Blood Lance (31 page)

Inside the secrecy of the helm, Crispin frowned. Funny. He should be full of anxiety. For indeed, he had
not
held a lance, nor ridden on the lists, nor fought in armor for far too long. Something was amiss. He scanned the crowds uncertainly, the cheering, the jeering. He should be terrified. Any sane man would be.

The squire led his horse to the end of the lists and they waited.

A herald stood near the barrier. He raised a staff with a banner bearing the king’s arms to signal that the tilt was about to begin. Crispin pressed his legs tight to the horse’s belly. He grasped the reins in his left hand under the shield and steadied the lance in his right. He held his breath. Chanting in his mind was the unavoidable litany,
Ten years since I’d ridden the lists
.

But it didn’t seem to matter.

The banner dropped. He dug in the spurs. The heavy horse jolted forward. He slammed back into the saddle, and his gut wrenched from the sudden clattering of his armor. His breath came in rhythmic bursts, echoed back to him in the helm, clamoring along with the cadenced gait of the horse. He aimed the stallion to ride tight to the barrier and watched through the slits as Osbert bore down on him.

Time slowed again and Crispin lowered the lance by increments, keeping it tucked tight under his right arm and close to his body. He mentally prepared for the shock though he knew full well that the body could never prepare enough. It all came back in a rush of memories.
Raise your chin. Deflect a blow if it comes toward the head. Protect the eyes. A little higher. Yes. Now faster, boy, pick up speed
.
Don’t lower the lance too quickly. Lower. Lower. Lower. Now!
The lance tip aimed toward Osbert’s head. One good blow would do it. How delightful it would be to watch that head tear loose and go spinning into the stands.

It happened more quickly than he could have anticipated. Before Crispin could blink in surprise, Osbert’s lance missed the shield and crashed into Crispin’s chest. He was momentarily thrown back against the saddle’s high back. But the wedge design of the breastplate slid the lance tip away. Osbert dropped the twelve-foot spear on his way to the other end of the tilt.

Crispin swayed, the breath knocked out of him. Careless. He should have been watching Osbert’s lance, not his. Well, it had been a long time.

He tossed the lance down and shook out his hand. He hadn’t even scored a hit. Damned careless. He had barely pulled on the reins when the horse wheeled on its own. A well-trained beast, to be sure. He swiveled his head to assess Osbert. He was rolling his shoulders, but no worse for wear. Well,
that
was unacceptable.

Crispin put his hand down for the next lance and a squire handed it up to him. He repositioned the grip several times and felt it mold better to his arm. Yes, that was it. Felt better. The horse seemed excited, too, and toed the ground. Crispin gathered himself and held his breath, waiting impatiently for the herald to take his place again with the banner.

He gave the signal and the horse shot forward. Crispin rolled evenly with the ambling gallop, waited and watched for the best moment to bring his lance down to his target. Waited for that moment when time seemed to slow again, and this time, he focused on Osbert, only him. That shiny armored body tilting toward him. His own horse’s mane whipped with the wind but that, too, seemed to slow, like seaweed rippling in the waves.

His fist tightened over the lance, tighter, tighter. Lower. Then like lightning, like a thunderclap, his lance slammed Osbert’s shield.

For a moment the man lifted from the saddle, head snapping back with the impact. Crispin stared at him as he passed, turning his head to watch. But though Osbert teetered precariously, he leaned forward and managed to keep his seat. He slumped, obviously in pain.

Crispin was elated. He could do this. Now he had the sense of it again. Now he was in tempo. He slapped the saddle pommel with his fisted gauntlet and expelled an excited breath. But as he moved in the stirrups, pushing on them to reseat himself, he realized the jolt of the hit had done something to his armor. He could feel it. Something had shifted within the breastplate. But … how could that be? It was solid steel …

God’s blood.
The armor had been unusually heavy. Heavy because there were
two
sheets of metal, making a hollow space within. He rapped on it and heard it … and felt something shift again.

“Good Christ,” he whispered. The Spear? It had to be. It had been there all along, embedded in the armor; the unique wedge shape had allowed it a secret reliquary.

