For an hour, Gwyn and he sat on the two ranks of benches that were fixtures on Bull Mead for the upper-class spectators on tournament days. They watched de Braose as he charged at the quintain, a post carrying a horizontal swivelling arm with a fixed shield hanging from one arm and a heavy bag of sand dangling from a rope on the other. The attacker would ride his horse at the device and strike the shield with his lance, dodging the violent swing of the bag, which could knock him off his horse if he was too slow.
Then Jocelin and Fulford made mock charges at each other down each side of the tilt, a long barrier of hurdles made of woven hazel-withies stretching across the field, the ground on each side beaten into bare earth by the pounding hoofs of the heavy destriers. At practice, they carried the usual flat-topped shields, but only leather armour as they were using long wooden poles with flat ends rather than real lances. After a dozen passes, the clash of pole on leather-covered wood led to two successful unhorsings, both by de Braose against his squire, who picked himself up bruised but unbroken.
A number of spectators watched, including Morin’s guards, some old men dreaming of battles gone by, a few women with urchins running around with toy swords, and several cripples and beggars with nothing better to do. They were silent most of the time, knowing that the two combatants were criminals who would be fighting for their lives in a day or two – though each time Fulford crashed from his mare, there was a low murmur of anticipation of a broken neck or back.
After the quintain and the tilting, the two men practised sword-play for half an hour, until the men-at-arms hustled them off the field and marched them back to Rougemont, past the drying racks for serge cloth that stood in almost every empty space around the city walls.
‘That de Braose is good with a lance. You’ll have to watch him,’ admitted Gwyn grudgingly, as they walked back to the South Gate. ‘And he’s got a powerful swing with a broadsword. I thought they might have tried to escape when they had horses under them.’
‘Ralph had that in mind – that’s why he had twenty soldiers there, half a dozen of them mounted. But they could hardly fight through them with only a long broom-handle for a lance and deliberately blunted swords.’
‘A pity they didn’t try, then maybe you wouldn’t have this risky business to contend with,’ grunted Gwyn, who was secretly worried about the coroner’s chances in the coming combat.
De Wolfe slapped his massive back cheerfully. ‘Come on, Gwyn! We’ve beaten much better men than these many a time in the past. I’m not ready to hang up my arms and sit by the fire yet.’
The day of the trial began wet with a fine drizzle, but by mid-morning it had stopped, though it was misty and miserable. ‘At least the ground will be soft, for those who fall from their mounts,’ said John. ‘Hitting frozen mud can kill you, without needing a lance in your guts.’
He and Gwyn were at the tourney ground in one of the arming chambers, a grand name for two rickety thatched sheds that were built at each end of the double tier of viewing benches. Thomas de Peyne was lurking nervously in the background, frequently making the sign of the Cross and saying prayers for the preservation of his master’s life – and for his soul, if he lost. Jocelin de Braose and Giles Fulford were under guard in the other shelter, going through the same routine as John and his officer. The constable of Rougemont had sent down a couple of soldiers with a handcart to carry the armour and weapons for the two combatants. De Wolfe, of course, was using his own, tried and tested in many a conflict, while de Braose had been loaned accoutrements from the castle armoury, his own being in Berry Pomeroy.
As Gwyn helped his master into his fighting kit, they could hear the increasing clamour of the crowd outside. Everyone in Exeter and some of the surrounding villages knew of the contest and as many who could get away from their labours were there. Some merchants and craftsmen had even given their workers a couple of hours’ freedom to come to the Magdalen Street arena.
‘Sounds as if half England has turned out to see you kill de Braose,’ observed the Cornishman, as he helped de Wolfe pull his gambeson over his head. This was a long quilted garment, padded with wool, to underly his chain-mail and buffer any impacts.
‘I don’t think they care who gets killed, as long as there’s plenty of blood for a spectacle,’ replied the coroner cynically.
