The Leopard Sword (17 page)

Only after darkness fell and Nigel and Rannulf assembled armor, an assortment of helmets, and a collection of mail suits—my own Crusading mail had grown rigid with rust—did I begin to be afraid for myself.

And then I was nearly speechless.

The two knights enjoyed pullets from the prince's own buttery, brought down to us by a royal steward, a highly placed man-at-arms who bowed and showed every sign of respect for us—especially for me, nodding and smiling in the kindest manner. It was, I recognized too well, the respect people show toward those who will soon be killed.

“I am Elias de Boves,” said the steward, a sunny-faced man with bronze curls and a quiet manner.“A man-at-arms, most recently from Aquitaine, where I have been serving the prince.”

“I know the village of Boves,” said Rannulf. “A storied ogre lived beneath a vineyard there, turning the green grapes black.”

“The very place,” said Elias.

“Why did the prince break his word?” asked Sir Nigel. “He told his brother he would stay in France until the Crusade's end.”

“Who am I,” replied Elias,“to question princely matters?”

I was half grateful for such chatter, and half driven mad by it. I wanted to see Father Giles, wherever he might be. I wanted to see my parents and my sister. I wished to speak with Edmund, with Galena—and I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

“After tomorrow's ordeal,” said the steward in a sweetly tempered voice, “my lord Prince John will be pleased to dine with Sir Nigel and Sir Rannulf and hear yet more tidings of his brother the king.”

“And with Hubert and Edmund, too,” said Nigel pointedly. “You'll want to learn how they fared during the great siege.”

The steward's smile broadened. “Of course—my prince will meet with the two squires as well.”

I did not sleep that night.

Rannulf and Nigel sat up with me, reciting the ballads every Christian fighting man loves, the stories of swords found embedded in hoary oaks; of Our Lady appearing before millers and sheriff's deputies and other such notorious sinners, and changing their lives.

Of Daniel in the pit filled with lions, afraid to move, afraid to stand still, until he was afraid of nothing.

The rooks woke early the next morning.

“A happy omen,” said Nigel, regarding their commonplace, merry bickering, “if ever I heard one.”

As I spoke to the servants, I sounded, in my own ears, like a knight who had been through years of battle and cared little whether he faced one more contest. It was very nearly how I felt. Having been angry and terrified, now I wanted only for the day to be done. The servants of the house brought in ewers of hot water, as I requested. I bathed in a fine copper tub, and Nigel scrubbed my back.

I donned a shirt of linen, freshly laundered by Rannulf and dried before the fire. I wore a Crusader tunic, marked with a white cross, also carefully tended by Rannulf. My surcoat of rich blue, with the leopard triumphant, was prepared by Nigel, working with a fine brush in the early-morning light.

Helmet padding, leg wraps, woolen gloves—one by one I put on the inner garments of my armor.Then Nigel held up the heavy body mail, the veteran knight acting as my squire on this spring morning. Worked down over my head, the mail skirt hung full, all the way to my ankles, the familiar but half-forgotten weight almost succeeding in preparing me for what I was going to do that day. I would wear an iron jousting helmet, like a great bucket, with a grill for vision and breath.This armor would afford me better protection by far than the modest squire helmet I had worn in Chios.

“Where is Edmund?” I asked.

“He spent the night in the Tower,” said Rannulf, “and I am told that he is well.”

“When will I see him?”

Neither knight would answer, but at last Nigel said,“He'll be there.”

Edmund is stronger than I am.
I did not utter the thought, or complete it in my own mind—that Edmund would succeed in a joust where I might fail.

Perhaps Nigel read the thought in my eyes. “Edmund has never couched a lance under his arm,” he said in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, “and remember, Hubert—no one's blade is quicker than yours.”

My sword was polished by Rannulf, worked over with goat-bone marrow until the steel was bright.

 

 

Then we went down to the riverbank and crossed the Thames on a ferry—the Church had forbidden even legal jousts within the city walls.

