The Price of the King's Peace bt-3

by Nigel Tranter

  But at least they thundered towards each other, the ground positively shaking at the weighty hoof-beats. Lances levelled, the visors of their helmets closed, the contestants urged tons of steel and flesh on a collision course. In this sort of fighting there was little room for finesse; iron nerve, almost equally iron muscles, superb horsemanship and split-second timing-these were the prerequisites.

  And no weakness towards claustrophobia.

  Since all might well end with the first headlong encounter, neither

  wasted any time on feints and gestures. Straight for each other they

  pounded, eyes busy behind the visors’ slits. The least movement,

  change of position or attitude, cock of the head even, could give some

  indication of the vital information-just where the lance-point would

  be aimed-and great heraldic-designed shields over left arms were ready

  to react. They met with a splintering crash which made even seasoned

  watchers wince. It seemed impossible that either of the mounts, or riders, could survive that impact. The horses struck at a slight angle, but near enough head-on to bring them both to an immediate standstill. But split-seconds before that the lance-tips had crossed and in that instant both men rose in their stirrups for better control and avoiding action, altering the pitch of the said lances. Edward’s, shrewdly aimed, struck home full at the other’s breast-but by that time the Englishman had his shield up. It took the blow solidly, and the lance’s timber shaft snapped clean in two, with the force of it. Segrave’s own point, in the clash, missed the Scot’s shoulder by a hair’s breadth.

  For strange moments time seemed to stand still, the tableau

  motionless.

  The two combatants were almost in each other’s arms, Segrave thrown forward by the impetus and sudden halt of his mount and the failure of his lance to contact more than air. Carrick’s position was different. The impact of his lance tended to throw him back, but his charger’s abrupt stoppage countered this.

  Standing in his stirrups as he was, almost he was unseated, to fall sideways. But he was held upright, for the moment, by the pressure on his right leg, held between the two horses. So, poised, they glared into each other’s visors, while the panting horses scrabbled great hooves to retain a footing. Then, recovering equilibrium and control simultaneously, they broke apart and went circling ponderously away.

  A great corporate sigh rose from the crowd.

  “What now?” Elizabeth demanded, breathlessly.

  “Edward had the best of that. Yet now he has no lance. While Segrave has. What now?”

  “It is the fortune of the tourney,” Bruce told her.

  “It has left the choice with the Englishman. He can ride Edward dow nif he may! Edward will not run from him, that is certain! Four-foot sword against nine-foot lance! Or he may be chivalrous and allow Edward to collect a second lance.”

  Segrave did neither. Raising his undamaged lance, he cast it from him.

  Then he drew his sword, and waved it at his opponent invitingly.

  “Ah-that is noble!” the Queen cried.

  “He rejects his advantage.”

  “Noble!”

  Hugh Ross exclaimed disgustedly.

  “No nobility there.

  He perceives that the Lord Edward is better than he with the lance, that is all. No point in allowing him another lance. So he will try the sword. “ “That may very well be so,” Bruce acceded.

  Edward had drawn his own sword, and now the champions circled each other warily, while the watchers yelled encouragement or advice. Then Edward took the initiative and, holding his blade straight out before him like another lance, spurred directly for the other.

  Segrave stood his ground until the other was almost upon him.

  Then he jerked his mount away to the right, the wrong side for the Scot’s sword, and slashed his own in a sideways swipe as Edward swept past him. This was the classic move, and the other had anticipated it. By standing up and leaning as far to his own right as he could, he avoided that blow by inches. Thereafter he immediately pulled his destrier’s head round viciously, hard round to the left and still round, sending the great brute rearing up and pawing the air, until it was completely turned and at the other’s back. The Englishman perceived his danger, and spurred away-but just in time. Edward’s blade struck a glancing blow, expending most of its force on the great wooden saddle behind the other. Segrave’s slightly lighter horse enabled him to draw away.

  “Another point to Edward!” the King cried.

  “That was featly done.”

