The Champion (66 page)

Isabelle gave her a sidelong look. ‘I do not suppose that I could,’ she replied. ‘And I would not have you think for one moment that I am not content with my life. I know how fortunate I am to have William for a husband, for all that he was chosen for me. The Queen probably counts herself fortunate too, though,’ she said judiciously. ‘John indulges her every whim. If he has mistresses, he does not flaunt them in front of her, and she is not a grown woman like you or me to need more than clothes and games to keep her content.’

Monday gave a rueful smile, thinking of the time that she had spent with John. ‘The King does not want a grown woman by his side,’ she said. ‘As long as she remains with her clothes and games, he will be as faithful as he knows how.’

‘You sound bitter.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t mean to. Perhaps it is the fact that he never once came to me or showed his sorrow when our baby died and I miscarried of another. My novelty to him had worn off by then. It was Alexander who grieved with me.’ Her gaze went once more to the field, where more and more knights were arriving. There was going to be small room to swing a sword. The green and yellow Marshal colours blazed in a concentrated knot of spring brightness as the warriors assembled. It was harder to discern Alexander among the mass now. Only William Marshal stood out, for he was easily the largest man among his knights. His horse was a Spanish cross-breed, dappled grey in colour, with a pure silver mane and tail. He rode between his soldiers, talking, laughing, discussing the fight to come.

The King sat down and the rest of the spectators followed. The lodges were almost full now, an air of anticipation breathing excitement and high spirits among the finely robed spectators.

Isabelle gave Monday a gentle nudge, ‘There’s de Braose now,’ she said with just a touch of asperity to her humour. ‘I thought he would be late. He came to us last night and stayed drinking until the early hours. He’ll have a sore head even before he starts today.’

Monday had no liking for William de Braose. He was one of John’s closest friends, as he had been Richard’s. A powerful marcher lord, he wore his nobility with a heavy hand, was arrogant and brutal to those he saw as beneath him, or those he could not use for his own ends. He was also as shrewd and intelligent as a wild boar. No one crossed de Braose. Today he and William Marshal were fighting as a team. She watched de Braose’s knights join the field. His device too was that of a rampant lion, although many of his warriors bore their own shields and blazons.

The Earl of Salisbury and his nephew, Guillaume de Warenne, took to the field as captains of the opposing side, and joined Marshal and de Braose for a friendly exchange of banter. A huge bay stallion paraded past the stands. The man astride wore a surcoat of parti-coloured orange and gold. His face was covered by an old-fashioned nasal-bar helm, his lower jaw protected by an aventail of chain mail stitched on to a leather flap. A morning star dangled nonchalantly from his bunched right fist.

Monday pressed her fingers to her mouth and swore through them.

Isabelle turned an astonished stare on her. ‘Whatever’s wrong?’

‘There’s a soldier down there … he’s Alexander’s sworn enemy. There will be bloodshed, I know there will!’

Isabelle seized her sleeve as she began to rise from her seat. ‘Which one?’

‘There, on the bay, with the nasal helm.’

Isabelle narrowed her eyes, the better to focus. ‘He’s one of Will de Braose’s men, escorted him home last night,’ she said, and shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be fighting on the same side as your husband, today at least.’ Then she looked at Monday’s white face and her eyes narrowed. ‘How sworn an enemy?’ she asked.

‘He was at Pembroke, with my grandfather. He was the one who threatened your sons and mine with a sword. I told you about him then … do you not remember?’

‘Well, yes, I …’

‘I have to warn Alexander.’ She tried to shake off Isabelle’s hand, but as she began to rise, the Countess forced her back down with surprising strength in her smooth white hand.

‘Alexander has eyes to see,’ she said. ‘Look, they are almost ready to begin. You will only be a danger to them and yourself!’

Even as the Countess spoke, the officials charged with seeing fair play in the tourney moved into position at the sides of the field. The four battle captains saluted them to show that they were ready, and rode back to their ranks.

Biting her lip, Monday sat down on the bench. Her heart was in her throat, and she felt sick. If Alexander and le Boucher were to come face to face on the field, being on the same side would make no difference whatsoever to the outcome, she was sure of it.

