by A Werner
The survivors were soon on their feet engaging in hand-to-hand combat as another ovation of trumpets and encouraging screams rose and fell. The second wave advanced. More knights poured into the scrum, their lances couched and aimed.
Francis placed the steel helmet over his head. It was tight and the ends of his long blond hair could not be contained, flowing freely behind him. He faced Merle again. “Be ready boy. I run with the third wave.”
Merle Gilmore handed Francis the black shield with the intimidating orange griffin and sprinted away.
Francis closed his brown eyes one more time, bowing his head in deep respect and prayer. There was no telling when any one joust would be his last, when a charging opponent might be his better. The Griffin had scars all over his body to remind him he was not invincible. “Thy will be done.”
The knights around him who had also drawn assignment in the third wave began shouting as trumpets once again begged for attention. Francis slammed his visor down and joined their rousing cry. He screamed his motivation for being here, his nearest and dearest love. “Anne!”
The trumpets ended and Francis kicked Molly with his spurs, tipped his lance forward and charged into the awaiting field. The whole world shook furiously as the horse’s hooves hammered the uneven ground. Francis fought the disorientation, his experienced eyes stretching out through the narrow slit in his helmet’s visor. He coolly scanned the adversaries charging at him from the opposing end of the field.
Destiny can be a heavy burden for a righteous man and so it was with Francis. The first target to draw his attention was the feeblest knight of the lot, a tall, awkward fool with a small round shield, his clumsy fat horse nothing more than an abject field mule, a jackass hardly worthy of a saddle. Francis felt his vigor being sapped. He was consumed by empathy for the thoughtless rider. ‘How stupid is this man? Has he no concern for his life? He is in grave danger and doesn’t even know it. He could die out here.’ There was no merit in defeating such a naïve and frail prize. ‘So why am I drawn to him?’
Before Francis could shift his focus elsewhere, he felt something nudge against his right leg. He looked aside to see that one of the malcontents who had been complaining about the weather and kicking his kippers, was trying to push him out of the way. He wanted to take the fool on a mule as a prize.
Glory for many of these mercenary types often came at the expense and ruin of fools like the one facing them now, mule and all. The wave of empathy was absolute. Francis already disliked his teammates. He felt compelled by honor to exercise his own brand of vigilante justice. He had to protect the fool from his foolishness, God be praised.
Francis tugged the reins and shoved Molly violently into his unpleasant teammate. He sent the surprised stooge and his shocked horse tumbling off course and directly into a party of knights already warring on foot. The accident was brutal for everyone involved.
The sudden, unnatural shift threw Molly’s gait off momentarily and Francis had only a split second to protect himself from his attacker. Composed as he always was, Francis sized up the feeble knight, targeted the small circular shield, and rammed the metal dish with his long orange and white weapon. The lance splintered and exploded in a thousand pieces, the impact sending the untried rider and his cheap saddle flying through the air. The Fool never came close to striking Francis.
Francis casually steered Molly to the southern end of the field in search of Merle. When he found the lad, he tossed the hilt of the broken weapon on the ground.
Merle yelled and pumped his fist, his lively voice bursting with excitement. “Great jolt, Sir! You nailed him!”
Francis slowly raised the visor of his helmet and sighed. He made no effort to hide his disappointment. He took the mace Merle offered and issued a direct command. “Follow!”
The tourney field was a perilous place for kippers to navigate, but it was their duty to do so. And as bungling as Merle was in respect to his daily functions, the melee ground was one place he never gaffed. He couldn’t afford too. Merle Gilmore scrambled close by his lord keeping a sure hand on Molly’s hindquarter, his other senses sharply alert, noting every danger.
When they arrived at their destination, Merle dropped to one knee and inspected the fallen foe.
“Is he breathing?” Francis asked.
Merle checked the man for vital signs. “Yeah, he ain’t dead.” Merle then yanked the victim’s helm from off his unconscious head. “Ah, look Sir, just a boy. He is nearly my age, I reckon. I bet you anything his parents don’t know he is out here.”
Francis shook his head in disgust. “That old beaten nag he rode was doubtless his father’s plow horse. He probably thought he’d do his family some good and come back home rich.”
Francis had to gather his thoughts. He had to get busy and win something in this tourney.
“Come Merle; let this brave young man depart with an unexpected headache. He will have a grand tale for his offspring someday.” Francis slapped his visor down. “It is time I locate a prize worthy of our efforts.”
Chapter 22 – Purple Peacock
Francis scanned the hostilities for another opponent. A shade under fifty yards north, his roving eye spotted a prince decked pompously in glistening silver armor, a purple cape draping his proud shoulders, and an unscathed shield with nine golden fleur de lis actuating the purple blazonry. His helmet was big and noisy, a sprout of stiff purple peacock feathers firing up over it, quivering only slightly in the shifting wind.
Despite continued improvements to govern the sport and the increased presence of more field judges, tournament marshals were still unable to clamp down on all the poaching. These knights secreted their way onto the battlefield, sometimes subtlety, sometimes by bribes. The fact that they could call what they did ‘sport’ was galling. There were just not enough judges to oversee everything happening on the open pitch. It was too easy for the unrighteous to break the rules. Once again, Francis Whitehall felt his honor and the honor of knighthood being disgraced and deemed it necessary to inflict his own form of vigilante justice. This particular vulture’s treachery deserved a day of reckoning. Today was the Second Coming.
