The White Cross

by Richard Masefield

  The Countess had the chamber cleared of ladies, servants, men-at-arms, Hod with Hamkin – everyone but me and little Thomas, who she kept beside her chair. She’d had the shutters taken from the window, and ordered me to watch…

  Watch their shadows stripe the sand when they walked out across the yard. Behind them, high above the stable roofs, the hill I’d crossed in pouring rain glowed palely in the sun. He glanced up once. I think he must have seen me.

  ‘You chose this course and you must see it through.’

  For once without a dog upon her knee, My Lady held a holland shirt, which she was stitching with an expert hand. ‘The bout’s unsanctioned. It is not for me to judge the outcome.’

  She pulled a silk thread taut, then used the needle as a pointer. ‘But what I will do, is to see you witness every pass and cut and wound those men sustain until the very last. For this is your choice, girl. Not theirs, not God’s, and certainly not mine.’

  By then the rage I’d felt with him for being so damn calm, had given place to numbing guilt and every kind of fear. I’d wanted this to happen, but was now terrified it would go wrong in the worst way. Why couldn’t I have waited for the Earl to judge the case when he returned? Instead of rushing in. Instead of always rushing in, Elise, to force the issue – force poor Garon to defend us with his life!

  I didn’t even have the sense My Lady had, to think of sending Hamkin back to spare the child the sight of blood.

  He limped a little as he crossed the tiltyard with Sir Osberne, looking unprepared. I hadn’t thought they’d be so lightly armoured. Should have made it long swords, with helms and shields and linkmail hauberks to offer him some kind of real protection – something more than boiled leather over a padded gambeson, a coif and gauntlets, with a buckler hardly larger than a capon salver.

  Oh Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, Queen of Heaven, see it in your wisdom to protect him. Sweet Mother, let him win!

  This time no trembling excitement. Just a feeling like a cold, hard stone pushed up inside my ribs. Walk swiftly to conceal the limp – three, four more paces. Here I think.

  The young man reminds me so much of myself before the tournament and the croisade. ‘Sir Osberne, shall we show them how it’s done?’

  Swords vertical for the salute, buckler left-handed to the chest – and now ligacio position. I have not forgotten. Right foot forward, buckler in a straight line from the other shoulder to protect the sword-hand…

  Something about a balanced blade to make it feel like an extension of your body, an extra limb that has no mission but to injure or to kill. Blades crossed at the erotic angle in a mutual bind, eyes on opponent.

  ‘The four best weapons in a soldier’s armoury are bone an’ sinew, strength of grip, sharpness of eye.’ Trust to your training, Garon – and begin!

  The swish, the whisper of the steel as the blades disengage. The kind of sound Sir Hugh and his opponent are already making – a sound that triggers years of practice, something ingrained deep inside. Those who know nothing of the art of swordplay, imagine that its object is continually to crash one blade against the other with all the strength you have – a method which would soon make sawteeth of their edges. In truth the loudest sound comes from the clashing bucklers, not the swords – the greater skill that of avoiding one another’s blades whilst probing for the weakness in a guard; the skill of dancers, jugglers, acrobats – not blacksmiths!

  Thrust, block, block thrust. Level balance. Feet shoulder-width apart, soles to the ground… anticipate his second lunge and your return, even as you block the first.

  And now. And now. And now. He’s helping, but it’s coming back, there still. I’ve not forgotten.

  But Christ, I am unfit!

  I held my breath while they saluted and began, then felt relief to see he knew the strokes, could hold his own against the fortress knight. But then I saw the others circling behind them, faster! So much faster! The clatter of their bucklers louder and more frequent, their blades a blur of flashing steel.

  The difference between the pairs was clear to all – and I was horribly afraid!

  Arrète! We both put up. I’m panting, sweating like a pig – must turn as if at ease to pat the lad, Sir Osberne, on the shoulder.

  ‘You have my thanks, Sir, ’twas exactly what I needed.’ We bow. He’s breathless too, which I suppose is something?

  I found that I’d lost bulk and muscle tone when they released me from the abbey hospital at Fontenay, but must have made some up on the long walk from Winchester along the downland ridges.

