Figure of Hate (13 page)

Their long mail hauberks glinted in the sun, thanks to their varlets' efforts with dry sand and scrubbing brush to remove the pernicious rust. John raised his hand again and the unmelodious trumpet sounded for the last time. As if joined by an invisible cord, the two jousters simultaneously lowered their lances to the horizontal, pulled their shields stiffly across their chests and dug their spurs into their stallions' sides.

Slowly at first, but with rapidly gathering momentum, the big beasts pounded down the field, to the rising shouts and cheers of the spectators.

As they closed, there was a crash as the lances struck the leather-covered wood of each opponent's shield. A fragment of one flew off as both men rocked in their saddles, but then they were past each other with both men still astride their horses. To the accompaniment of more yells and cheers, they turned to face each other, one man making a tight circle, the other going wider to keep up his speed for the return pass. Again they charged each other, and this time the faster knight triumphed. His blunted lance took the other's shield squarely at the central boss and the force tipped the rider backward over the cantle of his saddle. He managed to grab it with one hand to break his fall, and hanging on the reins for a few more seconds stopped him from crashing to the ground. As soon as he began to be dragged along the turf he let go and his horse thundered on alone, though its training had taught it to stop as soon as possible.

The other man pulled his own mount around and trotted back towards the defeated knight, wary as to what he would do next. The options were for the downed man to submit - or to pull out his sword and prepare to fight on foot. As John and Peter de Cunitone advanced to get a closer view, the matter was settled quickly. The fallen knight pushed himself up, but then rested on his knees in the dirt, his head bowed in surrender.

Gallantly, the victor slid from his horse and helped his opponent to his feet, as the crowd either cheered or groaned according to whether they had won or lost their wagers.

The defeated knight offered his sword to the winner, hilt first, as a token of submission, though later he would have to hand over his armour and horse as well.

As they walked together back to the recet, the trumpet sounded again and the herald yelled out the names once more, as well as the identity of the victor. As they passed the stand, both men saluted the grandees there by bowing their heads and putting a fisted arm across their chest, before vanishing into a tent for a welcome jug of ale.

'At least they behaved with good grace,' said John to the other judge, as they, met briefly in the middle of the field.

De Cunitone nodded his polished head. 'Let's hope the rest will do the same, but it's a bit much to expect.' They went back to their positions and the process was repeated with the next pair of contestants. This time, neither was unhorsed, but on the third pass the lance of one splintered in the middle and he threw it down in disgust. Sliding from his saddle, he hauled out his broadsword, three feet of tempered iron, and waited for his adversary to do the same. They closed and, with blows that raised sparks, hammered away at each other for several minutes. The tips of the weapons were rounded and the edges of the blade were also supposed to be blunted - but as these swords were designed for hacking rather than thrusting, the state of the tips was not all that relevant. As de Wolfe came nearer, he suspected that both men had failed to blunt the sides of their blades, but this was such a common ploy that he was not going to put it to the test.

The contest was soon over, as the heavier man, holding a shield with a black raven upon it, sidestepped and caught the other a resounding blow on his right arm, which made his weapon spin away like a whirling stick. He clutched his arm and yelled, but the chain links saved him from a wound, though no doubt he would have a painful bruise for a week. In the next contest, one young man was knocked from his destrier by a lance strike in the centre of the chest. He was saved from serious injury by the oblong metal plate laced over his hauberk to protect the heart. Again he would have a massive bruise there, which would have been even worse but for the shock-absorber effect of the gambeson, a padded shirt of quilted linen stuffed with loose wool, that every knight wore under his chain mail.

The afternoon passed in a similar fashion, with a bout every fifteen minutes or so. The results were clear cut in most instances, though one pair of jousters, a Fleming and a Breton, were reduced to bad-tempered fisticuffs when both lost their swords in a scrimmage.

The two adjudicators had to forcibly pull them apart and dismiss them from the ground without any result being awarded, to the boos and jeers of the watching crowd, whose wagers were rendered null and void.

As the sun began to slip down the sky, the last few bouts were announced. One was between Ralph Peverel, of Sampford Peverel near Tiverton, and an older knight from Warwickshire, who was a regular on the tourney circuit. Much to everyone's surprise, Ralph unhorsed the Midlander at the first pass, knocking him clean off his destrier to crash on to the hard ground.

He was knocked unconscious and his squire, who ran on to the field, had to call for men from the recet to bring a long board to carry him back to the tents, while the betting men were muttering at this win by an outsider with such long odds.

The next joust, almost the last of the day, was the one the crowd had been waiting for all afternoon, ever since the ballot had chosen who was to fight with whom.

This was a contest between Hugo Peverel, the elder brother of the previous contestant, and the Frenchman, Reginald de Charterai.

Both had an impressive track record of wins and much money was being staked on the outcome. Hugo was tipped as a likely successor to his late father William, who had been a steady winner over many years, until his untimely death at Wilton,. De Charterai, though a foreigner, had appeared at so many tourneys in England that he was very well known and his prowess was common knowledge to all those who followed the contests.

The trumpet brayed and the two men trotted out from the recet, their huge horses tossing their heads in excited anticipation of a few moments' glory in front of an appreciative audience. Hugo Peverel went down to the far end and waited expectantly.

The herald, now getting hoarse after a day's yelling, gave their titles, and at the second blast the thunder "of hoofs began over turf that was now decidedly the worse for wear after more than forty great stallions had hammered across it that day. The first clash of lance upon shield left both riders upright, as these experts were adept at angling their shields to deflect much of the force to the side.

The second pass was equally ineffective in unhorsing either Hugo or Reginald, and they galloped past each other quite intact. Hugo was the bigger man, broad within his byrnie of iron links, his scratched shield carrying a crude emblem of two white chevrons on a blue background.

