“I am Lord Ruthsson’s grandnephew,” he said calmly. “I can prove it by documents, and Archbishop Thurstan, as well as the sisters in the convent where I was born, will swear that my mother was Margaret of Ruthsson. What I am willing to do is to take oath that I am daughter’s son to the late Eric of Ruthsson, and the eldest male of the blood of Ralph of Ruthsson. And I will swear also to present to the king my claim to be heir to Ralph, lord of Ruthsson, and have it confirmed.”
Under Hugh’s hand, Ralph stirred angrily, but Hugh tightened his grip, and his uncle subsided. De Merley nodded brusquely, not completely satisfied, but knowing he could obtain no more. If Hugh was Ruthsson’s nephew, he had a right to the land—although the king might not be pleased; if he was not, de Merley had witnesses to Hugh’s swearing falsely. He sent one of his squires, who had been assisting the herald, to find the priest, who was not far off. The Church officially disapproved of tourneys, but a priest need have no fear of being reprimanded for attending. Was it not his duty to give last rites to any who might be fatally wounded? And in any case, for a trial by combat, which nearly always ended in death, he must attend the loser—or both, if both contestants died—and invoke God’s attention to the contest so that all would accept the outcome as His will.
By the time the more important men who had come to the tourney had been summoned as witnesses and Hugh had sworn his oath, both sides of the field behind the marking posts were crowded with spectators. Hugh looked around at the busy crowd, all dressed in their best, many seated and breaking their fasts with food brought from home or beckoning to the vendors who threaded through the crowd hawking their wares. He smiled to himself, thinking that their desires and his were directly opposed—not that the spectators cared who won or lost, but that they anticipated a long, bloody contest, whereas he would be delighted if Sir Lionel were unseated and broke his neck on the first pass with lances. His attention was drawn from the crowd by the herald, who mounted his horse and rode to the other end of the field. Hugh presumed it was to determine whether Sir Lionel was ready, and he watched closely, hoping to catch sight of his opponent.
The herald was a local man, and although he did not particularly like Sir Lionel, who had a hot temper and a quarrelsome disposition, he still felt a certain loyalty to another local magnate. Thus, he intended to pass along the surprising news that Lord Ruthsson, who all had thought the last of his blood, had discovered a long-lost nephew. He got only as far as “Lord Ruthsson has found a champion at last—”
“Do you think I fear that?” Lionel Heugh snapped angrily. “I am not blind. I saw the conclave that went to greet him. I know what you think, too. But my quarrel is just, and I do not fear the judgment of men or God.”
The herald was annoyed by Sir Lionel’s attitude. He had spoken with the intention of doing Sir Lionel good, for after seeing Hugh, he was not so certain as he had been originally that Sir Lionel would win. In fact, he had intended to warn Sir Lionel that Ruthsson had found blood relations who would doubtless contest Sir Lionel’s claim, whether or not he was successful in the battle, because the king had not actually sanctioned the challenge. Now irritation led to the realization that his news could serve no purpose. For Sir Lionel to back down as soon as a champion appeared to support the aged and unwarlike Ralph Ruthsson would make him the laughingstock of the entire shire.
Irritation also reminded the herald that although there was some justice in Sir Lionel’s claim—custom did decree that the dowry of a childless widow be returned to her family—he, like most others, had been disgusted by the challenge to Ruthsson, who was old and without friends since the death of King Henry. No one had been disgusted enough to risk his life for Ruthsson—and that, of course, had made all of them even angrier at Sir Lionel. So he said no more and was very grateful that, at that moment, the sound of bells rose faintly above the noise of the crowd. The herald glanced to the east and judged from the height of the pale sun that the bells had sounded for the hour of prime.
“It is time,” he said with relief, and turned his horse abruptly toward the center of the field. Once at his goal, he began to call out the parties and the terms of the quarrel.
