Whited Sepulchres (7 page)

Martin turned his face up to the sunshine as he strolled through the inner ward. After they’d seen the unconscious outlaw safely locked away in a cell, the earl had released him and Adam for an hour as he intended to speak with Sir Gilbert, no doubt hammering out the finer details of the marriage settlement. Martin was glad to be able to get out into the air instead of having to stand and listen to all the talk about inheritances and dowries. He was off to the tiltyard to practise his horsemanship, and nothing could have made him happier. He picked up his gear from the armoury, and headed out to the inner gate and down towards the stables.

As he passed near to the castle’s outer gate he saw a small group of people arriving – three men and a small boy, with an extra packhorse. The man on the lead animal caught his eye and waved. Martin waved back and changed direction to greet him, for it was Sir Roger, one of the earl’s knights and the man who would act as Sir Gilbert’s groomsman at the wedding. He was accompanied by two men-at-arms, one of whom carried on the back of his horse the boy Peter, formerly a villager of Conisbrough and now Sir Roger’s servant.

As Martin reached the group he put out his hand to hold the head of the knight’s horse. It looked tired, and so it might, for it was a more elderly mount than you would normally see carrying a knight. He patted its neck as Sir Roger swung easily to the ground with his customary grace. The sunshine had if anything made his hair even blonder, and it glowed like a halo around his head as he smiled his thanks. Then he handed the reins of the horse over to Peter, telling him to follow the two men to the stable and see the animal looked after. After watching them go he turned to Martin.

‘Well met. A happier occasion than when we last parted, I think?’

Martin smiled. ‘Undoubtedly, Sir Roger. Would you like to go and greet my lord straight away? He’s in conference with Sir Gilbert, but I could go and tell him that you’re here, if you like.’

The knight shook his head. ‘Oh no, I wouldn’t think of disturbing him while he speaks of business. No doubt they’ll emerge when they’ve finished and I can offer them both my congratulations at the same time. But perhaps Sir Geoffrey is around for me to pay my respects?’

‘Yes, he’s about somewhere. He was up near the inner gatehouse last time I saw him.’

‘Well then, I’d better head that way. Perhaps you’d like to join me?’

Martin weighed up the opportunity to go out and ride with the chance to spend some time with a knight whom he admired. But the pull of the open space was too much, so he reluctantly bade farewell to Sir Roger and turned back towards the stables.

Once his courser was saddled, he led it out of the gate before mounting and proceeding at walking pace around the outside of the castle wall towards the flat ground on the eastern side. He held his padded gear in front of him and felt the warmth of the sun upon his face as he smiled and relaxed for the first time in days. Thank the Lord, a chance to get out and do something physical for a change. Being the senior squire was turning out to be much more difficult than he’d anticipated. Of course, it hadn’t helped that he’d had the position thrust upon him so suddenly, but there was no point dwelling on that. It wasn’t so much the extra duties regarding the earl, his clothing, his armour, his horse, or serving at table – he was used to that kind of thing and it was just a case of there being more of it. It wasn’t even the responsibility of training the little devil Thomas, although that certainly wasn’t his favourite part of the job. No, it was the
politics
. Suddenly he was expected to attend meetings and councils with the earl and Sir Geoffrey, where he was expected to know who everyone that they were talking about was, which side they were on in the war, who they were allied to in marriage, and so on. He couldn’t keep up and it made his head hurt.

As he nudged his horse past the fishponds, shrunken in the summer heat, he let his mind wander over some of the more tedious conversations he’d heard recently about tax revenue, scutage, tallage and other such financial matters. Surely he didn’t need to know all this? While he was a squire there would always be the earl and Sir Geoffrey to tell him what to do, and once he was a knight, he wouldn’t exactly be part of the noble circle – his father held reasonable lands that he’d probably have to manage in due course, but it was hardly of importance when compared with the earls, barons and great landowners who ran the kingdom.

But anyway, no need to worry about that now. He had reached the flat ground outside the walls, where a large area was roped off. Adam was already there, his own pony tethered to a rail, with a pile of blunted lances. He was busy erecting the quintain, and Martin dismounted to go and help him.

The main post on its pivot was already in place, and Adam was struggling to fit one of the arms to it as the socket was too high up for him. Martin helped him to heft it into place and secure it, and then made sure the shield was hanging correctly off the end. Then they moved to the other side to affix the second arm, the one with the heavy bag of sand attached to it by a short rope. Satisfied that everything was ready, they walked back to their mounts.

Adam looked up at him. ‘Do you want to go first?’

Martin considered. ‘No, you have the first try. We’ll get you kitted up, and then I’ll watch you to see how you do while I put mine on.’

Adam nodded, and Martin bent to help him into the padded garments which he needed for the practice.

After Adam was ready, he mounted and Martin stood ready with a lance. ‘Leave your shield for now – you’ll be able to control him better if you’ve only got to hold the reins in your left hand. Now, take this.’ He handed over the lance. Adam struggled with the twelve-foot pole, sliding off balance and making his horse dance. Martin held its bridle until it calmed again. ‘All right. You haven’t used one the proper length before, have you?’ Adam shook his head, his face looking worried inside the padded hood. ‘You’ll be fine. Couch it level now, before you start, and just canter towards the quintain. You probably won’t hit it first time, but we’ll see how you get on.’

