Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

Henry de Furnellis stepped back reluctantly.

'So be it, if you are determined upon this foolishness! But 1 will see to it that you fight fair. 1 have a dozen men here to ensure it!'

He moved back almost to the ring of spectators, to stand alongside Gwyn. They noticed that Joel Peverel and Richard de Revelle took up similar positions on the other side.

There was no formal trumpet blast or herald's cry at this contest. The two men began circling and spiralling in towards each other until they were within sword's reach. A sudden clash of steel and thump of metal on wood signalled the first contact, and from then on it was a solemn, potentially lethal dance of advance, strike and retreat. The two men were equally matched, de Wolfe being more experienced in real battle and cunning in the use of his shield in defence. Ralph was younger, faster and more aggressive, but even his frequent practice in mélées and jousts had not made him the equal of John in the tricks and techniques of swordsmanship.

Back and forth they moved, rotating within a small space on the dusty ground, neither giving way to the other as their swords resounded off the ill-used wood of their long shields. The swords were made for slashing, not stabbing — but these were real weapons, not the blunted ones used in tournaments, and their points were still dangerous.

The silence was gradually broken by yells of excitement and encouragement from the spectators, though it was not clear who was shouting for whom. The clash of weapons became almost rhythmical, and although probably no more than five minutes had elapsed, it seemed like half a day to Gwyn as he watched his master fighting for his life. The weight of the chain mail, the shield and the sword meant that even the most Herculean fighter could not continue for long, as the physical exertion involved was too much for any man to sustain unless he was on the back of a horse.

The two men backed off for a moment, each panting to get his breath back, as they slowly circled again. Gwyn was beginning to feel more optimistic when they clashed again, as John managed to get in a heavy blow to Ralph's left shoulder which made his opponent howl. If this had been a tourney, it would have counted as a point against him, but this was a fight to the finish. After a few more advances and retreats, Ralph struck the side of John's helmet, making a dent and evening up the score, but of more concern to Gwyn was the fact that his master's limp was becoming more pronounced and he was slowing down. The break in his leg from being trapped under his dying horse had healed well and the coroner had made light of it in recent months, denying that anything was wrong, but Gwyn knew that he still had twinges of pain in it, especially after a long ride-or sudden exertion. Now it was.becoming obvious that he was tiring and the leg was dragging-: Ralph began dancing around him more quickly, in a deadly ballet whose outcome now seemed all too predictable.

'Christ help him!' muttered the Cornishman desperately. Though he despised most churchmen and their institutions, he believed in God, as did everyone else, except a few deranged heretics, and now his tongue sought to find long-neglected prayers. But God seemed deaf that day, and a moment later a rapid blow from the younger man struck John's wrist and sent his sword spinning away across the dirt. Stumbling back, the coroner dragged out his mace as his remaining weapon and, with his shield held in front of him, stood like a bear chained to a post, waiting for the next attack of the dogs. Ralph came in again and was repulsed by a smashing blow from the spinning chain, the heavy ball gouging splinters from the edge of his shield.

'Go on, follow it up!' bellowed Gwyn, now in almost tearful anxiety. There were similar shouts from around the edge of the arena as the two combatants went at it hammer and tongs, the spiked ball whirling a defensive pattern around the coroner as Peverel tried to swing his sword edge down on his opponent. Gwyn's heart lurched with hope as the chain wrapped itself around Ralph's sword, but the iron blade slid out of its grasp and was free again. Now both men were tiring, but de Wolfe was in worse shape and was now limping badly. The end came suddenly as the next sally by Ralph drove John back, and just as he was counter-attacking by swinging his vicious ball around the edge of his shield, his leg gave way completely and he fell sprawling on the ground, virtually at his enemy's feet. He still had the mace in his hand, but his left arm was trapped in the thongs of his shield, on to which he had fallen. With an almost contemptuous movement, Ralph kicked the mace away and pushed the coroner back to the ground with the point of his sword. Gwyn closed his eyes, hardly able to believe that his revered companion of twenty years was about to die in the dirt of a Devon bailey, after all the perils they had shared around half the world. Complete silence had descended on the manor compound, as everyone watched the dramatic tableau with bated breath, expecting the fatal coup de grace at any second.

Then there was a hoarse cry from where the family and servants were standing, incongruously delivered in a broad Irish accent.

'For the love of God and in the name of Jesus and the Holy Virgin, have mercy, Ralph Peverel!'

Father Patrick, his face flushed from both emotion and his early morning drinking, stumbled out towards the vanquished and the victor, waving the cross from his altar unsteadily above his head.

'Gain God's indulgence by showing compassion and mercy! Think of your immortal soul and gain credit in heaven!'

Ralph, who now had the point of his sword at John de Wolfe's throat, looked up at the flabby priest, irritated by his interference.

'Keep out of this, you drunken old fool!' he snarled. But the cleric, whether from bravery or befuddlement, continued to totter across the arena, to wave his cross almost under Ralph's nose.

'You have won the fight and made your point — what good can it do you to kill a king's officer and bring great trouble upon you and your family? Will that bring you success in your lawsuit? To say nothing of incurring God's displeasure.'

Ralph stared at the' dishevelled priest, then down at the man on the ground, now clutching his leg and groaning with the pain of cramped and knotted muscles. With an abrupt change of mood, he gave de Wolfe a heavy kick in the ribs, then turned and walked away without a word. A ragged cheer, went up from some of the crowd, but whether this was to applaud Ralph's success or in thanks for the coroner's survival, it was impossible to tell. As Gwyn, Morin and de Furnellis hurried to help John to his feet, the spectacle broke up as quickly as it had formed. At this abrupt anti-climax, the villagers melted away, the servants went about their business and the family vanished into the manor house.

'It was your leg that let you down, Crowner,' said Gwyn solicitously, his voice quavering with suppressed relief as they helped John hobble across to the stairs to the hall and sit on the lowest step.

De Wolfe shook his head wearily, slumped forward with his arms on his knees. 'No, Gwyn, not just my leg, I was an old fool for thinking that I could overcome a younger man on foot. Given a horse, things might have been different.'

The sheriff consoled him as he pulled off John's helmet and began unlacing his mailed hood. 'You did well, old friend! But you should leave it another year before you try it again, to let your leg heal properly,'

John gave a cynical laugh. 'In another year, I will be fit only to sit by my fireside with a shawl around my shoulders, I should be grateful to Ralph Peverel, not only for sparing my life, but for showing me that my fighting days are over.'

He felt humiliated, old and useless, and all the reassurances of his friends around him did little to lift his mood. After a few minutes, the pain in his leg subsided enough for him to stand up, allowing Gwyn and the others to help him off with his hauberk.