A determination not to die in so foolish a manner gripped him. He rolled away from his saddle and got on to all fours, pushing himself upwards even as he felt the earth begin to vibrate.
He pulled at his shield. It was no use to him and he let it fall, then snapped his vizor shut. Grabbing his axe, he held it in both hands and stood resolutely, waiting for Sir John.
It was easy to see what was in Sir John’s mind. A knight would usually meet his opponent with equal weapons, dismounting when his enemy was unhorsed, so that each could fight with equal opportunity, but Sir John was fighting for justice for his dead son. There was no place for chivalry and sentiment. He spurred his horse on, his lance pointing at Baldwin.
Baldwin could have run, but to do so would mean death. An experienced knight like Sir John couldn’t miss a stumbling man encumbered by armour, and with the full mass of horse, man and metal concentrated on the hardened steel tip of his lance, Baldwin would be spitted like a hog over a fire.
Instead, Baldwin stood stock-still until the last moment, the sweat trickling uncomfortably down his brow and his back, tickling beneath the thick padding of his coat. Sir John was approaching at the gallop, his lance high, balanced against the horse’s motion, and as he drew closer, he allowed the point to fall until Baldwin could see it aiming at his belly. It moved up and down, coming closer at a terrible speed, and when he could bear it no longer, he moved.
It was neither nimble nor swift, but as he dodged sideways he simultaneously swung his axe at the lance. He felt a solid, numbing buffet on his left arm as the lance caught him a glancing blow, then the axe came alive, almost leaping from his hand, and he knew he had almost taken the head of the lance from its shaft – but the point was reinforced with bars of steel that ran along the shaft itself. It could still kill him.
Keeping Sir John in view, he clenched and relaxed his left hand, panting as he tried to force the tension away. He had to remain alert and swift on his feet now he was on the ground. An idea struck him and he retreated to stand before the remains of his saddle, some few feet from it.
After a moment he felt the pounding of the hoofbeats through his feet; he gripped his axe firmly in both hands, waiting. Again he forced himself to confront the swift-running mount whose flanks were flecked with blood where the spurs had pricked, whose mouth foamed, whose eyes rolled madly. Baldwin felt a shudder run through his body, a shiver of fear, but also of a cold, enraged exhilaration. When he felt sure he would feel the crushing spike of the lance pierce his armour and chest, he shrieked in defiance and sought to spring away; his armour slowed him. Even as he straightened his legs to leap from the horse’s path, he felt rather than heard the clang! as the lance-tip caught the right side of his chest and became entangled in his belt, which snapped, but there was instantly a second thump higher up his chest and he was thrown back with the force as his sword and dagger fell to the ground.
Rolling away, sweat blinded him. He opened his eyes but had to close them instantly as the salt stung and burned. All he could hear was the whistle and roar of his breath in the confines of his metal mask, all he could feel was the shooting of knives along his side and the dull, monotonous ache at his back where he had fallen on a painful projection within his suit. Gradually his hearing returned, his senses assaulting him afresh even as he tasted blood from his smashed tooth. Keeping hold of his axe, he heard a rising wave of noise from the spectators. Confused, he cautiously raised his vizor.
Sir John’s horse had not seen the saddle until the last moment. The wooden frame was broken, but as the destrier tried to avoid it, he stumbled on to the heavy cantle at the rear of the seat, and it was enough to turn his hoof. With a vicious crack like a stone smiting a castle wall, the massive horse had fallen and rolled on to his back, his legs flailing in the air, one shattered foreleg waving obscenely and spraying blood over the field.
Baldwin coughed, winded. He slowly clambered to his feet and spat out more blood before waiting patiently.
Sir John was standing at the side of his mount as if disbelieving that such a disaster could have befallen him, but then he appeared to waken anew to full rage and bloodlust.
Grabbing at his mace, he took it up in both hands and lumbered towards Baldwin, the ugly ball gleaming over his head. Baldwin just had time to pull his vizor down again before the first buffet smashed over his helmet. He moved away, his axe up and held at an angle to deflect the foul weapon, but the heavy head scraped down the axe and slammed against his left hand, crushing it against the shaft. Baldwin gritted his teeth and tried to swing the axe low, to threaten Sir John’s legs, but the other knight stopped the attempt with contemptuous ease, reversing his movement to swing the mace at Baldwin’s left side.
Pain took Baldwin over. It was like an explosion in his chest, a rapidly flowering agony that rose all the way to his head and made him feel as if his eyes would burst from their sockets. Before he could recover, the mace crashed against his head again, the steel of his heavy helm deafening him. Disorientated, he fell back, his axe flailing before him.
‘God!’ he cried. ‘Holy Father, Holy Mother, save me!’
The axe caught Sir John a glancing thump on his head, striking sparks from his helm but the knight scarcely seemed to notice. He came on. Baldwin had enough energy to swing again with all his remaining might, but although he connected with Sir John’s helmet, it didn’t distract the man. The mace rose and fell onto Baldwin’s head, bouncing from the steel and hitting his left shoulder.
It was agony. A spike had slipped between the links of his mail tippet and Baldwin was sure that he could feel it crush and puncture his shoulder. His entire left arm was dead; there was no strength in it to cling to his axe, and the heavy weapon was a dead weight in his right hand. The mace rose again; he lifted the axe one-handedly and caught its shaft, halting its downwards sweep, and a twist of his wrist deflected its momentum so that it turned in towards Sir John’s own leg. A roar, more of anger than of pain, told him that the heavy mace head had caught Sir John’s thigh.
Stumbling, all but blinded, his nostrils clogged with the dust, panting with the heat, the pain washing all over his left side, Baldwin staggered to break the engagement. Facing Sir John again, he was shocked to see that the knight was almost upon him once more. Baldwin lifted the axe but Sir John’s mace caught it and his two-handed swing took the axe from Baldwin’s hand, wrenching it from his grasp, snapping the chain that held it to him, and sending it spinning away even as Sir John’s forward rush took him past Baldwin, who suddenly saw his sword and belt lying nearby. He reached down to it, the act of gripping the hilt sending a stab of white-hot pain up his forearm, but he gritted his teeth and hauled it free.
Exhausted with pain and the heat, Baldwin lifted his vizor a last time. If he was to die, he would die with air in his lungs. He rested the point of his sword on the ground while he panted, watching Sir John take a fresh hold of his mace. The knight gave a roar of defiance, lifting the spiked ball high overhead, and began a shambling run towards Baldwin.
He was about to swing it down when Baldwin recalled Odo’s words: ‘À l’estoc!’
Baldwin felt a small thrill of energy override his pain. It was tiny, just enough to bring a moment of concentration, but that split second was adequate. As if time stood still, he saw that where Sir John’s breast steel met the back-plate, there was a gap beneath the armpit. The sight galvanised Baldwin. His sword was low still as he raised the point. As Sir John ran at him, Baldwin side-stepped and thrust it sharply upwards. He almost ignored the crash as the mace-head rang from the crown of his helmet.