De Charterai was taller and thinner, his spine as stiff as a fire-iron. He wore no mail hood or aventail, trusting to the code of honour to safeguard his head from attack. Black hair peeped from beneath the rim of his helmet, matching the colour of a thin, sloping moustache that adorned his rather sardonic face. The pair wheeled around for the third pass, lowered their lances and charged. This time the Frenchman was able to vanquish his opponent, as with a grinding crunch his lance-tip hit Hugo's shield at just the right spot to neutralise the attempted deflection and the impact pushed the Devon man sideways off his saddle.

The experienced fighter grabbed the saddle-edge and girth and let himself down lightly, hanging on to his shield, but losing his grip on the long lance. There was a roar from the onlookers as he fell to his knees, but he was up on his feet again long before de Charterai could slow his destrier and pull him around to canter back. It was obvious that Hugo was going to make a fight of it, with his reputation and his property at risk from the foreigner. The latter slowed to a halt, dismounted and laid his lance on the ground, as his squire ran out to take his horse's reins and lead him away. Hugo's riderless horse had ran on several hundred paces and was being retrieved by his own squire farther down the field.

Hugo faced the Frenchman and hauled out his sword, which made a metallic rasp as it slid from the scabbard hanging from the baldric slung around his shoulder. De Wolfe watched keenly as Reginald gave a slight bow and pulled out his own weapon. The two men advanced on each other warily, shields held up by the left forearms pushed through the straps on the back. Their heavy swords were sloped downward until they got within striking range. Then, as they circled each other, the points came up, and with a yell Hugo lunged forward and tried a straight thrust past the edge of Reginald's shield. The Frenchman parried it easily and in turn brought down a slashing blow, which sent chips of wood flying from the edge of Peverel's shield.

Time and again they slashed and smote, but they were evenly matched and neither could get past the other's guard. The spectators yelled their approval at this bonus to their expected entertainment.

Striking at the head was forbidden by the commonly accepted rules of chivalry, so the ambition of each man was to make a strike either with his sword point against his opponent's chest or belly or a heavy slash against any of his limbs. These would count as a win, even though the chain mail of the padded hauberks would hopefully protect against any serious injury. The two judges hovered a few yards away, far enough not to get in the way of the fighters, but close enough to check for a vital strike.

Then an unusual thing happened.

Hugo Peverel, the more aggressive of the two, gave another furious shout and stepped forward to smash his blue shield against the green of de Charterai's.

Tilting it away, he lunged with his blade, aiming for the heart, but the other knight swung sideways and, as Hugo's sword arm came within reach, slashed down upon it.

The blunted edge struck the back of the Devon man's hand just below the wrist, and although he was wearing chain-link mittens the impact of the heavy steel temporarily paralysed his fingers and his sword went spinning away. The foreigner gave his own excited yell of triumph and stood back, clearly the victor. Both de Wolfe and Peter de Cunitone threw up their hands as a signal for a win and there was a trumpet blast in response.

It seemed, however that Hugo de Peverel, now in a vile temper, had other ideas.

Instead of kneeling in submission, as convention required, he cast about for his sword, apparently intending to pick it up again. But it had fallen almost at the feet of his adversary and so, to John's indignant surprise, he bounded sideways and snatched up his lance, from where it had fallen when he was unhorsed. With a roar of defiance, Hugo hefted it near its centre, brought his powerful arm back and threw it straight at Reginald de Charterai's head.

Astonished at this unheard-of behaviour, the Frenchman stood stock still for an instant, then his well-honed instinct for self-preservation snapped into action and he brought up his shield before his face. The blunted tourney lance struck it with a loud thump and fell to the ground, instead of hitting him between the eyes.

There was immediate chaos on and around the field.

The two judges came running, shouting cries of recrimination. Along the barrier ropes, there was a roar of outrage and yells, boos and hisses rent the air. Even those who had money on Hugo Peverel were disgusted at his blatant disregard of the usual conventions. De Wolfe strode up to the culprit, his face white with anger, closely followed by his fellow adjudicator.

'What in Christ's name d'you think you're doing?' he yelled.

'Have you gone bloody mad?' snapped de Cunitone, hands on hips as he glared at Hugo. Peverel, sweating, red in the face and seething with anger, was far from contrite. 'There's no rule against a man continuing to fight!' he hissed.

'Rule? You've been in more than enough jousts to know what's proper!'

De Wolfe's nose was almost touching Hugo's now and he was in a towering rage. 'You're a knight, damn it, you have a duty to show an example to the squires and younger men. I'm ashamed of you, Peverel!' Half afraid that he might strike him in his temper, John stepped back and forced himself to signal to the herald forty paces away. The man took the hint, and as the trumpet sounded again he roared at the top of his voice that the bout had been won by Reginald de Charterai.

The man named had remained standing where he was, his face white with shock at this unheard-of breach of conduct by someone who should know better. He said not a word, but turned and walked off stiffly to where his bewildered squire was holding his horse's head. The victor walked his mount back to the enclosure, to the sustained cheers and shouts of congratulation from both the crowd along the ropes and the more aristocratic audience in the stand.

'You had better send your squire to treat with de Charterai over the forfeit of your armour and destrier,' snapped de Cunitone, the contempt obvious in his voice as he spat the words at Hugo Peverel. 'Better keep clear of him yourself, or you might get a punch in the face, which you richly deserve!'

With that, the second judge turned and marched after the coroner, who was making his way back to speak to the herald. Left alone in the middle of the field, the lord of Sampford Peverel glowered at everything within sight, unwilling to admit even to himself that he had seriously transgressed the unwritten codes of chivalry.

Chapter Four