William slid the open-faced, iron helmet over John’s head. John turned to face Harold. The sergeant was a squat, thick-necked man. He, too, had opted to fight without a shield. He held his sword with both hands.
The seneschal stepped between the combatants. ‘The swords have been dulled to prevent serious injury. You will fight until one of you yields or cannot continue.’ He stepped out of the ring. ‘Touch swords and begin.’
John turned sideways to protect his vulnerable left side. They touched swords, and Harold attacked immediately, charging and hacking down with a mighty, two-handed blow. John parried and stepped to the side and knelt, raking his sword left to right and catching Harold in the shins. With a cry of pain the sergeant fell forward, losing his sword and landing hard on the stone pavement. As Harold rolled on to his back, John knelt on top of him, slamming his knee into the man’s chest. He pressed the edge of his sword against Harold’s neck. ‘Yield!’ Harold spat in John’s face. John smashed his sword’s hilt into the sergeant’s face, splitting his lip. He hit Harold again, spattering the stones of the courtyard with blood.
‘Enough! Enough!’ Amalric roared. ‘John is the victor.’
John used his sword to push himself up, wincing at the pain in his feet. He hobbled towards William, who was staring at him wide-eyed. ‘God is surely with you, John!’
‘God had nothing to do with it. Harold was angry and over-confident. That won’t happen twice.’
Across the courtyard, Harold had been dragged to the side, and now sat cradling his face in his hands. The other men were again choosing straws. The constable, Humphrey, held up the short one. Without a word he pulled on his helmet and picked up the sword that Harold had dropped. Humphrey was about John’s height and size, but a few years older.
‘Careful of this one,’ William warned. ‘The constable commands the King’s armies. He is a formidable warrior.’
John faced off across from Humphrey. The two men touched swords, and Humphrey began to circle around the edge of the ring, forcing John to turn in order to keep his opponent in front of him. Each step brought a sharp pain in John’s feet. Humphrey kept circling, refusing to close. ‘Come on, you bastard,’ John growled under his breath.
Suddenly, Humphrey charged. John just managed to turn the constable’s sword aside before Humphrey slammed into him, bowling him over. Humphrey landed on top of John, and the two men skidded across the slick stones of the courtyard. John managed to throw Humphrey off, but struggled to rise with his arm pinned to his side. Humphrey was already on his feet while John was still on his knees. The constable attacked with an overhead chop. John parried, and Humphrey kicked out, catching John in the chest. John fell back into a somersault and landed again on his knees. Humphrey charged with his sword held high. As he swung down, John threw himself forward under the blow, slamming into the constable’s knees. Humphrey flipped forward and landed hard, giving John time to push himself to his feet. Humphrey had also risen, and the two warriors faced off.
Humphrey began to circle again. This time, John did not wait for him to attack. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his feet, he charged, thrusting for Humphrey’s chest. The constable was caught off guard and just managed to sidestep the blow. John spun and slashed for his head. Humphrey jumped back out of the way but slipped on the slick pavement. His guard came down, and John swung for his head to finish the fight. Somehow, Humphrey managed to block the blow. Their blades grated against one another and locked at the hilt, bringing the two men face to face. John head-butted Humphrey, who staggered back, his blond beard matted with blood from his nose. John attacked again, putting all his strength behind a slashing backhanded blow. Humphrey parried, but John’s sword glanced off the constable’s blade and caught him on the side of the helmet, leaving a deep dent. Humphrey fell to lie unconscious at John’s feet.
The seneschal proclaimed the obvious: ‘John is the victor.’
A moment later, Humphrey’s eyes blinked open and focused on John. ‘Well fought.’
John dropped his sword and extended his hand to help Humphrey to his feet. ‘I had more to fight for.’
‘Hmph.’ Humphrey pulled off his helmet and gingerly touched the knot forming on the side of his head. He picked up John’s sword and handed it to him. ‘I like you, Saxon. I hope you live.’
Amalric and the patriarch had already drawn straws. The king held the short one. He had begun to put on his helmet when the seneschal placed a hand on his arm. ‘Sire, do you not wish to choose a champion?’
Amalric shrugged off the seneschal’s hand and pulled on his helmet. ‘I will fight for myself.’
‘But sire!’ the patriarch protested. ‘You could be injured, or worse.’
‘How can I condemn this man to death if I am not willing to risk my own life?’
Amalric stepped into the ring and picked up the dulled sword. He rolled his broad shoulders to loosen them. The king was a large man, fleshy but strong looking, and he was fresh. At least the pain in John’s feet had dulled, although he dreaded what he would find when he removed his boots. He turned sideways to the king and raised his sword.
‘God save you,’ Amalric said. He touched his sword to John’s, then attacked straight off, grunting as he hacked down at John’s head. John parried, but the force of the blow almost knocked his sword from his hand. He gave ground as Amalric hammered at him, chopping down again and again. John managed to spin away, but Amalric was on him immediately, slashing for John’s chest. John jumped backwards to avoid the blow. Amalric stepped forward and reversed the direction of his blade, sweeping it up towards John’s head. John ducked and then slipped away to the centre of the ring. He went on the attack, thrusting at Amalric’s chest. The king knocked the blow aside, and John spun, bringing his sword in a wide arc towards his opponent’s head. His blade was met by the king’s steel. John attacked again with a flurry of thrusts, but Amalric easily turned aside each blow. John was breathing hard and his arm was tiring. He had to end this fight soon, and there was only one way to get close enough to strike.
He began to retreat, letting Amalric come to him. The king gripped his sword with both hands and levelled a wicked blow at John’s side. John did not even attempt to block it. He raised his sword over his head and took the blow with a grunt, feeling a sharp stab of pain as a rib snapped. Before Amalric could recover, John stepped inside his guard and brought his sword down, slamming it into the crown of the king’s helmet and leaving a deep dent. The king stumbled back, a trickle of blood running down his forehead. John attacked, but Amalric recovered in time to parry his thrust. Their swords locked together, and the king shoved John, who went reeling back across the ring.
John stood bent over and gasping, each breath an agony. Across from him, Amalric pulled off his ruined helmet and cast it aside. His blond hair was matted with blood. ‘My lord!’ the seneschal gasped as he stepped forward.
Amalric waved him back. ‘Let me finish this,’ he growled and raised his sword.
John did likewise. He straightened and forced himself to smile. He would show no weakness, nothing that might give Amalric an advantage. ‘I am waiting, sire.’
Amalric charged with a roar. At the last second, John threw himself at the king’s legs, but Amalric was ready: he leapt over John and landed on his feet. John rolled and had begun to push himself to his feet when the king’s sword slammed into his back, knocking him flat. Amalric stepped on John’s sword hand and then kicked his sword away. John rolled on to his back and found himself looking up at the point of Amalric’s blade. ‘Well fought, John. But the fight is over. Do you yield?’
John tried to rise, but Amalric stomped on his chest, forcing him back down. John looked past the king’s blade to his blue eyes, and then to the grey sky beyond. So this was how it ended. John closed his eyes. ‘I yield.’