  Breathe slowly, deeply. Accept the squire’s towel as if you hardly need it. A quick wipe, an easy smile. Hugh mustn’t see and mustn’t guess what that first bout has cost you…

  He’s coming over. Strolling, looking (wouldn’t he) as fresh as a field daisy!

  ‘Well, Garon?’ Wry smile, raised brows, the old familiar mocking tone.

  ‘So here we have the answer to all our disagreements. We end the argument as knights and gentlemen, fighting one another to the death.’

  The kind of thing he would say, wouldn’t he, to cover what he really feels?

  ‘Believe me, it is not my choice.’

  ‘Ah quite. The lady snaps her fingers, and the faithful husband hastens to obey.’

  ‘You warned me not to leave and told me what could happen if I did.’

  ‘And you were not persuaded.’

  ‘But you were right, and I was wrong. Is that what you wish to hear?’

  ‘You have my full attention.’

  ‘I was so desperate to serve a cause that I was blind to folly.’

  ‘Well I confess, I’m gratified to hear you admit it. So are we to gather that you’ve exchanged a war for something, shall we say more personal?’ Again the smile, the upraised brows. Yet, strange to say, no longer so provoking.

  ‘And if you have, can you explain to me, as a matter of immediate interest, why the prospect of two cocks fighting in a pit is not an equal folly? Can you make sense of that, my friend? For I confess I can’t.’

  ‘It’s not about sense is it? Or even which of us is stronger?’ Breath steady, voice is good…

  ‘What it’s about is justice for a lady who has no other means of gaining it. It is about the threat she sees in you to everything that she holds dear – the child especially.’

  ‘But you, my brave avenging angel? What is it that you see in me?’

  ‘I see a smiling mask, and behind it someone who has already lost all chance of self-respect, or any kind of true contentment – even if he wins.’

  ‘Which would suggest that I have something still to prove.’ His mouth is straight, unsmiling now, with anger and resentment in the eyes.

  ‘So now we are in earnest? And shall we tell them that the fighting cocks are ready – to give no quarter and receive none? Shall we ask them to relieve us of our hoods?’

  I see us suddenly, and comically, with bright red combs unfolding on our heads. I see the folly.

  They’ve brought old Guillaume out to marshal us. He’s put on weight, but is in good shape still, considering his age.

  I dip my leather coif at him. He’ll not acknowledge me, but blinks instead into the sun. Or – did I imagine it? Was it but half a blink – a wink?

  He leads us out bow-legged to the centre of the yard, the hard tutor of my youth. Stiffer now, but no whit gentler in his speech. ‘Attend to me, boys, listen well.’ He barks out his instructions as he’s always done in the way of a pack-leader.

  ‘For all this bout is unofficial, I say ye’re to hold yerselves bound by the rules of a duellum. If you agree say Aye.’

  We say it, both together as if we had rehearsed it.

  ‘The duellum’s ‘to excess’, which is to death or mortal wound. If either combatant takes a lesser wound, is maimed or is exhausted, he may cry “Craven!” an’ be spared his life. Or else relinquish it by coup de grâce.’

  Guillaume recites from memory. ‘The victor who shirks the coup must b
e accounted loser. The loser who cries craven must be outlawed, excluded from his lord’s protection. If at the time of sunset. neither combatant has triumphed – the defendant (in this case, Sir Hugh) must be judged innocent of charges. Got it? Understand it, both?’

  He waits. We nod.

  ‘Then I am here to offer ye the chance to think again, an’ settle for first blood instead.’ The stern blue stare on his worn face turns first on me, then Hugh.

  ‘There’s no sense, lads, in goin’ further to decide the thing,’ he growls, ‘unless ye’re silly in the head.’

  ‘Or the lady in the case insists that one of us, and me for choice, should part with all our blood,’ Hugh says, ‘and we’ve agreed to set all sense aside to satisfy her on the point.’

  Old Guillaume grunts, coughs twice, returns to his recital.

  ‘Then knights of Sussex, hear the laws by which ye may compete. You are required to swear that ye’ve concealed about yer person no weapons other than those in yer hand. Nor herb, nor magic charm whereby the laws of Heaven may be abased, or those of Satan exalted.

  ‘Do ye so swear? So help ye God?’

  ‘I do so swear.’

  ‘So help ye God?’