Putting on the heavy hauberk was more difficult, but John’s was an older type with only three-quarter sleeves, making the hundreds of chain-links sewn to the canvas a little lighter than the full version, which had long arms ending in mailed gloves. Neither man mentioned the possibility of defeat, but they had been through this routine many times and each knew the other’s thoughts. De Wolfe wondered what would happen to Matilda if he was killed. He had not seen a sign of her since her outburst in the Shire Hall and then her pleading with him to save her brother’s life and reputation. Presumably, if he survived this, she would eventually return home. He wondered if she would come to see today’s battle – which, with increasing certainty, he had to admit might have been a foolish act of bravado.
‘We’re not wearing the full battledress, are we?’ asked Gwyn, looking at the metal leg greaves that Ralph Morin had included in his cartload of armour.
John shook his head. ‘This isn’t going to be a day-long conflict, Gwyn. A quarter-hour should be more than enough to see one of us vanquished, so I don’t think legs are going to be a target.’
‘That bloody Fulford used them as a target last time – but he hasn’t got a shovel today,’ grunted Gwyn, with an attempt at humour. He hung a sheet-iron oblong over the centre of de Wolfe’s chest on top of the chain-mail and tied the leather laces around his back to hold this heart protector in place. Then de Wolfe pulled on his coif, a thick woollen bonnet, and tied it under his chin, before donning his round helmet, which in recent years had replaced the conical one. It had a larger nasal projection than the earlier models and a chain-mail aventail was suspended from its edge. This hung down like a curtain all around the back and sides of his neck and covered his chin up to his lower lip.
‘What about this?’ asked the Cornishman, holding up a rather creased linen garment. It had once been white, but years of wear and exposure had given it a greyish-yellow tinge.
‘Yes, why not?’ said John. ‘If I’m to win or lose, they may as well see me in my father’s surcoat.’ He slipped it on over his head, and as it fell to cover him from shoulder to knee, a savage wolf’s head was displayed across his chest in black embroidery.
Gwyn stood back to examine his handiwork critically, walking around his master to make sure that all was perfect. Spurred leather boots over long stockings with cross-gartering completed the outfit, apart from thick gauntlets with metal plates sewn on to the backs of the hands and fingers. Satisfied, Gwyn hung a heavy leather baldric over the right shoulder, coming down diagonally to support the great sword hanging from a thick leather belt, which he buckled tightly over the wolfish surcoat. ‘You could shave with that edge now,’ commented Gwyn proudly, pointing at the sword, which had also belonged to John’s father, Simon de Wolfe.
‘What about the lance?’ growled the coroner, hefting the eight-foot shaft of seasoned ash. He looked carefully at the shielded hand-grip about a third of the way along and at the iron tip, which had a small crosspiece behind the spear-head, to prevent it going too deeply into the flesh of the target and becoming difficult to withdraw.
‘I’ve ground the point finely,’ said Gwyn. ‘You could impale a bluebottle on that.’
Everything seemed in order, and without any more delay, de Wolfe went out of the shed where Gabriel was standing anxiously by Bran, who was unconcernedly eating some crushed grain from a bucket. They were out of sight of the crowd, who stood in a double line well back from the tilt, which was about two hundred paces in length. The excited talk and shouts merged into one buzz of noise as de Wolfe was helped up into his stallion’s saddle, Gwyn giving him a foothold with two hands, against the extra weight of his hauberk. The destrier had
no armour, apart from a token leather facepiece from his ears down to his muzzle, with some iron plates riveted to its front to protect his forehead. Gwyn handed up the lance and then the shield, made of toughened linden wood covered in a double layer of thick boiled leather, again crudely painted with a wolf’s head.
‘All set, Sir John?’ asked Gabriel anxiously, and when de Wolfe nodded, he vanished around the corner of the hut to the front of the bank of benches, placed opposite the half-way mark of the tilting fence. Here, on the second row of planks, were the upper-class spectators, with Richard de Revelle and Ralph Morin in the centre. The two Portreeves were there, Hugh de Relaga looking unhappy at the prospect of his friend and main business partner in jeopardy of his life. Surprisingly, as the Church officially frowned upon jousting and tournaments, several canons and lesser priests were perched on the benches, swathed in black cloaks over their vestments, trying to look inconspicuous. The Archdeacon and the Treasurer, as well as Jordan de Brent, were there. The rest of the benches were taken by various burgesses and guild-masters, and several women were present, looking forward with no apparent horror to seeing mortal wounds.