Adam clasped his right hand around the lance and brought it down so that it lay level, gripping it under his right arm and pointing over the left side of his horse’s neck. Martin let go of the bridle and stood back to watch.

As Adam rode forward Martin could see that the lance was wobbling all over the place. There was a huge difference between using one of the eight-foot poles he’d been training with up until now, and a proper one. Still, he was fourteen now and he needed to learn. Martin was unsurprised as Adam missed the hanging shield completely, but he did manage to retain hold of everything as he reined in his mount and turned to come back. The pony remained calm, having done the same exercise with generations of pages and squires over the years; it ambled back and waited for Adam to collect himself and start his run once more.

He missed again the second time. That was the problem with the longer lances – it only took the tiniest tremble of the hand to make the tip of the lance sway quite dramatically from side to side. But Adam would get the hang of it. He had proved himself adept in practice before – not strong, but accurate. He never hit any target hard enough to knock it right over, but he was able to thread the lance through a hanging ring at quite some speed. He just needed to get used to the full-size equipment, that was all.

At his third tilt, Adam managed to graze the hanging shield. It was a glancing blow which hardly made the quintain move at all, but it was progress, and Martin shouted his encouragement. The he realised he needed to get ready himself, so he bent to start putting on his gear. As he pulled the thick gambeson over his body, strapped some padding to his legs and arranged the hood on his head, he watched out of the corner of his eye as Adam rode up and down efficiently.

After a few more tries Martin signalled to him to stop and dismount. Together they moved the quintain’s arms up a notch to account for the taller horse, and then Martin told Adam to take a rest as he mounted. All the padding made him slightly stiffer as he settled himself in the saddle, but it was nowhere near as uncomfortable as wearing full mail – he tried to avoid that whenever possible as it was incredibly heavy and he didn’t like restricting his movement so much. Anyway, this was fine – a bit warm, to be sure, but still moveable.

Adam tethered his pony and held out a lance to him. Martin hefted the familiar weight, keeping the pole upright until he started moving, then bringing it down level into the couched position. He’d had the instructions drummed into him so often over so many years that he could hear Sir Geoffrey’s voice in his head. The weight of the lance should be supported by the palm of the hand, not the fingers. Press your feet down in the stirrups, squeeze your legs tight and allow yourself to go with the rhythm of the movement of the horse. The lance should be held steady at three points: by the hand that supports it, by the arm that holds it tight, and by the chest against part of which it is being held. Focus on the shield – look at the target and don’t get distracted by the tip of the lance. And keep your eyes open while you hit it.

He struck the shield a solid blow, remembering to dodge the bag of sand as it came swinging round. Satisfied, he turned and rode back to start again.

He hit the target satisfactorily every time, as he had known he would, feeling himself enjoying the movement of the horse, the co-ordination of the weapon and the force of the blow. He reached his mark once more and turned. Right, enough of accuracy and solidity. This time he was going to be clever. Sir Geoffrey was always telling him that brute strength wasn’t enough, that he had to
think
a bit more. This seemed a bit unnecessary to Martin – why not just hit the target really hard? – but if Sir Geoffrey wanted him to be clever, he would try. Up until now he’d been concentrating on hitting the shield right in the middle, with his lance square on to it. This time he would aim to strike it at more of an angle, swerving away from it and dodging the quintain as it turned.

As he rode he brought his lance down in a smooth movement. The target came nearer and nearer, and he urged the horse on. The end of the lance smacked into the shield at exactly the angle he’d planned, and he felt a momentary glee, which he didn’t have the chance to enjoy before a huge thump on the back sent him tumbling from the saddle.

As he fell, he remembered what he’d been taught. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and rolled as he hit the ground. It was hard, baked in the sun, but the thick layers of horsehair and wadding in the gambeson cushioned most of the blow, and he was already starting to rise as Adam ran over. He was ashamed more than anything, which proved he wasn’t hurt, so he made light of it. ‘That’s the last time I pretend he’s a Frenchman! Next time I’ll tell myself it’s Sir Geoffrey, and I’ll treat it with more respect!’ He stood for a moment and moved his shoulder round, sensing some soreness, but it was fine. The horse, another one used to the exercise, had wandered off to the edge of the tiltyard and was standing still, nibbling at the dusty grass; Martin brushed off Adam’s help and ran to fetch it. Important to get back on, of course, and this time he’d take more care. It was still more enjoyable than politics. He rode back to his mark.

The hall was absolutely heaving with people when it was time for the evening meal. Outside, the air had cooled slightly, but inside it was hot, sweaty and airless. As Edwin walked in and saw everyone he nearly turned and walked out again: perhaps he might be better off going to see if his mother had any of the day’s warm pottage left for him. But as he stood in indecision he was spotted by Brother William, sitting at the end of the nearest long table, who moved up and beckoned him over. Edwin squeezed himself on to the very end of the bench, bracing one leg to make sure he didn’t fall off and make himself look foolish. He looked sideways at the monk, trying to see if he could glimpse any sign of the extraordinary behaviour he’d witnessed earlier, but his companion didn’t mention it and gave no hint. Edwin began to wonder if he’d imagined the whole episode. But as Brother William pushed back the sleeves of his habit ready to eat his meal, Edwin could see the thick muscle of that powerful right arm. Not many monks looked like that.