Hugh had watched the herald cross the field and looked with considerable interest at the man to whom he spoke, who must be Sir Lionel. Judging from a comparison with the herald, Sir Lionel was as tall as Hugh and might be heavier. The distance was too great to see small details, but Sir Lionel’s armor looked well worn. There might, Hugh thought, be more to his uncle’s warnings than he had first credited, and he turned to Ralph, who was still protesting against de Merley’s suspicions, and asked him to return to Audris. Both men looked around. De Merley, seeing the herald coming to the center of the field, hurried off to assume his position as judge. Ralph seemed about to say something, but instead embraced Hugh, pulled his head down to kiss him, embraced him again, and hurried away.
As the herald began to speak, Hugh walked to the squire who was holding a bundle of lances and examined them carefully, choosing three, which he named in order of use to the squire, and then another three in case Sir Lionel wished to extend the number of passes of jousting. He then mounted Rufus and took the first lance in hand, resting the shaft easily on his right foot while he waited and turning his destrier so that he could watch his opponent.
Sir Lionel had already tucked the shaft of his spear under his arm. A flicker of satisfaction passed through Hugh, although his face remained expressionless. Despite the difference in their ages, Hugh was reasonably certain that Sir Lionel was a less experienced jouster than he was. Hugh knew enough not to tire his arm holding a lance while a herald called the challenge; they were usually long-winded beasts, heralds.
In this case, Hugh was only partly right. He had plenty of time to loop his reins around his saddle pommel, so that his right hand would be free to manage the lance and his left to hold his shield, because the charge, which was complicated, took time to recite. Unlike other jousts, the herald actually added no flourishes of his own, nor had either contestant hired a pursuivant to cry up his ancestry and prowess. The priest who had taken Hugh’s oath, however, followed the herald onto the field to call on God and the saint with whose relics he symbolically consecrated the field to judge the battle.
Hugh added his own devout prayers to Mary to protect and uphold him. He was diverted by the memory of a legend that told of the Holy Mother taking the place in the jousts of a knight who had been particularly devoted to her when he was unable to come to the field as promised, and Hugh murmured, “I need not ask so much of you, Domina, only to cast an eye in my direction and lend strength to my arms.” He had closed his eyes to concentrate on his prayers and did not see the priest retire to a seat beside de Merley’s lady.
Thus, the herald’s bellow, “In God’s name, do your battle!” took Hugh by surprise. His eyes snapped open in the middle of an Ave Maria to see the herald spur his horse off the field, out of the way.
Reflexively, Hugh flipped two loops of the rein off the pommel to give Rufus his head, swung his lance into position, drove his spurs into Rufus’s sides, and shouted loudly to incite his horse to its greatest effort. Over the edge of his shield, his eyes watched his oncoming opponent narrowly. They were headed directly toward each other; Hugh’s knees gripped the destrier firmly, exerting an equal pressure but ready instantly to prod hard right or left to follow Sir Lionel if he swerved or to swerve himself to avoid a collision. In the moments in which he closed with his opponent, he could perceive no weakness in Sir Lionel’s riding style, but he hardly had time for a flash of disappointment before they came together.
The shock was hard, both horses checked in their stride momentarily, but Hugh had withstood much harder, and he twisted and lifted his shield, urging Rufus leftward into Sir Lionel’s horse as he drove his own body forward as hard as he could. His hope flared high as he slatted off Sir Lionel’s lance and saw the man bend back in his saddle, but in the next instant he fell forward
himself as Sir Lionel forced his shield upward and Hugh’s lance slipped off over his opponent’s head. He gasped as his chest hit the pommel of his saddle, but the blow was a mercy because Sir Lionel brought his spear around in a vicious arc that could have broken Hugh’s arm had it hit him. As it was, it passed harmlessly over his back, and Rufus plunged on out of range.
Hugh was infuriated by what Sir Lionel had done, mostly because it made him realize how foolish he had been to think a battle à outrance would be fought according to the courteous rules of tourney jousting. This was war, he reminded himself, and his purpose was to kill Lionel of Heugh. He swung Rufus around, yelling and spurring, grinning with vicious joy when he saw that his opponent was only just starting his turn, his lance all out of balance. Sir Lionel made a desperate effort to aim and steady his weapon, and although it was too late to save him, the wild swing of his lance caught Hugh on the side of the head. The blow was not severe, but as Hugh struck and Lionel toppled back off his horse, instinctively clinging to his weapon, the lance flew upward, catching on the ornamental rim of Hugh’s helmet and pushing if off. By the time Hugh’s own lance had done its work and he was able to cast it away, it was too late to catch his helmet or even see where it had gone.
