Whited Sepulchres (30 page)

This bout was more formal than the others had been. The crowd moved back to give them plenty of room, men wary of the sharp weapons, and the earl and Sir Gilbert bowed to each other before taking their guard. They were fairly evenly matched in size, the earl being perhaps an inch shorter than his opponent, but stockier. They circled for a few moments, each trying to manoeuvre the other so that the sun was in his eyes, but each too canny to fall for this old trick. Then without warning the earl struck. Martin had seen him train before, of course, and was expecting it, but even so his lord’s movement was almost too fast for the eye to see. However, Sir Gilbert caught the blow easily on his shield and deflected it down, before flicking his own blade out. The earl was ready for the riposte and the two of them moved apart again.

As the match continued, Martin realised exactly how much work he would have to do if he were ever to reach the standard of the two men in front of him. Of course, they weren’t really trying to kill each other, but they were otherwise in earnest: their concentration was intense, their movements tight and controlled, and their reactions phenomenally fast. The men around watched entranced, and Martin noticed Sir Geoffrey beside him nodding appreciatively at each clash. As time went on, Martin knew he would have been getting tired by the weight of all the armour, but the nobles didn’t seem to flag: the benefits of having trained in the armour daily from a young age. Martin hardened his resolve that from now on he would make sure he wore full armour even to train with blunt weapons, otherwise he’d never get used to it.

The combatants were still engaging, and, as Martin watched, Sir Gilbert attempted a thrust which turned into a well-disguised uppercut. A collective groan went up from the earl’s men who were watching, but he was not fooled and reacted with skill. Instead of deflecting the blow away with his shield he caught it neatly with the blade of his own sword, twisted and flicked it just enough to render his opponent slightly off balance, and then used his own shield to ram forward. Sir Gilbert’s head went back and he was forced to take an involuntary step backwards: and then the earl had him, sword point levelled at his throat where the tipping back of the helm had exposed the mail.

Amid applause from the men, the earl stepped back; Sir Gilbert lowered his sword and acknowledged defeat with a bow before both men removed their helms and shook hands. Both smiled broadly and complimented each other, and Martin hastened forward to take the sword, shield and helm from his lord before he should have to drop them. Now
that
was demonstrating cleverness instead of strength. This is what he would need to work on.

As he took the earl’s sword and sheathed it carefully, he started to feel a little morose. Everywhere he went he was surrounded by clever men. How in the Lord’s name was he supposed to live up to their standards?

Sir Roger was nearby, and he came to talk to Martin. ‘Why the long face?’

Martin mumbled something about strength and cleverness, which he wasn’t sure the knight had understood. ‘You know, like Roland,’ he added.

Sir Roger looked perplexed. ‘Sorry?’

‘You know; “Roland is brave but Olivier is wise”. The minstrel said that in the poem the other day. I missed a big bit after that, but I bet it was Roland who got them into all the trouble which happened, while clever Olivier sorted it out.’

As he looked miserably at the floor, Sir Roger burst out laughing. ‘Oh no, you’ve missed the point completely. It’s
Roland
who’s the hero, Roland who the poem’s named after. He might not be clever, but he was loyal, brave and strong, and he was true to himself right up until the end.’

Martin stared.

Meanwhile, Sir Gilbert had been speaking to the earl about Martin, noting in a jovial voice that he was a fine-looking fellow and surely he shouldn’t be the only one not permitted to engage in some training? ‘Perhaps he’d like to share a bout with my squire?’ Eustace, who was collecting his lord’s weapons and who was still sweating from his previous bout and from running to fetch the armour, stepped forward resolutely, but looked a bit apprehensive as Martin straightened from talking to Sir Roger, unfurling his full height.

