The two sides continued to form up at the edges of the field, the team of each vassal making a definite unit within the larger group. The individual teams would fight as a company, striving to preserve their formation and to keep their ranks close. In the mêlée, individual honor was less important than holding together with one’s comrades. Victory fell most often to the team that exhibited the most discipline and self-mastery.
Finally it seemed as if the lines of horsemen looming on the far edges of the field were in order.
A page carrying a horn stepped forward from beside Lord Guy and blew a blast upon his instrument.
The horsemen began to move forward.
The ground under Philip’s feet vibrated with the thunder of four hundred horses coming at full gallop. Knights rode side by side, knee perilously close to knee, shield and reins and tilted lance balanced in skillful hands. The lances were the first weapons that would be used. Once they had shattered, which they did relatively easily, the knights would switch to the great broadswords that hung at their belts.
The sun shone on the helmets of the advancing knights and glinted off the polished metal in dazzling sheets of light. The leveled lances flashed and the brightly colored flags of the different teams streamed in the breeze created by the speed of the charging horses. Philip kept his eyes on the knight on the white stallion as he rode shoulder to shoulder with Nigel Haslin in the front line of the Somerford team.
The two sides met in the center of the field with an audible shock of collision. Philip could hear the clash of lance against lance and lance against mail hauberk. Most of the fragile weapons shattered and fell to the ground with the first or second encounter. The war cry of each vassal sounded through the now-dusty air as knights unsheathed their swords and began to hack away.
Unhorsed men were hurled into the air. Riderless horses galloped madly away from the combat, snorting and sweating, frantic to find safety.
After the fight had gone on for a while, the horn that had started the mêlée blasted once more. Slowly, with obvious reluctance, the two sides disengaged and pulled back to their points of origin at the edges of the field, milling around and counting up their losses.
As soon as the mounted knights had retreated, squires dashed onto the field to pull those who had fallen out of the way. If this had been a real war, of course, there would have been no retreat and the unhorsed men would have met certain death under the hooves of the great stallions who were still carrying on the battle.
Five knights were brought into the list where Philip and Father Anselm were stationed. Philip checked the devices on their sleeves and saw that none of them were men of Somerford.
One of the knights was moaning in pain, bent over and clutching his middle. Philip figured he probably had some broken ribs. A second had a broken arm. The other three were merely bruised and shaken.
All had gotten their injuries as a result of being run over by horses.
The two sides were forming up again and all of the men in the lists, even the man with the broken ribs, turned to watch the next encounter.
The horn sounded and on they came again, two great waves of horsemen, long shields on one arm, broadswords in the other. Some of the men had slung their shields on their backs so they had two hands free to swing their swords. They did this because the broadsword was actually more of a concussion than a cutting weapon. While the mail the knights wore protected them from being sliced by the blade, the hauberk of interlinking rings could not prevent a man from having his bones crushed by the powerful blow of a massive broadsword, especially if it was swung two-handed by the knight wielding it.
Each side had lost about a fourth of its men in the first encounter. The remaining knights appeared to have lost none of their ardor for battle, however, and galloped eagerly forward, side by side, until the front lines of one side reached the front lines of the other.
Once again they came together with a loud clanging of swords, of men shouting, of horses screaming as their riders were swept away and they were left to fend for themselves.
Philip tried to keep his eye on the white stallion that carried Hugh. It was difficult, as the trampling of the many hooves had raised a cloud of dust around the entire mêlée. It seemed to him as if the men of Somerford were maintaining their formation in better order than the men of the other vassals, but he couldn’t be certain.
Once again the horn blew. Once again the horses wheeled and retreated to the edges of the field. Once again the squires rushed forth to retrieve the unhorsed men left lying on the field. More men were carried into the list where Philip and Father Anselm were stationed.
It happened on the third charge. Philip, whose eyes were glued to the white stallion, saw the incident very clearly. The two sides met with the now-familiar shock of noise, and Hugh pitched sharply forward over the shoulder of his stallion. He disappeared under the hooves of the horses who were coming behind him.
Philip’s stomach clenched.
“Hugh’s down,” he said to the priest, who was standing next to him.
“Oh no,” said the Father Anselm. “Oh, my dear God, no.”
The white stallion, riderless now, came galloping out of the mass of fighting men and stopped on the edge of the field to look around, as if bewildered. A squire belonging to Nigel Haslin darted out to catch his bridle and lead him away.
Philip watched the fighting with a feeling of helpless horror. It was impossible to find Hugh. He had gone down in the middle of the line and been instantly surrounded. It had happened so quickly that his own men had been past him before they could even realize he was on the ground.
The fighting went on for a much longer period of time than had been allowed before. Finally, when Philip had despaired of Guy’s ever ending the battle, the horn blew again and the now seriously depleted sides retreated once more.
One of Nigel’s squires raced onto the field and began to look through the fallen bodies, searching for Hugh.
Philip felt his blunt fingernails pressing into his palms as he watched the squire’s progress. At last the boy dropped to his knees next to one of the inert bodies. Five seconds later, he stood up again and signaled for help. Cristen came running onto the field to join him. She knelt in the dust next to the fallen knight, totally oblivious of her fine silk gown.
The fallen man did not move.
“Judas,” Philip croaked. “He’s been killed.”
“He can’t be dead,” the priest replied in anguish. “God would not be so cruel, to give him back to us only to take him away again like this.”
“He went off right at the beginning of the charge,” Philip said. Anger shook his voice. “And he went off his horse in a forward motion, Father. I saw it happen.” He turned to look at the priest standing beside him and said, his anger even more evident than before, “He went off as if he had taken a blow from behind, not from in front.”
The priest’s eyes swung around to meet Philip’s. “What are you saying?”
The answer was grim. “I’m saying that Hugh was struck down by someone on his own side.”
The priest stared at him in horror.
The squire who had first reached Hugh was now running across the field in their direction. He reached the list and spoke across the barrier directly to Father Anselm. “Is it true that you’re a priest?”
Father Anselm answered without a moment’s hesitation. “Aye.”
“We have need of you,” the squire said. There were tears in his hazel eyes. “Will you come?”
“Aye,” said Father Anselm once more and, putting his hand on the barrier, he vaulted over it onto the field and strode across the trampled earth in the direction of the fallen man.
11
It wasn’t Hugh.