But both were experienced, and neither was unseated.
Amory turned his horse and cantered back to the pavilion, checking that his shield, though dented, was not yet pierced. His left arm was numb from the force of the blow. There was another howl from the wagon. Both ropes were twisting wildly as dog and man tried to draw themselves up out of reach of the flames beneath.
I must not look. I must not listen. I can use their agony to feed my strength. Howl as they will, scream as they may, I must have no pity, no compassion. I must be like Father Hilarion, whom I am quite sure is not praying for my success at this moment … and Amory remembered something else: Father Hilarion had not come to watch the pageant, and would not have known that Amory was wearing armour for the part of St George … the arrow in the night had been aimed at the back of a man supposedly unarmed. …
Amory threw his splintered lance away, and snatched the next from Julian. Julian was looking haggard. He was only a boy. He would learn. Nine years in a quarry taught you a lot, though you might not think so at the time. Why should Father Hilarion have wished to kill Amory before he fought Sir Bevil? It didn’t make sense.
And again the two horses rode at each other, and again both lances were splintered. This time Amory threw his shield away, together with the butt of his broken lance. Sir Bevil’s strength was prodigious, and his thrust had been true. Sir Bevil was cursing as he rode back for the third and last lance. He also was throwing his shield away. Now neither man had a shield. The rules did not allow for replacements.
A third time the men crouched low over their steeds, and levelled their lances. A dreadful smell was beginning to hover over the lists. Amory would not allow himself to recognize it for what it was, nor to glance at the twisting, screaming bodies of those whose flesh was causing it.
This time both men lowered their sights and chose a different target. The crupper of the saddle was not armoured, and if struck at precisely the right angle the shock sometimes broke the girths, sending saddle and rider sliding to the ground. At the last moment Amory raised the point of his lance, catching Sir Bevil under the breastbone. He felt his own horse’s girths snap, but he knew he had caught Sir Bevil fairly at the same time. As Amory’s horse reared, he slid off it, jettisoning his lance. He was still clutching at the bridle reins with his left hand. The horse pawed the air, but responded to his hand and voice. Sir Bevil was also off, but staggering to his feet, and he had lost his horse, which was now cantering back towards the end of the lists.
A horrible scream burst forth from the tortured man, and despite himself Amory looked at him. Then there came the whirr of an arrow, and the twisting body stilled and was silent. An arrow had pierced his chest. A cry rose from Sir Bevil’s men, and some of them set off up the hill with the intention of finding and killing the archer, but even as they did so another arrow flew straight to its target, and the rope from which the dog was suspended frayed and broke. Twisting as he fell, the dog scrambled clear of the wagon and disappeared from sight.
‘Praise God – and Rob!’ said Amory, and turning his horse, vaulted on to its bare back. He had no stirrups now, but he still had reins, and being on horseback meant he was above Sir Bevil, who had been above him before. Sir Bevil began to run back to his pavilion, calling for someone to hold his horse for him. But his horse, frightened, would not stand still to be caught, but ran round and round the lists, seeking an avenue of escape. He found it beside Amory’s pavilion, and ran through the gap and out into the valley.
‘Another horse!’ yelled Sir Bevil, but this was not in the rules, either. A low growl from the Count’s men, and a pressing in of archers, made Sir Bevil change his mind. He still had his mace, hanging at his belt, and his sword. With a confident swing of that terrible weapon, Sir Bevil strode into the middle of the lists, swinging his iron-spiked club. Amory watched him, understanding that the man would now try to put his opponent’s horse out of action, so that he might once more have the advantage of height. That was not so good. If Sir Bevil were to catch the horse with that mace, and the horse were to go down with Amory still in the saddle, it would be all over with him. He rode down on Sir Bevil, with his knees guiding the horse till he was right on top of the man. The mace in Sir Bevil’s hand came down with terrific force … but Amory’s knees had caused the horse to swerve at the last moment, and his own mace was forcing Sir Bevil to his knees with a blow on the shoulder.
