The Tournament of Blood (42 page)

Sir John, he saw, had purchased the new armour. He had one large breastplate of dark steel and a great steel pot of a helm which was chained to it. At his side was a massive mace armed with
vicious spikes in the metal head. He was already on his horse, a lance gripped rigidly. Seeing Baldwin was ready, he jerked Pomers’s reins and rode back to the starting point.

Baldwin nodded to Edgar and checked the straps of his shield before knocking the vizor down. With the lance gripped in his fist, he trotted back to his own starting position near the river.

His mind was clear now. He knew he must fight with a cold precision. His strength was surely no match for Sir John’s, nor his speed. His stamina might be his only advantage. If Baldwin was
to win this bout, he would have to fight cleverly. Brute strength was on Sir John’s side, but Baldwin should be able to counter that with deviousness; Sir John would be well-used to surviving
against younger lads, for his successes in tournaments were well known, so he must be skilled at dealing with those who were considerably faster than him, people who had swifter reactions, yet
Baldwin must somehow overcome him. It was an interesting conundrum, considered in a detached and rational manner, but even as Baldwin surveyed his enemy he saw Sir John’s legs move. Glancing
to the main stand, Baldwin saw that the King Herald had given the signal and almost without realising it, he raked his spurs along his horse’s flanks and was moving.

There was no time for fear or alarm. He must weld his body and mind to the workings of his horse. The crash of lances was nothing unless mount, knight and lance-point were united and wielded as
a single weapon.

His destrier was a well-bred animal with fire in his blood and fighting in his nature. Already he was moving at a canter, and Baldwin held his lance up, balancing the weight cautiously, waiting
for the moment to slip the butt beneath his armpit. Then his horse was galloping and Sir John was nearer, his lance all but disappearing as it pointed to Baldwin’s face. He allowed his own
point to fall until he felt it should be pointing in the right direction, but with the thundering of hooves, the jerking motion and the tiny slits through which he must breathe and see, it was hard
to know what was happening.

A sparkle of metal; a flash, and a hideous lurch, then the pain of a hammer-blow at his breast and simultaneously his right arm was slammed back. The two together almost dismounted him. There
was a crack from his saddle, a ringing clatter from his left arm, and then he was struggling with his vizor to see what had happened as his mount carried him to the far end of the field.

His lance was wrecked, one third snapped away. He grabbed another, weighing it in his hand. Something felt wrong with it, with the balance, but he had no time to consider it.

He looked back to see that Sir John was still in the saddle, and as Baldwin watched, Sir John wheeled his horse and charged again. Baldwin had to pull his horse’s head right about and spur
him on, and then the rattling motion began again. Almost too late Baldwin remembered to knock his vizor down again.

This time the blow was less central and he felt the lance skitter away to his left, the point striking his plates, the shaft foiled by his shield. His own lance shuddered and jerked, but he was
sure that Sir John didn’t fall. There was a short blur of dust and gleaming metal and they were past again.

Baldwin lifted his lance and hefted it in his hand. It felt easier now, as if his arm was becoming accustomed to the weight and balance after all these years. He was sure that he had connected
with Sir John. The applause he could hear over his own panting breath seemed to show that someone had achieved something. Baldwin saw the dust rise from Sir John’s horse’s hooves and
felt his lips pull away from his teeth in a snarl. He kicked twice, hard, and felt the explosive power of his horse as its huge hindquarters thrust forwards, jolting Baldwin back against the
cantle. He slipped the lance under his armpit, aiming the bright point at Sir John, but then he realised something was wrong. The point was gone; his lance had only a splintered stump where there
should have been a steel tip. His belly lurched, he felt the clammy grip of fear clutch at his heart, but he was committed now. There was nothing he could do but put his faith in God.

‘Jesus, Mary, and Saint George,’ he murmured, but then he felt the terrible blow at his chest and heard an enormous rending. His own lance was still more than a foot from Sir John,
it was snapped off so short, but Baldwin barely had time to register that before he felt himself slipping. He felt his horse give one more lurch at full speed, and then his backside was shifting
over the horse’s rump. Suddenly he was in mid-air.

A moment, only a moment, of peace mixed with terror, and then his feet snagged on the ground. His knees came up. There was a sharp crack as his knees rose to strike his chin; his jaw crunched as
his teeth met and he felt an incisor break off cleanly. Blood filled his mouth and he had to lift his vizor to spit out shards.

