The Dragon Throne (18 page)

Edmund gave a bow and worked hard to force every fear from his heart. A tantalizing presence, the great vessel
Santa Monica
rolled with the soft swells offshore. The ship was due to sail as soon as the joust was finished—if Edmund was victorious. If the saints—and Tomasso Orsino—willed it, day's end would see Edmund and his companions happily stowed on this prosperous ship. Boats along the waterline were guarded by men Sir Maurice had paid well, and the way to safety was so close that Edmund felt the cruelty of his own hopefulness.

He thrust the thought of a well-provisioned, short sea voyage with Ester by his side entirely out of his mind. Edmund wanted to pray yet again, and he wanted to press his lips against Ester's once more.

And he wished he could express his gratitude to Nigel and Rannulf, and vanquish the look of intense concern in the eyes of the two experienced knights. He raised a hand to Hubert, who watched white-faced from a distance, putting on a brave smile. Galena and Sir Maurice looked on nearby, anxiously hopeful that they would be able to leave Italian soil.

Blessed by Holy Communion, his knees still sandy from having knelt before the priest, Edmund wanted to sing out that if he died today, he bore no malice toward any man. It was proper to say such a thing before legal combat, but Othon was in haste, already hefting the jousting lance, helmeted and waving his squire away, well before the crowd had fully arrived.

Noon was barely upon them.
Too quick
, Edmund wanted to protest.

There should have been more ceremony, more time while the banner of Saint George that Ester and Ida had made could be brought to the fore of the crowd. It was nowhere to be seen yet, although Edmund had heard it described—a silk standard topped by the sacred relic, firmly fastened with wrought gold wire.

Surely Ester would not be late. Indeed, she was not late at all—it was Othon who was too early, waving his servants back as he raced his horse back and forth, splashing salt foam.

Edmund wanted to call out before the world, “I die with peace in my heart.”

But Edmund ran through his mind the names of lively folk who had died in recent seasons. Otto, Edmund's former master, a good-hearted moneyer but none too honest. Osbert the servant, whose loyalty and desire to serve were matched by his powers as a thief. Edmund recalled the irrepressible squire Miles, with his bawdy songs, and the brave steed Winter Star, slain in the battle of Arsuf.

And the hostages from Acre, some two thousand innocent men, women, and children, put to the sword at King Richard's command.

The young knight did not want to take Sir Othon's life.

But the heavily furnished Othon had finished adjusting his armor. He sported more iron than Edmund—with high chain-mail sleeves attached to his spiked gauntlets, and uncommon plate armor protecting his front and back.

No wonder he was such a man killer, Edmund thought, if he started lancing his opponents while their helmets were barely set. Edmund felt the wisdom of Rannulf's advice—too much armor weighed a fighter down and made him a slower target. Still, he felt that he could have worn another layer of quilt under his helmet, or doubled up the chain mail under his surcoat. “Youth and strength will be your advantage,” Rannulf had asserted.

Othon rocked into his charge. For the moment Pigmeo was much more eager to fight than Edmund. It was not the first time the young knight had marveled that so many horses loved combat. Edmund did not need to urge the heavy mount forward. Pigmeo plunged, grunting with effort and enthusiasm as Othon's plumed helmet grew closer. The big knight was upon Edmund, clods of sandy beach flying—and then he was past, neither man making contact with the other.

The crowd thundered.

Edmund was not encouraged—far from it. Othon was an experienced lancer, while the youthful knight was anything but a master with the weapon. Indeed, Othon's lance had whistled past, not missing by more than a hand's span, while Edmund had made only an awkward flourish with his own shaft.

Again, from the new direction, Othon coursed down the beach toward Edmund, but this time the young knight was ready, his lance properly couched—nestled under his arm, the shaft steady. But then the sharp point dipped, as though compelled by its own will, the long, dangerous weapon aiming ever downward as Pigmeo rocked into a gallop. The lance fell even lower, and at last the point stabbed hard into the sandy beach.

The force levered Edmund, and sent him flying from his saddle, over Pigmeo's head. The lance broke into pieces, and Edmund rolled, helmeted and padded under his chain mail, and unhurt.

Unhurt, but as he climbed to his feet, unsteady.

And not completely unhurt, after all—the wind had been knocked from his body, every bit of air, and he could not breathe.

AT LAST, EDMUND COULD DRAW A STEADY breath again, just as Wowen and Hubert were running with a new lance, a long pale weapon. Edmund motioned to his friends,
Hurry!

But again it was too late.

Othon was on the attack, before the lance could arrive, even as Edmund stood flat-footed. Wowen and Hubert scattered. Edmund had little time to form a plan. He took a step to one side, so the lance passed over his shoulder, and seized the horse's bridle.

Edmund turned the charger's head, hauling with all his strength. The steed was pulled out of its course by his effort, and with his other hand Edmund found the flowing trapper—the cloth that hung down from the saddle.

Edmund called out—as drivers of dray horses did on market morning in Nottingham—a long syllable, half song, half warning. The sound from within his helmet was both magnified and distorted, and Othon's mount was startled for an instant—just as Edmund had hoped it would be. And Othon was an impatient horseman, sawing heavily at the reins, failing to lean away from Edmund's weight.

The big knight tried to strike Edmund's helmet with a brass-spiked fist, swayed in the saddle, and fell off just as his horse stumbled and went down.

