In that way he would
discredit Geoffrey and justify his marriage to Alice, proving his value by force of arms. Yet the bastard had not succumbed. It was frustrating. Even now Geoffrey was taking a fresh lance from a
squire at his side. William saw that it was Andrew. Geoffrey was reluctant to take the lance from him. Probably thought the other man would stab him when his defence was down, William sneered.

He contemplated the lists, wondering how to gain an advantage. Somehow he must show his superiority over Geoffrey, yet it was hard to see how he could achieve it. He absently stroked the token
which Edith had dropped and which he had stuffed into his belt. In his heavy gauntlet he couldn’t feel it, and the fact depressed him.

A squire was at his side with a fresh lance. William took it, holding it vertically and squinting up along its length. There was a bend in it and William snapped that he wanted a straight one. A
curve made for a good display as it meant the lance would shatter gratifyingly into shards and splinters, but William wanted a good, solid strike, and for that he needed a straight lance. Soon the
fellow was back and William hefted the new weapon critically. It was as straight as he could hope, but there was a curious feel to it. He rejected it and snatched at the third given to him. It was
good.

He released the vizor and it fell down heavily. Immediately his breath became stertorous in his ears, and the world was barred by the grille in front of his eyes. Leaning forward he could see
the lists ahead and the King Herald. There was the signal! William slammed his heels back into Pomers’s flanks and felt the surge of power beneath him as the mount angrily leaped forward.

The jolting acceleration made him feel he would fall from the back of his saddle, but the immense cantle supported him. Reckless now, he kicked again at the horse, urging the beast on, and
Pomers responded. The rattling and squeaking of complaining metal and leather grew into a raucous din that deafened. Dust rose and filled his helmet, making his nose tickle and itch. He had to
blink away the dirt from streaming eyes.

His opponent was close. He could see Geoffrey’s shape lumbering towards him. William drew his lips back from his teeth in a snarl of defiance and allowed the point of the lance to begin
its fall from the vertical.

It was a fine calculation. Too early and the point would fall below the aiming-point; too late and the lance would miss the mark and slip past the enemy’s shoulder while William absorbed
the full weight of Geoffrey’s own point. Unbalanced, William would have to fall and he had no intention of making himself look a fool before all these people.

His horse was a stable base beneath him. He was assured of Pomers’s gait. The lance-tip fell gradually even as he caught sight of the approaching lance-point dropping slowly to point at
him. It didn’t make him flinch. The thing was irrelevant. All that mattered was getting his own lance to hit well. He shifted his grip so that the butt was jammed under his armpit and took a
deep breath.

An explosion of noise; a slamming thud against his left shoulder; a rattling clamour of metal; a sharp view of a horse’s nostrils, then he was past. His arm was all right, he reckoned.
Just hit hard. His shield was probably wrecked, but that was how it went in the tilt. Those were his first thoughts before he realised that something was wrong. He wasn’t settled properly in
his saddle. Slowly he could feel himself sliding sideways.

Hauling upon Pomers’s reins, he tried to regain his seat but it was too late. With a despairing wail he felt himself slip from the saddle and, through the grille of the helmet, saw the
ground rushing up to meet him.

Alice could feel her heart pounding as she saw her man spur his mount into the attack. It was terrifying, truly scary, but awesome too, and exciting. Seeing her husband
preparing to risk his all like this made her want to scream with pride, especially when she saw that Geoffrey was wearing her token. It streamed out from his helmet like a feather, an ethereal
statement of ownership: she owned him, he owned her. She could hardly dare watch as the two men spurred their mounts on, accelerating in a deadly, lunatic gallop towards each other.