The Heart of Darkness

by Odelia Floris

  He looked at a regal, stunningly dressed and bejewelled young beauty who sat surrounded by a bevy of fair companions. ‘Thou art the fairest creature who has or will ever grace this earth. Thou art my heart’s queen, my very life, and if any man says otherwise I will strike him down with one blow! I request, my peerless paramour, a token of your favour.’

  The regal beauty seemed well pleased by this flowery speech, for she bestowed a deeply self-satisfied smile on proud Sir Bertram. ‘My lord, I grant your humble request,’ she said, stepping up to the rail and tying a costly gold silk veil around the knight’s upper arm.

  Sir Bertram cantered back with his prize, an even more self-satisfied smirk etched on his proud face than he had ridden out with.

  Now it was Sir Edward’s turn. He was a much less sure-looking young knight with a head of thick auburn hair. The white mare he was mounted on seemed almost as nervous as her rider, for the horse had already shied twice at the banners blowing in the breeze and was now displaying some reluctance to move forward. But a few kind words and a firm nudge later and the white mare was walking slowly onwards.

  The young knight quietly halted only a few paces from where Rowena stood, and smiled bashfully up at a sleek-haired damsel with an arresting but slightly sharp beauty. ‘Lady, might I beg a favour?’ he asked in a soft voice.

  The damsel glared at young Sir Edward for a moment before giving a disdainful toss of her head. ‘Sir Edward, you please me not.’

  The young man’s colour deepened. ‘Is—is that a no?’

  She looked away disdainfully.

  Every eye was fixed on Sir Edward. Being quite well acquainted with public humiliation herself, Rowena felt desperately sorry for the poor young knight.

  He reeled speechlessly for a few moments before frantically searching the crowd for a kinder face. He looked left, he looked ahead, he looked right—and stopped when his eyes met Rowena’s. ‘Lady, is there any chance you might—’

  She smiled. ‘Sir Knight, I am deeply honoured by your request. You may wear my token of favour.’

  A moment later she was tying the blue and white ribbon from her garland around the grateful young knight’s arm.

  ‘God bless you, kind lady,’ stammered Sir Edward, as Rowena put the final bow in.

  She gave him an encouraging smile. ‘May virtue always dwell in your heart, noble knight.’

  And with that, the knight trotted down to his end of the lists to await the herald’s signal.

  ‘The terms are: five courses with lance and shield, with the knight with the greatest number of points being victorious!’ the herald announced, and blew a ringing call on his golden trumpet.

  Rowena watched breathlessly as her champion charged. Sir Bertram shattered his lance on young Sir Edward, who managed a respectable hit to his opponent’s shoulder. Proud Sir Bertram was handed another lance by his squire, and they charged a second time.

  A hit to the shield was received by her champion, who hit Sir Bertram on the shoulder a second time. The third course was lined up and begun. This time, both lances shattered.

  Shouts of encouragement sounded from the galleries as Sir Bertram’s large band of followers realized the match was proving more challenging than expected. The only shouts for Sir Edward came from his own small group of attendants standing beside the lists, and from his new lady. A fourth resulted in two more shattered lances. With Sir Bertram leading by only one point, his supporters’ calls became louder.

  ‘Remember Achilles!’ Rowena called to her champion as he passed by on his way to lining up for the final course.

  This time, Sir Edward reined in his white mare and lifted his visor as he faced Sir Bertram across the field, lance raised. ‘Sir Bertram, you have a vanity which is unmanly, and your love for yourself is greater than the love you bear for your lady!’

  ‘Damn you, oafish runt!’ bellowed Sir Bertram, lowering his lance.

  This time Sir Bertram charged at Sir Edward with such mad fury that his lance was not properly aimed before it hit its target. The point glanced off Sir Edward’s shield, but Sir Edward’s lance hit squarely on his opponent’s breastplate. A loud clang and explosion of wood later and Proud Sir Bertram was sprawled on the ground while young Sir Edward gracefully reined his steed in at the other end of the lists. Sir Edward gave a slight bow in response to the crowd’s admiring applause before quietly exiting the field.

