Running his finger behind his right ear, over a long jagged scar, Abelard recalled the spat his own disregard for the no-meddle rule had spawned. He was still quite young, barely sixteen, when out hunting with two of his father’s trusted men. They had just come out of the woods into a large clearing. At the far end three horsemen were riding circles around a dismounted figure. He approached the group and soon recognized the daughter of a poor baron, desperately trying to protect herself from the shrinking circle of determined horsemen. One of them dismounted and seized the girl by the hair. She could not have been older than fourteen. Clutching her dark mane in one hand he began to tear off her clothes. She was thoroughly terrorized and shrieking for help.
Abelard had a secret fondness for her and could not restrain his youthful exuberance. He quickly covered the distance to the riders and demanded they stop. No one was wearing armor and no swords were drawn. The leader sidled his horse over to Abelard and quietly whispered that this was a personal dispute between her family and the very powerful Count of Foix. It would be wisest for Abelard and his friends to leave. But, of course, he could not. He had already committed himself to the girl’s side and withdrawal would have been shameful, even though he knew that he should not have in the first place butted into this now obviously personal dispute.
He refused and the inevitable fight ensued. There was tacit agreement that no weapons would be used and blows were exchanged. It was a bloody affair, the two sides fairly evenly matched. The men were too distracted to notice that in the commotion the girl had retrieved her own mount and ridden off. When exhaustion had finally closed down the combat and the girl was nowhere to be seen, the Count’s men backed off and left shouting that Abelard would pay for his meddling.
The following day, Abelard still recalls as though he had actually been there, the watchman shouted from his tower that horsemen were approaching. They were soon identified as carrying the Count’s colours. His father, the Captal de Buch, from the parapet above the gate, would permit two riders through the gate to bring in whatever message they were carrying. Abelard and his brothers accompanied the Captal to meet the Count’s emissaries in the main courtyard. The larger of the two riders, wearing full armour, dismounted and approached the Captal while surveying the crowd around him. He looked up to the rider who had accompanied him to see him pointing directly at Abelard. Without warning he turned on Abelard and with all his force swung his mailed fist to deliver a loud and punishing backhanded blow to Abelard’s head, catching him behind his right ear. He was knocked into the air and fell on his back, blood already gushing from his wound. There was a stunned silence, no one sure about the next move. This paralysis passed quickly and suddenly the courtyard was filled with the noise of emptying scabbards. The bearded, small eyed, hook-nosed man who delivered the blow did not bother to acknowledge his perilous situation. He looked straight at Abelard, accused him of interfering in a private quarrel and demanded satisfaction. The following day he would be expected at the Count’s jousting grounds. Once Abelard acknowledged that all was as his father had heard, swords were replaced and the riders permitted to leave.
Even at sixteen, Abelard was very big. He was also one of the most skilled jousters and swordsmen in Gascony. The gruff, loutish noble who had challenged him knew his own chances of survival were far from assured, but those were the rules of the day. He had been humiliated by the girl’s father and he decided to exact revenge, as was his right, by raping the daughter. Now, as fortune would have it, he had a fair chance of being killed by Abelard. Backing down would have meant the end of his life as a knight and in those times it was better to be dead than to be out of a job, and an outcast to boot.
Next day, under a mixed sky, the two combatants each took their positions and at the signal charged with lowered lances. Jousting demanded great agility, not to mention strength. Not only must the rider be able to stay on a running horse while wearing about 50 kilograms of armour, but he must have excellent hand eye coordination, able to track and maneuver many different objects. He must keep an eye on the lance coming towards him all the while adjusting his shield to counter incoming blows; and he must keep adjusting his own lance to aim for an effective entry point as the other rider repositions his own shield to protect all vulnerable parts.
They were allowed to break three lances each before dismounting to continue the combat which would only end in either death or until someone was disabled. Good as Abelard was, his opponent was very determined and he was unable to unhorse him before breaking all three lances. They resumed afoot, jabbing and slashing at each other for a minute or two, until exhaustion forced them to back away, catch their breath and then resume for another couple of minutes, this mortal dance going on for a good half hour. Finally, Abelard was able to seize on a momentary, fatigue induced lapse by his opponent and drive his sword into the slim vulnerable space between the head and chest armour, running it through the neck. The combat was over and, except for a few more scars in addition to the one he had received at the time of the challenge, Abelard would live to remember never again to trifle with the no-interference rule.
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The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book Page 38