The field was green, and the verges were bright with the yellow flower folk in Bakewell call the daffadown, and others name the daffodil, the flowers stretching up a far-off hillside to a stand of leafless trees. It was perhaps the first warm day of spring, one of the days when the sky is huge and the sun close. Beyond was the city and the Tower.

Prince John looked very little like his brother.While King Richard was a yellow-haired, thick-necked bull of a man, his brother was lean and dark-haired, and he did not trouble wearing even a decorative sword. He sat protected from the noon sun by a canopy high above the grass, toying with the topaz ring on his finger. He offered a remark to Martin the Exchequer, who perched beside him, heavily muffled in a cloak. Martin laughed politely. Surrounding the prince was a group of household knights, each armed with a sword and
couteau.

For myself, I felt duty toward the king, and the proper respect for the prince. I felt little love for either.

Nearby, accompanied by spearmen, stood Edmund, the iron shackles gleaming on his wrists. His eyes met mine, and his lips shaped words—some heartfelt prayer, I was certain. The chain smith attended him, to strike the chains free or to bind him further, however the day unfolded.

On both sides of the tourney field was a swarm of people. Many were drinking, celebrating by gesturing and acting out battle, showing each other how they would wield a sword if they were fighting this day. I recognized sailors from the
Saint Susanna,
and Captain Hawkmoor caught my eye, lifting both hands before him prayerfully, offering a faithful smile. Many men were armed with staves, and I knew exactly the sort of melee that could result if the crowd grew angry. Banners and flags tossed in the light breeze, and somewhere a pie man called, “Hot, plenty and hot.”

My mount was a ten-year-old warhorse called Oak-heart, provided by the king's own ostler. He was described as too old for war, but still in his prime for jousting, where big bones and an appetite for fighting favors the experienced steed. As is usual for a joust, I wore a spur only on my left heel, a knob of polished iron.

Sir Nicholas's silken, heavily muscled charger flared his nostrils and foamed at the bit. The newly dubbed knight's surcoat displayed the fighting symbol of his former master, the golden swift with its graceful wing cocked in flight. When I rode across the field to offer my respects in the highest speech I could muster, I looked into his eyes as though to share some query with him.

“A good day to you, squire,” he said in response, both to my spoken and unspoken communication. He was the same sun-freckled, good-sized young man as before, but with an increased air of dignity.

I felt again that under some other stars, in another year, Nicholas and I might have shared ale together and swapped dreams of glory. Now I recalled being carried bodily by my companions, and long nights with a throbbing head.

But I did not feel anger.

I had seen it in Edmund, too, how this stride and gesture, even his voice, had taken on the weight and bearing of a fighting man.

I raised the hilt of the sword to my lips, as is the proper thing, and kissed it.

 

 

The master of the tournament, dressed in fine yellow stockings and a green doublet, explained that this was no game-joust, but a battle to the death.There would be no rest periods for the winded or momentarily stunned, and none of the rules that made jousting fair and—for some—pleasurable. Any blow or tactic fit for a battlefield would be allowed here. The master had something of Fulke's prideful bearing, a man of intelligence required to look on during the triumphs and defeats of other souls.

Some protocol apparently required that each of us acknowledge the mortality we both faced, because Sir Nicholas sat beside me on his restless mount and announced for all to hear, “I forgive any who may this day do me any harm.” The joust in Chios had been a mere game, I knew, a tournament for pride and rough sport, compared with the legal manslaughter about to take place.

The master looked to me expectantly. I felt the weight of the sword at my hip as I forgave whoever might take my life.

Then the master of the tournament knelt before the prince.

The prince smiled and made some quiet remark, and the master rose and clapped his hands gently together, a signal to his clerks.

He was brought a sword from which hung a heavy cloth of woven dimity. Such stout signal cloths were often used in tourneys, lest an errant breeze flutter a light linen flag prematurely to the ground. The ladies in the crowd adjusted their hoods, the men set their caps squarely on their heads, each observer bracing for whatever was to follow.

