Nigel Tranter - The Price of the King's Peace

For strange moments time seemed to stand still, the tableau

motionless.

The two combatants were almost in each other’s arms, Segrave thrown forward by the impetus and sudden halt of his mount and the failure of his lance to contact more than air. Carrick’s position was different. The impact of his lance tended to throw him back, but his charger’s abrupt stoppage countered this.

Standing in his stirrups as he was, almost he was unseated, to fall sideways. But he was held upright, for the moment, by the pressure on his right leg, held between the two horses. So, poised, they glared into each other’s visors, while the panting horses scrabbled great hooves to retain a footing. Then, recovering equilibrium and control simultaneously, they broke apart and went circling ponderously away.

A great corporate sigh rose from the crowd.

“What now?” Elizabeth demanded, breathlessly.

“Edward had the best of that. Yet now he has no lance. While Segrave has. What now?”

“It is the fortune of the tourney,” Bruce told her.

“It has left the choice with the Englishman. He can ride Edward dow nif he may! Edward will not run from him, that is certain! Four-foot sword against nine-foot lance! Or he may be chivalrous and allow Edward to collect a second lance.”

Segrave did neither. Raising his undamaged lance, he cast it from him.

Then he drew his sword, and waved it at his opponent invitingly.

“Ah-that is noble!” the Queen cried.

“He rejects his advantage.”

“Noble!”

Hugh Ross exclaimed disgustedly.

“No nobility there.

He perceives that the Lord Edward is better than he with the lance, that is all. No point in allowing him another lance. So he will try the sword. “ “That may very well be so,” Bruce acceded.

Edward had drawn his own sword, and now the champions circled each other warily, while the watchers yelled encouragement or advice. Then Edward took the initiative and, holding his blade straight out before him like another lance, spurred directly for the other.

Segrave stood his ground until the other was almost upon him.

Then he jerked his mount away to the right, the wrong side for the Scot’s sword, and slashed his own in a sideways swipe as Edward swept past him. This was the classic move, and the other had anticipated it. By standing up and leaning as far to his own right as he could, he avoided that blow by inches. Thereafter he immediately pulled his destrier’s head round viciously, hard round to the left and still round, sending the great brute rearing up and pawing the air, until it was completely turned and at the other’s back. The Englishman perceived his danger, and spurred away-but just in time. Edward’s blade struck a glancing blow, expending most of its force on the great wooden saddle behind the other. Segrave’s slightly lighter horse enabled him to draw away.

“Another point to Edward!” the King cried.

“That was featly done.”

It was Segrave’s turn to surprise them. He had only ridden away some twenty yards when abruptly he reined his mount directly round in its tracks, with more pawing of the air. His opponent was unprepared for this, and could not get his heavy charger out of the way in time. He took, in consequence, a heavy blow partly on his shoulder-fortunately not the sword-arm- and partly on his shield, before the other was carried past, and reeled in his saddle.

Everywhere Englishmen shouted hoarsely.

Their champion was quick to exploit his advantage. Swiftly he reined round once more, to drive in whilst the other was part numbed by the blow.

Edward, with only the briefest of seconds to take avoiding action, did not do so. Instead, he spurred to meet the challenge, canted over to his left side in pain as he was. And just before the attack was upon him, with a major effort he wrenched back his destrier’s head with almost unbelievable savagery and at enormous cost to himself, so that he swayed dizzily in the saddle with the shock of it. The horse rose high on its hind legs, squealing its fright and hurt, great shaggy forelegs lashing directly in the face of the other charging animal.

Somehow the Scot managed to retain his seat, or rather his stance for

he was standing upright. The other mount, faced with those weaving

iron-shod hooves only inches from its face, flung itself aside as

abruptly, almost falling over in the process. Segrave was all but

thrown, his aimed sword jerked aside as he sought to save himself. And

leaning far forward and over, Edward brought down his own brand in a

mighty sledgehammer, pile-driving stroke, rough, ungainly but

irresistible, which smashed flat-sided across the other’s neck,

shoulder and chest, and literally lifted him out of his saddle.

Segrave toppled, steel-clad limbs flailing, and crashed to the soft peat with a crunch which drew gasps from all around. He lay still.

After the moment or two of shock, the entire castle precincts rang with shouted acclaim, admiration, and groans. Edward, looking very unsteady, and still obviously twisted with pain, spared no glance at his victim, but raising his sword high towards the Queen, turned his snorting steed and walked it ponderously back to his own base.

Segrave’s esquires ran out to the aid of their fallen champion.

“Your realm’s credit was safe with your brother, this time, my Lord Robert,” Angus Og observed.

“It was a notable bout.”

“Aye. Edward lacks nothing in courage. And daring. Even skill of sorts. It is judgement he lacks.”

“He judged well enough there, did he not?” Elizabeth asked. I think you are too hard on Edward, Robert.”

“Perhaps. Many, I know, think so. Women, in especial I Though some have been known to change their minds!”

“Too hard or not, the Lord Edward will never change,” Christina

MacRuarie put in.

“Men must accept him as he is, I say. And women rejoice-and watch their virtue!”

The Queen considered her.

“I think some women may be a match for even Edward Bruce!” she said, smiling a little.

They exchanged appreciative glances.

Presently, Edward himself arrived, shoulder still hunched a little, bareheaded now, but grinning, debonair. In his mid-thirties, he was dark, slenderly built, a much slighter man than was his brother, but tense as a coiled spring. Handsome in a sardonic fashion, he had a roving eye, a wide twisted mouth and a pugnacious jaw. But there was no doubt but that he was a Bruce.

“Bravely done, Edward!” Elizabeth greeted him.

“You fought well.”

“I fought to win,” he told her briefly.

“And now I come to claim my reward. From the Queen of these games.”

“Far be it from me to withhold it, sir. What do you seek? A white rose? Or a red? A glove? A ring from my finger, perhaps?

Or a pearl from my ear?”

“None of these,” he declared.

“I seek and I crave a kiss. A queen’s kiss! And pray it be none too sisterly!” And he cast a fleeting glance at his brother.

“Why, my lord-that you shall have! And with my pleasure!”

He stepped forward, to stoop-even though he grimaced at the pain of it-and planted a smacking kiss full on her lips. Then, his good arm circling her to press her close for another and longer embrace, he drew back-but only for a little, preparatory to a third assault. The Queen’s hand went up to take the lobe of his ear between thumb and forefinger, and to nip it hard, so that he yelped-without however any change of her own expression.

“Greedy, sir!” she said.

“Would you shame me in front of my liege lord? And yours?”

“If needs be!” he asserted, caressing his ear.

“But, save usI’d prefer to do it more privately! Yours is the choice, woman!”

“Has a husband no say in such matters?” the King asked, but mildly.