Simon's Lady (29 page)

As Beresford thundered past on the left, he thought he took a deep breath, but perhaps it was only the collective gasp of the spectators rising to their feet in the stands. He looked down at what was left of his lance—hardly a foot of shattered wood left beyond the circular vamplate protecting his hand. He took a professional interest in the wreck, deciding that in future he would reinforce the wooden vamplates with steel. He was otherwise unconcerned by this utter disaster. He arrived at the other end of the field and wheeled his horse around so that he could engage in the second pass with his opponent.

He knew now, of course, that his lance had been faulty. He knew as well that his opponent was not Renaut of Breteuil. Johanna’s suspicions were right: Gwyneth had arranged for his death. However, he did not know why young Breteuil should have betrayed him. Perhaps Gwyneth had smiled at the boy, and he had happily drowned in the limitless violet pools of her eyes. Beresford himself would certainly die for her, if he thought his death would win him her love. However, the only way he would die for her was if she was holding the knife herself and thrusting it clean and deep into his heart.

As he charged ahead in the second pass, he was prepared for his opponent’s sharp lance. He was at a disadvantage, having an attacking range of a mere one foot while his opponent still had the twelve feet of his own lance. Nevertheless, he was not worried, for he had easily sized up his rival’s skill on horseback and judged it low. He was prepared to take several pointed blows from the knight’s shaft and knew it would now take two or three more passes in order to inflict the kind of strategic damage necessary for his eventual unhorsing.

He did not fall into the mental trap of scorning his opponent. He knew that, had their positions been reversed, the man would have been dead at the second pass with the perfect piercing of his neck. Of course, he allowed his opponent no similar opening, for his shield work far surpassed his opponent’s. Certainly he would have to take wounds, and he did—one to his right shoulder, then one in his right thigh. He was aware in a dreamily abstracted way that Gwyneth was on her feet, as he guessed the rest of the spectators must be as well. He was aware that squires and knights were scurrying to and fro quite unnecessarily. He was not at all distracted by the noise and confusion around him, for he was in a transcendent state of peaceful silence.

He was prepared for his opponent’s every obvious, woefully unskilled maneuver. On the fifth pass, the man deliberately dropped his lance and grabbed Beresford around his waist to pull him from his horse. This was an unchivalrous tactic at best, stupid at worst and ultimately suicidal, for Beresford was able to unhorse him at the same time.

The contest on the ground was short, decisive and little test of Beresford’s skill. They rolled together once, twice, locked in murderous embrace in the dust and dirt. Then both were on their feet, swords drawn. It should have been this easy on his horse, but Beresford was indifferent to the ultimate form of his opponent’s death, and he had interpreted this contest as a joust to the death from the moment his lance had broken.

The unknown knight was soon swordless and lying on the ground. Beresford knelt over him, ready to administer the coup de grâce. He found the buckled straps and laces that fastened his opponent’s body armor to his helmet, slit those gracefully then sliced open his throat. The thirsty dirt drank deeply of the dying man’s blood.

Beresford looked up at the gallery. He saw Gwyneth standing, her hands clasped prayerfully at her breasts. Her eyes were closed against the horror of what he had done.

Beresford rose to his feet. He wiped his red sword on the hem of his surcoat and resheathed it. He unbuckled the straps of his helmet and removed it. He peeled off his gauntlets. Vaguely he heard raucous cheering intermingled with the occasional wail, “Breteuil!” He was disgusted. Anyone with eyes in his head could have seen that his opponent—whoever he was—had displayed not a fraction of the skill of Renaut of Breteuil.

Senlis was instantly at his side, shaken and spouting anger at the foolish risk his boon companion had taken. Then Beresford was swarmed by other knights, squires and pursuivants-at-arms. The king of arms was there as well. He had thrown his white baton uselessly into the field.

Beresford was offered his opponent’s horse and armor and arms as booty. He was unimpressed. His most singular emotion was one of dissatisfaction at having bested so unworthy an opponent. He was told that Valmey’s horse had been hurt during the chaos of the fifth joust and that Valmey would be unable to meet him in the next. He demanded to speak with the king of arms and promptly berated the incompetent fool for not attending to the simplest of his duties. He received assurances that the melee to follow, for all its inherent disorganization, would be better supervised.