Suddenly, the overwhelming sense that he could do no wrong came crashing in on him. The Spear! But no. Crispin did not believe in the power of relics. He did not!

And yet.

Donning armor had made him feel whole again. But it could not bestow the undeserved confidence he felt. The Spear rattled around in the breast, taunting him.

Was it true? Was the explanation from Abbot Nicholas possible? Would he be the victor only because of the power of the Spear?

Osbert had recovered and was turning his horse. His squire handed him a lance.

Crispin scanned the lists desperately. It was far too late. He could not escape. He had to see it through. For the first time, he allowed the sounds of the crowd to reach his hearing. There were equal parts cheering and heckling. The king moved restlessly on his throne. Had he recalled Crispin’s questioning of his faithful chancellor? Had he remembered the name Sir Osbert? He certainly looked as if he did. Discomfort was painted on his face. His wife, the queen, laid a gentle hand on his arm. He clearly doted on her, for at the merest touch, she enjoyed his full attention.

Her golden gown shimmered in the October sun. Crispin caught more glints of gold and jewels among those in Richard’s box and from the stands surrounding him, the nobility of London. Perhaps even the sheriffs were there, watching, little knowing it was their favorite pet on the lists, masquerading as a sorrowful knight.

It suddenly occurred to Crispin that he was going to have a devil of a time getting out of this, even if he did win.

Didn’t think it through, did you?
Oh, he had protested, but in the end he was dazzled by the armor, by the chance to be a knight once more. He heard himself chuckle in the visor. “Well, whatever the outcome, it shall be spectacular.”

He turned his head and noticed the herald getting impatient. He thrust out his hand for the lance and the squire placed it there. “Lord,” Crispin whispered into the helm, “if this is Your relic, the Spear that pierced Your side, then let its power wash over me. For I have been lost in my own pride. And though I am unworthy to receive Your blessing … I beg for it nonetheless.”

He rode into position, the Spear rattling within the breastplate. He held the lance high.
At least I am a knight again, if only briefly,
he told himself.
Richard can’t take this from me.

Crispin let all his worries fall away. He closed his eyes and though he felt slightly foolish, he allowed himself to feel the presence of the Spear. He splayed his hand over the breastplate, trying to feel it through the cold metal. Would there be warmth? Would he sense its power?

He waited a few heartbeats. A few more before he opened his eyes. He couldn’t stall forever. And he was feeling more foolish by the moment. Except that in the back of his mind was still the thrum of his utter certainty of victory. It reminded him all too keenly of the Crown of Thorns and how it had seemingly instilled in him a feeling of invincibility. He had performed many feats that day to escape the palace. He had dodged death more times than any mortal had a right to. But to this day he did not know if he could owe his life to the miracle of the thorns or to his own dumb luck.

So why believe now?

Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil.
Were not relics to guard against evil?

He ignored the loud cries and derision from the crowd. In the end, it wasn’t for him, but for Sir Thomas, his friend who could not muster the courage to even lift a lance in his own defense. A man who had tried to cast himself upon the sword that Crispin now wore at his side.

Crispin had experienced many things in his life. He had jousted for the love of it. He had gone to war at Lancaster’s side for the same reason. But for once, he felt uncertain at the outcome.

“You’ve truly done it this time, Crispin.” The words were as hollow as they sounded, echoing back to him within the metal helm.

A hand touching his leg startled him. He jerked back. Looking down, he saw the young squire. “Sir Thomas? Are you ready, my lord?”

Looking into the young man’s eyes suddenly made Crispin angry. Why had Crispin allowed himself to be a party to this deception? Shouldn’t he have allowed Thomas to take his own lumps? Or his life, if he was so willing to throw it away? Crispin wanted to warn this youth to waste no more time in the service of this unworthy knight. It was the least he could do, for the boy would learn it soon enough. But Crispin’s promise to his old friend stopped him. He could not go back on his oath. He had sworn to help. If he opened his mouth, he and Thomas would both die.

