Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

A large open-fronted tent with a few rows of benches had been set up alongside the recet for the aristocracy and their ladies, offering shelter from occasional rain showers and the curious stares of the more lowly folk straggling along the boundary ropes, Two of these ladies were Avelina and Beatrice, chaperoned by their maids and by Joel Peverel, looking dandified in a fur-lined surcoat over a red-and-gold tunic. The women also wore heavy pelisses against the wind and ornately embroidered felt coifs tied firmly under their chins.

The heralds and umpires were ready at their stations in front of the recet and soon the trumpet blasts and stentorian cries announced the imminent start of hostilities. In the front row of almost three score mounted knights, in the Red army away to the north, was Ralph Peverel. He had fretted for days because he had been deprived of his usual armourer, Robert Longus, but had managed to hire another man from Dorchester who seemed adequate enough. His chain mail was bright, though this rain would soon tarnish it, his weapons were sharp and his shield had been repaired and repainted after that swine John de Wolfe had chopped a piece out of it.

While waiting for the final trumpet to sound, he looked along the line and saw some familiar faces from the tourney circuit, but there was no one he knew well, He despised his weakling brother Joel for being more interested in getting his leg over a woman than pursuing a man's sport, for he had no partners today, as he had when his father and Hugo were alive.

A quarter of a mile to the south, a similar mass of men and destriers were assembled, all displaying their blue markers, Towards the end of the third rank was a big grey stallion with hairy feet, carrying a tall man with a hooked nose and dark-stubbled cheeks, His right hand supported a twelve-foot lance and his left arm bore a black shield with a white wolf's head.

John gazed at the distant Reds. Though by no means an imaginative man, he wondered whether the instrument of his death was among them today, Would that man kill him this time, as he had almost done two weeks earlier? As the tension built all around him, with horses shuffling, snorting and pawing the ground, he thought back over the days in which the idea of settling once and for all his debt of honour with Ralph Peverel had fermented.

Both Gwyn and Henry de Furnellis had tried to dissuade him from his plan — and as for Nesta, she was beside herself with desperate anxiety at the prospect of him once again putting himself in peril of death. Stubborn and intractable, de Wolfe had shrugged off all their arguments, pointing out that, once on the back of Odin, his leg would be no problem and that he was otherwise as fit as any other man. Eventually Gwyn accepted the inevitable and devoted himself to preparing John's equipment and pestering Andrew the farrier to ensure that Odin was in perfect condition. They trained almost every day on Bull Mead, where the swinging practice tilts had been left in place after the last event, until even the Cornishman was satisfied that his master was as good a fighter as he had ever been.

Now here he was, with Gwyn anxiously pacing the boundary ropes as his squire, hoping fervently that he would not be needed to carry back John's bleeding and broken body. Thomas and Eustace had been left behind in Exeter, once more in a ferment of concern that a two-day journey lay between them and news of the outcome.

The long-awaited final trumpet blast wailed across the scrubby heathland and with a roar of excitement and the yelling of war-cries the massed horsemen lumbered off, picking up speed on the slight slope down into the shallow valley that ran down from the recet.

John lowered his lance to the horizontal and rested the shaft on the pommel of his saddle, so that it stuck out obliquely past Odin's left ear, which was now flattened back as the stallion joined in the surge of excitement that flowed over the Blue squadron.

As the two waves of warriors hurtled towards each other, John kept a sharp lookout for a blue shield emblazoned with white chevrons.

Ralph Peverel knew that he was here, as John had seen him earlier, staring from a distance at his wolfs head emblem. The coroner had ensured, when he arrived to pay his fee, that he was not placed in the same army as Peverel, which would have wrecked his plans. Thankfully, he knew several of the marshals who were organising the event and a quiet word, without explanation, ensured that they were separated.

As the moment of collision approached, John's main concern was not to be diverted from his purpose by some other knight engaging him in a lengthy duel — or even worse, wounding or unhorsing him before he had the chance to confront Ralph. As soon as he spotted the blue-and-white shield, he dropped back and swerved to avoid an enthusiastic youngster who seemed intent on challenging him.

The thunder of hoofs diminished as the long charge degenerated into a swirling mass of horses and men, but de Wolfe managed to weave through them towards Ralph Peverel, who seemed to have the same objective. John fended off one half-hearted thrust from the lance of a knight on a white destrier, but they moved past him and he then found himself twenty paces in front of Peverel.

They were too near for a worthwhile charge, but both spurred their chargers forward and began hostilities with a simultaneous attack on each other's shields, which did nothing mare than add a few additional scratches to the wood as the tips of the lances slid off. As they passed each other, Ralph yelled a taunt above the general hubbub around them. 'No drunken Irish priest to save you today, de Wolfe!'

Then he was gone, and the two riders hauled their huge horses around, like ships manoeuvring at sea. They were now fifty yards apart, and as soon as a pair of knights slashing madly at each other with swords had cleared out of their way, they pounded towards each other again. This time the impact was shattering, but their long experience allowed them to use their shields to divert the impacts without harm, though Ralph was rocked back painfully against the wooden crupper of his saddle.

Three times they circled and returned, each yelling abuse at the other as their determined horses thundered past, each on the other's left side.

At the third pass, a few inches of the tip of John's lance snapped off, but he was not concerned as he was not aiming to stab Ralph to death, only knock him out of his saddle. His leg was aching, but this was from the strain of steering Odin by the pressure of his knees, and he felt none of the crippling disability he had suffered during their combat on foot, In fact, he felt the familiar exhilaration that only potentially fatal combat can generate.

He deliberately ran out farther on this circuit, to increase his speed on the return, dodging several pairs of other fighters, their blue and red arm-flags streaming wildly as they battered each other. John felt that it would be this next run which would make or break their contest — if only he could unhorse Ralph, his honour would be restored and he could look every man in the eye again.

Gwyn, watching with anxious approval from the side-lines, also had the feeling that this next clash would be critical. He saw the two men wheel around a little apart from the main throng and poise themselves for the next charge. As loose turf scudded up from the massive hoofs of their destriers, they began moving towards each other, but suddenly a black horse bearing an erect figure suddenly burst out of the main melee and thundered past John. Already moving fast, the new stallion had double the speed of Odin by the time he reached Ralph Peverel, who just had time to pull his horse's head around and realign his lance to meet this unexpected challenge.

The impact was like a thunderbolt and the lance flattened Ralph's shield against his chest and hurled him clean over his horse's rump. As John cursed and swerved Odin to the side to avoid a collision, he saw Peverel fly through the air and land on his head, The crack as his neck snapped could be heard even over the tumult around them.