Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

‘You think so?’ Margaret responded eagerly. ‘He has certainly done very well for himself. When we first met, he was a mere gentleman with land out at Sandford, and now look at him! I feel quite nervous, thinking of the nobles who will be here.’

He gave her a long, pensive look. ‘When you have met as many of the breed as I have, you will soon lose any nerves. You will learn to make allowances for them.’

She blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Margaret, most of the truly noble knights are mere vain, primping coxcombs. They have less brain in their heads than they were born with – those that have any at all. Look, there are two there.’

Following his finger, she saw Sir John of Crukerne and his son walking to the combat area where they had seen the two swordsmen. They leaned on the rail, talking. ‘What of them?’

‘They have the knightly attributes, or so they think. Both, from what I have heard, can handle a horse with great skill; both can wield lance, sword or axe; both have great stamina – but there is more to knighthood than that. They show no courtesy, humility or pity. Many knights like to demonstrate their courtesy by elaborate praise of beautiful women, and many would leave their attentions there, having made their target feel flattered as a lady should after such recognition, but there are some, like that squire,’ he jerked his head, ‘who would always try to take more. By force, if necessary.’

‘And the other?’

‘Sir John is no libertine. But a man like him, who has been in many jousts, must have lost much of his sense.’

‘You have been in several yourself, I am sure?’

‘And haven’t you noticed how my brains have been addled?’ he asked lightly. ‘When you are hit about the head by a madman wielding a sword which weighs at least five pounds, you naturally have to wear a helmet, and for all the padding about your brow and ears, the din is appalling.’

She laughed aloud, but her eyes remained upon the two standing at the bars. The fighters had stopped, the shorter man being helped to a corner, blood streaming from the gash in his shoulder and other stab wounds. The victor, the taller man, was chatting to Sir John, but even as Margaret watched, Sir John turned and met her gaze. Although she tried to look away as if she had not observed him, she saw the knight’s sudden wolfish smile and the sight of it made her colour.

Averting her face, she tried to put him from her mind, but she couldn’t. That man’s open stare had made her feel as though he had undressed and mounted her; if not in reality, she was convinced that he had in his mind. She felt as though she had been raped.

Andrew, Sir Edmund of Gloucester’s squire, walked idly to the racks at the edge of the field. This was the starting-point for riders before charging at an opponent, and lances were fitted into their slots, ready for the first challenges.

Lifting one from its rest, he held it at its centre and frowningly gauged its heft and balance. It felt a little top-heavy, but that was normal enough. Squinting along its length he saw that there was a definite curve to it. All the better for the rider who faced it, he thought, for the wood would shatter most spectacularly on impact, making the two riders appear all the more brave for their harsh collision with shards and splinters of wood flying in all directions. The coronal was a goodly lump of iron, with four blunt prongs projecting to disperse the force of the lance and protect the opponent. Otherwise a sharp point with the full mass of knight, horse and armour all riding on the tip could puncture even strong armour and pin a man inside his steel coat. Andrew had seen it happen.

He set the lance back in the rest and took up another. This was straight enough, and he gave a grudging nod of approval as he peered along its length, but as he lifted it back to the vertical and thumped the base against the ground, he thought there was a feeling of weakness in it, as if it had a crack in the wood.

Putting the lance back, he eyed the arena. Imagining himself on horseback, he peered hard, searching for any potholes or tussocks which might conceal a molehill. The last thing he wanted was for his mount to stumble or swerve. With a heavy charger travelling at speed, that could end in disaster: the opponent’s horse might try to dodge, leading to the lance-point striking at an odd angle, perhaps slipping beneath the plate armour and hitting a vital spot, or the manoeuvre could lead to the horses colliding, killing both each other and their riders.

The ground was clear so far as he could see. Reassured, he thrust his hands in his belt and leaned against the rack, idly watching the other squires and knights as they walked about, until suddenly his eye lit upon a slim, fair figure.

He stood, his hand reaching automatically for his knife-hilt. Slowly he walked around behind the rack and watched as the figure approached.

‘ Geoffrey! ’ His low, hissing voice made the other squire start and gaze about him. ‘You cowardly whore’s whelp!’

Geoffrey was only a few yards away, and he turned with a baffled expression.

‘ Geoffrey! You shit! ’

‘Eh?’ A man was standing near the rack, Geoffrey could see, but at this distance, some twenty feet, he could only make out an imprecise blurred figure. His sight was poor at the best of times, but here, in bright sunlight, it was hard to see who was standing in the relative shade of the trees at the riverbank.

‘Forgotten me, have you?’ Squire Andrew called. He pulled his knife from its sheath and stalked forward. ‘I’ve wanted to see you again ever since that night. You remember – the night before we ran into Harclay at the bridge? Only you wouldn’t remember, would you? You weren’t there.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. Who are you?’

Andrew smiled thinly. There was a subtle note of fear in the other’s voice. ‘So you have forgotten me – that’s sad. I was in your company when you were riding with your master at Earl Thomas of Lancaster’s side. I remember you perfectly. You were a bold little cock there, weren’t you? Offering your advice to all and sundry. Except you weren’t quite so brave when you realised that the King was getting near, were you? You went off to seek forage, only you never came back.’

‘Of course I didn’t!’ Geoffrey lied. ‘I got cut off by a raiding party. I fought through them and went ahead to return to the Earl’s side, only the bridge I had to cross was taken. Harclay and his men were already there. I had no choice.’

‘Liar!’ Andrew spat. ‘You bolted. You rode off as soon as you could; you deserted your master.’

‘I would never have deserted him,’ Geoffrey declared hotly.

‘You’re lucky he died with the others on the bridge. Shot down by a random arrow, then crushed beneath a horse. He died there honourably, Geoffrey. Just as you should have done. Except you were too cowardly to risk your neck, weren’t you? You had to get away.’

‘I had no choice,’ Geoffrey said weakly. ‘What would you have done?’

‘I’d have fought to get back, so I could die with my master,’ Andrew said. ‘As I did.’

‘Well, all I can say is, you can’t have been cut off in the same way I was,’ Geoffrey said. ‘I had no chance.’

‘Really?’ Andrew asked cynically. ‘Don’t you recognise me yet?’

Geoffrey stared as Andrew approached him. Then his mouth fell open and he held up a hand as if to ward off evil. ‘But you were dead! I saw you fall!’

Andrew smiled mirthlessly. ‘You thought so, did you? Well, if I died, I have been brought back to life to see you suffer for your cowardice, you bastard! And you’ll suffer soon, believe me. I’ll trample your reputation in the mire for running away from the enemy even when your master needed your support. You left him and your Earl to die, just as you left me and the others in the party to die. I shall denounce you.’