Michael, JECKS - The Tournament of Blood

It was agony. A spike had slipped between the links of his mail tippet and Baldwin was sure that he could feel it crush and puncture his shoulder. His entire left arm was dead; there was no strength in it to cling to his axe, and the heavy weapon was a dead weight in his right hand. The mace rose again; he lifted the axe one-handedly and caught its shaft, halting its downwards sweep, and a twist of his wrist deflected its momentum so that it turned in towards Sir John’s own leg. A roar, more of anger than of pain, told him that the heavy mace head had caught Sir John’s thigh.

Stumbling, all but blinded, his nostrils clogged with the dust, panting with the heat, the pain washing all over his left side, Baldwin staggered to break the engagement. Facing Sir John again, he was shocked to see that the knight was almost upon him once more. Baldwin lifted the axe but Sir John’s mace caught it and his two-handed swing took the axe from Baldwin’s hand, wrenching it from his grasp, snapping the chain that held it to him, and sending it spinning away even as Sir John’s forward rush took him past Baldwin, who suddenly saw his sword and belt lying nearby. He reached down to it, the act of gripping the hilt sending a stab of white-hot pain up his forearm, but he gritted his teeth and hauled it free.

Exhausted with pain and the heat, Baldwin lifted his vizor a last time. If he was to die, he would die with air in his lungs. He rested the point of his sword on the ground while he panted, watching Sir John take a fresh hold of his mace. The knight gave a roar of defiance, lifting the spiked ball high overhead, and began a shambling run towards Baldwin.

He was about to swing it down when Baldwin recalled Odo’s words: ‘ À l’estoc! ’

Baldwin felt a small thrill of energy override his pain. It was tiny, just enough to bring a moment of concentration, but that split second was adequate. As if time stood still, he saw that where Sir John’s breast steel met the back-plate, there was a gap beneath the armpit. The sight galvanised Baldwin. His sword was low still as he raised the point. As Sir John ran at him, Baldwin side-stepped and thrust it sharply upwards. He almost ignored the crash as the mace-head rang from the crown of his helmet.

The sword sheared through the thin leather and mail which protected Sir John’s underarm, and passed through into the soft flesh, the blade burying itself in the bone. Sir John gave a roar of pain, his fury making him try to spin to bring the mace down again, but the act made the blade twist within his chest. Baldwin stepped back, tugging his sword free and eyeing his opponent with cold intensity.

Sir John grabbed at his vizor and pulled it open, breathing stertorously, groaning heavily with each exhalation. He gave a low, hacking cough and spat blood before swinging his arm slowly, contemplating Baldwin. Reaching down, he picked up Baldwin’s axe, holding it loosely in his left hand while he swung his mace in his right. Silently he stalked towards Baldwin, both weapons ready.

Baldwin surveyed him with a dispassionate calculation. His vizor open, he felt more free, as if the protection the helmet gave him was actually a constriction that prevented his defence. He clenched and unclenched his left hand, pins and needles making the whole arm tingle while he sought an opportunity. Even as Sir John had screamed in pain, Baldwin had felt his own faculties return to him and now he watched warily as his opponent knocked his vizor down again and came closer.

The axe swung, Baldwin ducked away from it, but then the mace was aimed at his face. Baldwin evaded that too, just in time to see his axe sweeping back to cut at his knees. He thrust the sword blade in the path of the axe and raised it immediately to knock the mace aside as it aimed for his head. Sir John shrieked at him.

But Sir John’s attack had produced a fine spray of blood from beneath his arm as he lifted the axe once more. Baldwin knew Sir John was dying, that it was only a matter of time. But the huge man wouldn’t give up. Baldwin dodged from under the axe and as he did so he saw the mace lift again.

Quickly, Baldwin shifted his position, lurching forward on exhausted feet to close with Sir John. He clubbed Sir John’s mace hand away, and stepped to his side. Sir John tried to slam his helmet into Baldwin’s face, then brought the axe to play again, but he was too late. Pushing the point of his sword into the gap between the plates of steel under Sir John’s armpit, Baldwin thrust with all his strength, now using both hands to force the point of the blade deep into Sir John’s chest, through his lungs, and twisting, grimacing as he butchered the still-living body.

Sir John coughed, choked, and Baldwin could hear the rattling from within his throat as blood dribbled from his mouth and nostrils, but Baldwin could take no risks. He jerked the blade from one side to another, feeling the edge grating on bones.

It was enough. Baldwin felt Sir John sag and had to kick him to free his sword. He tugged it out with difficulty, and was about to try another blow when Sir John fell to his knees, then on to his face, the vizor closing as he dropped.

‘Air! Air!’

Baldwin felt a wave of revulsion wash over him. Sympathy for the dying man made him drop his sword and help Sir John on to his back. He fumbled at the knight’s helmet, trying to release the heavy metal, but his fingers were dulled after trading blows and it took time. When he did, Baldwin was confronted by a mask of blood. Sir John’s mouth foamed with a bloody froth; his nostrils ran with blood; his every breath produced a fine spray of blood.

‘Mercy! Mercy!’ came, the hoarse, gurgling cry.

Baldwin had seen wounded men often enough in his life. Sir John was slowly drowning in his own blood. Leaving him would be an act of cruelty. No physician could save him.

‘Sir Baldwin, I beg,’ Sir John choked, a stream of bright blood flooding from his mouth and staining the grass at his head. ‘End this!’

Before the seconds could arrive, Baldwin drew Sir John’s own misericorde and pushed the point through Sir John’s eye.

Simon stood in the great stand near Roger, and stared as Baldwin slowly bent and retrieved his sword. He moved like an old man, exhausted from the short but intense battle. Then he straightened and hesitated before walking over to where the shards of the lances lay scattered. He stooped and picked up broken slivers of wood up to two feet long and appeared to be studying them.

Roger gave Simon a delighted thump on the back, but Simon’s attention was fixed on the knight. As if he had been a participant in the fight, he was aware of a bone-deep lethargy as though he himself had aged twenty years in the last hour.

Others in the stands and all about did not feel the same fatigue. There were roars of applause as those who had gambled upon Baldwin’s success celebrated their victory; a larger number had wagered on Sir John and these men and women rolled their eyes and muttered contemptuously about the dead man’s incompetence as they filed away, seeking wine merchants with whose help they intended forgetting their unprofitable speculation.

Simon heard the King Herald bellow the success of his cause and the Divine Judgement, but his mind couldn’t take it all in. He found he was shaking, suddenly enfeebled. He had to grip the handrail to support himself.

Out in the field he saw Sir Edmund and Edgar at Baldwin’s side. With an affectionate and gentle care, Edgar took the sword from Baldwin and passed it to Sir Edmund before looping Baldwin’s arm over his neck and helping him from the field. The sight made Simon realise that his friend was wounded and instantly his torpor fell away. He dashed from the ber frois and down the stairs until he found the trio.