“Before the same altar,” her father had replied after a moment’s consideration. “To Heaven’s ear, I think, all prayers are the same.”
The memory had all the more meaning now as she and Edmund departed from the shadow of the humble castle tower. Whether her friends were alive to see this day’s sunset depended on the sheltering will of Heaven.
With the dust of their opponents growing ever closer, Ester put a hand on Edmund’s reins. Surefoot responded at once, stopping his progress and cocking his ears.
“Arm us, Edmund,” she said, “and let us fight beside you.”
Like many court ladies, Ester had been schooled in the arts of hunting. She had rarely killed, but she could hit the target’s center with a crossbow every time. She mentioned her skill, and made a pantomime, raising an invisible weapon to her shoulder.
“Can you indeed?” breathed Edmund in a tone of wonder and respect.
But before Wowen could retrieve the weapon from the tangle of baggage on the packhorse, the enemy arrived.
They were a throng of armored men, as Rannulf had reported, a fighting force that assembled in the clearing between vineyards opposite. The enemy knights rode the big, strong-boned mounts of war, and these animals were spiked with sweat and breathing heavily.
“Not a pretty assembly, are they?” said Ida, in a wan attempt at humor.
It was true that Ester had rarely seen such a travelgrimed, use-hardened gang of men. From gauntlet to buckle they were the stuff that peasant and lady alike beheld in nightmares.
“A parley, if you please,” called Sir Jean.
One of the battle group’s squires, a lean-faced man, rode forward on a sweat-darkened bay.
As ignorant of war as Ester might be, she knew that a few minutes’ delay would favor Sir Jean’s men, allowing their horses to rest. But she was relieved when Nigel lifted a sword held hilt upward, a traditional symbol for peaceful intent, just as to hand a sword pommel first to an opponent was an earnest gesture of surrender.
Surely Saint George would not neglect them.
Even so, she felt the soft leather sack within her cloak, sensing the holy relics within. She could not prevent the feeling: She was afraid. Peasants sheltered behind oxcarts and the rich greenery of the rows of distant vineyards as Edmund and Wowen made their way toward the center of the clearing.
Ester’s two companions rode horses well rested enough to show frisky curiosity in each other, and also in the as-yet unfamiliar animals across the road beyond. The dust-streaked fighting men along the edge of the vineyards bared their teeth in unpleasant smiles, and commented among themselves, their eyes on the two young ladies.
“Not so much as one pinch of kindness,” said Ida, her voice trembling, “in the lot of them.”
25
EDMUND DID NOT LIKE THE WORN FEATURES of the enemy squire from the moment he opened his mouth.
“The worthy knight Sir Jean de Chartres,” said the squire, “extends his greetings to Sir Edmund Strongarm and his fellows.” The sunburned squire gave Edmund a long and measuring look as he spoke.
Sir Jean, well behind his men, made no effort to settle a helmet over his head, or to take up his shield, content to look on as his charger shook its mane, still breathing hard. A stream of cold water ran behind the small group of pilgrims, the sound audible throughout the clearing. The thirsty horses snorted and shivered with anticipation, nosing the air.
“Sir Edmund Strongarm,” sang out Wowen, “greets Sir Jean de Chartres, and his assembled knights.”
Edmund felt a trickle of sweat run down his cheek. A knight’s helmet was a cumbersome object, and Edmund doubted he would ever become used to wearing one. Every sound from the outside world took on a sinister iron tenor. He nudged Surefoot just a few paces closer.
A well-mannered squire or a herald usually began a parley between fighting forces as the knights themselves remained largely silent. It was easier to undo an accidental insult delivered by a squire, and easier for a knight and his companions to measure an enemy while a functionary engaged in courtesies.
But Wowen, the sole squire available to perform this duty on behalf of the pilgrims, was a beginner. Edmund moved even closer, ready to press his mount forward if Wowen’s courage failed—or if there was any further sign of danger.
“I am Hamo Peche, newly appointed squire to Sir Jean,” the long-armed, wiry squire was saying, tugging at his tunic as he spoke. “I can offer a proposal that may spare the life of you, young squire, and your lords.”