That had been a lucky blow, thought Amory. He had caught the man off guard, as one did in wrestling. Now there was another thought … he cantered round the lists, getting ready for another charge, and then he saw that Sir Bevil’s men had captured Rob and were bringing him back down the hill, bound with ropes. Amory knew he must finish the fight quickly, or it would be all over with Rob, too. He came to a decision. He jumped off his horse, and sent it spanking out of the lists with a slap on his rump. Then he took a fresh grip on his own mace and strode out to meet Sir Bevil as the giant came forward. Sir Bevil was grinning, though the sweat was running down his face from that tightly-fitting conical helmet. He had lost several teeth, and not shaved for days.
Amory ducked a violent blow aimed at his head, and aimed in turn at the back of Sir Bevil’s right leg. Sir Bevil bellowed with fury, and swung round with such a mighty blow that he numbed Amory’s left arm all over again. But the giant took a long time to recover from his blows, and now Amory was behind him again, and again the mace swung at the back of that right leg, and again Sir Bevil howled, and as Amory leaped away, Sir Bevil was seen to limp as he followed. And on came Sir Bevil, his blows now hitting and now missing Amory. And Amory gave ground, and ducked, and swung again and again at the back of that one leg, and now the effort was beginning to tell on him, too, and sweat began to spoil his vision.
Then the giant swung and missed, and Amory grasped the haft of Sir Bevil’s mace as it swung down, and twisted it, pulling it clear and throwing it away. But the big man had his sword out and was advancing on Amory, grinning with gapped mouth open wide. And Amory drew his own sword, for a mace was too slow. And the sparks flew, and though Amory was not so tall or so heavy, yet he was the quicker and the more wily of the two, so that Sir Bevil’s face became tinged with dark red, and his breath came hard.
And Amory now drove Sir Bevil round the lists, smiting here and there and again on the back of that right leg, until Sir Bevil made a stand, and then rushed at Amory, trying to overwhelm him with superior weight. And at such close quarters the swords were useless, and dropped unheeded to the ground, while both men sought for their daggers, and clutched at each other’s wrists.
And now Amory had the advantage, unsuspected by his opponent, for Amory could wrestle, while the giant could only beat with mailed arms on chain mail. And their daggers could find no unarmed place to strike except for the face, and here Amory’s arm was like steel, holding Sir Bevil’s hand away from him. Strive as he might, Sir Bevil could not bring his dagger up … sweat burst from his face, and it seemed to swell and grow purple. His eyes bulged.
Slowly, with every muscle in his body brought into use, Amory bent the giant back and back … until that lamed leg gave under him, and the man fell with a cry on to the ground, with his opponent’s knee on his chest.
‘Yield!’ said Amory, his dagger close to Sir Bevil’s cheek.
‘I … a minute … damnation. …’
Amory held his hand. Sir Bevil gasped. ‘I … water. …’
‘Do you yield?’
‘I … yes.’
Amory stood up and turned away. With a scrambling bound, Sir Bevil was upon him from behind, throwing him to the ground. The impact drove the breath out of Amory’s body. He fought for air, gasping as his opponent had lately been doing. With eager fingers Sir Bevil forced Amory’s helmet off, and tore at the close-fitting hood of chain mail beneath, to expose his throat. A dagger thrust there would end the battle. Amory could only gasp. He saw the dagger rise to be silhouetted against the sun, and he saw it begin to descend. He tried to
twist away, and knew he would not succeed in time. He felt the knife burn down into his shoulder, and he saw Sir Bevil grin. The man was playing with him as a cat with a mouse. He was not going to kill Amory straight away, but disable him, to be killed more slowly later. To be crucified.
But Amory was not finished yet. His dagger was gone, lost when he was thrown down, but there yet remained a weak link in his opponent’s armour. Amory reached up and grasped the nose-piece of Sir Bevil’s conical helmet, and with all the power that nine years of slave labour had given him, he bent Sir Bevil’s head to the left and down … and down … to the ground. Amory could feel the blood seep through his mail and run down inside his hauberk, but he did not slacken his grip. It did not matter how much it hurt him. The only thing of importance was that; this man should live no more.