  Sir Bertram’s exit was rather less heroic. He had to be helped off the field by three squires.

  ‘A most admirable and unexpected victory for Sir Edward of Wurttenberg, honoured lords and ladies!’ called the herald. ‘I am sure that, as a seventh son, he will be well glad of the money he receives for Sir Bertram’s ransom. And now for the spectacle which you have all been awaiting with such eagerness: the fight between Sir Roger de Wintore and his hated nemesis, Sir Richard Hastings! This, I am informed by our most fair and noble judge of honour, is a grudge-match. Who will triumph? Take your bets, fair lords and ladies!’

  The pleasure generated by Sir Edward’s well-deserved victory was squeezed from Rowena in an instant as icy fear closed its iron grip around her racing heart. The viewing gallery stirred like a disturbed flock of roosting sparrows as spectators whispered and shifted, commenting and speculating on the outcome.

  A whisper of ‘Sir Richard is poorly equipped and well rusty. I bet you two pounds the man will not last beyond fifteen minutes’ was exchanged between a pair of limpid young peacocks standing close behind Rowena.

  She gasped and put her hands over her ears.

  Then the herald put his golden horn to his lips and sounded a majestic, ringing call. Rowena uncovered her ears and closed her hands around her thin gold pendant of the raying sun as her knight took to the field of blood and glory.

  ‘Sir Richard Hastings of Chaucy, second son of the Duke of Melvales, winner of many past glories in the lists and on the field of battle, and famed rescuer of the ladies of the Castle of the Skull!’ announced the herald, finishing with his usual showy bow and flourish of the arm.

  Lucifer marched purposefully onto the field, long mane and tail flowing in the breeze, neck proudly arched and eyes flashing. Sir Richard’s armour glittered and shimmered brilliantly as the sunbeams danced across it and leapt off the intricate relief of leaves, vines and sprites decorating the breastplate. His silk cape fluttered out behind him as the breeze bore it aloft like the hands of an invisible train-bearer, its icy rippling breath making determined, noble Saint George and the angry dragon seemed as though they were moving.

  Pepin stood proudly at the side of the arena, his master’s helmet still tucked under one arm, his shield hanging off the other, and a supply of wooden lances leaned across his shoulder. The young pageboy looked rather overloaded, but he held his fair, sleekly-groomed head high and kept his elegant, poker-straight bearing with a success that was almost comical, as it appeared so hard-won.

  A cheer sounded forth from the crowd. The magnificent warrior gave a courteous bow in response, all the while scanning the crammed galleries keenly. Rowena knew he was searching for her, but her throat was so tight she could not join in with the vocal throng’s calls.

  The herald blew another call on his trumpet that silenced the anticipant crowd. ‘And now, fair knights, lords and ladies, the man to whom this challenge was made: Sir Roger de Wintore, only son of the late Sir Giles de Wintore, Baron of Wentwich!’

  Every eye in the breathlessly watching crowd fixed onto the gap between two viewing galleries that formed the entrance to the lists. Moments passed and neither sight nor sound filled the entranceway.

  But then, just as the herald was beginning to frown and fidget, a storm of flapping black and red cloth, thundering hooves, sweating horse and clanging metal filled the space. Turf flew as a fully-armed knight hauled his black warhorse to a halt in the centre of the arena like a bat freshly loosed from the gates of Hell. His horse was almost entirely covered by a long caparison the colour of dried blood, with a black
skull beneath a fierce bat with outstretched wings emblazoned on each side. Over his suit of sharply angular armour, the knight wore a cloth jupon in his arms of blood-red with the fearsome bat and skull. Unlike every other knight who had entered these lists, the knight of the bat and skull had his helmet on and visor lowered.

  The bascinet helmet, with its pointed snout of a visor, gave the knight a disturbingly sinister appearance that had Rowena clutching the front rail like a drowning seaman.

  Earlier, she had learnt from the chattering crowd that de Wintore was known as ‘The Sorcerer’. The name fitted perfectly. Even his horse looked evil, with its bony head and snarling mouth. But most ghastly of all was the cruel, age-blackened battle-axe resting across his saddle pommel. It was long-handled, large-bladed and mounted with a merciless spike long enough to bite into the very centre of its enemy’s beating heart. That was a weapon which had drunk away the life of many a brave and noble knight, and on this cold February morning, it was hungry for warm blood.

