Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

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.