  It was Segrave’s turn to surprise them. He had only ridden away some twenty yards when abruptly he reined his mount directly round in its tracks, with more pawing of the air. His opponent was unprepared for this, and could not get his heavy charger out of the way in time. He took, in consequence, a heavy blow partly on his shoulder-fortunately not the sword-arm- and partly on his shield, before the other was carried past, and reeled in his saddle.

  Everywhere Englishmen shouted hoarsely.

  Their champion was quick to exploit his advantage. Swiftly he reined round once more, to drive in whilst the other was part numbed by the blow.

  Edward, with only the briefest of seconds to take avoiding action, did not do so. Instead, he spurred to meet the challenge, canted over to his left side in pain as he was. And just before the attack was upon him, with a major effort he wrenched back his destrier’s head with almost unbelievable savagery and at enormous cost to himself, so that he swayed dizzily in the saddle with the shock of it. The horse rose high on its hind legs, squealing its fright and hurt, great shaggy forelegs lashing directly in the face of the other charging animal.

  Somehow the Scot managed to retain his seat, or rather his stance for

  he was standing upright. The other mount, faced with those weaving

  iron-shod hooves only inches from its face, flung itself aside as

  abruptly, almost falling over in the process. Segrave was all but

  thrown, his aimed sword jerked aside as he sought to save himself. And

  leaning far forward and over, Edward brought down his own brand in a

  mighty sledgehammer, pile-driving stroke, rough, ungainly but

  irresistible, which smashed flat-sided across the other’s neck,

  shoulder and chest, and literally lifted him out of his saddle.

  Segrave toppled, steel-clad limbs flailing, and crashed to the soft peat with a crunch which drew gasps from all around. He lay still.

  After the moment or two of shock, the entire castle precincts rang with shouted acclaim, admiration, and groans. Edward, looking very unsteady, and still obviously twisted with pain, spared no glance at his victim, but raising his sword high towards the Queen, turned his snorting steed and walked it ponderously back to his own base.

  Segrave’s esquires ran out to the aid of their fallen champion.

  “Your realm’s credit was safe with your brother, this time, my Lord Robert,” Angus Og observed.

  “It was a notable bout.”

  “Aye. Edward lacks nothing in courage. And daring. Even skill of sorts. It is judgement he lacks.”

  “He judged well enough there, did he not?” Elizabeth asked. I think you are too hard on Edward, Robert.”

  “Perhaps. Many, I know, think so. Women, in especial I Though some have been known to change their minds!”

  “Too hard or not, the Lord Edward will never change,” Christina

  MacRuarie put in.

  “Men must accept him as he is, I say. And women rejoice-and watch their virtue!”

  The Queen considered her.

  “I think some women may be a match for even Edward Bruce!” she said, smiling a little.

  They exchanged appreciative glances.

  Presently, Edward himself arrived, shoulder still hunched a little, bareheaded now, but grinning, debonair. In his mid-thirties, he was dark, slenderly built, a much slighter man than was his brother, but tense as a coiled spring. Handsome in a
sardonic fashion, he had a roving eye, a wide twisted mouth and a pugnacious jaw. But there was no doubt but that he was a Bruce.

  “Bravely done, Edward!” Elizabeth greeted him.

  “You fought well.”

  “I fought to win,” he told her briefly.

  “And now I come to claim my reward. From the Queen of these games.”

  “Far be it from me to withhold it, sir. What do you seek? A white rose? Or a red? A glove? A ring from my finger, perhaps?

  Or a pearl from my ear?”

  “None of these,” he declared.

  “I seek and I crave a kiss. A queen’s kiss! And pray it be none too sisterly!” And he cast a fleeting glance at his brother.

  “Why, my lord-that you shall have! And with my pleasure!”

  He stepped forward, to stoop-even though he grimaced at the pain of it-and planted a smacking kiss full on her lips. Then, his good arm circling her to press her close for another and longer embrace, he drew back-but only for a little, preparatory to a third assault. The Queen’s hand went up to take the lobe of his ear between thumb and forefinger, and to nip it hard, so that he yelped-without however any change of her own expression.