  Rowena’s lips moved in silent prayer as she begged Saint George to strengthen her knight’s body and soul with iron.

  Even the herald stared at the sudden arrival for a moment, but he quickly regained his wits. ‘Sir Richard issued the challenge, and now it has been answered! The conditions of battle have been set forth by Sir Richard and are thus: both knights may make an unlimited number of courses. If one or both knights are unhorsed, the fighting is to continue on foot using the knights’ weapons of choice. The fight is to last until one of the knights yields and declares the other man victor. Thereafter, all grievances will be considered dissolved by both parties, with the winner acknowledged as having been proven right by the divine will of God!’ And with that he gave his most ornate bow yet and stepped back, giving Sir Richard a brisk nod to signal he might ride forth to his chosen lady.

  Rowena was still staring at the evil storm of sharp blood-red and blackness when Sir Richard’s calm, earnest face passed in front of the fearful sight. She snapped out of her trance of horror and looked into the beloved dark eyes, where the low, far-distant light of the winter sun glittered like stars in the midnight sky. Her champion looked every inch the legendary warrior; a knight born of the breath of the minstrel.

  ‘Beloved, you know my heart’s deepest desire. Grant it to me.’

  Though her eyes did not waver, her heart skipped a beat. What did he mean? Was this his way of asking her if he might wear her favour, or was there more?

  It slowly dawned on her that every eye was fixed upon the scene in breathless anticipation, and speculative twittering was stirring through the crowd.

  ‘Of course I will gift you a token of favour!’ she replied quickly.

  But then it struck her: what was she going to give? Her hands flew to her pockets. No, the handkerchief was gone—Pepin had used it to polish his master’s armour without asking her leave. The little rascal.

  Beginning to grow hot even on this cold day, she reached for her garland—oh the ribbon, it too was gone. Although she did not dare look around, the loud twittering told her the crowd was not oblivious to her predicament. Even a few muffled laughs could be heard.

  Sir Richard waited calmly, a loving but bemused smile resting on his lips.

  Even her own knight was laughing at her! Her cheeks positively burned. A sleeve, a sleeve was a most suitable favour—she seized hold of her sleeve—but a lady with only one sleeve on her gown? It would be indecent! Defeated, the hand fell back down.

  Still her knight waited patiently. Those eyes were so very deep; surely she could see his heart’s deepest desire written within? She searched the glittering dark pools intently. And the answer was found.

  Rowena reached up to take hold of a lock of her flaming red hair, wound it around her finger and, with one sharp tug, pulled it out. ‘Give me your left hand,’ she commanded her knight.

  A large, metal-encased hand was immediately presented.

  Taking hold of his gauntlet, she pulled it off and grasped his ring finger. Then she slipped the lock of hair around the strong yet refined finger and tied it in a firm knot. Still holding the hand, she looked at its owner and smiled. ‘Sir Richard, I give you my hand in marriage.’ She said it in clear, bell-like tones that echoed around the arena.

  He wordlessly reached to pull out a lock of his own hair, then took her tiny ring finger and gently bound the ebony hair around it. When he looked up, his black eyes burned with fiery zeal. ‘We are eternally one.’

  ‘We are eternally one.’

  And with that, they parted. When Sir Richard had returned to the centre of the field, the herald looked to de Wintore and indicated that he might seek a lady’s favour. The sinister knight shook his head.

  ‘Very well,’ said the herald. ‘Sirs, you may take your places!’

  De Wintore rode his fearsome beast down to the opposite end of the lists, where his bevy of squires was gathered. There he halted and turned to face his enemy.

  Sir Richard did likewise, riding Lucifer up to the other end where a lone Pepin waited. The page was bravely trying not to have the appearance of an overloaded beast of burden or look intimidated by the ghastly opponents.