Wowen introduced himself in response, performing his duties well. The young squire replied in the formula known by any child who had ever played at combat—that Wowen’s lord would be grateful for a way to show mercy to Hamo and his masters.
Hamo was a veteran of many fights, judging by the scars on his arms, and he was no longer young. He had been left behind by ill fortune, Edmund assumed, or because fever or drunkenness had rendered him unfit for a holy war. Such men were eager to prove themselves, the knight believed, and likely to hide a weapon in a legging or a sleeve.
Hamo’s eloquence began to falter. “My master will kill you all,” he said. “Prepare to bite the ground.”
This was crude beyond belief. Wowen straightened in his saddle. The youth recognized that he was dealing with a squire who knew little of good manners, or even decent speech. Bite the ground was a phrase from hardy drinking songs, unworthy of the occasion.
Sir Jean made an impatient motion in the distance, Hurry up, working his head into his iron helmet. The former Crusader could not entirely control his men or their thirsty animals. Sir Jean’s men were calling out coarse jokes now, in yet another dialect Edmund did not understand. Edmund recognized them as routiers, men who traveled the roads to hire their war skills to any bidder. Too bereft of faith to respond to a Crusade, or too habitually disobedient to take part in a fighting force, they wore weather-tarnished riding armor, and carried light hunting lances, the better to run down fleeing footmen.
“My lords will not surrender so much as a chestnut,” said Wowen.
In response to this, Hamo shot one lean hand up a sleeve and withdrew a long, blue-iron spearhead.
He thrust this shaftless weapon at Wowen. Only the quick reflexes of Wowen’s mare, shying at the unexpected motion, kept the blade from plunging into the boy-squire’s chest.
As it was, the ugly iron weapon caught Wowen’s tunic, and when Hamo tried to withdraw the point it tangled there in the woolen fabric. Edmund recognized the weapon as the head of a throwing spear, a javelin. It was not uncommon for these items to be carried as daggers—they made effective stabbing blades.
The enemy squire wrestled the iron point free and struck again, a two-handed blow. This time Wowen was able to raise an arm and fend off the assault. The host of enemy knights raised a cheer at this sudden fighting, and in a ragged, rippling motion, the routiers began their attack.
Edmund drew his sword as a passing knight gave him a negligent thrust with a lance. Surefoot heard the whisper of blade leaving sheath, and prompted by Templar training, lunged forward, into Hamo’s mount. One downward blow from Edmund’s sword cut Hamo’s arm through, and the squire tumbled from his saddle. The severed limb lay inert, like a thing that had never lived.
Edmund was shocked at the sight, and he pieced together the event that had just taken place—his heavy blade lifted high, the slaughterhouse crack of bone, the whisper of the leather armor shearing. The young knight had never struck such a single, telling blow with a broadsword, and in his emotional turmoil he had the instant, fleeting fantasy of seizing the severed arm and forcing it back into place.
Hamo sprawled, gleaming with scarlet, trying to drag the rest of his body toward the arm. Sir Jean, too, was taking a long moment to survey the grievous injury, and Edmund did something he regretted at once.
While the big Chartrian knight was distracted by the sight of the arm—surely the fingers weren’t reaching, grasping—Edmund struck Sir Jean’s helmet, a
single, deep-cutting blow. Sir Jean fell to the ground with a cloud of dust and a Frankish curse, plainly more shaken than hurt.
Edmund took advantage of the momentary respite to turn in his saddle and call out for Ester, and for Hubert, worried that the routiers might well make short work of them.
There was no response.
With a throaty cheer the attackers surrounded the band of pilgrims, swords lifting and falling in the dusty afternoon sunlight.
At that moment Sir Jean struggled to his feet and issued some inaudible cry, gesturing, angry now, all protocol forgotten.
Sword to sword, the big knight was indicating with his gestures, throwing down his shield and hurrying toward Edmund’s mount. A profound dent marred his helmet, and the Chartrian lifted a hand to his head for a moment. Then he reached out, pulled Wowen from his mare, and dragged the young squire like a boneless thing.