  ‘I doubt that the Almighty has the time to spare on such sordid affairs. But if I must, “So help me God” by all means.’

  Amusement in the words, contempt in the tone. But Hugh swears, nonetheless – and so do I.

  ‘Spectators, ye may neither speak, nor cough, nor spit during duellum.’ Guillaume addresses all the men and boys who stand in clusters by the cattle byres, the stables, stores and armouries, around the tiltyard walls and up the wooden stairway to the northern motte. ‘Nor may ye divert the combatants by movement of the hand or foot, on pain of floggin’ if discovered.’

  Elise up in her window? Would they dare to flog a lady if she cried out?

  But now to us in the same ringing tone: ‘Perform salute and bind!’ We back four paces, raise our naked blades.

  I feel the warmth of my gloved fists gripped on the strap and pommel, the pulse of my own blood…

  ‘We borrow time from life is all.’ ‘We make time as we live it.’

  But which? If the author of my life has planned this day, will he consider its extension? Or is the loan already overdue? And in an hour perhaps, or less, will these gloved hands, these legs, this thinking brain, be nothing more to me or anyone than so much meat and bone?

  Advance one pace to cross swords for ligacio. Shields tight on wrists, to measure one another’s weight and strength just as the rams did in the alps. My reach is longer, I’ve the height. I would have had the weight once, but no longer. He’s limber, supple, quicker on his feet.

  Guillaume’s long marshal’s staff rests in the crutch of the steel cross we’ve made. Touch blades. Lock eyes. Black Hugh, black frown, black eyes like flints. No trace of laughter now.

  ‘You eat for pleasure, sing for pleasure, fuck for pleasure, lad. But ye don’t FIGHT for love of it, you fight to win.’

  And in my hands, and in my brain, the future. Mine, Elise’s and the child’s.

  It’s not enough to fight to win. I have to kill the man!

  Abruptly Guillaume’s staff jerks upward, breaks the bind.

  ‘Commence!’ A gust of indrawn breath runs round the outer ward.

  Passing step, back on the left. Tread through. Hold middle distance. Block! Thrust and block. Step through.

  Trust to training. Skill in place of hatred. Bone and sinew, strength of grip. First blow can be decisive. But that’s past and we’re still…

  SMASH! Use the bucker! Boss on boss. CHOK! CHOK! Rams butting heads.

  Clumsy, that was clumsy – work it as a weapon…

  Hugh’s dark eyes, slit like visors, giving, missing nothing. No sign in them of anything but total confidence in his ability to kill me. Keep his sword higher. Out of reach. Away from legs, from thighs – from hamstrings.

  He’s moving round, offline. A chance? I see what he’s about! The sun, a fiery ball, it’s…

  PAIN! Pain out of light! A searing slice of fire! Jesus Christ, he’s…

  ‘He’s cut already! God, his face is cut!’ I couldn’t help but scream it.

  ‘Whose face? What kind of wound?’ The Countess’s cool voice helped me to look, and tell her that it wasn’t serious.

  ‘It is Sir Garon, and there’s blood. But not so much – he’s fighting on, My Lady.’

  First blood. Stinging, warm where it’s run down into my collar. But not so bad. Good to be done with. Makes you less afraid and brings its own new burst of strength.

  Push forward and tread though, and round – block…

  SMASH!

  Recoil and thrust. Give him a taste of sun himself. Too much control can hamper your reactions.

  And here at last, the surge! The feeling I have waited, hoped for! Hands. Feet. Reflex, instinct, something I can’t put a name to, flowing through my arms and fists into the steel.

  My body knows its business now – frees me to listen to the slither, whine of steel. Our gasps and grunts. A pair of rutting beasts, one of them black-bearded, the other with a bloody face.

  Step wide. Step through. In line. Offline. Changing ground to place the blows – to force the other round to face the sun. I’m free to see its sparkle on our bucklers. Lightning flashes on our blades. We know the steps, are better matched than anyone believed. My eye as quick as his. His reach as good as mine. We tease, we tempt, we dance, we circle. Now in shadow. Now in light, slicing silver patterns through the sunlight.

  I watched a spider in the angle of the window, working to repair his web. I watched the shadow of the solar creeping out across the tiltyard, to catch the fighting men as they stepped through it – into shade, and out of it into the light.