Francis kicked Molly with his silver spurs. Molly broke into a full and heated charge. With a firm grasp on the handle, Francis twirled the star-spiked mace inches above his helmet and yelled.
The purple scavenger casually turned towards the approaching noise and his eyes popped with fright. He lost his wits instantly. With every measure of effort, he reined his horse around and galloped straightly away from the advancing Griffin. The chase was on. The chase was short.
Molly was healthy and steeled and she knew no overfed barn-nag was going to escape her resolve. She seemed as determined as Francis to prove her value.
A single blow from Francis’ mace sent plumage flying everywhere. The fleeing horseman’s bonnet disengaged from his head and he, in turn, tumbled to the ground in a riotous crash.
Francis trotted back to Merle and leapt like his heart off Molly. He threw the energetic squire the reins. Francis didn’t need the encouragement Merle was giving him. He was on fire. His confidence was soaring towards ethereal planes. He did the unthinkable and tossed aside his helmet. The churning wind instantly blew his wild blond hair all around his head. Blood pumped through his veins like naphtha. It was a joyous rage. He was on top of his game. He could not lose. He could live like this forever.
“Merle,” Francis commanded. “My sword!”
Merle enthusiastically produced a long two-handed sword.
Strutting forward with a hostile swagger, an absolutely arrogant stride few men could walk even on their best day, Francis Whitehall squeezed the hilt with both hands and advanced on the place where the peacock knight was felled.
Inside his head, Francis remained calm, attentive, the confident empty noise of a veteran’s sensibility slowing every moment down to a point where details came into crystal clear focus. He could almost see the future in this mystical place; anticipate
the feints and actions of his opponents before they tried them. There was no magic to it, only tell-signs. It was simply foresight, a result of training and years of experience, as well as a sacred respect for the spirit to be found in the very heart of chaos. The battlefield was his zenith, his high place, his stage. The pandemonium was pacific. Francis Whitehall was content and unbeatable here.
The unhorsed opponent staggered to his feet. He cleared imagined butterflies from his thoughts and peacock feathers from his hair. Bleeding slightly from a gash near his left ear, the purple peacock unsheathed a beautiful sword of gold. It looked completely untested, its sharp edges having never seen the light of day.
Francis was amused to see the handsome devil prepared to fight. He decided to yell again. “Anne!”
The conviction burning inside that bawl was so intense it instilled panic in his opponent. The challenger knew he would lose. He started lowering his guard as his eyes glanced sideways. Francis peered off to the west where the Peacock was tossing his despair. Several young squires were risking the open field in an attempt to extract their fallen lord and prevent his capture.
“Not today,” Francis whispered. He started to sprint and closed ground quickly. The purple knight was forced to raise his sword and prepare for the force of the first volley.
Francis threw down and the strength of it shook the rival knight to his very core. The Peacock, to his credit, recovered quickly and they began to exchange swipes for swipes. The ringing of their engagement created a song of steel which was music to the ears. Both men battled with heart. For a minute, it was almost a contest but the conclusion of the matter had been predetermined. Francis was wiser and instinctively more talented. He discerned all the flaws in his opponent’s technique, exploiting his failings with quick and lethal strikes. The impressive blows wore the challenger down. The fine shine on the silver armor began to wear away as dents and cracks fissured throughout its length. The gold of his sword was ruined. It was evidently not a very good sword after all. The knight was void of options. Out of breath and resolve, the Peacock capitulated. He fell down on one knee, tossed aside his spent sword and surrendered.
Boldly, Merle Gilmore dashed in and declared the Peacock knight in custody. With his head hanging low, the exhausted chevalier accompanied Merle back to the marshal’s station and yielded his horse, his armor, his sword and a handsome bit of gold and silver coin in ransom. Things were starting to look a whole lot brighter for the Whitehall family’s fortunes.
Chapter 23 – To The Rescue
While Merle Gilmore collected the impressive booty from the fallen French knight, Francis Whitehall remounted Molly, a single-handed sword now gleaming in the grip of his right hand. The day still had light and there was more wealth to be won. His helmet missing, his long blond tresses dancing wild in the squall. The Griffin took his time scanning the careworn field for yet another victim. What he found surprised even him.
In the far southeastern corner of the melee field, Francis noted a small skirmish pressing off the legal boundaries into a nearby hamlet. The marshals were ignoring it. ‘Don’t they see it? Have they been bribed to ignore it?’ Francis had no time to think on the justice of the matter. He was incensed. The brawl appeared to be fought by several members of his team who had never made an initial charge. None of the men were currently mounted, all on foot, swords and axes flying. Francis trotted off towards the engagement to have a better look for himself.
The scrap was as criminal and dishonorable as he feared. There was one exhausted knight in black armor fending off eight rogue men-at-arms in motley attire. Some of these men wore no more than padded tunics, leather breeches and dented metal helmets. Two of them were already bleeding and breathless on the ground. It seemed evident to Francis that the lonesome knight had been doing pretty well for himself but was tiring. It was only a question of time before he joined the ranks of angels.