As de Wolfe walked his horse round the corner to the front of the benches, he scanned the occupants and his eyebrows went up momentarily when he saw Matilda there, sitting wooden-faced next to her brother. She was dressed in black, an unusual colour for her, and he wondered whether this was preparation for widowhood or for entry into a nunnery – or possibly both. Slowly she turned her head towards him and their eyes met. There was no expression in hers, but gradually she raised her hand to him in a salute, the significance of which eluded him – she might have been wishing him good luck or saying farewell.
At each end of the benches, beyond the two arming chambers, a double line of spectators reached in either direction to the ends of the central fence, and on the further side, a similar crowd was lined up, being importuned by hawkers, beggars and soothsayers, all taking the opportunity of a captive crowd to do business.
In the moment he had before the sheriff began the proceedings, de Wolfe’s eyes searched anxiously for Nesta, but he could not pick her out from all the other women in the crowd.
‘I make one last supplication to you,’ came Richard de Revelle’s voice, and de Wolfe jerked his eyes back to the sheriff. From the other end of the seating, Jocelin de Braose had approached the centre, dressed almost identically to himself and seated on a large black gelding, much younger than old Bran. He wore no surcoat over his chain-mail, but Morin had seen to it that the armour and weapons were identical, so that no allegation of favouritism could be made.
The sheriff was standing up to make his speech and John could see that, in spite of his recent humiliation, he was already regaining his old arrogance and conceit. He decided to cut him down to size at once, to emphasise, at least to de Revelle himself, where his limitations of power lay. ‘What supplication can there be, sheriff?’ he boomed. ‘This man has been Appealed for the murder of Robert Fitzhamon’s father, which is only one of his sins. Either you let this legitimate trial by combat go ahead – or he goes back to gaol to await the King’s Justices, who will surely send him to the gallows and commit his body to rot on the gibbet thereafter.’
De Braose looked sharply at John, then back to de Revelle. ‘Much as I revile de Wolfe, I agree with what he has said,’ he cried, in ringing tones. ‘There is no alternative. I have your word, Sheriff, that when I defeat him, I and my squire will go free. What more can a man ask, when he has been unjustly accused of a crime of which he is innocent?’
Richard threw up his hands in resignation. ‘So be it. You may continue this ill-advised course of action.’
Secretly, he was relieved that it had come to this, and he fervently hoped for victory for his brother-in-law, not from any tender feeling towards him but because he suspected he would get hell from Matilda for years if he allowed her husband to be killed – and also it would be useful to get rid of de Braose, who might be a danger to himself, knowing as much as he did of de Revelle’s involvement with the rebels. He spoke his last words with some relief. ‘This is not a tournament nor jousting for sport! This is trial by battle and you may fight as you please to the death.’
He sat down with a bump and Archdeacon John de Alencon could not resist rising to his feet to hold up a hand in solemn benediction and to murmur a prayer for righteousness to triumph – and for the repose of the soul of the defeated. Thomas, standing near the arming shed, was almost in tears as he jerkily crossed himself.
Ralph Morin, as the senior military man present, rose and pointed to de Braose. ‘You will go to the east end, your adversary to the west. When I drop this white kerchief, you may begin,’ he rumbled. ‘You may make as many passes as you wish. If you are unhorsed you may remount, if you can. Otherwise, there are no rules. You will fight, tooth and nail if needs be, until one of you is dead.’ He remained standing until the two horsemen had trotted off to opposite ends of the long wicker fence, their squires running behind them until they all turned to face each other.