Edmund drew his sword as his opponent lumbered to his feet. Othon was not long in pulling his own blade from its sheath, but then the crowd—which had been calling and jeering, crying out and encouraging in several languages—began to fall silent.

 

Ester rode a palfrey, with the banner held high, the image of Saint George in deep red and blue, fastened against a green background.

The sacred relics caught the light, the dragon's claw and the blessed remnant of King Richard's patron saint held high for the gathered folk to behold. The claw of the dragon gleamed, and the single, fleshless finger bone of the saint was like wrought gold in the sunlight.

If Othon saw any of this, he gave no sign at first. He cut at Edmund, just missing, and cut again, as the young knight found firmer footing in the sand.

Many in the crowd were kneeling, and soon the mass of men and women looked on rapt, no mouth lifting a call, no hand reaching for a weapon. By then Othon could not continue to ignore the sweeping hush.

The knight half turned to take in the spectacle, sunlight gleaming off the iridescent claw of the dragon and the gold-bright relic of the saint.

Othon did not move, caught by the vision.

The two horses found each other and fought, grunting, foam flying. But Pigmeo was the better fighter, forcing Othon's shaken horse backward.

Othon hefted his sword again. Edmund began his own assault, hacking efficiently at Othon as the legendary knight stirred once more to combat. Let me not kill him, prayed Edmund.

Too much killing.

No more
.

The riderless horses continued to fight nearby. Edmund struck Othon well. The young knight's strokes nearly drove the weapon from the older man's grasp. His sword whistling through the air, Edmund continued the attack, and struck his adversary's helmet so hard the iron gave off a spark. Othon fell to his knees.

Panicked, Othon's horse was kicking out at nothing. Edmund saw what was about to happen, but could not make a move to stop it. The horse's rear hoof struck Othon's helmet as the knight knelt motionless. With an ugly sound, like an iron bell sundered, the armor cracked.

Othon sprawled on the sand.

EDMUND HAD TO WAIT WHILE HUBERT and Wowen dragged the two ill-tempered horses away, and then Edmund hauled at his opponent's fractured helmet. The young knight tugged hard, and found himself gazing down at the dazed and blinking eyes of his enemy.

Yield
he could not say. Or perhaps he did say the word, the syllable resounding in his helmet.

Othon reached, but his sword was far off, half-buried in sand.

Yield, or you will bleed,
Edmund tried to say again.

Othon reached again, groped, and seized his weapon.

Did Edmund say the words, or only hear them in his soul?
Please do not force me to kill you.

Othon rolled, and struggled to one knee. Then he held his sword out, hilt-foremost.

And Edmund took it.

 

The crowd rejoiced as Edmund held up the two swords, the steel cold and heavy in his hands.

He did not see what happened next, as he settled the two swords respectfully on the sand—but he sensed the crowd's intaken breath. He caught a glimpse of Othon's shadow, shifting, lunging, as the older knight drew a glinting span from his mail sleeve and thrust it at Edmund.

Edmund's instant thought was that the stunned Othon was holding out a cross, or some other blessed object, and giving it to the victor as a further token of surrender. The young knight stepped toward his vanquished opponent, in a helpful spirit, only to see the white gleam of a dagger.

Bare-handed as he was, Edmund struggled to get a grip on the brass-spiked gloves and mail-clad limbs of the older knight. Edmund sensed that as rapt as the crowd had been, all calm would be lost, and a violent melee follow, if the fight did not end with a definite outcome, and at once.

The dagger scraped the hardened iron of Edmund's helmet, the blade working hard, sawing at the chain mail protecting the young knight's neck, seeking flesh.

Edmund wrenched the man's arm, gripping it and twisting, throwing the big knight down and feeling the bones give within their iron-mesh armor. Bones snapped. Edmund seized the dagger and felt its handle warm in his grasp, a fine steel blade.

Kill him
, said a voice in his soul.

Edmund wanted to take Othon's life at that moment. He desired it as much as he had ever wanted meat and drink.

But he hurled the weapon.

It spun end over end, gleaming. The blade plunged far off, into the sea, over the heads of the pikemen guarding the boats, nearly all the way to the peaceful bulk of the
Santa Monica.

The crowd was silent—perhaps dazzled by events, Edmund thought, or stunned by lost wagers, or expectant that Othon would rise again to some new treachery.

Othon did indeed try to rise for a long moment, but his injured arm kept him where he was, as though the broken limb had taken root in the sand, leaving the knight kicking helplessly.

And then the crowd's silence broke. A tumult of cheering and song deafened Edmund as he waited for some further sign to tell him that the contest was complete and the day won.

The knight was uncertain even then, unwilling to give himself over to joy. Tomasso Orsino was making his way across the sand, the crowd roaring, and Edmund tried to read the gaze of this Roman nobleman.

Tomasso grew close, and Edmund braced himself, unsure what the aristocrat intended to do.

Edmund said, “I wish to go home with my companions.”

Tomasso made a show of not understanding.

“With God's blessing, and your kind permission, noble Tomasso,” said the knight, in careful Frankish, “we will leave today for England.”

Tomasso laughed quietly, as though moved to pure, easy friendliness by the day's events.

Edmund gathered his will, and was about to speak again, when Tomasso's smile and quiet laugh silenced him.

“Depart, then, Edmund Strongarm,” the nobleman said. “As the blessed Saint George wills it—you may go home.”

 

As Edmund took Ester into his arms, he heard Nigel's voice calling, “To England!”