The Tournament of Blood

Chapter Twenty-Eight

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.

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.

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.

Baldwin gave him a weak grin. ‘You should be in church giving thanks!’

‘I’ll go there as soon as I know you’re all right.’

‘I am fine.’

‘Really?’ Simon asked.

He stepped forward and took Baldwin’s left arm to help lead him away, but the hissing intake of breath made him pause. ‘Right, Edgar, you take him up to the castle and tell Meg to prepare a bed in the castle’s lodgings. I’ll go and call a physician.’

‘Oh, in God’s name, Simon! There’s no need for that. No, I’ll go back to my tent and sleep there.’

‘I think you need a physician.’

Baldwin was about to argue when another wave of pain washed over his left side. ‘Tell him to see me at my tent. But before that, go and look at the lance. I think I know why Hal and Wymond made so much money from jousting. I’ll explain later. For now, Edgar, by Saint Paul, take me to the tent.’

Simon stood feeling oddly small and insignificant as the trio made its way towards the pavilions, Edgar supporting the slack figure of Baldwin, his head dangling like that of a hanged corpse.

‘You!’ Simon shouted at an urchin. ‘Fetch the castle’s physician and send him to Sir Baldwin’s tent. At once!’

Simon was torn. There were many things to be done, but he was aware that the investigation must continue, even if Baldwin was unwell for days. Wonderingly he walked to the tilt-area and studied the shards of wood.

It was because he was there that he didn’t see Andrew as he joined Baldwin’s little group. ‘Sir Baldwin? Could I talk with you a moment?’ The squire asked.

Edgar stepped forward. ‘My master is very tired, sir. He cannot talk to you now.’

‘It is about the lances, Sir Baldwin,’ Andrew continued urgently, ignoring Edgar.

Baldwin closed his eyes. ‘Later, please. Or tell some one else. I am too worn out.’

‘It must be you, Sir Baldwin. Because of your sword, I know I can trust you.’ The squire had lowered his voice.

‘My sword?’ Baldwin echoed dully.

‘Yes. The Templar cross.’

Baldwin leaned more heavily on Edgar and paused to spit out a mouthful of blood. He was on fire with pain all over, and his ears still rang with the battle. He could barely speak, for the aftermath of the duel had left him all atremble. ‘Very well,’ he said slowly. ‘Come to my tent and speak to me there.’