by David Gilman
‘Laissez-les aller!’
The gatekeepers stepped back quickly out of the way, raising their lances, letting the surging horses through. A gasp of expectation rose up, turning from awe to blood-lust. Edward of Woodstock, the great Prince, victor of Poitiers and captor of the French King, crouched, lance steady, hurtling towards his opponent across the seventy yards between them; seventy yards that were devoured in six seconds. The Prince’s opponent struck the Prince’s shield a blink of an eye before the Prince found his target, but the Prince took the blow at an angle and his own lance splintered as it struck with such accuracy that the impact lifted his opponent out of the saddle. The combined weight of horse, man and armour and the bone-crushing momentum carried the man across the saddle’s cantle. As his body thudded into the ground Blackstone already knew that the man’s shield arm must have been broken. His eyes had followed the tip of the blunted lance from the moment the Prince had lowered it. Edward’s aim had not wavered, even when he had taken the glancing blow on his own shield. It was the strike of a highly trained knight. This was no sport. The Prince meant to be the victor and Blackstone understood the cold, deliberate intent meant that he, too, was likely to fail in this contest of arms.
‘He will not rise,’ said Caprini. ‘He is too badly injured.’
They watched as ushers ran forward to aid the stricken knight and from the way his body sagged Blackstone knew the man’s shoulder was snapped. The Prince retired beyond the gate to await his next opponent, applauded by King and commoner, cheered on by a crowd who revered their heroic Prince.
‘Sir Thomas,’ said Caprini. ‘You cannot beat this man in the saddle. Angle your shield high, like so.’ He bent his arm to demonstrate. ‘Deflect the blow, push forward in your stirrups. Get him on the ground with you. Then you can overcome him.’
‘You have a lot of confidence in me,’ said Blackstone.
Caprini kept his eyes on the Prince as he was fussed over by attendants. ‘I see a fighter’s weakness and his strength. He was aiming for the other’s head. Strike the helm and such a blow can snap a man’s neck at worst. At best he is in darkness for a long time. Your Prince is known to be a generous benefactor, but not here; not when he fights.’
*
John Jacob had taken his time in dressing Blackstone. After Blackstone had bathed he tugged on a linen shirt and then a padded tunic to help protect his ribs. Blackstone had reined in his impatience as Jacob fumbled with straps and the layers of clothing and armour. To save his sworn lord’s strength from bearing the weight of the armour on his chest and shoulders he dressed him from the feet up, adding the weight piece by piece. Over Blackstone’s leather shoes he fitted the sabatons of mail, then plate armour for the shins, knees and thighs. He eased a sleeveless mail haubergeon onto his torso and cinched Blackstone’s waist with a leather belt.
‘Christ, John, I’ll split like a squeezed worm,’ he muttered as Jacob found an extra notch.
‘Keep your guts in place,’ Jacob said, attending to his duty, determined to give Blackstone as much protection as possible. ‘When was the last time you had to do this?’
‘Never,’ said Blackstone.
‘Merciful God, I hope you’ve had a good breakfast,’ Jacob answered without halting his ministrations as he fitted a breastplate and then added pieces for Blackstone’s shoulders and arms. ‘Too tight on the arms?’ he asked.
Blackstone lifted and swung his fighting arm. ‘No. It’s good enough.’
‘It’d better be. Our Prince will have the very best armour. Catch the flat of your blade on it and it will slide like water off glass. Stroke hard and put your weight behind it. Hard, Sir Thomas. You have to beat him with your strength.’
‘He’s no weakling.’
‘But he hasn’t been running up and down those accursed mountains in Italy for nigh on two years and fighting bastard Hungarians who take a lot of killing.’
Jacob checked his work, looking Blackstone up and down as a concerned mother might dress a child. ‘It’ll do,’ he said as he tugged on the plated gauntlets with their leather lining for grip onto Blackstone’s big hands. Blackstone was obliged to bend down so his captain could tug a leather cap onto his head and then, before fitting the helm, slipped a mail coif over him to protect his neck and shoulders. There was to be no surcoat showing his coat of arms. He settled the uncrested helm on Blackstone’s head.