The men-at-arms wore swords and gauntlets—if this joust became a general battle, they were ready. Square-jawed Sir Jean himself sat astride a charger, a lance held upright. Sir Rannulf, too, had brought a mount onto the field, although he stood beside it.When I caught his eye, the knight lifted a mailed fist of encouragement. I wondered if my understanding would ever be equal to the stony, complex nature of that scarred man-at-arms. Sir Nigel was in bright chain mail, as erect as a man ready to recite every Psalm.And it was true as I looked at them in this sunlight—the two knights did look weathered and worn.

The master of the tournament took a few steps, maintaining his control over us as our chargers tossed their heads. The master had a fixed smile, neither good-humored nor encouraging, and many in the crowd kept their hands folded tight, praying or questioning their wagers. No voice cheered or mocked us.The crowd grew silent.

With an expert flick of the master's wrist, the cloth plummeted without a flutter to the ground.

I couched the lance under my elbow as I had been trained, and balanced it against the rocking of my mount, my body held tightly in place by the padded vise of the saddle. Sir Nicholas spurred his charger, rocking to one side to confuse me or to improve the angle of his attack.

Like any jousting knight, I wore my buckler on a strap around my neck, but the shield proved of little immediate use. Sir Nicholas's lance struck my saddle in the breastplate, jolting the horse badly as the weapon broke in two, splinters flying. Sir Nicholas, an enigmatic figure in his dark, gleaming helmet, swayed in his saddle, his rein hand flailing involuntarily as my own lance caught his surcoat half a heartbeat later, tearing it, passing close to the young knight's body.

As he lurched by, he deliberately dragged the jagged remnant of his lance across my helmet, the broken wood ringing off the iron. The blow half deafened me, and I worked to position the helmet squarely over my head again. I reeled to the end of the field and turned my mount.

Oak-heart inhaled and exhaled heavily, the heat of the big charger rising up and enveloping me. I was breathing hard, too, and I had the unreal impression that events were moving too quickly, that I was still soaking my morning bread in sweet wine, or testing the edge of my sword against a blade of grass.

A new lance was brought out and pressed into Nicholas's grasp.

Then, without further delay, my opponent's lance was leveled, and he approached speedily, the brilliant iron point directed right at my chest. I had barely begun my charge, and the momentum was all his. He was already too close for me to do any more than steady my lance and brace myself. The two of us collided, the force slamming the breath from my body. Our weapons fell from our hands, and I reached out and seized Nicholas's helmet as he struggled to get by me.

Our two horses joined in the fight, forced into each other. Nicholas's horse bit into mine, the horses' necks locking, the animals screaming as they rose on their hind legs, struggled, fell.

Oak-heart rolled on me, and my leg went numb. Nicholas was on his feet at once, his crimson surcoat bunched, torn at one shoulder, his sword in hand. I staggered to my feet, dragging my leg, and working my hand through the straps in my shield. Nicholas and I both had to dance clumsily away from our horses as they climbed back onto their feet, sweating, spiked with crushed turf. Nicholas stabbed at me, holding his sword two-handed, an efficient and deadly lunge, except that I fell back.

Stunned, confused, I had neglected to draw my sword, blocking my opponent's blade with my buckler. I tugged my weapon from its sheathe and at once struck Nicholas in the head, my blade biting into the iron basin of his helmet, but unable to cut through the smith-toughened metal.

The knight staggered, reached out for the reins of his steed, clinging briefly to his mount for support.Through the crosshatch slits in his iron armor, his eyes searched momentarily for his companions, standing at the side of the field.

I struck Nicholas in the shoulder, the hacking blow cutting through the chain mail. My opponent's sword arm went slack, and his weapon dropped. It was impossible to see the blood against the crimson surcoat, but the fabric gleamed wetly. His horse panicked, backing away, Nicholas struggling to stay upright, bright blood gushing through the rent in his mail. I struck him again, bones snapping.

The young knight slipped, almost gracefully, to the trampled grass. He knelt there, helmeted head to the turf, his crimson surcoat sodden, and then rolled to one side like a boneless thing, all but lifeless. I had time to feel only a brief anguish at the sight, a flicker of pity and relief.