‘No, no, that will never do.’ The earl’s voice was firm. ‘Your lad is to be congratulated on his eagerness, but he’s much younger and it wouldn’t be fair to subject him to such a mismatch. Martin may spar by all means, but we shall have to find another opponent.’ He looked round enquiringly. Several men shuffled as though they might volunteer, but before they could do so, Sir Roger was stepping forward, clapping Martin on the back as he went past. He made his bow to the earl. ‘Please allow me, my lord. After all, I used to defeat him years ago when he was smaller – surely he should have the chance to repay the favour now?’

The earl, all smiles, agreed. ‘A fine idea, Roger. And if he is to fight a knight then he may as well do it properly – the experience will do him good.’ At first Martin didn’t know what he meant, but then he realised that the earl was pointing towards a full set of armour and, lying ominously next to it, a sharp sword.

Before he knew it, Sir Roger had agreed and was being helped into a spare gambeson. Martin looked stupidly at the armour on the ground without moving until Adam came over and nudged him. ‘Here, I’ll help.’ Soon Martin was almost ready, weighed down by mail, and Adam was placing the helm on his head. Immediately the noise around him dulled as the helm pressed the padded coif closer over his ears, and the bright sunshine disappeared all around to be replaced by the narrow field of vision afforded by the eye-slits. He could hear little but his own breathing, close inside the helm. He held the sharp sword as though it were alive, which in some way he supposed it was. His fear was partly that he might be injured – the sight of Sir Roger’s glinting blade was enough to instil nervousness, even though he trusted him – but also that he might accidentally hurt the other. What in the Lord’s name would he do if he inadvertently managed to cripple one of the earl’s knights?

But there was no more time to think, as Sir Roger was bowing. Unused to being offered such courtesy Martin attempted a clumsy bow of his own before taking his guard, bracing his shield arm and bringing his sword up to the ready position.

He felt huge and lumbering next to the knight, who managed to look lithe even wearing layers of padding and armour. And Sir Roger was certainly quicker than he was, already circling and looking for an opening.

Now think, think. Come on, it’s only a training bout, you’ve done this hundreds of times before. Martin felt a strange sensation coming over him. He had been put in an unfamiliar and potentially embarrassing, not to mention dangerous, situation, and was being watched by crowds of men and his lord, but all of that melted away. He was conscious only of the man in front of him, and of his own body smoothly handling the weapons. A different part of his mind seemed to take over, and he was ready. He raised his own sword and lunged.

At first he tried to be clever, as he’d always wanted to be. He tried using the point of the sword as he’d seen the other man do earlier, tried to be subtle like the earl. But Sir Roger was cleverer, and quicker. Martin was losing ground. He let himself be defensive for a few moments while he tried to think. This wasn’t going to work – he needed another plan. Sir Roger was staring at him from behind the eye-slits of his helmet.
Roland is the hero – he stayed true to himself
. Oh, who was he trying to hoodwink with all these attempts to be clever? He was bigger, taller, stronger, and he should use the attributes the Lord had given him. Starting now.

The bout continued, and even as he concentrated just on defending himself, Martin more than held his own, although he was unaware of the cheers and appreciative comments which were being passed. He was growing in confidence, realising that fighting in this way was what he had been born to do. He parried Sir Roger’s attacks easily and then went on the offensive a little more, managing to land a few blows of his own on his opponent’s shield. As he went on and realised that he was not yet on the ground and defeated, his confidence grew even further. Now was the time. Shifting his weight, he struck with his shield first, extending his arm and using his strength and longer reach to ram into the smaller man and force him back. Then he brought his sword round in a wide arc, able to make the obvious and undisguised movement knowing that the other wouldn’t be able to get his shield back into position properly while he was off balance. He struck with the sword as hard as he could, every ounce of power in his body braced behind the blow. The blade crashed into the shield, and Sir Roger, already staggering, was thrown bodily across the grass and landed flat on his back several feet away. Martin roared, not sure whether he’d done so out loud or whether the exultation was contained within him.