  “Greedy, sir!” she said.

  “Would you shame me in front of my liege lord? And yours?”

  “If needs be!” he asserted, caressing his ear.

  “But, save usI’d prefer to do it more privately! Yours is the choice, woman!”

  “Has a husband no say in such matters?” the King asked, but mildly.

  “As that of the Queen of your realm, brother. Today this Elizabeth is Queen of the Tourney, and not troubled with a husband!”

  “I

  am never troubled with my husband,” the woman observed.

  “My trouble is to see sufficient of him!”

  “Were I your husband, you would see sufficient of me, I vow!”

  “Too much, perhaps, my brave lord! Like some other ladies say!” That was also a woman’s voice, but different, softer, more sibilant.

  Edward Bruce’s head jerked up, to stare.

  “You! You here again!

  The Isleswoman! I’ faith-here’s a pickle! Christina of Garmoran come back to … confront us! What now?”

  His brother frowned.

  “Christina’s presence is welcome. As always,” he said shortly.

  “As always …? Ooh, aye!” Edward looked back at Elizabeth

  assessingly.

  “Well me,” she nodded.

  “The more so, that she will perhaps help to keep such as the Earl of Carrick in their place!”

  “Ha …!” Edward got no further. A trumpet blast heralded another announcement.

  “The most noble the Earl of Hereford, Lord High Constable of England, craves the Queen’s leave to speak.”

  Surprised, the occupants of the royal gallery looked at each other.

  “Bohun! What does he want?” Bruce asked. But he nodded to

  “We cannot withhold permission to the Constable.”

  At Elizabeth’s wave of acceptance, another voice called.

  “I,

  Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford, do require satisfaction.

  Robert de Bruce, lately Earl of Carrick, who calls himself King of Scots, did fight and slay my nephew, Sir Humphrey de Bohun, Knight, before the past battle. For the honour of my name and house, I Humphrey do hereby challenge the said Robert to single combat as fought with my kinsman that day.”

  “A plague on the man-hear that!” Edward exclaimed, into the buzz of comment and astonishment.

  “A wretched prisoner-challenging the King! Insolent!”

  Everywhere the shouts and growls of the Scots showed that they agreed with this judgement.

  “Robert-you will not do this?” the Queen asked.

  “You are not afraid for me, my dear?”

  “Afraid, no. But…”

  “Your Grace-Sire!” a voice called from some way off.

  “Allow me. That I meet Hereford’s challenge.” It was Gilbert Hay.

  “As Constable of Scotland, let me deal with this Englishman.”

  Bruce frowned. If the other English challenger had presented a

  problem, how much more did this. Had it been any other than Bohun who

  made it, there would have been little of difficulty-he would have

  rejected it out of hand. As King, he could do that without loss of

  reputation. Indeed, he would have felt almost bound to do so. But the Earl of Hereford was in a special category.

  As Lord High Constable of England he ranked next to King Edward himself. His capture, fleeing from Bannockburn, must have been a bitter blow indeed. Taken in the field would have been bad enough, but, like his monarch and so many other great lords, he had bolted before the end, and had been pursued and captured as far away as Bothwell, on his flight to England. Now he would be concerned to wipe out that stain. But, more than this, before the battle proper he had seen his nephew cut down in single combat with Bruce, and however much he might have wished to avenge that rash young man there and then, had in fact, despite overwhelming superiority in numbers and arms, withheld-as probably was no less than his duty as a responsible commander. But here too he must have felt his honour to have suffered.. Now he required to make a gesture. And Bruce felt some sympathy.

  The King waved a negative hand to Hay.

  “My concern,” he said.

  “You are not going to oblige this presumptuous captive?” Angus Og exclaimed.

  “You!”

  “It is customary at a tourney, when one side has lost a bout, to allow them opportunity to redeem themselves, should they so challenge.”

  “Aye -but not the King.”