He nodded to the squire and raised his head, surveying the tiltyard through the helm’s eye slits. Osbert waited on the other end of the lists, his horse stamping the ground as impatiently as surely the knight was himself. Crispin checked the angle of the sun. They had only tilted twice. And the combat was to go on till sunset or until there was a victor, whichever came first. How were the two of them to proceed for six more hours?

Strange, again, that Crispin wasn’t the least bit tired.

He urged his horse forward. The destrier was as anxious as his comrade across the yard and trotted forth, throwing his head and snorting. Crispin encouraged the stallion by patting his neck. “You’re a good fellow, though I do not know your name. If you continue to carry me well, I promise to reward you.”

There he went promising again.

The herald had been standing at the barrier, almost leaning against it, when he noticed Crispin getting into position. He snapped to attention and stood, holding his banner high. With a swish of the staff, the banner came down and he ran like the Devil was after him out of the way.

The destrier didn’t even need Crispin’s spurs. They lurched forward, man and horse moving as one. Crispin fisted the lance. This was not just some knight facing him in a contest. This was a murderer. A man incapable of mercy, who had killed innocent apprentices just to do the bidding of his master. It was he who should be defending himself, not Crispin. No more. If fight to the bitter end this was, then it was time to end it.

He leaned forward, lance still high. Osbert’s horse grimaced over his bit, head bobbing with each hard step. His hooves cast the imported soil into the air, creating a cloud of dust behind him. Osbert seemed intent over the horse, his left hand curled over the reins.

Crispin suddenly felt so light it was as if he were flying on a winged beast. The hoofbeats became his own heart’s tempo. He leaned even farther forward, urging the beast on with his own anticipation.

Osbert neared. His lance lowered. Crispin lowered his own. He let his instinct guide him, not even thinking about directing the lance.

When it hit Osbert’s shield, the crack was like the gates of Hell splintering open. Osbert popped upward out of his saddle, legs wide, head thrown back. Only at the last moment did he let go of his lance. It speared forward under its own power like a deadly projectile shot from a ballista.

Right at Crispin.

He took it in the chest. He did not register the pain at first. Nor the fact that he, too, burst out of his saddle. All he saw was the horse galloping away beneath him, heard rather than felt the whoosh of air expel from his lungs as he slammed onto his back and skidded along the bridge’s unforgiving span.

Only when he stopped moving did the pain explode in his breast, his back, his head. His whole body was on fire with it and for a horrifying moment he thought he might
be
on fire. Stars danced in his vision and he saw sky through the slits and nothing else. He tried to take a breath and found that he couldn’t. He tried again and began to panic.

He attempted rolling upon his side. His hand scrabbled over his chest and felt the deep indentation now decorating the breastplate. It was cove in so deeply it pressed into his chest, preventing him taking a breath. Was he to die like this, like a turtle on its back?

Hands reached for him. He gasped and turned his eyes toward the squire, kneeling over him. “Sir Knight! I must remove the breast armor.”

Crispin nodded as best he could. The boy was nimble and attended to the straps quickly and efficiently. He pulled it loose and Crispin sucked in a lungful of air.

The squire sat back on his backside in relief, cradling the ruined armor. He was panting from the effort and staring into the eye slits of the helm. Between gasps, he said quietly, “I do not know who you are, but I thank you for my master’s sake.”

Crispin gave the youth his full attention.

“I have never seen my master fight as you did today,” he said in harsh whispers. “I knew it could not have been him. You are trying to save him, and I thank you for it. No one has been able to talk to him.”

There was much of Jack Tucker in that youth’s eyes; the look of a young man old beyond his years. Crispin reached out and closed his hand gratefully over the boy’s wrist.

“I swore an oath,” said Crispin.

The squire nodded. “I thought as much.”

“Take that armor to the pavilion and give it to the boy you will find there, a boy with ginger hair. His name is Jack Tucker. Tell him to guard that armor well for it contains that which we have sought. He will know the answer to that riddle.”

The squire nodded again.

“Does Osbert live?”

The boy turned and looked. He nodded and turned back. “You will have to continue the battle on foot.”

“I was afraid of that.” And without the Spear. If it had given him an advantage it was gone now. “Help me up.”