Great interest was taken in the dead man’s identity. The helmet was removed from his nearly severed head, but no one could identify him. Beresford looked down dispassionately into the face of a perfect Northumbrian Dane. He had no great difficulty assigning to him the name Gunnar Erickson.

“Do you know the man, Simon?” Senlis asked.

Beresford shook his head. “I have never seen him before.”

Young Langley was at his side. Gautier, as well. Breteuil was hanging back by the tree, white of face and withered of posture.

Beresford said casually, “Ask Breteuil. My lance was faulty.”

That was the last time Beresford ever saw Robert of Breteuil. He never afterwards inquired about him, and no one mentioned him, not even later in the day when it became known that Renaut of Breteuil had had to stay behind in the castle, confined to the garderobe where he feared, as he phrased it, that he would lose his bowels. Adela would confirm that the unknown was to have been Renaut of Breteuil. Renault of Breteuil would have to admit that his nephew, Robert of Breteuil, had served him breakfast that morning.

But events had not yet proceeded that far. Young Breteuil was only being questioned as the dead man was hauled off the field. Tournaments had continued in the aftermath of far-more-important deaths than that of an unknown man—no doubt an uppity Saxon who had connived with a surprisingly evil young squire. Better the world be rid of both, without dwelling on the unpleasantness of it all.

Beresford was hailed as the unquestioned victor of a thrilling contest such as the spectators could never hope to see again in their lifetimes. He was mildly interested in this reaction from the crowd. He wondered at it a little, too, since there was more sport, of much greater magnitude, to come. Someone began to annoy him by removing parts of his clothing and armor and ministering to his shoulder and his thigh. His transcendent state of peace passed. He said that his squires would tend to him or no one would, and stated his preference for no one. He had some choice words to say about the undignified handling of this whole sloppy mess and wondered aloud if these alarums and excursions would not end by giving a healthy man a bellyache of disgust.

To his further irritation, several men within earshot laughed at that, and one offered the opinion that Beresford would live—which seemed to him an obvious comment better tolerated when uttered by a simpleton.

****

Gwyneth closed her eyes the moment Beresford’s lance broke into toothpicks. She was on her feet, like everyone else, but unlike everyone else, she could not watch. She clasped her hands together, she unclasped them and grabbed Johanna’s arm. She asked quietly, over and over, “You told Langley, did you not, Johanna? You told him, didn’t you?”

She was not reassured by Johanna’s repeated answers, “Yes, Gwyneth,” “I told him, and he was inclined to believe me,” and “Langley himself suspects that mischief is afoot.”

Gwyneth relied on Johanna to tell her as well, second by second, if Beresford was still on his horse. She cracked her eyes open once and nearly cried out at the pain she felt at seeing the unknown’s lance pierce Beresford’s shoulder. Horrified murmurs of “Sans coronal!” went around the crowd.

Gwyneth did not know this term in Norman. “Without what? Coronal?” she whispered anxiously through a tight throat, not daring to open her eyes again.

“The coronal is the tip applied to the lance to blunt it,” Johanna said, her own voice strained.

“Ah, yes, yes, yes, I know the practice, just not the term.”

“It appears that Simon’s opponent’s lance is not blunted.”

A wave of fatalism swept over Gwyneth. “Just as Rosalyn said. It’s a joust to the death. He intends to kill him.”

Horribly long seconds passed. Johanna said slowly, “I believe that Beresford
does
intend to kill the unknown.”

Gwyneth opened her eyes just as Beresford tumbled to the ground with his assailant. He rolled over and up onto his feet, sword unsheathed in one fluid motion. She felt her fear recede when the steel of his blade glinted in the sun for a brilliant second before it began its work of terrifying beauty.

What Beresford had to do was horrible, and Gwyneth knew he would have preferred it otherwise. She felt more confident about the outcome now, but she was taking no chances in the event that Gunnar Erickson had another trick up his sleeve. So she closed her eyes and prayed to a motley pantheon: Thor and Tyr and Odin, and the One True God, including the Trinity, just to be safe. She shied away from Allah. However, from her learned grandmother, she recalled hearing delicious and heretical whispers about a host of ancient Greek gods, and she did not hesitate to send prayers to them, as well.