Sir Bevil lashed out with his dagger, but could no longer find a target for it. His head was being twisted round, and he himself was being forced on to the back of his neck, with his body following, though how it was being done he had no idea, save that he was in the grip of some force, the like of which he had never met before.
Amory got to his knees, still holding Sir Bevil down. His arms were aching with the strain, and there was fire in his shoulder, but his next move was comparatively easy. He altered his grip. Sir Bevil automatically pushed himself up from the ground, and met with pain. His arm was in a vice, and the slightest pressure caused Sir Bevil intense pain. He began to scream as more pressure was applied by hands that knew how to apply, as well as to remove pain.
Amory lifted his head. He moved slowly and with care. He felt a little dizzy, but if he took his time about moving, he thought he would be all right. His dagger was out of reach. Sir Bevil’s had disappeared. Their swords were some twenty feet away. They were on that side of the lists opposite the Count, and near the wagon. Sir Bevil’s men had drawn away from the wagon on both sides, because of the smell of burning flesh. The body of the man swung limply from its rope above the licking flames in the braziers.
Amory considered the wagon and considered the distance he would have to go in order to obtain a weapon. Sir Bevil was screaming and sobbing, tears starting on his cheeks. Amory did not hear Sir Bevil’s screams for mercy. The crowd were shouting, the soldiers were waving their arms. Amory didn’t hear them, either.
He got to his feet, and as he did so, he lifted Sir Bevil and, hoisting him over his shoulder, balanced him there. Sir Bevil flailed with his arms, but Amory paid him no need. It took him six slow steps to reach the wagon, and in that time only a few people realized what Amory intended to do, and their cries were so faint that Amory paid them no heed, either. Amory stopped in front of the wagon. He dug his heels into the turf, and with the blood staining the breast of his white surcoat, and mingling with the red cross of the Crusader, he lifted Sir Bevil high in the air, and swung him on to the braziers.
A fresh bout of screams tore through the air. The braziers overturned, their contents spilling on to the wooden floor of the wagon. Sir Bevil’s surcoat was set alight, and then, before he could get to his feet, the linen on which his mail was sewn also caught fire. He was roasting within a metal cage. For a few long seconds he stood upright, with flames licking around him. His face was hideous to see, mouth and eyes agape. Then he fell with a crash, off the wagon, and down into the lists at Amory’s feet. When Sir Bevil’s men reached him, they found he was dead.
Herkom came out of the pavilion and looked around for Julian, who had been directing the disarming of Sir Bevil’s men. Barely an hour had passed since Sir Bevil had died, yet already the quarry swarmed, not with soldiers, but with masons and carpenters who had descended on their old lodgings in search of loot. Down from the old tower had come John Blackbeard, ready to take a party of soldiers up the hill to scour the woods for any of Sir Bevil’s men who might have escaped. The stands were empty; the Count and his household were even now reaching the castle, and word had come from there of the arrival of the abbot and his party.
Julian jerked his head at Amory’s pavilion. ‘Is he going to be all right?’
‘He’s lost a lot of blood. Father Ambrose and Peterkin have stitched him up and laid the proper herbs on the wound, but he hasn’t spoken at all. I doubt if he will now.’
‘Herkom, have you thought … why not take him up into the hills now, before anyone realizes. … I’ll cover his escape, give you money, horses … anything you want.’
‘He would not go, my lord. And here comes a party of fat monks to make sure he does return to the castle.’ He pointed in the direction of the castle.
Julian kicked at the turf. ‘It makes me … ashamed. Herkom, are you not ashamed to serve me? I wish. … Are you still my man, or his?’
‘Midge and I serve you as before, Lady Day to Lady Day.’
‘And him?’
‘It would have been easier for him if Sir Bevil’s dagger had ended his life. He has given too generously. I do not think he will survive a hundred lashes and a return to the hill-top.’