The crowd fell silent. They were used to tournaments and jousting where, not infrequently, fatal injuries occurred, but trial by combat, where death was mandatory, was becoming uncommon. Certainly, the sight of their county coroner, a well-known and respected former Crusader, fighting an alleged murderer as champion for a thirteen-year-old boy, was unique, and the city held its breath while they waited for the Constable to make his signal. Even the clouds seemed to stand still while everyone watched for the cloth to drop.
There was a flutter of white and then a pounding of hoofs. The two horsemen hammered along opposite sides of the tilt, lowering their lances as they went. De Braose’s steed was faster than Bran and the point where they met was to the left of the viewing stand.
Both lances met the shields simultaneously with a tearing thwack, as the leather on both was gouged. De Braose attempted to lift his spear-tip at the last second to hit John in the face, but the coroner lifted his shield at an angle to protect his head and caused the lance to slide off sideways. His own caught de Braose’s shield squarely over his breast and the great weight of Bran, with the spear held vice-like in de Wolfe’s muscular arm, jerked the other man back, almost pushing him back over the raised cantle at the rear of the saddle. In a fraction of a second, they had thundered past each other and slowed down towards the further end of the tilt.
The crowd relaxed slightly, some yelling encouragement, others cat-calls, as the more knowledgeable of them knew it was a foul to aim for the face in a tournament – though, admittedly, this was a fight to the death with no holds barred.
As soon as de Wolfe got near the end of the barrier, he turned Bran in a wide circle to avoid losing speed and immediately galloped back down his side of the list. De Braose, who had slowed almost to a stop to turn his horse around, was at a standstill when he saw the coroner pounding down at him from the other end. Caught unawares, he lost a few seconds in cruelly spurring the gelding into action and was not up to speed when de Wolfe bore down on him, again well beyond the centre-line. John’s lance again caught him four-square on the shield and crushed it against his chest, knocking him clean off his horse into the mud. There was a great yell from the crowd and all those on the benches stood up to get a better view.
Bran’s great bulk hurtled on under its own momentum for twenty yards until de Wolfe could pull him round. By that time, de Braose had picked himself from the mire, miraculously without any apparent injury. His well-trained horse had stopped short and wheeled around to canter back to his fallen master. As the black gelding came up to him, Jocelin put a foot in the stirrup and scrambled back into the saddle – no mean feat considering the forty pounds of chain-mail on his back, which spoke well of his youthful fitness. There was a roar of congratulation from the crowd, who even-handedly applauded his remarkable recovery, just as earlier they had condemned his foul.
As he remounted, Giles Fulford had raced up the side of the tilt and handed up the
fallen lance to his master’s right hand. De Wolfe was now alongside on the other side of the tilt. He made no move against de Braose while he was getting back into the saddle, but suddenly de Braose made a sudden jab with his lance across the hurdles, catching the coroner in the ribs. The attack was futile, as without the force of a galloping horse behind it, the spear was easily blocked by the chain-mail and caused nothing more than a bruise. The crowd booed and hissed at this unsporting violation, again ignoring the fact that anything was acceptable in this mortal combat.
The wolf-emblazoned fighter ignored the jab and cantered away down to his end of the field, again making a swift turn and accelerating back towards Jocelin de Braose. This time, the younger man had learned his lesson and imitated de Wolfe’s manoeuvre, so that they were both up to full speed when they met. Whereas de Braose had raised his lance to John’s face on the first encounter, this time he unexpectedly dropped it, and as he took the impact of the coroner’s weapon on his shield, he deliberately plunged his own spear deep into the neck of de Wolfe’s stallion.
With a dying scream as the iron tip tore into his spine, Bran’s front legs collapsed and he pitched his rider over his head. Landing with a crash, with his great horse almost on top of him, de Wolfe was not as lucky as de Braose had been a few moments earlier. He turned through half a circle in the air and landed with one leg under him. Almost as if everything was happening in slow motion, he heard the bones in his left shin snap as it took most of the impact. Though the fracture saved his head and chest, the pain was agonising for a moment, then faded. His overwhelming feeling was for his horse, his beloved Bran.
Crowner's Quest Page 28