Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

The experienced fighter grabbed the saddle-edge and girth and let himself down lightly, hanging on to his shield, but losing his grip on the long lance. There was a roar from the onlookers as he fell to his knees, but he was up on his feet again long before de Charterai could slow his destrier and pull him around to canter back. It was obvious that Hugo was going to make a fight of it, with his reputation and his property at risk from the foreigner. The latter slowed to a halt, dismounted and laid his lance on the ground, as his squire ran out to take his horse's reins and lead him away. Hugo's riderless horse had ran on several hundred paces and was being retrieved by his own squire farther down the field.

Hugo faced the Frenchman and hauled out his sword, which made a metallic rasp as it slid from the scabbard hanging from the baldric slung around his shoulder. De Wolfe watched keenly as Reginald gave a slight bow and pulled out his own weapon. The two men advanced on each other warily, shields held up by the left forearms pushed through the straps on the back. Their heavy swords were sloped downward until they got within striking range. Then, as they circled each other, the points came up, and with a yell Hugo lunged forward and tried a straight thrust past the edge of Reginald's shield. The Frenchman parried it easily and in turn brought down a slashing blow, which sent chips of wood flying from the edge of Peverel's shield.

Time and again they slashed and smote, but they were evenly matched and neither could get past the other's guard. The spectators yelled their approval at this bonus to their expected entertainment.

Striking at the head was forbidden by the commonly accepted rules of chivalry, so the ambition of each man was to make a strike either with his sword point against his opponent's chest or belly or a heavy slash against any of his limbs. These would count as a win, even though the chain mail of the padded hauberks would hopefully protect against any serious injury. The two judges hovered a few yards away, far enough not to get in the way of the fighters, but close enough to check for a vital strike.

Then an unusual thing happened.

Hugo Peverel, the more aggressive of the two, gave another furious shout and stepped forward to smash his blue shield against the green of de Charterai's.

Tilting it away, he lunged with his blade, aiming for the heart, but the other knight swung sideways and, as Hugo's sword arm came within reach, slashed down upon it.

The blunted edge struck the back of the Devon man's hand just below the wrist, and although he was wearing chain-link mittens the impact of the heavy steel temporarily paralysed his fingers and his sword went spinning away. The foreigner gave his own excited yell of triumph and stood back, clearly the victor. Both de Wolfe and Peter de Cunitone threw up their hands as a signal for a win and there was a trumpet blast in response.

It seemed, however that Hugo de Peverel, now in a vile temper, had other ideas.

Instead of kneeling in submission, as convention required, he cast about for his sword, apparently intending to pick it up again. But it had fallen almost at the feet of his adversary and so, to John's indignant surprise, he bounded sideways and snatched up his lance, from where it had fallen when he was unhorsed. With a roar of defiance, Hugo hefted it near its centre, brought his powerful arm back and threw it straight at Reginald de Charterai's head.

Astonished at this unheard-of behaviour, the Frenchman stood stock still for an instant, then his well-honed instinct for self-preservation snapped into action and he brought up his shield before his face. The blunted tourney lance struck it with a loud thump and fell to the ground, instead of hitting him between the eyes.

There was immediate chaos on and around the field.

The two judges came running, shouting cries of recrimination. Along the barrier ropes, there was a roar of outrage and yells, boos and hisses rent the air. Even those who had money on Hugo Peverel were disgusted at his blatant disregard of the usual conventions. De Wolfe strode up to the culprit, his face white with anger, closely followed by his fellow adjudicator.

'What in Christ's name d'you think you're doing?' he yelled.

'Have you gone bloody mad?' snapped de Cunitone, hands on hips as he glared at Hugo. Peverel, sweating, red in the face and seething with anger, was far from contrite. 'There's no rule against a man continuing to fight!' he hissed.

'Rule? You've been in more than enough jousts to know what's proper!'

De Wolfe's nose was almost touching Hugo's now and he was in a towering rage. 'You're a knight, damn it, you have a duty to show an example to the squires and younger men. I'm ashamed of you, Peverel!' Half afraid that he might strike him in his temper, John stepped back and forced himself to signal to the herald forty paces away. The man took the hint, and as the trumpet sounded again he roared at the top of his voice that the bout had been won by Reginald de Charterai.

The man named had remained standing where he was, his face white with shock at this unheard-of breach of conduct by someone who should know better. He said not a word, but turned and walked off stiffly to where his bewildered squire was holding his horse's head. The victor walked his mount back to the enclosure, to the sustained cheers and shouts of congratulation from both the crowd along the ropes and the more aristocratic audience in the stand.

'You had better send your squire to treat with de Charterai over the forfeit of your armour and destrier,' snapped de Cunitone, the contempt obvious in his voice as he spat the words at Hugo Peverel. 'Better keep clear of him yourself, or you might get a punch in the face, which you richly deserve!'

With that, the second judge turned and marched after the coroner, who was making his way back to speak to the herald. Left alone in the middle of the field, the lord of Sampford Peverel glowered at everything within sight, unwilling to admit even to himself that he had seriously transgressed the unwritten codes of chivalry.

The last few jousts following the Peverel debacle were something of an anti-climax, and less than an hour later everyone was streaming away from Bull Mead, heading for either home or the alehouses. They had plenty to talk about, and the Bush Inn was one of the places where the gossip was most rife. At his table near the hearth, John de Wolfe was relating the story to Nesta and Gwyn, with Edwin the potman and a few regular patrons standing behind them, their ears flapping to hear the details from the horse's mouth, so to speak.

'I've always heard that Hugo was a nasty piece of work,' growled Gwyn, over the rim of his pottery jug of ale. 'Terrible temper, they say. He was suspected of beating some poor sod of a groom near to death iast year, for some trifling fault.'

The coroner's officer-had not long arrived back from st James' Priory, though John had expected him much earlier. It seemed that the silversmith's assistant had suffered a dizzy attack after rising from his sickbed and the monks had insisted on his resting for a few more hours before leaving on the hired horse.

'How well do you know this Hugo?' asked Nesta, sitting close to John, her arm linked comfortably with his.

'I know little about him, except to recognise him by sight. After today, I don't want to acknowledge him at all, unless I have to in the line of duty.'

'He was in Outremer with us, wasn't he?' asked Gwyn, vigorously scratching his unruly mop of red hair where the lice were irritating his scalp.

'I recall that he was there briefly, but never in our formation, thank God. I believe he arrived at Acre at the same time as the King, but on a different ship from us. I never saw him in the Holy Land, but we have to give him the credit of being a Crusader, I suppose.'