But it was not to be, and Baldwin secretly thought that Lord Hugh looked half pleased when the two combatants refused to back down. Like so many others there, he would enjoy witnessing a fight to the death. It was a more interesting spectacle than a joust à plaisance, where the danger was accidental.
Baldwin was glad to see that at least Sir Roger did not appear content to see the fight go ahead. He sat frowning at Lord Hugh’s side, for it was the Coroner’s duty to witness fatal encounters.
Mark Tyler was speaking again. ‘Gentlemen, you will take a pass with lances and if one of you is unhorsed, you can continue on foot. This fight is to the death, but if one submits, his cause is lost. Do you both understand?’
Perfectly well, Baldwin thought, studying Sir John’s face. He will kill me as soon as he has an opportunity.
Without a second look, Baldwin made the sign of the cross. Then he slowly drew his sword free, a great long weapon he had bought many years before in Paris, with a grey-brown sheen to the notched blade. Baldwin lifted it before him, bowed his head to the cross-symbol of the hilt and guards, and kissed it before replacing it in the scabbard. Abruptly turning on his heel, he went to his horse and Edgar.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sir Edmund was already on horseback. ‘I trust you will accept my assistance, Sir Baldwin?’
Baldwin looked over his shoulder towards the thickset Sir John, who was talking to another knight. ‘Who is that?’
‘Sir Walter Basset. He will second Sir John.’
‘Then I should be glad of your assistance,’ Baldwin said.
He walked to the mounting block, a series of steps built at the side of a ber frois, and climbed inelegantly on to his horse.
The beast knew something was in the air. He was skittish, prancing excitedly. It was all Baldwin could do to keep the brute steady while he gathered his weapons. The chain of his great axe was set about his neck, his lance was passed to him, and he sat waiting for his opponent. He rested the lance on his foot, feeling the weight. Long and unwieldy as a weapon, it was nonetheless hideously effective when used by a trained man.
Sir John, he saw, had purchased the new armour. He had one large breastplate of dark steel and a great steel pot of a helm which was chained to it. At his side was a massive mace armed with vicious spikes in the metal head. He was already on his horse, a lance gripped rigidly. Seeing Baldwin was ready, he jerked Pomers’s reins and rode back to the starting point.
Baldwin nodded to Edgar and checked the straps of his shield before knocking the vizor down. With the lance gripped in his fist, he trotted back to his own starting position near the river.
His mind was clear now. He knew he must fight with a cold precision. His strength was surely no match for Sir John’s, nor his speed. His stamina might be his only advantage. If Baldwin was to win this bout, he would have to fight cleverly. Brute strength was on Sir John’s side, but Baldwin should be able to counter that with deviousness; Sir John would be well-used to surviving against younger lads, for his successes in tournaments were well known, so he must be skilled at dealing with those who were considerably faster than him, people who had swifter reactions, yet Baldwin must somehow overcome him. It was an interesting conundrum, considered in a detached and rational manner, but even as Baldwin surveyed his enemy he saw Sir John’s legs move. Glancing to the main stand, Baldwin saw that the King Herald had given the signal and almost without realising it, he raked his spurs along his horse’s flanks and was moving.
There was no time for fear or alarm. He must weld his body and mind to the workings of his horse. The crash of lances was nothing unless mount, knight and lance-point were united and wielded as a single weapon.
His destrier was a well-bred animal with fire in his blood and fighting in his nature. Already he was moving at a canter, and Baldwin held his lance up, balancing the weight cautiously, waiting for the moment to slip the butt beneath his armpit. Then his horse was galloping and Sir John was nearer, his lance all but disappearing as it pointed to Baldwin’s face. He allowed his own point to fall until he felt it should be pointing in the right direction, but with the thundering of hooves, the jerking motion and the tiny slits through which he must breathe and see, it was hard to know what was happening.
A sparkle of metal; a flash, and a hideous lurch, then the pain of a hammer-blow at his breast and simultaneously his right arm was slammed back. The two together almost dismounted him. There was a crack from his saddle, a ringing clatter from his left arm, and then he was struggling with his vizor to see what had happened as his mount carried him to the far end of the field.
His lance was wrecked, one third snapped away. He grabbed another, weighing it in his hand. Something felt wrong with it, with the balance, but he had no time to consider it.
He looked back to see that Sir John was still in the saddle, and as Baldwin watched, Sir John wheeled his horse and charged again. Baldwin had to pull his horse’s head right about and spur him on, and then the rattling motion began again. Almost too late Baldwin remembered to knock his vizor down again.
This time the blow was less central and he felt the lance skitter away to his left, the point striking his plates, the shaft foiled by his shield. His own lance shuddered and jerked, but he was sure that Sir John didn’t fall. There was a short blur of dust and gleaming metal and they were past again.
Baldwin lifted his lance and hefted it in his hand. It felt easier now, as if his arm was becoming accustomed to the weight and balance after all these years. He was sure that he had connected with Sir John. The applause he could hear over his own panting breath seemed to show that someone had achieved something. Baldwin saw the dust rise from Sir John’s horse’s hooves and felt his lips pull away from his teeth in a snarl. He kicked twice, hard, and felt the explosive power of his horse as its huge hindquarters thrust forwards, jolting Baldwin back against the cantle. He slipped the lance under his armpit, aiming the bright point at Sir John, but then he realised something was wrong. The point was gone; his lance had only a splintered stump where there should have been a steel tip. His belly lurched, he felt the clammy grip of fear clutch at his heart, but he was committed now. There was nothing he could do but put his faith in God.
‘Jesus, Mary, and Saint George,’ he murmured, but then he felt the terrible blow at his chest and heard an enormous rending. His own lance was still more than a foot from Sir John, it was snapped off so short, but Baldwin barely had time to register that before he felt himself slipping. He felt his horse give one more lurch at full speed, and then his backside was shifting over the horse’s rump. Suddenly he was in mid-air.
A moment, only a moment, of peace mixed with terror, and then his feet snagged on the ground. His knees came up. There was a sharp crack as his knees rose to strike his chin; his jaw crunched as his teeth met and he felt an incisor break off cleanly. Blood filled his mouth and he had to lift his vizor to spit out shards.
He was dazed. He knew that. Sitting on his rump in the dirt, his ears ringing, he couldn’t move for a moment. He couldn’t believe that he had truly fallen like this, but he was on his arse on the ground. He looked up and saw people laughing and clapping, urging on Sir John as he reined in at the far end of the lists, saw him trot forward, knowing his victory was all but complete. Baldwin had to shake his head to clear it, but already dust had blown into his eyes and he was temporarily blinded. Beneath him he saw the broken remains of his saddle. He was still sitting in it. The thing had disintegrated under the force of the blow.