by Jude Chapman
Stripped of tunic, sword, and scabbard, and naked of boots and spurs, Drake strode across the alternating tiles of black and white marble and stood stolidly before Marshal.
Likewise stripped of tunic, mantle, and the flamboyant accoutrements of high position, John faced Drake, his dark eyes glancing neither left nor right.
“You John, earl of Gloucester, appellant, shall take Drake fitzAlan of Itchendel, defendant, by the right hand and he you.”
The men reached forward, hesitated, and clasped right hands. One was hot and sweaty; the other, cold and dry.
“We forbid you and each of you in King Richard’s righteous name and upon peril of losing your quarrel, whichever one is found in default, that neither of you be so hardy as to do to the other ill or grievance, thrusting, or other harm by hand.”
Both men nodded their understanding. Archbishop Baldwin brought forth the Holy Gospels and a gold-gilt reliquary. Still grasping right hands, Drake and John placed their left hands upon the holy objects, one on top of the other, their arms forming a cross.
“John, earl of Gloucester,” Marshal began, reciting the oath of trial by combat, “do you swear by the faith that you give in the hand of your adversary and defendant, Drake fitzAlan of Itchendel, and by the holy scriptures and all the saints that you touch with your left hand, that you this day shall do all in your power and intent by all the ways that you best may or can prove your intent on Drake fitzAlan of Itchendel, to make him yield himself up to your hand vanquished, to cry, or speak, or else to make him die by your hand before you leave these precincts by the time the sun sets, so help you God and these saints?”
“I do swear it.”
“Drake fitzAlan of Itchendel, do you swear by the holy scriptures and all the saints that you touch with your left hand, that today you shall do all in your power and intent by all the ways that you best may or can defend your intent of all that is put on you by John, earl of Gloucester, your adversary and appellant, so help you God and these saints?”
“I do swear it.”
Stepping back, the men unclasped their hands and broke the cross.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez! As the king’s man, I charge and command that none of great value and of little estate, of what condition or nation that he be, be so hardy henceforth to come near the appellant or the defendant by four feet or to speak or to cry or to make countenance or token or semblance or noise whereby either of these two parties may take advantage the one upon the other, upon peril of losing life and limb and their goods at the king’s will.”
Marshal handed each his sword. White knight and black knight, the altar behind them, raised swords as twins might, on the same cue, in the same motion, and with the opposite angle of shimmering steel. Marshal placed his own sword beneath the crux, raised the cutting edge, and gradually split apart the blades.
John stepped back and readied himself for combat.
Drake looked toward Richard. Their eyes held. “Sieur d’Amboise!” Drake called out.
Mallory stepped forward. “My lord!” Drake released his dragon sword. The blue ribbon of steel streaked through the air and landed skillfully in Mallory’s reaching grip. “You will safeguard that for me.”
“With my life.” Mallory stepped back.
Drake dared not look again at the face of his king. He swept his vision around to the king’s brother. A spasm rippled across John’s cheek. His right eye quivered. The quiet that followed was turbid and turbulent, similar to the moment preceding a storm when the air might be severed with God’s thunderbolt.
The whoosh of honed metal severing the air roared as loud as thunder. The white knight dodged, escaped, and circled around the black knight’s flank. Black knight responded in kind and attempted to bracket the white knight against a pillar. Again his blade struck out, splitting air but not flesh.
Black knight turned again to face his adversary. Drake thrust apart his legs, bent his spine, and prepared to surge left or right, to move forward or step back, to leap or duck. John lunged, cut left, and sliced through a fleeting shadow. White knight dove, rolled onto his side, and sprang to his feet behind black knight. John turned and grasped his sword two-fisted. The blade slashed again, making a wide circle aimed at decapitation. Drake burst sideways, threw himself behind a pillar, and came up on the opposite side. John spun around. The heavy sword impeded him as he tried to keep up with Drake’s unencumbered movements. An apt side step easily thwarted black knight’s subsequent lunge and thrust. And John’s sword, cutting uncontrollably through empty air, threw white knight off balance, his stocking feet pounding audibly.
Hair in his eyes, Drake flicked his head aside. Sweat sluiced down the sides of his face. Winded already, he thrust his feet apart, waiting for the next assault and the minutest of signs: the set of John’s eyes, the pitch of his arms, or the rigidity of his legs.
Another lunge and evasion as sword again met white knight’s elusive shadow. Drake crouched to avoid the next cut … spun, feinted, and with a lateral move, dropped to the floor and kicked a foot into John’s knee.