  The blood’s drying. But sweat’s dripping from my cap-band. Shirt soaked. Throat raw. Arm muscles corded, screaming for relief! The pace is punishing and every move hard-fought. Keep on. Keep on. Maintain the rhythm. Save energy. Move only as you have to. Sheer stamina – in a protracted bout that can be what decides the outcome.

  ‘You’re favouring your right, Garon.’

  Where does he find the breath to speak?

  ‘Is it the knee?’ His blade darts at me hissing like a snake, turned flat to penetrate the ribs.

  Block. Counter-strike. Keep on. Keep on. No need to answer him or break the flow.

  ‘Or is your problem with the foot? IS–IT-THE-FOOT?’ Hugh’s words timed to the movements of his sword.

  Step wide to lunge. He’s close. Close range. Shields clash and interlock. Grapple. Twist and grapple, thigh to thigh.

  The stench of him! His sweat, his…

  AAAH! CHRIST, THE FOOT!

  Break free! Back! Back, out of range. Block. Thrust, and block…

  Don’t let him see. He couldn’t know that it was broken then – or now again.

  Sweet Jesus! I thought his time had come. The pain in his poor bleeding face!

  ‘What is it child, what can you see?’ I couldn’t leave the window, couldn’t even turn my head.

  ‘Somehow he managed to lock shields, My Lady. Wrenched him round and stamped on him. His foot.’

  ‘Who did? Whose foot?’

  ‘Sir Garon’s injured foot. Sir Hugh is pressing in…’

  I knew that she expected me to tell her everything. But all I really wanted was to hide from it – escape from WHAT I KNEW WAS GOING TO HAPPEN!

  Flat feet. That’s all you need for sword and buckler fighting. Can do without the toes.

  Keep on. Keep on. Push through the pain. Push through, YOU CAN. To falter even for an instant is to die!

  Their shadows had already crossed the yard – giant shadows, elongated, rearing back and forth across the stable roof. From light to shade, from life to…

  Breath rasping, burning in my throat. Block. Block.

  SMASH. SMASH! Pressing his advantage.

  The dazzle of the sun. Low-slanted now and le
vel with the keep. Stripes him with light reflected from my blade. Across his arm. Across his neck. A white cross. Could it… could I?

  Too bright. Can’t take it. Have to turn. Left foot passing step. Now right. AAH, close – too close! His sword-point’s knicked my coif…

  Sun’s image ringed with red. Imprinted on my brain. The sound of bells, the Priory ringing Vespers. But can’t last to sunset – know I can’t. And if I could, he’d win. How long? How many steps as we turn back? How many strokes before the sun is hidden by the solar roof? How many chances to…

  He’s in! God, in again and grappling! His favoured move. A wrestler’s throw – I’M DOWN!

  Black eyes triumphant. Venomous! The upraised blade – SMASH! Blocked by the buckler covering my fists. Rams jarring brains. Two fists together, gripping sword and shield…

  A chance! – just one, the very last. My blade cross-angled to the sun. Last burst of light above the ridge, becomes a weapon. Band of brilliance stripes his face, his eyes – through to the brain behind them.

  To blind him. Send him wide, expose his sword-arm at the wrist…

  AND NOW! AND NOW! Now undercut. Slice up behind the buckler, through the gauntlet…

  CRACK! The sharp, clear sound of snapping bone. The grate of steel. The single cry of pain. The useless falling blade.

  THE BLOOD! He staggers, spent. Drops to his knees.

  I stumble upright through the pain. My weight on the good foot. My sword still firm in hand.

  ‘He’d won! Thanks be to God!’

  I turned back from the window, to show My Lady Isabel a face already wet with tears. Beside her chair, young Tom was grinning like an ape.

  ‘So God has spoken through his sword,’ My Lady said complacently. ‘And is he dead? Has he received the coup?’

  Down in the tiltyard, neither of the men had moved. Sir Hugh still knelt with right wrist gripped in left, still gouting blood. Sir Garon stood above him with sword held ready for the mercy blow – the coup de grâce to finish it and clear me of dishonour.

  ‘Now Garon, NOW,’ I whispered. ‘JÉSU, DO IT NOW!’