  “It was I who slew young Humphrey de Bohun. Besides, it was my brother who put down Segrave. Think you Segrave’s superior should fight with my brother’s junior?”

  “And if you fall…?”

  “Then Hereford will have proved himself the better man!”

  Bruce raised his hand.

  “I accept my lord of Hereford’s challenge,” he cried.

  “What weapon does he choose?”

  Clear and cold the answer came from below.

  “You slew my nephew with a battle-axe. So be it. I choose the axe!”

  “No!” As clear, ringing, came this denial.

  “No-I will not have it!” Elizabeth cried, rising from her throne.

  “I said there will be no killing. As Queen of this tournament, I

  forbid it! There will be no axes, I say.”

  Her husband smoothed hand over mouth and chin.

  “As Your Majesty wishes,” the challenger acceded thinly.

  “The mace, then. Will that serve?”

  “The mace, yes.” He turned to his wife.

  “Blunt enough, my dear?”

  She bit her lip, saying nothing.

  A hand touching her shoulder, and pressing, the King turned and strode off, calling for his armour-bearer, young Sir William Irvine, knighted after Bannockburn.

  When at length the monarch rode out into the lists, clad now in splendid armour and with the Lion Rampant vivid scarlet on his yellow surcoat and horse-trappings, it was seen that he had chosen no destrier as mount, but the same grey light gar ron which he had ridden that day when he had fought Hereford’s nephew. It lacked height and weight but its wiry nimbleness and sureness of foot were the assets he coveted today. Men noted the fact. De Bohun, given choice of the vast pool of captured horseflesh, had selected a mighty black charger-which might well have been his own.

  Making their bows to the Queen, Bruce looked almost laughably lowly, under-horsed, by comparison, but none there thought to smile, even Edward. The King spoke to Hereford, voice hollow inside his jousting helm.

  “My lord-why did you choose the axe? When I am accounted a master with it?”

  “For that very reason,” the other returned curtly.

  ”And because, with the axe, you killed my nephew. “ “He died

  honourably, in fair fight. No call for you to risk your life, proving

  y
our house’s honour.”

  “You will allow me, sir, to be custodian of my own honour.”

  “Aye. But to choose the axe there, means that you meant to kill.

  Or be killed. And your ransom near paid. Why?”

  “Need I account for my actions to you, sir. A rebel?”

  “Hal So it is still the same! You have learned nothing, my lord?

  The bitter English pride! I am sorry for you…”

  Abruptly the other wheeled his charger round, and rode back to his base.

  However blunt an instrument, the mace required considerable skill for effective use in mounted warfare. Like the axe, it was short in haft, but its knobbly head was heavier, and in consequence, lea well-balanced. It was therefore notably short in range and hard on the wrist, and against armour demanded very shrewd placing.

  At the trumpet’s imperious signal, the two contestants rode at each other, a seemingly ill-matched pair. Bruce having to restrain his lighter mount. Hereford, with superior height, and therefore reach, but a horse which would tire more quickly, was out for a quick decision. He wasted no time on preliminary skirmishing, but drove straight at the other.

  Bruce knew that he would be expected to dodge and use his agility. He therefore waited until the other was all but on him;

  then, as the Earl raised his mace high, ready to smash it down on whichever side his foe decided to veer, he jerked his pony right round in what was almost a full half-circle, under the very nose of the black charger. He achieved it with only bare inches to spare, and went trotting off a yard or so in front of the lumbering destrier whose rider was leaning forward over its neck, flailing furiously but quite ineffectually, the King not even turning his head to look back.

  Oddly enough, this manoeuvre, which might have looked like the craven shirking of an encounter, did not; rather it gave the impression of cocky and quite insolent confidence.

  The great shout of laughter from all around-which was partly what Bruce was playing for-revealed the appreciation of at least a majority of the company.

  It was easy to keep just the right distance ahead of the challenger.

  The King kept it up for just long enough to make it clear that he was in command of the situation. Then, spurring, he cantered away for seventy yards or so, before flinging his beast round once more and sending it headlong towards the other.