She heard at last Johanna saying, “You can look now.” She opened her eyes and saw Beresford standing straight and steady on his feet, helmet in the crook of his arm, his clothing dirty and bloody, his face and hair streaked with sweat. Then he was swamped by knights and field marshals and squires. She breathed a profound sigh of relief and welcome air rushed to fill her lungs.

“How did you know?” Johanna asked.

Gwyneth looked at her friend without registering the question. She smiled and said, “You see, I meant Beresford no harm. I might have even provided him with an edge in the contest, but I do not think he needed any help from me. Or from anyone! Not even from his lance.”

Johanna smiled in return. “Yes, but how did you know?”

Gwyneth’s first wave of happiness and relief passed. Beresford was out of danger. She was not. “I overheard something at the wedding celebration almost a fortnight ago,” she said cautiously.

“What did you hear?”

“Something odd, about the loyalties of a squire named Breteuil. Because so many knights have squires from that family, I had to narrow down the possibilities of mischief being perpetrated against one knight: Beresford.”

“Whom did you overhear?”

Gwyneth shrugged. She did not want to draw Johanna into this, for her friend’s own sake. “I did not see who was speaking, and it was very difficult for me to identify the voices I heard. I cannot be sure.”

“Or won’t tell.”

Gwyneth gulped and said earnestly, “I may be implicated in all of this, so please ask me nothing further.”

There was no more time for private discussion in any case, for information from the field was traveling through the stands like fire through dry straw. The slain man was not Renaut of Breteuil—though everyone claimed to have already known that—but a stranger. A treacherous Saxon come to spoil Norman sport, it was widely reported. How he came to enter the lists without anyone knowing it, of course, was going to be Adela’s most pressing political problem for the next few days. It would have gone much worse for her had Beresford been killed. As it was, her most loyal knight had brought further glory upon himself, the tournament and his king.

When Gunnar’s helmet was removed, Gwyneth imagined accusing fingers would point toward her. Thus, when word of a Saxon stranger was passed around, she realized that no one present would associate the dead man with her except Beresford and Valmey. Now Valmey was unlikely to make any claims to knowing anything about the dead man. Gwyneth noted that he was hanging about the edges of the group around Beresford, only partially participating.

Then the name of Robert of Breteuil, and his apparent guilt, crackled through the crowd, which was amazed, aghast, outraged, indignant that a squire should so betray his master. And why? Had Beresford treated him badly? Breteuil should have worshiped the ground Beresford walked on instead of faulting his lance! Everyone wanted to know more about this sorry, sniveling excuse for a human being, and although the Breteuil family was generally held in high esteem, it was agreed that evil lurks in even the best of families! But there would be time later on at the banquet to unravel the wicked schemes of young Breteuil. For now, it was more important that Beresford’s health and safety be ascertained.

After that, Gwyneth noticed that sentiment toward her changed dramatically. With suspicion about a possible traitor flying to Robert of Breteuil, like iron shavings to a magnet, she was no longer treated with cautious reserve and the distant respect due her as wife to Beresford. Her acceptance among the courtiers was heartier now and more genuine.

Spectators began to shift about as a result of the stirring action they had just witnessed. Some were hungry, some thirsty. All seemed eager to pass close to Gwyneth and Johanna, to say a few words of compliment and congratulations.

Walter Fortescue passed by and paused at length. “Never seen the like!” he pronounced with great delight. “We all knew Beresford was among the finest. Today he outstripped every other knight in Stephen’s court, he did! He was superior! Magnificent!”

Gwyneth made an effort to enter the spirit of the occasion. She smiled and assented, but could do no more. Unfortunately, the warm side of her spirit had been bred out of her during her years with Canute, when she had needed all her icy calm to see her through each day. Her ability to be publicly demonstrative was severely compromised.

Sir Walter teased, “Ah, now, my lady, I can see that you are still shaken from what you just witnessed! It’s true, the situation looked bad for your husband when his lance broke, but when he turned his horse and made ready for the second pass, I could tell that a contest out of the ordinary was in the making. At that point, I almost felt sorry for Breteuil—not that I truly thought the unknown was he! Oh, no!”