He was dazed. He knew that. Sitting on his rump in the dirt, his ears ringing, he couldn’t move for a moment. He couldn’t believe that he had truly fallen like this, but he was on
his arse on the ground. He looked up and saw people laughing and clapping, urging on Sir John as he reined in at the far end of the lists, saw him trot forward, knowing his victory was all but
complete. Baldwin had to shake his head to clear it, but already dust had blown into his eyes and he was temporarily blinded. Beneath him he saw the broken remains of his saddle. He was still
sitting in it. The thing had disintegrated under the force of the blow.

A determination not to die in so foolish a manner gripped him. He rolled away from his saddle and got on to all fours, pushing himself upwards even as he felt the earth begin to vibrate.

He pulled at his shield. It was no use to him and he let it fall, then snapped his vizor shut. Grabbing his axe, he held it in both hands and stood resolutely, waiting for Sir John.

It was easy to see what was in Sir John’s mind. A knight would usually meet his opponent with equal weapons, dismounting when his enemy was unhorsed, so that each could fight with equal
opportunity, but Sir John was fighting for justice for his dead son. There was no place for chivalry and sentiment. He spurred his horse on, his lance pointing at Baldwin.

Baldwin could have run, but to do so would mean death. An experienced knight like Sir John couldn’t miss a stumbling man encumbered by armour, and with the full mass of horse, man and
metal concentrated on the hardened steel tip of his lance, Baldwin would be spitted like a hog over a fire.

Instead, Baldwin stood stock-still until the last moment, the sweat trickling uncomfortably down his brow and his back, tickling beneath the thick padding of his coat. Sir John was approaching
at the gallop, his lance high, balanced against the horse’s motion, and as he drew closer, he allowed the point to fall until Baldwin could see it aiming at his belly. It moved up and down,
coming closer at a terrible speed, and when he could bear it no longer, he moved.

It was neither nimble nor swift, but as he dodged sideways he simultaneously swung his axe at the lance. He felt a solid, numbing buffet on his left arm as the lance caught him a glancing blow,
then the axe came alive, almost leaping from his hand, and he knew he had almost taken the head of the lance from its shaft – but the point was reinforced with bars of steel that ran along
the shaft itself. It could still kill him.

Keeping Sir John in view, he clenched and relaxed his left hand, panting as he tried to force the tension away. He had to remain alert and swift on his feet now he was on the ground. An idea
struck him and he retreated to stand before the remains of his saddle, some few feet from it.

After a moment he felt the pounding of the hoofbeats through his feet; he gripped his axe firmly in both hands, waiting. Again he forced himself to confront the swift-running mount whose flanks
were flecked with blood where the spurs had pricked, whose mouth foamed, whose eyes rolled madly. Baldwin felt a shudder run through his body, a shiver of fear, but also of a cold, enraged
exhilaration. When he felt sure he would feel the crushing spike of the lance pierce his armour and chest, he shrieked in defiance and sought to spring away; his armour slowed him. Even as he
straightened his legs to leap from the horse’s path, he felt rather than heard the
clang
! as the lance-tip caught the right side of his chest and became entangled in his belt, which
snapped, but there was instantly a second thump higher up his chest and he was thrown back with the force as his sword and dagger fell to the ground.

Rolling away, sweat blinded him. He opened his eyes but had to close them instantly as the salt stung and burned. All he could hear was the whistle and roar of his breath in the confines of his
metal mask, all he could feel was the shooting of knives along his side and the dull, monotonous ache at his back where he had fallen on a painful projection within his suit. Gradually his hearing
returned, his senses assaulting him afresh even as he tasted blood from his smashed tooth. Keeping hold of his axe, he heard a rising wave of noise from the spectators. Confused, he cautiously
raised his vizor.

Sir John’s horse had not seen the saddle until the last moment. The wooden frame was broken, but as the destrier tried to avoid it, he stumbled on to the heavy cantle at the rear of the
seat, and it was enough to turn his hoof. With a vicious crack like a stone smiting a castle wall, the massive horse had fallen and rolled on to his back, his legs flailing in the air, one
shattered foreleg waving obscenely and spraying blood over the field.