Cheers erupted around him which he could hear even through the helm and the padding, and belatedly his senses returned to him and he realised what he’d done. Oh dear Lord. He threw down the sword and shook the shield from his arm, wrenched off the helm and knelt down by his opponent, asking frantically if he was all right. Sir Roger sat up and divested himself of his own helm. Looking slightly stunned, he spoke. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine, please, don’t worry about it.’ He grimaced as he moved his left shoulder, but rose easily enough once he’d put the shield down. He stood. Martin realised just what an embarrassment he’d inflicted on his superior and hung his head, but Sir Roger was as gracious as ever. He stepped forward and raised Martin’s arm, turning him towards the men so they could salute the victor. Then he turned to the watching earl. ‘My lord, I think the future of your household is in good hands with this young man. Please allow me to congratulate you both.’

There were more cheers, but the earl said nothing, nodding to Sir Roger before looking at Martin with such a frank appraisal that he had to drop his head and look away. And then it happened: the earl, his lord, stepped forward and shook his hand, saying that he’d done well. He, Martin, being congratulated in front of all these people! He was dazed, not knowing where to look, but fortunately the earl and Sir Gilbert turned to move off, and then others were drifting away and the entertainment was over. Sir Roger also withdrew and Martin was left with Sir Geoffrey and Adam. The younger boy helped him out of the mail and the by-now incredibly sweaty gambeson, and Martin welcomed the fresh air through his shirt as he started to gather everything to take back to the castle. Sir Geoffrey had as yet said nothing, but once the area was clear and the squires were both laden, he too offered his thoughts. ‘An interesting lesson. I’ve been telling you for years that skill is the most important thing, but it would seem that brute strength has its place as well.’ Martin had no time to consider this properly before the knight was continuing brusquely. ‘Come now, boys – most of this will need checking and cleaning before it’s put away again.’ But behind the offhand manner there was admiration, and the nod and look he gave to Martin would stay with him until the end of his days.

‘Edwin, get up.’

Edwin groaned and pulled the blanket further over his head. It was early evening and he hadn’t been out of the house all day. He couldn’t. Everyone would look at him, point at him, talk about him. He, Edwin, the great failure, the man who thought he was right, who thought he was as good as his father. He’d wandered around the cottage for a while, and then retreated to his palliasse in the corner.

‘Edwin. You do as you’re told right now!’

He moved the blanket away from his face. His mother was standing over him, her hands on her hips. ‘Oh,
what
?’

She folded her arms and said nothing. He tried to stare her out, but that never worked. ‘Sorry, Mother. It’s not your fault.’

She sighed and lowered herself to the floor to sit beside him. He sat up to offer her some room on the palliasse. ‘No, and it’s not yours either. It was too difficult a task for the lord earl to give you.’

Edwin put his head on her shoulder and burst into tears. She put her arms round him and stroked his head, making soothing noises as she had done when he was little. Eventually the storm subsided and he was able to sit up, scrubbing his sleeve over his eyes. ‘Father would be so ashamed of me.’

She used the corner of her apron to wipe his face. ‘Perhaps. But not for the reason you might think.’

He stopped, arm halfway across his face. ‘What?’

‘Your father would never condemn you for being wrong. Everybody makes mistakes. But he wouldn’t like you giving up.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘Do you honestly think that the lord earl’s new goodbrother is in danger?’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure what to think any more. But on balance, yes.’

‘Then what is that compared to your own discomfort? Yes, you feel humiliated, but is that an excuse to lie here and brood when you might be better served putting right your mistake?’

Edwin finished wiping his face and nodded. ‘All right. That’s what Father would have done, so that’s what I’ll do.’

Suddenly she was crying as well. He exclaimed and made as if to put his arms around her, but she waved him away. ‘I’m all right, I’m all right. It’s just … both of us have to stop doing this. I miss him with all my heart, and so do you, but he’s gone. We have to look forward, not back over our shoulders.’ She dried her eyes and stood. ‘Come now. Get up, go out and see if you can still be of assistance to our lord earl.’