‘Your husband is no fool,’ Isabelle murmured in her ear. ‘He knows how to take care of himself on the field of battle, else William would not have put such trust in him.’

Her words had been intended to reassure. To a certain extent they did indeed take the edge off Monday’s terror, reducing it to mere fear, but they also set her to thinking of Alexander’s earlier behaviour. He had known, she realised with a surge of anger; had known and kept it to himself. To stop her from worrying, she knew he would answer if she challenged him. But she was not made of glass to be wrapped in soft padding against the world. Then, because she was angry with him when he was in such imminent danger, she felt guilty too, and clucked her tongue in anxiety and self-irritation.

Further along the stands, Queen Isobel rose from her carved seat of honour, and dropped a large embroidered kerchief, to signal the opening of the tourney. Her expression was radiant with delight and her voice rang out, clear and young as a high-pitched bell. ‘Let the tourney commence!’ A fanfare sounded – three notes from a huge decorated hunting horn – and the battle was joined. Armour flashed, and weapons glittered in the spring sunshine as the two assembled lines charged towards each other. The drumming of hooves carried through the soil and up into the wooden stands, making the benches vibrate.

The Marshal’s grey was the first to clash, striking at Salisbury’s centre. Other knights rapidly engaged, and the lines broke up into individual clumps of fighting.

Eyes wide with apprehension, Monday sought among the press for Alexander. The Marshal’s grey was easy to pick out, as was the Marshal himself in the forefront of the mock battle. By prearrangement, he and Salisbury exchanged huge blows before the King and Queen, but for dramatic effect. Neither had any intention of hurting or defeating the other. Monday sought beyond them. John of Erley confused her for a moment, for he too rode a black horse; then she saw Alexander, Osgar and Huw, warming up against three knights from the opposing side. None of them were in difficulty, Alexander’s movements smooth and coordinated. Eudo le Boucher was on the far side of the field and busy with an opponent.

Monday made a conscious effort to unclench her fists. The tips of her nails had left half-moon imprints in the flesh of her palms. Perhaps she was jumping at shadows. They had the power to frighten, but not to hurt. And this was a display for the Queen, nothing as serious as the tourneys which had taken place on Norman soil. She glanced round at the other spectators and saw that they were all enjoying themselves immensely. Try as she might, she could not force a smile on to her own face.

On the tourney field, Alexander’s wariness was pushed to the back of his mind by the sheer joy of indulging in the mock battle.

Although content with his life as it was now, there was still a glorious pleasure in controlling sword, shield and horse so that they became one fluid extension of his will. He knew where each blow and stroke would land, and with how much force. It was a beautiful, brutal, deadly dance, and it made his blood sing.

At first, as the Marshal had instructed, he played to the lodges, exaggerating his performance for the young Queen. A glance at the stands through the eye slits in his helm showed him Monday sitting bolt upright beside Isabelle of Pembroke, but from this distance he could only see the blur of her face, not her expression. Florian was the single bobbing dark head amongst all the blonds and light browns of the Marshal children. Perhaps he should have told Monday outright of the danger, but it was only a suspicion, and there was no point in burdening her without cause. Let her enjoy the day. From what he could tell, Eudo le Boucher was keeping his distance on the far side of the field, each of them pretending that the other was not there. On that thought, he touched Samson lightly with his heel, altered the grip on his sword, and set about earning himself a reputation.

For the next hour, Alexander, Osgar and Huw fought as a skilled and successful team. They took two ransoms, and forced another team of knights to turn tail and flee before they too became victims. A few grumbles were heard about Alexander and Osgar being professional jousters, but these were just from men trying to excuse their own paltry talents, and Alexander dismissed them with a contemptuous laugh, and several well-placed sword strokes. That first hour winnowed the wheat from the chaff. By the end of it, only the professional men were left, those with the stamina, ability and intelligence to survive. Eudo le Boucher was among them, but unobtrusively so. He made no grand gestures for the Queen, nor flaunted his talents but fought a rearguard action from the periphery of the field.

Alexander was beginning to think about taking a respite off the field at one of the gaily coloured refuge tents set up on the perimeter when Osgar’s stallion overreached itself on a turn and went lame. Huw, to his credit, fought off Osgar’s opponent, but the squire was panting with exertion and in no fit state to take on another assault should it materialise. Alexander signalled to quit the field, and the three of them began to move as quickly as Osgar’s lame destrier would allow towards the nearest boundary.