The crowd was roaring, some shouting praise of Hugh’s blow, others imprecations because they thought the battle was over too soon. Hugh was too busy to hear more than a vague noise, to which he paid no attention. Lionel’s horse had veered in toward Rufus because his rider struck him hard on the right flank as he fell. Rufus instinctively veered away, and at the speed he was going, he was well past where Lionel had fallen before Hugh could check him or turn him. Hugh was aware of a change in the sound the crowd was making, so he was not surprised when he got Rufus around to see Lionel already on his knees with his sword drawn.
Hugh had checked Rufus and had his leg over the saddle to dismount before he recalled that in a judicial combat there would have been no shame in riding Lionel down. His hesitation was so brief that no one noticed, and his courtesy was marked by another great roar of approval from the spectators. But Hugh was not concerned with displaying either his courage or his courtesy; he was only thinking of Rufus. In a tournament, his horse would have been safe; no man who expected ever to show his face again would have struck at the stallion. In a combat that would end with death for one of the adversaries, Rufus would be merely a bigger and better target, and no one would blame Lionel for killing the horse to even conditions between himself and the rider.
As Hugh dismounted and drove Rufus away with a gentle blow and a word of command, Lionel climbed to his feet. Hugh ran forward, drawing his sword, hoping to find his opponent still dazed from his fall, but the blow he launched was readily met, and Lionel skillfully twisted his long, kite-shaped shield to catch Hugh’s sword and hold it. He was not successful, but he pushed the weapon down far enough to get in a shrewd blow of his own. Hugh caught it on his shield and was most unpleasantly surprised by the man’s power. He felt the shock to his shoulder, but what was far worse, he could feel the shield pull outward from both elbow strap and handgrip. Seemingly, the frame had weakened somewhere.
Hugh responded with a flurry of cuts, an attempt to prevent Lionel from exploiting his advantage and, if he were lucky, to end the struggle. He succeeded only in turning Lionel around and driving him back, but he could see the attack was accomplishing nothing. Hugh even caught the ghost of a grin on his opponent’s hard mouth, and he was infuriated again. Heugh was no jouster, but he was a fighter, and he was plainly expecting Hugh to wear himself out in wild, fruitless attacks and then fall an easy victim to the “wiser man” who had defended himself without expending much effort.
This flash of rage was brief, however, for Hugh saw a way to turn his opponent’s contempt to his own advantage. He would do his best to make Sir Lionel think he had less stamina than strength by easing off and renewing his attack several times, each time making the period during which he attacked shorter and the strokes feebler. Then, when Heugh thought he was nearly exhausted, he would pretend to trip or use some other device to draw Lionel to attack him—and then he would take him. In accordance with this plan, Hugh slowed his slashing strikes, which did rest his arm, while he seemed to search for another opening. Lionel reacted immediately by attacking in turn, with the clear intention of keeping Hugh too active to recover the strength he had expended in his first fruitless onslaught. And Hugh had to admire his adversary’s skill and cleverness. Rather than give mighty blows, he poked and prodded, implying with his gestures that Hugh was not worth great strokes.
Even though he knew Lionel’s purpose, Hugh was angered and felt a strong urge to renew his violent assault and crush his sneering enemy. Sound training held him back from instant response—and saved his life. Lionel made one more jab at Hugh’s right thigh, which Hugh parried, and just when Hugh would have rushed him (had he lost control of his temper), he brought his sword into a huge overhead stroke that would have cleaved Hugh’s helmetless skull or his broken shield and his arm if he had caught the full force of the blow. Because Hugh had not swung his sword to the side to slash and had not rushed forward, it was only the tip of Lionel’s weapon that he had to ward away. Still his shield creaked protestingly, and Hugh had a sudden cold doubt that he could, after all, triumph.
