Then Katherine distinguished a tall knight with golden lion crest and knew by the emblems on his shield that it must be the Duke. He had broken a lance with his brother Lionel, who was a gigantic figure in armour as black and shining as that often worn by his older brother, Edward.
The two dukes, both furnished with fresh lances by darting squires, had drawn to the far side of the field and separated for a second course. They ran this course fast and decorously and again at the shock of impact on the shields their lances splintered fairly. But Lionel's horse had twisted a tendon and one of the girths on his saddle had parted. He moved to the rear for a fresh mount while John pulled to one side of the lists and waited.
Suddenly Blanche laid her hand on Katherine's shoulder. "Look, child, your two knights are fighting each other! See, over there near the Duke."
Katherine saw then the helmets, one with her green streamer on it, and the other with the stag's head, though the iris she had given de Cheyne had long since been knocked off. The two men were afoot, having both been unhorsed in the first violent collision. They were fighting with swords and de Cheyne seemed to be giving inch by inch under the furious onslaughts of the shorter, stockier figure.
Before the melee the Duke had had time to warn Roger of Hugh's intent, and Roger had been amused. "So the little ram is fuming? By Saint Valentine, I'll be pleased to give him satisfaction, my lord!"
But now Roger was no longer amused. This was no chivalrous contest for a lady's smile in which he found himself engaged. The blows from the flat of the sword rained on his helmet and hauberk with stunning force. Swynford handled his sword as his ancestors had used the battle-axe. Through the slit in the visor Roger could see the glint of murderous eyes and hear a panting drone of fury.
Roger parried the blows as best he could, but the blood was bursting in his ears and nose; he stumbled and fell to one knee while the crashing shocks of steel redoubled on his helmet and shoulders. He struggled to his feet and made a desperate lunge, and at the same moment he felt a flash of fire in his neck. The lead foil had come off Hugh's sword.
Hugh, berserk with blood lust, did not know it, the marshals, watchful as they were of each separate combat, had not seen it - but the Duke saw.
Lionel had not yet signalled for the beginning of the third course, and John had been watching Swynford and de Cheyne uneasily. He saw the younger knight stagger and a spray of crimson spurt through the joint between the helmet and gorget, he saw the naked sword-tip flash, and he galloped up, shouting, "Halt, Swynford!"
But Hugh did not hear. He knew only that his quarry was weakened at last, and he beat down harder.
John might have stopped Hugh with a blow from his lance except for the rule that a mounted man must not touch one afoot, so he flung himself out of the saddle and ran up, drawing his sword; then, lifting it high, sliced it down between the two knights as barrier. Hugh staggered back for a moment, and Roger slumped prone on the ground. His squire darted over with a pursuivant, and the two men carried his limp body off the field.
But Hugh could see little through the visor slit, and his eyes were half blinded with sweat. He knew only that here in the moment of victory over de Cheyne there was somehow new battle. And he turned on the Duke.
There was a rumble of astonishment from those spectators who had noticed this particular engagement, whispers of "Lancaster's unhorsed! Who's he fighting? What happened?"
One of the marshals galloped up and then paused uncertainly. By the rules of combat any knight on the one side might singly engage any one of the opponents, but in actual practice nowadays this was unusual, and the two princely leaders were tacitly reserved for each other.
But Blanche knew what was happening. She stood up, marble-still, her eyes fixed on the figures across the lists. And Katherine knew. She had held her breath while she watched the fight between Roger and Hugh, but the spectacle had not seemed very real; it was like the banging, slashing battles the mummers played, and there had been room in her heart for a primitive female thrill, since the two knights fought over her.
But when she saw that the Duke had somehow taken Roger's place her detachment fled and fear rushed in. She gasped at each of Hugh's lunges and tightened as though to receive them on her own body; her lips moved incessantly. "Make him win, Blessed Mother, make him win," and it was the Duke that she meant.
It lasted only three minutes. Hugh's crazy rage did not abate, but he was no match for John of Gaunt, whose cool head, lean, powerful body and chivalrous training from babyhood had made him the most accomplished knight at court. John parried the vicious blows and waited until Hugh's right arm was raised, then he hit the gauntleted hand a tremendous blow. Hugh's sword went spinning down the field.
The Duke with studied deliberation lowered his own sword and thrust it into the ground, while thundering applause shook the loges, and the King, cupping his hands, shouted, "Well done, Lancaster! Well done, fair son!"
It was then that Hugh realised who his opponent was. He staggered backwards, raising his visor. "My Lord Duke, I'm honoured."
John gazed at him with icy eyes. "You're not honoured, Swynford, you're disgraced. Look at your sword-" He pointed with his mailed shoe at the unguarded point of Hugh's sword as it lay in the dust. "And you wounded young de Cheyne in unfair combat."
Hugh turned purple under the sweat-caked dust. "By God, sir, I didn't know. I swear it."
"Get out of the lists," said the Duke. "We'll deal with you later." Hugh turned and limped slowly off the field.
John dismissed the problem of Hugh and, mounting his horse again, accepted the lance from his squire and rested it in the socket, preparatory to running the final course with Lionel. He saw that this course would be the end of the tournament, since the lists were cleared of all but two combatants, a French knight and Sir Michael de la Pole, his own man. He beckoned to the marshal. "How has it gone? What is the tally?" he asked.
"It is a near thing, Your Grace. The Duke of Clarence was ahead until you bested that knight." The marshal indicated Hugh's retreating figure. "But now, I see, his forces are ahead again." For even as they conferred, the French knight dexterously backed Sir Michael against the far stockade, and the Englishman raised his sword-hilt high in token of submission.
"By Christ's blood, then, we must try to even the contest," cried the Duke and he waved his lance in signal to Lionel.
The crowd, which had been restive, quietened and watched with delight as the two resplendent Plantagenets ran the final course against each other. Here was no blind unruly jousting, but an elegant deed of arms with each fine point of technique observed. The ceremonious bowing of the helmeted heads as the herald's trumpet sounded, the simultaneous start from the lines drawn at either end of the lists, the lances held precisely horizontal, the control over the snorting destriers who were always liable to swerve, the shivering impact of the lances square on the opposing shields and the final neat thrust sideways of Lancaster's lance, which dexterously knocked the helmet up and off Lionel's head, where it dangled by the lacings from the gorget.
"Splendid, splendid!" cried the King, proud of his sons.
John and Lionel came riding up to their father's loge and bowed to him while the heralds, once more taking the centre of the field, proclaimed that the great tournament in honour of St. George had ended in a draw. The crowd groaned with disappointment. But, continued the heralds, the prizes would be given anyway by lot tonight at the Feast of the Garter and the special prize for the knight adjudged to have been most worthy in the tournament would also be presented then.