Francis Whitehall was no fool. He would never blindly charge into a deadly engagement until he was sure whose side he was on. But then the blinders came off. He noted the crest on the black knight’s armor. It was a red star with a blue and silver tail. This was Pero de Alava, the anxious Spaniard he had formed an alliance with while marching towards the tourney grounds.
Francis Whitehall replayed the oath in his head and then without further hesitation charged forward. At full gallop, he threw a thousand pounds of horseflesh into the preoccupied scrum of assassins. Molly’s flanks and hooves trotted violently over two of the unsuspecting brutes and retired them on first contact.
Four assassins remained.
There was no need to be lenient. This was a fight to the death and Francis was no celibate in this regard. He had taken the lives of those who deserved it before. It was necessary to do so again.
From his high ground, Francis slashed his blade downward onto an assailant. The sharpness caught the scoundrel just above the shoulder, sliding up and under the metal and hitting meat. Blood squirted out of the man’s neck as he collapsed immediately to his knees.
Francis whirled about to check his left when he was suddenly yanked down off his mount. He made hard contact with the ground and the jolt forced his sword away from his hand. Disoriented, vulnerable, lying prone on his back, Francis did not expect clemency. He did not receive any. The rogue who had unhorsed him took one desperate swing with a spiked mace. The vicious blow narrowly missed Francis’ head. It struck the earth beside his right ear, tearing a painful chunk of blond hair from his scalp. Francis alertly rolled beneath Molly for a momentary escape. He popped up to his knees and found himself face to face with the blood-splattered knight he had struck earlier from his mount. Still on his knees, the dying man looked Francis in the eye, his expression filled with panic, his hands frantically trying to prevent the blood from spewing out of his shoulder. There was no staunching it.
The Griffin heard screaming. He ducked down under his horse and spied the lumbering footsteps of his current foe dashing towards Molly’s tail end. Francis rose sharply to his feet, grabbed hold of the reins and yelled in Molly’s ear, “Calcitro!”
Molly brayed before kicking. Her hooves met with deadly force on the enemy’s left shoulder. The man twisted violently, his spine snapped, an instant death.
Francis released Molly, snatched up his sword from where it had fallen and pursued Pero. The young Spaniard had been fending off these attackers for what seemed to be have been an eternity. There was no more energy left in him. The two remaining brigands were absorbed, madly cutting his black armor to bits, golden flesh starting to pay a heavy toll. Pero could hardly hold his sword anymore, incapable of defending himself.
The Griffin began to fly. He twisted his body, throwing his full weight sideways through the air, his torso slamming into the back of one man’s legs, while his sword reached out and tore through the unprotected calf muscle of the other. In one fell swoop, Francis Whitehall folded both bandits, their bodies crippled with excruciating pain.
Pero de Alava had nothing left to give and fell off his feet at the same time his attackers fell off theirs. Covered in blood, the Spaniard shuffled back against a trough of water and labored to pull his battered helmet off his head.
Francis, a bit dazed by the collision, crawled up off the ground as the two desperados with wounded legs grabbed hold of one another and hobbled away in retreat.
Pero shook his head in disbelief as Francis stood above him looking positively angelic, his wavy blond tresses shimmering, the hard bright sun spraying rays of light out behind him. “Francis Whitehall,” Pero said, having remembered the stranger’s name, his voice brimming with gratitude. “You have honored your pledge and have ridden to my defense.”
“Who were those men,” Francis huffed, pointing his sword.
“Ah,” Pero waved, “never mind those fools. I can still breathe and that is all that matters. They know now, I am not so easy to kill.” Pero patted the ground. “Come, take a seat beside me, good knight. You earned it.”
Ju
st thinking about sitting made Francis relax and realize how sore his body was. That was, after all, truly a combat and several men died. There would be an investigation, questions asked. Cramping and fatigued, noting that a line of blood was dripping down the side of his face from where hair had been ripped from his scalp, the Griffin lowered himself slowly to the ground beside Pero, both their backs leaning against the trough, the hot sun in the high western sky tanning their faces.
Three young wenches in common burlap suddenly emerged from a nearby hut and rushed to the aide of the wounded soldiers. They giggled uncontrollably as their eager fingers pawed and groped the fetching strangers in their midst, soaking their skirts in the trough water and rubbing away blood, the pretense of providing care being implied but hardly accomplished. Both men smiled as they enjoyed the pointless attention.
“Did you find success in the melee?’ Pero asked.
Francis grunted as he removed the muffler from his right hand and placed his arm around the waist of a girl with red hair. She did not resist him in the least. “I struck down two.”
“That sounds like the start to a very good day. I am sorry it was interrupted by my familial issues.” The assassins were brethren infringing on Pero’s inheritance, demanding a taste of his birthright but Francis knew nothing of this at the time and did not question it. In obvious pain, Pero grimaced with every word he croaked. “But let me assure you, all has not been lost. Out there in the field, you may have won untold riches, but here, in this nameless little hamlet, in the sight of these strumpets, you have won a friend for life.”