  Sir Richard held out his hand. Pepin placed the helmet into it. The helmet was lowered into place. The hand was held out again and received the shield. This was pulled on, and he reached out to receive a lance, which was poised ready for the iron fingers to close around. The visor went down with a clang, the trumpet sounded, and battle commenced.

  The two great warhorses thundered towards each other like furies riding the storm. Two lances met hard steel a moment later and burst into a hundred splinters that pelted the ground as they rained down. Without stopping, the knights took another lance as they passed their arms-bearers, turned to face each other once more, and charged.

  Again and again this was repeated, until Rowena had lost count of the number of courses ridden. Sometimes an explosion of wood accompanied the moment the two knights clashed; other times the lances remained intact. The speed with which the opponents wheeled their warhorses around meant the squires who usually scurried out to clear the splintered lances from the ground were unable to carry out this task, so the lists quickly accumulated a treacherous carpet of wood fragments.

  During one particularly furious charge, de Wintore’s snarling black beast stumbled on a lance fragment just as the knights were about to clash. The Sorcerer’s usually keen aim was thwarted and his balance thrown off. Sir Richard’s lance hit de Wintore’s helmet just below the visor, and the sinister tower of black and red-swathed metal teetered dangerously.

  The crowd let out a gasp and Rowena fell to her knees praying the demon knight would topple. But the demon knight did not topple. An unbearably tense moment later, he miraculously pulled himself back upright and wheeled about for the next charge. Poor Pepin narrowly dodged Lucifer’s flying hooves as his master dashed to seize another lance before spinning around and charging again.

  Several more furious charges followed. The two warhorses were flicked with sand and foaming white sweat, and their riders noticeably beginning to tire. The lances started to droop and be aimed less true, and Rowena began to fear the knights would ride course after course until one simply fell dead from sheer exhaustion.

  But before this fear could be realized, a new problem presented itself. The knights had shattered their lances against each other with a force that rung out across the arena, made the very ground shake beneath them, and caused Rowena to let out a gasp of horror which was louder than usual. Then the knights had both blindly reached for a new lance, but while de Wintore’s half-dozen squires had a plentiful supply, Pepin was completely empty-handed. The pageboy had tried to shout something to his master when he had handed out the last lance, but his words had been drowned by the sound of thundering hooves, puffing horses and the screaming crowd.

  When Sir Richard’s outstretched hand was not instantly filled by a fresh lance, he turned to look at Pepin. Rowena saw Pepin hold his
empty hands up and shrug his shoulders helplessly.

  The viewing gallery erupted in exclamation and speculation at the unprecedented sight. Knight and page exchanged desperately tense words while their opponents looked on laughing and pointing. The herald rushed to consult with the lance-less party, and after a quick but heated talk, Pepin was seen bolting from the arena while the rowdy crowd waited, all delighted by the scene except for Rowena, who was utterly horror-struck.

  The herald held up his hand to silence the crowd. ‘Fair lords and ladies, I hope you can forgive this minor delay. Be assured that battle will commence once more when Sir Richard is brought a fresh supply of lances in a moment.’

  A very short while later, Pepin dashed back holding his jaunty cap on with one hand and with a light metal hunting javelin in the other.

  As soon as de Wintore’s party and the twittering crowd saw this, they started to roar with laughter. Even the herald laughed. Sir Richard’s face was hidden beneath his helmet, but Rowena knew full well what expression he was wearing. He aimed a few words at Pepin which, although they were not audible to the crowd, were clearly not very gracious, and furiously snatched the hunting javelin from his pageboy’s hand.

  The mockers were still laughing as Sir Richard started a furious charge towards de Wintore, who rode at his enemy in a half-hearted way.

  Lucifer was pounding along at a full gallop when the two knights neared each other. In order to get near enough to have a chance of reaching his enemy with the short spear, Sir Richard steered the mighty warhorse in so close to the barrier that his stirrup must have touched it.

  A moment later a tremendous crash echoed around the arena as the javelin’s sharp point hit de Wintore right in the centre of the neck-guard with such force that he was thrown off his horse instantly and landed sprawled on his back on the ground, where the fallen knight flailed feebly as he tried to regain his jarred mind and body.