Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Simon stirred. ‘Baldwin, I… ’

‘There is nothing to say,’ he murmured curtly. At this time above all others he must concentrate, must focus all his energy, and yet he was preoccupied. Glimpsing the pain in Simon’s eyes, he relented. ‘Friend, we know you are innocent.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then put your faith in God,’ Baldwin said and turned to face Lord Hugh.

Sir John joined him, his face set, his tilting helm in the crook of his arm, and his face showing his torment.

‘Sir John of Crukerne and Sir Baldwin of Furnshill, you have come here today to try your case before these witnesses,’ Mark Tyler said.

Baldwin glanced at him. The King Herald seemed nervous and was not using the normal words for the oaths.

Tyler continued, ‘This case has been brought by the death of Squire William of Crukerne who was most feloniously killed last night. Sir John accuses Bailiff Puttock of the killing and Sir Baldwin rejects that accusation. Thus we are here today to try the matter in trial of combat. Sir John, do you swear before God that you believe Bailiff Puttock to be guilty?’

‘I do so swear.’

‘Sir Baldwin, do you swear before God that Bailiff Puttock is innocent of this crime?’

‘I do so swear.’

‘Then may God show us who is right.’

‘Wait!’

Tyler had been about to leave, but Lord Hugh stood and stared down at the men below him.

‘Gentlemen, would it not be better for this to be delayed? Perhaps an answer can be found without the need for bloodshed. It would surely be better than to lose either one of you, or both.’

Sir John set his jaw. ‘I have no fear of death, my Lord. My cause is just and my son demands vengeance. I will brook no delay.’

‘Sir Baldwin?’

‘I fear I can hardly back down, my Lord, when a false accuser maintains the guilt of an innocent man.’

Lord Hugh shook his head disappointedly and Baldwin realised the cause for his reluctance: with the present dangerous state of the realm, no lord would wish to lose one of his best fighters. Better that he should win a delay in order that the affair could be ironed out behind closed doors.

But it was not to be, and Baldwin secretly thought that Lord Hugh looked half pleased when the two combatants refused to back down. Like so many others there, he would enjoy witnessing a fight to the death. It was a more interesting spectacle than a joust à plaisance , where the danger was accidental.

Baldwin was glad to see that at least Sir Roger did not appear content to see the fight go ahead. He sat frowning at Lord Hugh’s side, for it was the Coroner’s duty to witness fatal encounters.

Mark Tyler was speaking again. ‘Gentlemen, you will take a pass with lances and if one of you is unhorsed, you can continue on foot. This fight is to the death, but if one submits, his cause is lost. Do you both understand?’

Perfectly well, Baldwin thought, studying Sir John’s face. He will kill me as soon as he has an opportunity.

Without a second look, Baldwin made the sign of the cross. Then he slowly drew his sword free, a great long weapon he had bought many years before in Paris, with a grey-brown sheen to the notched blade. Baldwin lifted it before him, bowed his head to the cross-symbol of the hilt and guards, and kissed it before replacing it in the scabbard. Abruptly turning on his heel, he went to his horse and Edgar.

Sir Edmund was already on horseback. ‘I trust you will accept my assistance, Sir Baldwin?’

Baldwin looked over his shoulder towards the thickset Sir John, who was talking to another knight. ‘Who is that?’

‘Sir Walter Basset. He will second Sir John.’

‘Then I should be glad of your assistance,’ Baldwin said.

He walked to the mounting block, a series of steps built at the side of a ber frois , and climbed inelegantly on to his horse.

The beast knew something was in the air. He was skittish, prancing excitedly. It was all Baldwin could do to keep the brute steady while he gathered his weapons. The chain of his great axe was set about his neck, his lance was passed to him, and he sat waiting for his opponent. He rested the lance on his foot, feeling the weight. Long and unwieldy as a weapon, it was nonetheless hideously effective when used by a trained man.

Sir John, he saw, had purchased the new armour. He had one large breastplate of dark steel and a great steel pot of a helm which was chained to it. At his side was a massive mace armed with vicious spikes in the metal head. He was already on his horse, a lance gripped rigidly. Seeing Baldwin was ready, he jerked Pomers’s reins and rode back to the starting point.

Baldwin nodded to Edgar and checked the straps of his shield before knocking the vizor down. With the lance gripped in his fist, he trotted back to his own starting position near the river.

His mind was clear now. He knew he must fight with a cold precision. His strength was surely no match for Sir John’s, nor his speed. His stamina might be his only advantage. If Baldwin was to win this bout, he would have to fight cleverly. Brute strength was on Sir John’s side, but Baldwin should be able to counter that with deviousness; Sir John would be well-used to surviving against younger lads, for his successes in tournaments were well known, so he must be skilled at dealing with those who were considerably faster than him, people who had swifter reactions, yet Baldwin must somehow overcome him. It was an interesting conundrum, considered in a detached and rational manner, but even as Baldwin surveyed his enemy he saw Sir John’s legs move. Glancing to the main stand, Baldwin saw that the King Herald had given the signal and almost without realising it, he raked his spurs along his horse’s flanks and was moving.

There was no time for fear or alarm. He must weld his body and mind to the workings of his horse. The crash of lances was nothing unless mount, knight and lance-point were united and wielded as a single weapon.

His destrier was a well-bred animal with fire in his blood and fighting in his nature. Already he was moving at a canter, and Baldwin held his lance up, balancing the weight cautiously, waiting for the moment to slip the butt beneath his armpit. Then his horse was galloping and Sir John was nearer, his lance all but disappearing as it pointed to Baldwin’s face. He allowed his own point to fall until he felt it should be pointing in the right direction, but with the thundering of hooves, the jerking motion and the tiny slits through which he must breathe and see, it was hard to know what was happening.

A sparkle of metal; a flash, and a hideous lurch, then the pain of a hammer-blow at his breast and simultaneously his right arm was slammed back. The two together almost dismounted him. There was a crack from his saddle, a ringing clatter from his left arm, and then he was struggling with his vizor to see what had happened as his mount carried him to the far end of the field.

His lance was wrecked, one third snapped away. He grabbed another, weighing it in his hand. Something felt wrong with it, with the balance, but he had no time to consider it.

He looked back to see that Sir John was still in the saddle, and as Baldwin watched, Sir John wheeled his horse and charged again. Baldwin had to pull his horse’s head right about and spur him on, and then the rattling motion began again. Almost too late Baldwin remembered to knock his vizor down again.

This time the blow was less central and he felt the lance skitter away to his left, the point striking his plates, the shaft foiled by his shield. His own lance shuddered and jerked, but he was sure that Sir John didn’t fall. There was a short blur of dust and gleaming metal and they were past again.