The knight called out a further challenge, gazing up at Edmund through the eye-slits of his headgear, holding the struggling squire in one mail-clad fist.
Edmund desired nothing but to ride to the defense of Ester and her companion, but the big knight shook the squire so hard that Wowen could make no sound. Then he threw the boy aside, and seized Edmund’s leg. As big as Edmund was, the Chartrian was no small man, and he had the grip of a giant.
Edmund kicked, kicked again, feeling his weight shift as the big man’s effort proved successful.
Sir Jean gave a further, desperate tug, and Edmund tumbled to the ground.
26
“FORM A HEDGEHOG,” NIGEL SANG OUT AS the parley across the clearing collapsed. It was clear to Ester that this term referred to a purely defensive formation, shields up and swords bristling against the onslaught of the approaching knights. Hubert motioned meaningfully to her, Keep your head down.
And Ida whispered at her side, a ceaseless prayer repenting of all sins.
Rannulf was the first to leave this protective position, before the first lancer had struck. As the master knight took a stance, his sword arm cocked and his shield raised high, Ester felt everything grow cold. The sun, which had been a source of warmth until then, now cast an icy radiance.
Rannulf fended off the deliberately aimed lance with a blow of his shield, and drove the point of his blade into the barding—the leather covering—that protected the attacking knight’s warhorse.
Until that moment, Ester had clung to the hope that the skirmish might be brief, a matter of a few threats and windy curses, to be concluded by a payment of silver. In Ester’s experience at court, money salved all injury, and she believed that the threat of strife between knights was largely a form of extortion.
But the warrior confronting Rannulf responded with a series of thrusts, towering over Rannulf from his saddle and seeking gaps where the veteran knight’s chain-mail coif left his flesh exposed. The horse gradually succumbed to his injury as this effort failed, collapsing to the ground. Rannulf set about killing the knight, blood gleaming on armor.
Hubert joined Rannulf, protecting the seasoned knight from an attack from his flank. The young knight was effective with his weapon, parrying and thrusting, driving off a new assailant, a man with a white plume flowing from his helmet.
Even in the confusion, however, it was clear that most of the attack’s momentum was lost as horses hurried past the tangle of combat, and plunged their muzzles into the fast-running stream. Clydog defended the two ladies with a wood ax, lifting his voice in a battle lyric. Nigel left the last pretense of a purely defensive formation and went on the attack himself.
The silver-haired Nigel harried the improvised rearguard of this confused mass, wounding men with fast sword work. Clydog successfully intimidated an approaching squire with his bellowed war verse, but soon the two ladies were exposed under the sifting rain of dust.
Ester saw it as it happened. An attacker—a shield bearer judging by his simple leather helmet—struck Clydog a stunning blow. The redoubtable retainer staggered, and sank to one knee. The scutifer—a muscular youth with dazzling blue eyes—threw aside his pike and seized Ida. The young man gave out a cry of possession that was nearly lost in the general roar of man and beast.
Ester worked with determined effort at the last knot holding the crossbow suspended with the baggage. Finally, she despaired of freeing the weapon and turned instead to the pike, gleaming in the dust.
She picked up the weapon, surprised at the weight of the long, iron-headed span. Ester had seen hunters readying their spears as the beaters drove an antlered stag into ambush. She had also seen the hunt master’s knife finishing off the bleeding hind.
She thrust with the pike, intending a threat more than an assault. The inhuman weight of the implement, however, caused the point to enter the attacker’s thigh with more power than she had anticipated, into the soldier’s muscle. The young man released Ida, who had been struggling and screaming, and gaped at Ester like a gored bullock.
“The Devil take thee, lady,” protested the fighter—the Dele tae thee.
Ester withdrew the weapon with some difficulty, but before the young fighter could counter Ester’s attack, he was distracted by a new tumult.
Farmworkers approached, dressed in the beige wool tunics of their class, some fitting stones into their slings and others hurling stones with their naked hands, dozens of howling field hands. Men dressed in the dark gray, soft-combed wool of yeomen or farm steward’s assistants also approached, bending bows.