‘Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you, Sir Thomas. Come to that, neither would I if you came at me dressed like this.’
Jacob wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and spat in satisfaction. He was sweating from attending Blackstone. God knew what it was like in that metal coffin. ‘Near enough time, Sir Thomas. Lads have brought your horse to the mounting bench. I’ve hobbled him and kept him hooded. Don’t want him running amok and bringing attention on us.’
Blackstone nodded as the figure of the French King merged back into the rich colours of nobility on the dais. ‘Good enough. Keep my blazon covered on your jupon and shield and when I go down it’s up to you to get my horse.’
‘Aye, me and a dozen more. It’ll be done, though I’m not sure how.’
Blackstone turned to Caprini. ‘You gave your word not to mention my name, Fra Stefano.’
‘It stands. And if there are those who wish you harm, then Master Jacob and I will guard your back. It is my intention to take you to Canterbury. I sense that a pilgrimage would be good for you.’
The thunder of hooves rumbled across the ground and the clash and roar of the crowd signalled that the Prince had taken another prize.
‘He’s getting warmed up,’ said Jacob. ‘His muscles will be loose now, but he’ll be hot. He’ll have sweat in his eyes. One more chance when he goes back and takes off his helm for a servant to wipe his face. He won’t take off them gauntlets and do it himself. He wants his third victory and then he can sup and do whatever heroic princes do after a joust. Piss in a gold jug and turn it into wine, for all I know.’
Blackstone felt the crumpled linen shirt between his shoulder blades twist like rope from the sweat that soaked him beneath the padded jacket, mail and armour. He had forgotten how cumbersome it all was and why he and his men chose to fight without the plate.
Caprini came to escort him towards the enclosure. ‘Did you hear that? The crowd? A German knight, the best I’ve seen. He cleared the field. We see the best of them all today, Sir Thomas. Remember what I said and you will come through this with honour.’
‘And still be able to walk, I hope,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ve no joy at the thought of fighting the Prince.’
As they approached the mounting bench the bastard horse raised its head, scenting his master’s approach despite being hooded. ‘Christ help us both,’ Blackstone muttered. Had he been able to reach the silver goddess at his throat that now lay tucked beneath the steel collar he would have invoked her blessing. Jousting horses were as well trained as the men who rode them. Blackstone’s horse was a fiery instrument of war. And it seemed as irritated as Blackstone at having to wear such protection. The beast was caparisoned over a quilted blanket, a chanfron headpiece of jointed metal pieces had gaps for its eyes, ears and nostrils, and curtains of mail protected its flanks, while a strong, boiled-leather covering protected its chest.
Trumpets blared, the marshal’s voice drifted through the pavilions. An unknown challenger was to take the field. Rumour had it that it was to be one of the King’s closest friends disguised as a poor knight – a jest, just as when the King and his son dressed in the guise of city officials at jousts and took on all comers. Others said that it was the Gascon lord, Jean de Grailly, who had returned early from the crusade in Prussia. Those who professed to know from reliable sources said it was a famed Spanish knight. Rumour after rumour had failed to uncover the name of the knight who would soon appear without a coat of arms. It was an added excitement and one that fuelled the crowd’s interest. A fine way to end the first day of the ongoing tournament.
; Wolf Sword was held in a ring tied to the saddle’s pommel; axe and mace were tucked into and tied onto his studded belt. John Jacob steadied the horse’s steel bridle as its yellow teeth snapped and champed at the bit.
Blackstone nodded and Jacob eased off the hood. The horse shivered, ducked its head, tugging against the reins, testing Blackstone. His legs held its body firmly, not too tight – not yet – because whatever Blackstone needed from this beast it would be commanded through the pressure from his legs. ‘I have him,’ he told Jacob.
Caprini stepped in and took the leather-bound, unmarked wooden shield from an attendant, lifting it so Blackstone could hook his bent arm through its straps.