Before they could reach safety, three knights from the opposing team descended on them with raucous halloos of delight. They were just returning from a refuge, had been fortified by sweetened wine, and were riding fresh horses.

Alexander swore through his teeth and looked around, but there was no one to come to their aid; everyone else was engaged. ‘Go,’ he snapped to Huw, ‘make a run for the refuge. You’ll only be forced to yield if you stay!’

The squire would have protested, but Alexander smacked the flat of his sword down on the rump of the young man’s mount, and with a squeal of protest it broke into a canter. ‘Go!’ he bellowed. ‘That’s an order!’

Then he turned to deal with the three who had come upon him and Osgar. Keeping his shield tight into his body to protect against incoming sword blows, he turned Samson hard to the right, and struck at the man on the left end. His horse plunged sideways and fouled the mounts of the other two, causing a moment’s chaos. It was enough for Alexander to strike again, twisting his sword beneath the shield of his opponent, so that the edge touched the man’s throat. ‘Yield!’ he commanded.

‘Call it even!’ one of the others snarled as he pressed his own blade at Osgar’s windpipe. The portly knight wheezed an apology to Alexander through the grille slits in his helm.

‘Even then,’ said Alexander, breathing hard, and lifted away his blade. The other released Osgar, but with a heavy push that sent him reeling against his cantle.

The battle renewed, Alexander cutting a blow here, another there, dodging and manoeuvring to engage all three, whilst Osgar doggedly tried to defend himself on his lame horse. It quickly became obvious, however, that reaching the side, for Osgar at least, was an impossibility. If his horse had been sound, he could have won past, but it was too lame even to raise a trot.

‘
Marshal!
’ came the joyful rallying cry, and a green and gold surcoat joined the fray, a flanged mace swinging in the clenched fist of John of Erley. He had dinted no more than two blows into the middle warrior’s shield when two more of Salisbury’s team thundered up to bolster their colleagues. What had been a small knot of fighting men was rapidly becoming an entangled snarl.

‘
Marshal!
’ came another enormous bellow, and a morning star caught the light, glittering as it was swung and smashed down. Only it struck a green and yellow shield instead of landing on one of the opposing team’s. ‘
Marshal!
’ roared Eudo le Boucher again, and once more slammed his flail into Alexander’s shield. The limewood split like a cracked nut, and the shock of the blow numbed Alexander’s left arm from wrist to shoulder. This was it, he thought; the assault that he had been expecting. Le Boucher had been biding his time, waiting for a vulnerable moment. That flail would batter, crush and ultimately kill, without drawing a drop of blood.

Alexander pressed Samson with his knees, turning the stallion to avoid the next assault, but Osgar’s lame horse blundered across their path and the two animals collided. Osgar’s mount lost its footing and fell, bringing Samson down too. Le Boucher spurred forward, driving his own destrier straight at the fallen tangle of men and horses.

The first hour of battle, with all its dramatic gestures and colourful display had lulled Monday into relaxing a little. Lady Marshal had brought a skin of sweetened wine with her, and she shared a cup with Monday. It had been spiced with pepper and nutmeg, and had warmed and soothed as it slipped down. A second cup had made Monday feel quite mellow, and although she was unable to enjoy the sport, she was at least able to watch it without perching on the edge of the bench. Still, it was with relief that she saw Alexander, Osgar and Huw begin making their way towards one of the refuge tents. Telling Isabelle that she intended going down to speak to them, she rose from her place and eased along the benches until she came to her son. An hour was a long time for a small child to sit still, and she knew that Florian would be more than ready for a diversion. ‘Do you want to speak to your papa for a moment?’ Florian nodded with alacrity, and leaping to his feet, took her hand.

She swung him down on to the grass at the perimeter of the field, and turned to look at the tourney again. Where Alexander had been a moment since was now a scene of utter mayhem – a floundering pack of knights and horses. Weapons glittered on high, and the blows exchanged were in deadly earnest. She saw a morning star flail whip up and out, then descend.