Baldwin coughed, winded. He slowly clambered to his feet and spat out more blood before waiting patiently.

Sir John was standing at the side of his mount as if disbelieving that such a disaster could have befallen him, but then he appeared to waken anew to full rage and bloodlust.

Grabbing at his mace, he took it up in both hands and lumbered towards Baldwin, the ugly ball gleaming over his head. Baldwin just had time to pull his vizor down again before the first buffet
smashed over his helmet. He moved away, his axe up and held at an angle to deflect the foul weapon, but the heavy head scraped down the axe and slammed against his left hand, crushing it against
the shaft. Baldwin gritted his teeth and tried to swing the axe low, to threaten Sir John’s legs, but the other knight stopped the attempt with contemptuous ease, reversing his movement to
swing the mace at Baldwin’s left side.

Pain took Baldwin over. It was like an explosion in his chest, a rapidly flowering agony that rose all the way to his head and made him feel as if his eyes would burst from their sockets. Before
he could recover, the mace crashed against his head again, the steel of his heavy helm deafening him. Disorientated, he fell back, his axe flailing before him.

‘God!’ he cried. ‘Holy Father, Holy Mother, save me!’

The axe caught Sir John a glancing thump on his head, striking sparks from his helm but the knight scarcely seemed to notice. He came on. Baldwin had enough energy to swing again with all his
remaining might, but although he connected with Sir John’s helmet, it didn’t distract the man. The mace rose and fell onto Baldwin’s head, bouncing from the steel and hitting his
left shoulder.

It was agony. A spike had slipped between the links of his mail tippet and Baldwin was sure that he could feel it crush and puncture his shoulder. His entire left arm was dead; there was no
strength in it to cling to his axe, and the heavy weapon was a dead weight in his right hand. The mace rose again; he lifted the axe one-handedly and caught its shaft, halting its downwards sweep,
and a twist of his wrist deflected its momentum so that it turned in towards Sir John’s own leg. A roar, more of anger than of pain, told him that the heavy mace head had caught Sir
John’s thigh.

Stumbling, all but blinded, his nostrils clogged with the dust, panting with the heat, the pain washing all over his left side, Baldwin staggered to break the engagement. Facing Sir John again,
he was shocked to see that the knight was almost upon him once more. Baldwin lifted the axe but Sir John’s mace caught it and his two-handed swing took the axe from Baldwin’s hand,
wrenching it from his grasp, snapping the chain that held it to him, and sending it spinning away even as Sir John’s forward rush took him past Baldwin, who suddenly saw his sword and belt
lying nearby. He reached down to it, the act of gripping the hilt sending a stab of white-hot pain up his forearm, but he gritted his teeth and hauled it free.

Exhausted with pain and the heat, Baldwin lifted his vizor a last time. If he was to die, he would die with air in his lungs. He rested the point of his sword on the ground while he panted,
watching Sir John take a fresh hold of his mace. The knight gave a roar of defiance, lifting the spiked ball high overhead, and began a shambling run towards Baldwin.

He was about to swing it down when Baldwin recalled Odo’s words: ‘
À l’estoc!
’

Baldwin felt a small thrill of energy override his pain. It was tiny, just enough to bring a moment of concentration, but that split second was adequate. As if time stood still, he saw that
where Sir John’s breast steel met the back-plate, there was a gap beneath the armpit. The sight galvanised Baldwin. His sword was low still as he raised the point. As Sir John ran at him,
Baldwin side-stepped and thrust it sharply upwards. He almost ignored the crash as the mace-head rang from the crown of his helmet.

The sword sheared through the thin leather and mail which protected Sir John’s underarm, and passed through into the soft flesh, the blade burying itself in the bone. Sir John gave a roar
of pain, his fury making him try to spin to bring the mace down again, but the act made the blade twist within his chest. Baldwin stepped back, tugging his sword free and eyeing his opponent with
cold intensity.

Sir John grabbed at his vizor and pulled it open, breathing stertorously, groaning heavily with each exhalation. He gave a low, hacking cough and spat blood before swinging his arm slowly,
contemplating Baldwin. Reaching down, he picked up Baldwin’s axe, holding it loosely in his left hand while he swung his mace in his right. Silently he stalked towards Baldwin, both weapons
ready.