Amory came out of the tent. They had taken off his mail and leather jerkin, in order to dress his wound. He wore a white linen tunic, and his dark hair was tousled. His right arm was in a sling, and already there was a stain of blood on the linen that bound his shoulder. Peterkin and Father Ambrose were behind him, both looking anxious. Amory looked drawn and tired, but he smiled when he saw Julian. The younger man threw out his arms.
‘Does victory always leave a bad taste in the mouth? Sir Bevil’s men are being taken back to the castle, until we can raise some sort of ransom for them from his family. I think we’d best send the abbot to negotiate their ransom, and the conditions of my marriage with the lady Blanche. They are taking the bodies of the dead up the hill to bury them in the churchyard. The shepherd boy Col is looking after your dog. Our men have already reoccupied the quarry and the church. At least we’ll be able to get the harvest in without being attacked, but … you are not strong enough to ride, are you?’
Amory nodded. His eyes were on the small party of black clad monks that was approaching; in their midst they had a riderless pony without saddle or bridle, led by a halter around its neck. It was such a poor creature that no prisoner, once upon it, could possibly ride at anything but a walk. It was a far cry from the proud charger that Amory had ridden out of the castle that morning.
‘Amory shall ride back on my pony,’ said Father Ambrose. ‘A sweet action, and not a wicked trick in her. He will not jog his rider, as that creature would.’
‘Amory will ride back on the horse which carried him here,’ said Julian, ‘and to the devil with the monks.’
Amory said nothing. His task was over. He was very tired, and his shoulder was aflame, not to mention sundry bruises in various other parts of his body. He would not speak again, now. It was a relief, in a way, that he could stop fighting. There were no more decisions for him to make, nothing now depended on what he did or did not do. His life was, in a way, over. He wished he could go up on to the hill-top now, and settle back into his old way of life, without first having to return to the castle. Yesterday the thought of returning to the hilltop had been hateful; today he longed for it. But Father Hilarion must have his public submission, and exact penance. …
Amory wondered if it were a sin to wish that he had died in the lists, but then he remembered that if he had died, Sir Bevil would have overrun the valley and taken the castle, and Joanna. If Amory had been in Sir Bevil’s position, castle and valley together would have fallen by now.
The sun was pleasantly warm on his back. The breeze had died away. He accepted a leg-up from Herkom, and settled himself on the great horse, which turned his head to welcome Amory, as if proud to bear him back to the castle. When would he be able to ride astride a horse again? How the chain had chafed him … and yet he had grown accustomed to it, and doubtless he would do so again.
The ride back to the castle seemed to take a long time. A family of peasants were already at work in their fields, some distance a
way from the castle. The woman threw a garland of wild flowers around Amory’s neck. The petals lay over his hand and arm as they rested in the sling. The white of the daisies was whiter than the linen of his tunic, and the scarlet of the poppies was brighter than his blood, but the blue of the cornflowers was the same colour as Joanna’s dress. My dearest love, do not grieve. … She had come to the pavilion after the fight, but Father Ambrose had turned her away. He had been right to do so. Amory told himself that he must try not to think of her too much in future. It hurt. …
Then under the gateway into the castle yard, with what seemed like a hundred people surrounding him, cheering him, reaching out to try to touch him. Tomorrow they would turn their backs and find an excuse not to come through the courtyard while he was being whipped. That was the way of the world.
He could not manage to climb the steps to the great hall unaided. He stopped to rest and Father Ambrose was there, setting his shoulder under Amory’s good arm, whispering encouragement. The little friar’s face was warm with effort, but Amory was cold … cold … fear had left him, but he was very cold.
Within the great hall there were echoes. He had not realized how many echoes there were in that great chamber before. On the dais sat the Count, looking ill at ease, and beside him the thin, earnest face of the abbot peered out from a group of black-clad monks. The abbot was asking him questions. Amory could not hear him clearly. Why didn’t they let him lie down and rest for a while?
‘You confirm that you swore an oath …?’
Yes, he could confirm that. He nodded.
My Lord, the Hermit Page 29