He could think of no better plan than the one he had decided upon, however, and thrust Sir Lionel’s sword violently back at him with his shield while he swung his own—and connected. His enemy, who had been too sure of how he would react, had been slow to respond to the unexpected, and he howled; but he jumped back lightly, showing he was not much hurt. Still a surge of triumph rose in Hugh, only to be abruptly checked when another violent stroke fell on his shield.
That time Hugh gasped in pain, for his arm was actually hit by Lionel’s blade and was only saved from being cut and broken by the thickness of the tough hide. The shield frame was shattered; it no longer bowed slightly out from the arm that held it to distribute the force of any blow over a wide surface. Now, each time Lionel struck the shield, it would bend, so the force would concentrate in a small area and do great damage. Hugh knew he could not endure many more strokes on that arm.
Lionel knew it too and slashed at the same spot again, obviously hoping to cut through the hide and destroy Hugh’s shield completely—but that time Hugh was ready. He twisted the shield so that the sword blow fell on the right edge, which was supported directly by his hand; at the same time, he himself struck a vicious overhand blow at Lionel’s left shoulder and hit him. Lionel roared again—this time, Hugh judged, more with rage than pain, for Hugh’s sword had needed to push down the upper edge of his opponent’s shield before it could touch his shoulder and the stroke could have had little force remaining. Hugh himself made no sound, although he had had to bite back a cry. He had managed to ward off Lionel’s stroke, but his hand throbbed with pain and felt desperately weak; the pain was nothing, but if he could not grip his shield at all, he would be in desperate straits.
A slash at his helmetless head, which he barely parried because he expected it to curve toward his shield, reminded Hugh of another danger he had almost forgotten. To protect himself, he launched another offensive, again driving Sir Lionel back. Hugh could take little pleasure in his enemy’s retreat, however, since he was sure it was tactical rather than necessary. But his assault was so furious that he did manage to land two more blows, the second of which drew a cry of pain. He paid for that small success by himself being struck on the left hip—another result of the failure of his shield, because its shape had warped and sagged away from a part of his body he thought was protected. There was an instant sensation of warmth, and Hugh muttered a curse, knowing he was losing blood. He no longer had all the time he needed to tire his enemy; unless Sir Lionel was also bleeding—and if he was, he was concealing his wound under his shield—Hugh would lose strength faster.
There was no help for that. All Hugh could d
o was to press his attack as fiercely as possible, and he swung and hammered, keeping Lionel’s sword as busy as he could. But the older man was a sly fighter, and he got in a shrewd blow or two, once making Hugh yell in sheer agony as a side slash caught his shield at an odd angle and wrenched his cut and bruised hand. Hugh knew he was pushing this attack too long, yet a compulsion drove him to strike and strike again, even though he was tiring. One more, he thought, only one more, and lashed out at Lionel’s sword with his shield, simultaneously bringing his own sword around in a ferocious sweep at his enemy’s neck.
The shield, which ordinarily would have moved as a solid piece, bent—thrust harder on the left by Hugh’s elbow than on the right by his painful hand—and the edge caught Lionel’s sword and pushed it in toward his own body. To free his weapon, Lionel stepped back and ducked while lifting his shield to ward off Hugh’s sword blow, but his foot landed on Hugh’s lost helmet, which rolled, and his ankle bent, sending him toppling sideways. His elbow struck—not the soft ground but the hard metal helmet—and he screamed as the stabbing agony and semiparalysis caused by a blow on the elbow loosened his grip on his sword.
Hugh cried out too, but in triumph, and rushed forward. Hearing Lionel scream and seeing the sword drop from his hand, Hugh believed him more hurt than he was. But a powerful thrust of Lionel’s legs sent him staggering back. Instinctively, Hugh flung his arms wide to regain his balance, but before he could steady himself, he was struck a glancing blow on the head by the helmet, which Lionel had thrown at him. The weight of shield and sword added to the impetus of his stagger. Hugh fell backward. Desperately, in the few seconds granted him while Lionel snatched up his sword, Hugh brought his shield across his body and lifted his own weapon so Lionel could not put a foot on his arm and have him completely helpless. He rolled a little sideways, praying he could push himself up while Lionel got to his feet—but he never had the chance.
A Tapestry of Dreams Page 36