Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

Baldwin lifted his lance and hefted it in his hand. It felt easier now, as if his arm was becoming accustomed to the weight and balance after all these years. He was sure that he had connected with Sir John. The applause he could hear over his own panting breath seemed to show that someone had achieved something. Baldwin saw the dust rise from Sir John’s horse’s hooves and felt his lips pull away from his teeth in a snarl. He kicked twice, hard, and felt the explosive power of his horse as its huge hindquarters thrust forwards, jolting Baldwin back against the cantle. He slipped the lance under his armpit, aiming the bright point at Sir John, but then he realised something was wrong. The point was gone; his lance had only a splintered stump where there should have been a steel tip. His belly lurched, he felt the clammy grip of fear clutch at his heart, but he was committed now. There was nothing he could do but put his faith in God.

‘Jesus, Mary, and Saint George,’ he murmured, but then he felt the terrible blow at his chest and heard an enormous rending. His own lance was still more than a foot from Sir John, it was snapped off so short, but Baldwin barely had time to register that before he felt himself slipping. He felt his horse give one more lurch at full speed, and then his backside was shifting over the horse’s rump. Suddenly he was in mid-air.

A moment, only a moment, of peace mixed with terror, and then his feet snagged on the ground. His knees came up. There was a sharp crack as his knees rose to strike his chin; his jaw crunched as his teeth met and he felt an incisor break off cleanly. Blood filled his mouth and he had to lift his vizor to spit out shards.

He was dazed. He knew that. Sitting on his rump in the dirt, his ears ringing, he couldn’t move for a moment. He couldn’t believe that he had truly fallen like this, but he was on his arse on the ground. He looked up and saw people laughing and clapping, urging on Sir John as he reined in at the far end of the lists, saw him trot forward, knowing his victory was all but complete. Baldwin had to shake his head to clear it, but already dust had blown into his eyes and he was temporarily blinded. Beneath him he saw the broken remains of his saddle. He was still sitting in it. The thing had disintegrated under the force of the blow.

A determination not to die in so foolish a manner gripped him. He rolled away from his saddle and got on to all fours, pushing himself upwards even as he felt the earth begin to vibrate.

He pulled at his shield. It was no use to him and he let it fall, then snapped his vizor shut. Grabbing his axe, he held it in both hands and stood resolutely, waiting for Sir John.

It was easy to see what was in Sir John’s mind. A knight would usually meet his opponent with equal weapons, dismounting when his enemy was unhorsed, so that each could fight with equal opportunity, but Sir John was fighting for justice for his dead son. There was no place for chivalry and sentiment. He spurred his horse on, his lance pointing at Baldwin.

Baldwin could have run, but to do so would mean death. An experienced knight like Sir John couldn’t miss a stumbling man encumbered by armour, and with the full mass of horse, man and metal concentrated on the hardened steel tip of his lance, Baldwin would be spitted like a hog over a fire.

Instead, Baldwin stood stock-still until the last moment, the sweat trickling uncomfortably down his brow and his back, tickling beneath the thick padding of his coat. Sir John was approaching at the gallop, his lance high, balanced against the horse’s motion, and as he drew closer, he allowed the point to fall until Baldwin could see it aiming at his belly. It moved up and down, coming closer at a terrible speed, and when he could bear it no longer, he moved.

It was neither nimble nor swift, but as he dodged sideways he simultaneously swung his axe at the lance. He felt a solid, numbing buffet on his left arm as the lance caught him a glancing blow, then the axe came alive, almost leaping from his hand, and he knew he had almost taken the head of the lance from its shaft – but the point was reinforced with bars of steel that ran along the shaft itself. It could still kill him.

Keeping Sir John in view, he clenched and relaxed his left hand, panting as he tried to force the tension away. He had to remain alert and swift on his feet now he was on the ground. An idea struck him and he retreated to stand before the remains of his saddle, some few feet from it.

After a moment he felt the pounding of the hoofbeats through his feet; he gripped his axe firmly in both hands, waiting. Again he forced himself to confront the swift-running mount whose flanks were flecked with blood where the spurs had pricked, whose mouth foamed, whose eyes rolled madly. Baldwin felt a shudder run through his body, a shiver of fear, but also of a cold, enraged exhilaration. When he felt sure he would feel the crushing spike of the lance pierce his armour and chest, he shrieked in defiance and sought to spring away; his armour slowed him. Even as he straightened his legs to leap from the horse’s path, he felt rather than heard the clang ! as the lance-tip caught the right side of his chest and became entangled in his belt, which snapped, but there was instantly a second thump higher up his chest and he was thrown back with the force as his sword and dagger fell to the ground.

Rolling away, sweat blinded him. He opened his eyes but had to close them instantly as the salt stung and burned. All he could hear was the whistle and roar of his breath in the confines of his metal mask, all he could feel was the shooting of knives along his side and the dull, monotonous ache at his back where he had fallen on a painful projection within his suit. Gradually his hearing returned, his senses assaulting him afresh even as he tasted blood from his smashed tooth. Keeping hold of his axe, he heard a rising wave of noise from the spectators. Confused, he cautiously raised his vizor.

Sir John’s horse had not seen the saddle until the last moment. The wooden frame was broken, but as the destrier tried to avoid it, he stumbled on to the heavy cantle at the rear of the seat, and it was enough to turn his hoof. With a vicious crack like a stone smiting a castle wall, the massive horse had fallen and rolled on to his back, his legs flailing in the air, one shattered foreleg waving obscenely and spraying blood over the field.

Baldwin coughed, winded. He slowly clambered to his feet and spat out more blood before waiting patiently.

Sir John was standing at the side of his mount as if disbelieving that such a disaster could have befallen him, but then he appeared to waken anew to full rage and bloodlust.

Grabbing at his mace, he took it up in both hands and lumbered towards Baldwin, the ugly ball gleaming over his head. Baldwin just had time to pull his vizor down again before the first buffet smashed over his helmet. He moved away, his axe up and held at an angle to deflect the foul weapon, but the heavy head scraped down the axe and slammed against his left hand, crushing it against the shaft. Baldwin gritted his teeth and tried to swing the axe low, to threaten Sir John’s legs, but the other knight stopped the attempt with contemptuous ease, reversing his movement to swing the mace at Baldwin’s left side.

Pain took Baldwin over. It was like an explosion in his chest, a rapidly flowering agony that rose all the way to his head and made him feel as if his eyes would burst from their sockets. Before he could recover, the mace crashed against his head again, the steel of his heavy helm deafening him. Disorientated, he fell back, his axe flailing before him.

‘God!’ he cried. ‘Holy Father, Holy Mother, save me!’

The axe caught Sir John a glancing thump on his head, striking sparks from his helm but the knight scarcely seemed to notice. He came on. Baldwin had enough energy to swing again with all his remaining might, but although he connected with Sir John’s helmet, it didn’t distract the man. The mace rose and fell onto Baldwin’s head, bouncing from the steel and hitting his left shoulder.