John cried out in agony, dropped to his good knee, recalled the pain, and shakily stood up, perspiration beading his brow. Panting heavily, he doggedly backed Drake against the high altar, the traditional place in ancient times for sacrifices of living blood and living body. He took several steps forward. The floor trembled with each footfall. White knight braced his back against the sacrificial stone. The black knight’s sword cut downward. The white knight feinted left, then rolled right and tumbled down the steps, his shoulder absorbing the impact.
John wheeled around and rushed toward Drake, just now regaining his feet. His sword lashed out. The blade sliced white knight across back and arm. Drake reeled, staggered, and caught himself from falling. The white-hot sting propelled him away from the second slash. Black knight forced his blade down in a third descent of rushing air, but white knight leapt up the steps, twisting and evading. Driven again toward splitting open Drake’s skull, John’s blade struck the altar and ricocheted back. His shoulders vibrated with the unexpected and immovable defense of God’s altar.
By now, both men were drenched in sweat. Both men sucked air as if breathing fire. Both men were at the end of their endurance. John saw nothing but disgrace. Drake saw nothing but Jenna’s pale face.
They both stepped away from the altar and faced each other, gauging and circling.
Black knight went in for the kill. And Drake, kicking laterally, thwacked John’s elbow. The prince’s hand opened. The sword clashed to the ground, whirling and clattering. Drake dove sideways and reached out for the blade. Kicking his feet in the same twisting motion, he clipped John’s legs with his, and brought him crashing to the floor. Drake was up on his feet in an instant, toeing John onto his back and stomping a foot onto his chest. John braced himself as if to rise, but the point of his own blade formed a hollow beneath his breastbone.
“Sieur d’Amboise!” Drake shouted.
Mallory stepped forward. “My lord!”
“First rule!”
“Always watch your backside!”
“Second rule!”
“Never trust anyone!” And then meaningfully, “Not even me.” Drake’s eyes flashed in the chevalier’s direction. “But know this, Drake fitzAlan. Though I serve John, I am your man.” He bowed respectfully and stepped back.
Another voice rang out. “Know this, Drake fitzAlan!” William Marshal stepped forward as d’Amboise had done. “Though I serve Richard, I am your man.” Hand over heart, he too bowed and withdrew.
A third voice boomed across the expanse. “Know this, Drake fitzAlan!” Richard strode forward, hands braced on hips, elbows akimbo. “Though I serve the Almighty first and by His grace, my subjects … I am your man.”
Drake acknowledged the king with a curt nod.
“My Lord Marshal!” Removing John’s sword from the owner’s chest, Drake threw it toward his master-at-arms, who stepped forward and caught the weapon midair. “Take our
Lord Prince John in hand and teach him what it means to be a grand chevalier unbeatable by an unarmed man.”
“I will, Sieur fitzAlan.”
His foot yet fastened upon John’s chest, he leaned down, tugged the ring from the prince’s hand, and slipped it onto his own. Removing his foot, he proffered his good hand. John wavered and glanced toward king and brother, whose face was stalwart and immovable. He reached up. Drake pulled him to his feet. Still winded, both men looked into one another’s eyes, not as prince and knight, but as equals. With a single nod of his head, John silently acknowledged Drake’s skill and bravery, and turned away.
Epilogue
DRAKE COMMITTED ONE LAST ACT, an act of symbolism more than one of faith. He went into St Anselm’s Chapel, there to light a candle for a fair maiden. He said no prayer except the prayer that one day they would meet again in Heaven.
A lone man moved behind him, his presence palpable. He gripped Drake’s shoulder with eagle talons.
“If not for you,” Drake said, “then for Geneviève de Berneval.”
Richard slung Drake’s good arm around his broad shoulders and braced his back with an iron hand.
Drake’s only concern was for the brocaded satin of the king’s surcote, the embroidered linen of his chainse, and the lush sable of his mantle: stained, soiled, and destroyed with the blood of a lowly knight. “My blood …”
“… will cleanse my soul and wash away my sins.”
Knight and king walked out of the cathedral together.
THE END
Author’s Note
Drake and Stephen fitzAlan, Lord William fitzAlan, Aveline Darcy, Graham de Lacy, Rufus fitzHugh, Seward Twyford, Randall of Clarendon, Jenna de Berneval, Mallory d’Amboise, Jacob ben Yosel, Matilda des Roches, Devon of Wheeling, Baldric la Forêt, and respective kinsmen are fictional characters.
The remaining nobles, knights, clergymen, and royals are fixed in history.