‘Fight to the death, you said, Crowner!’ he exulted. ‘You’ve had your wish, but it’s you that’s going to do the dying!’
As de Wolfe crouched on his knees, ineffectually holding up his sword towards the redheaded attacker, he thought what an ignominious end he would have, after surviving all those years in so many conflicts. Then, in the split second before Jocelin lifted his weapon to strike, he was suddenly at peace, his only regret being that he would never again lie with Nesta or Hilda. With poor Bran gurgling and jerking alongside him, he prodded upwards feebly and deflected the first slash that de Braose made.
The sneer on the young man’s face was worse than the fear of impending death. ‘Still fighting, Coroner? Then try this one!’ He lifted his blade high above his head and stepped back to make a swing that could cut de Wolfe in half.
John closed his eyes automatically and felt a heavy thud against his arms. Puzzled, he could not understand how that could be his death agony and opened his eyes to find de Braose spitted on his sword, the blade passing up between his thighs, through the slit in his hauberk. The man had fallen forward, his face on John’s shoulder, blood pouring from his mouth and nostrils, his body twitching a little but with nothing like the convulsions that the huge stallion was making alongside them.
Bewildered, de Wolfe pushed at the body, causing ferocious pain in his leg, but he managed to roll de Braose off him on to the ground. John’s sword was still between his opponent’s legs, the pommel level with Jocelin’s knees. A foot of the blade had entered near his genitals, the point being somewhere up in his belly.
In de Wolfe’s muddled mind, all this seemed to have taken hours, yet it could have been only seconds. The next thing to confuse the shocked coroner was the sight of a manic fair-headed man vaulting over the barrier and coming straight at him with a dagger in his hand. With sudden apathy, John’s resignation to suffer a violent death returned and he sank back on to his haunches, the pain in his leg monopolising his senses.
But Giles Fulford never reached him. A hairy whirlwind erupted into the gap between the blond squire and the coroner, as Gwyn arrived from the further end of the tilt. Though Fulford struck out with his dagger, it sliced harmlessly across the Cornishman’s thick leather cuirass. He never had another chance to stab, as Gwyn’s bulk struck him with the force of a runaway horse. He was smashed to the ground with the coroner’s officer on his back and de Wolfe, still half stupefied by his fall and the events of the past half-minute, watched as Gwyn’s huge hands pulled back the blond head until there was sharp snap as the neck broke.
‘That’s what you did to Fitzhamon, you swine!’ he muttered, as he let the dead man’s head drop into the mud. By now there was pandemonium all around. Those on the south side had seen everything that had happened and were running across, swamping the few soldiers who tried to keep order. On the north side, the fence had obscured the last acts of the drama and all the spectators there were now lined along the tilt, peering over the hurdles at the mayhem on the ground. Gwyn ignored everyone, turned to de Wolfe and cradled him in his arms.
‘My leg’s gone, but otherwise I’m all in one piece,’ murmured the coroner, trying to ignore the pain in his calf.
Tenderly, Gwyn picked him up and sat him on the ground so that his legs were now straight out in front, which immediately relieved much of the pain. ‘You’re too heavy even for me to carry, Crowner,’ he said. ‘We’ll get Gabriel to fetch a cart to take you home.’
John looked around him at the two corpses and his dead horse, now lying pathetically still. He reached out and gently touched a hairy foot that lay alongside him. ‘What, in God’s name, happened after that bastard speared my poor Bran? He was just about to skewer me to the ground!’
Another voice came from the ring of people that had appeared around him. ‘It was your stallion that saved you, John,’ came Ralph Morin’s deep tones. ‘Just as that evil fellow was going to strike, the horse gave a last massive spasm with all his legs and kicked the bastard down on to your upraised sword.’
‘I feel sure that the Almighty had a hand in that,’ said John de Alencon, who knelt down solicitously to look at the fractured leg. ‘Who else would have ordered things so that a dying horse would avenge itself upon its killer?’
De Wolfe grunted, his normal frame of mind rapidly returning. ‘I think I was an old fool to so rashly put myself forward as a champion,’ he muttered ruefully. ‘Gwyn, if I ever think of such a thing again, be sure to tie me hand and foot, will you?’
As they waited for Gabriel to organise a cart to take him home, he became aware of a silent figure standing over him. It was Matilda, who in her black cloak and white cover-chief already looked like a nun. ‘Are you in pain, husband?’ she said shortly, her face still devoid of any recognisable emotion. He murmured some dismissive words and watched her uneasily. ‘I will come home and tend to your needs until that leg mends,’ she said grimly. ‘That girl Mary has no idea how to look after an invalid.’ Then she turned away and walked off towards the city gate with her brother, who was inwardly singing with delight at the way matters had turned out.
As the soldiers waved away the crowd, Gwyn and Thomas stayed close to the coroner. ‘If you’re stuck in bed for a month or so, I’ll bring you some decent ale from the Bush every day,’ promised Gwyn. Not to be outdone, his little clerk, who was nearly crying at the thought of how close his master had come to death, offered to give him reading and writing lessons to pass the time.
The handcart came with Gabriel and two men-at-arms to push it, and Gwyn and the sergeant gently lifted de Wolfe aboard, with a couple of gambesons under him for padding. From his elevated position, John could see Richard de Revelle and Matilda vanishing in the distance, and he wondered what married life now held in store for him.
‘I think you ought to look the other way as well!’ grunted Gwyn, pushing the cart round.
Coming from the other end of the field directly towards him were two women, walking hand in hand. One had rich auburn hair, the other was a pale honey-blonde.