As a rule, knights loathed and resented archers. While the crossbow was tolerated as a variety of gyn—war engine—employed by noblemen and their ladies, knights had no respect for the common bow and arrow. Ester looked on now as an arrow hissed through the air.
This force of laboring folk was led by a figure in a flowing blue hood and gown, and joined by the unshaven pikeman from the castle tower, the guard now hurrying into the clearing and calling out encouragement to the farmers.
Three children held a large, billowing banner at the top of the castle tower, and as Ester watched they managed to unfurl the heavy pennant. It bore a faded Agnus Dei—the Lamb of God.
The fighting broke into confusion, and scattered.
The lady approached Ester, taking her by the hand.
“By the grace of God,” said this gentle-voiced woman—Par la grace de Dieu—“I am glad to see you unhurt.” Her gown had been a rich blue, judging from the deep color still visible in the folds of the garment, but the cloth was faded now, and Ester recognized the needlework that had kept the sleeves in repair.
Ester prepared some high speech of her own, but a distant sound of violence dashed the words from her lips.
At the edge of the scarred and sodden clearing, Sir Edmund and Sir Jean were still fighting.
27
SIR JEAN WAS A BETTER SWORDSMAN THAN Edmund—the younger knight could see that at once.
Edmund parried Sir Jean’s violent attack, each blow a shock to his joints and sinews. The youth was astonished at the older knight’s speed and craft, and Edmund now regretted throwing aside his shield.
But he remembered a few elementary fighting lessons of his own. The young knight kept his stance centered, equal weight on both feet. He fought purely defensively at the start, backing away and circling to the right, away from the power of Jean’s sword arm.
The afternoon sun was hot against Edmund’s iron helmet, and the armor was heavy, chafing against his shoulders. The helmet limited his visibility, too, and when one especially violent blow turned the iron bucket askew for an instant, Edmund could see nothing at all until he raised a mail-clad hand and readjusted it.
Through the heavy metal tub of his helmet, Edmund made out the ebbing sounds of battle far across the clearing, as what seemed to be a small army of vineyard laborers made fast work of what was left of Sir Jean’s men. The Chartrian was aware of this fading skirmish, too, and swung his weapon with increasing desperation.
Sir Jean slipped in a puddle of gore, and stepped right into the palm of his
squire’s severed limb, the lifeless fingers seeming to close around his boot.
Both knights stopped fighting.
Sir Jean lifted a hand, and called out a muffled, “One moment, I pray.”
Kill him now.
Was it Wowen’s voice, the young squire jumping up and down, well away from the skirmish? Or was it some violent sprite, or perhaps an urging from inside Edmund’s own heart?
The big Chartrian knelt and lifted the severed arm, and placed it beside the now inert body of Hamo. This gesture of respect and compassion for a fellow fighter touched Edmund.
And it convinced the young knight that there had already been enough death under Heaven in recent months. Even when they began to fight again, Edmund bore the older man no ill will. The big Chartrian had been a fellow Crusader, after all, and a feeling of comradeship gave Edmund the incentive to close on Sir Jean once more, grappling hard this time, refusing to be thrown off.
28
EDMUND FELT THE OLDER KNIGHT GIVE way slightly, long minutes of effort beginning to tire the veteran.
“By the holy cross, Sir Jean,” Edmund managed to say, in a tone both correct and heartfelt, “please sheathe your sword.”
Perhaps there was a moment during which Sir Jean appreciated Edmund’s suggestion. The moment did not last long. With a deft wrench and bob, like a market-day wrestler, the big knight escaped Edmund’s grasp.
With a nimbleness surprising in such a weary swordsman, Sir Jean slipped among the pack animals, cutting one free, escaping with the startled, snorting steed into the vineyards. Only the occasional shaking of far-off vines, or the rising, startled flight of a crow, marked his passage.
“Fifty pennies,” called Sir Nigel, arriving helmetless and red-faced with exertion, “for the head of Sir Jean.”
The farmworkers brandished their implements, giving a cry of enthusiasm. This was a considerable bounty. The services of a war-proven knight could be purchased for ten pennies a day, a squire for less.
The Dragon Throne Page 8