‘I think you have a chance. Rise up when you strike,’ said Caprini. ‘Rise up and lean forward the moment before impact. He will do the same, but the man who gets the blow in first will suffer the least. He crouches but you will have extra power to strike a downward blow. It might save you because he will find his target on your shield. Then, take yourself to the ground when you are ready.’
Blackstone wondered if the old broken bone that bent his shield arm would take such an impact. Another attendant handed him the unwieldy ash lance, near enough fourteen feet long, thick at the base to tuck beneath his arm with a carved place for his gauntleted fist to grip behind the simple crossguard. A crown-shaped, three-pronged cronel covered the lance’s tip. He felt awkward – trapped like a coiled snake in an iron casket. ‘Thank Christ they’re blunted,’ he said, meaning the lance. He eased its base into the well-worn pocket of the fewter on his stirrup to hold it steady until it could be brought to bear.
A persistent throbbing drumbeat of his heart pounded through his helm. John Jacob stood on the mounting stool and raised a wineskin to Blackstone’s lips. ‘Wine and water, Sir Thomas. You take the fight to him. You’ll need this.’
Blackstone swallowed, grateful that his dry mouth had been eased.
He held the great beast ready, its plain caparison as dull as its singed-looking hide. Two unmarked creatures, their identity camouflaged by drab covering, about to hurl themselves into the riot of colour that fluttered in all its pageantry.
He calmed his breathing, felt the horse settle and knew, from whichever of God’s angels hovered at his shoulder, that he had nothing to fear.
Jacob and Caprini stepped away. Now that Blackstone was armed and ready no further contact was allowed. He dropped the visor and sucked in the claustrophobic darkness – the narrow slit barely wide enough to see directly in front of him. A fleeting memory of thousands of French knights bearing down on him and the other archers gave him a moment of imagined horror. How they had slain those poor bastards trapped in these coffins. What terror must they have known? Yet still they had come on.
The horse snorted, lowered and then raised its head. Ears cocked forward. Muscles bunched and quivering. Eager to fight. Blackstone could not contain the moment of anticipation that mingled with joy. He laughed. ‘You have the strength and balls of a bull,’ he said to the horse. ‘And I thank God for it.’
The guards at the gate raised their lances and stepped quickly away.
The marshal’s voice carried. ‘Laissez-les aller!’
30
Blackstone grunted with effort, desperately sucking air in the dark confines of the helm. Everything felt wrong. Something chafed in his groin against the saddle, bunched linen rubbed beneath his armpits and the jolting, uneven gait of his horse bobbed his vision up and down. With shield and reins in his left hand he pulled up his horse’s head, fighting the unruly beast that seemed only to want to attack the other stallion that bore down on them. Blackstone cursed and tried to keep it on course, but between the bellicose horse and the wavering lance he struggled to keep his opponent in sight through the helm’s narrow slit. His frustration rose to anger. Goddammit! For Christ’s sake! Come on! Straight! Straight, for Christ’s sake! a voice in his head bellowed as he used his legs to try to bring the aggressive horse onto the right course and not too close to the Prince who hurtled towards him. He had seen knights badly injured when horses collided, and also that it was not always possible for the knights to get a clean strike against the shield because of the wavering mounts. He held the lance right to left across his chest, angled just off the near edge of his shield. Its tip wavered uncontrollably and he could feel through his anger the despair that he would be unlikely to strike the Prince’s shield. An archer’s instinct always let the bowman guide his arrow shaft onto his target and that instinct rescued him in the final moments before the combatants closed. He eased the reins through his fingers, letting the belligerent horse turn its head as if to attack the other as he angled his shield. Raising himself forward from the saddle he took the weight and strain onto his hips and thighs, letting the bunched muscles in his back transmit their strength into his shoulder and arms. Instinct, anger and defiance let his eye take the tip of his lance onto the black shield.
Wood splintered. The impact smashed his shield against his ribs and threw him back across the saddle; only the strength of his legs held him onto the horse. Pain shot through his shield arm and blood roared in his head; somewhere beyond that was the bellowing of the crowd. He was glad of the extra notch John Jacob had cinched on his belt as he pushed his stomach muscles against it and came upright in the saddle. He pressed one leg into the war horse’s side and kicked it around with the other. As the horse turned he saw that the Prince had not yet regained his stirrups and his own mount was floundering. He had made the first pass but he had no wish to do it again. The beast had struck the Prince’s mount on the pass and now all eyes were on the Prince. Blackstone desperately wanted to pull free the visor and gulp air, but he gathered the horse, exerted his strength against its will and brought it to an impatient halt, letting it bellow and snort its exertion and frustration. His own lance was splintered two thirds of the way down its shaft, as was the Prince’s, and following the Prince’s example he tossed it aside. Blackstone was about to feign injury and allow himself to slip from the saddle but he was saved this humiliation when he saw that the Prince’s horse was limping, injured from the contact. Blackstone watched the man he had last seen at Poitiers climb down from the saddle as attendants ran forward to seize its reins. Cheers and applause greeted the Prince’s recovery and Blackstone could tell that he had winded the King’s son. But that did not disguise the Prince’s anger that came fast-paced towards him after drawing his sword from its saddle ring. Blackstone pulled Wolf Sword free and dismounted. John Jacob led four ushers at the run to take his horse. Blackstone said nothing as his captain took the reins from him, barely hearing his utterance.
‘God’s blood, you rattled his brain, Sir Thomas. Finish him.’
Blackstone was already striding away towards the royal stand with Wolf Sword’s comforting grip in his hand. Now that he had survived the joust he knew he could do what came more naturally to him. The man wearing the crested helm and dark, burnished armour covered by his tournament surcoat strode towards him, but Blackstone could see there was a slight imbalance in the Prince’s stride. Perhaps, he thought, the impact had wrenched muscles. Blackstone felt exhilaration as he quickened his pace, knowing the crowd now applauded with approval at his eagerness to engage the Prince of Wales.
Neither man waited for the other to strike first but barged their shields, hoping the other would be pushed off balance. The instant they clashed Blackstone realized, despite the Prince being nearly as tall and muscled, that he had the advantage of Edward, who rocked back half a pace. It meant nothing to the crowd, merely that the Prince braced his legs and brought his sword down, catching Blackstone’s helm. Like a church bell’s hammer the sword’s clang reverberated inside. Neither man yielded another pace backwards, but kept striking their opponent with tireless blows. Each could hear the other grunting with exertion and both ignored the rousing cries from the crowd. Blackstone forgot his promise to Isabella. All else faded into a blurred memory as he hammered blow after blow against the heir to th
e throne. Edward had fought with youthful joy at Crécy and as a more experienced warrior at Poitiers, and a lifetime of zealous ambition to one day be a warrior king like his father brought him on to attack Blackstone. Yet every strike he made Blackstone parried, every manoeuvre that turned body and shield Blackstone blocked. Neither man could best the other, but Edward was tiring, his strength weakening. Blackstone sensed it as surely as he knew, when he had been an archer, that his arrows would find their target.
Blackstone saw the Prince shift his weight onto his back foot as he sought a firmer stance against the ceaseless attack. Blackstone had him. At that moment the Prince realized that the knight who faced him was stronger. And lethal. Blackstone bore down on him and felt him take two faltering steps backwards. Sweat stung Blackstone’s eyes, his mouth was dry from exertion and a nagging pain crept up his old injury into his shoulder. Ignoring the discomfort he closed with the Prince. He heard the man’s wheezing breath, as desperate as his own. This was a tournament no longer. It was close-quarter battle that made a man take desperate measures to survive. Blackstone’s mongrel blood swept aside any jousting code of honour – he and the Prince had committed themselves to a fight that could lead to either of them being badly injured. Their ferocious desire to survive bled into the men’s muscles. Blackstone would ram him with his shield, then take his legs from beneath him and the Prince would be unable to rise with the weight of his armour and the by then draining exhaustion in his muscles – the fight would be won.