The sword sheared through the thin leather and mail which protected Sir John’s underarm, and passed through into the soft flesh, the blade burying itself in the bone. Sir John gave a roar of pain, his fury making him try to spin to bring the mace down again, but the act made the blade twist within his chest. Baldwin stepped back, tugging his sword free and eyeing his opponent with cold intensity.
Sir John grabbed at his vizor and pulled it open, breathing stertorously, groaning heavily with each exhalation. He gave a low, hacking cough and spat blood before swinging his arm slowly, contemplating Baldwin. Reaching down, he picked up Baldwin’s axe, holding it loosely in his left hand while he swung his mace in his right. Silently he stalked towards Baldwin, both weapons ready.
Baldwin surveyed him with a dispassionate calculation. His vizor open, he felt more free, as if the protection the helmet gave him was actually a constriction that prevented his defence. He clenched and unclenched his left hand, pins and needles making the whole arm tingle while he sought an opportunity. Even as Sir John had screamed in pain, Baldwin had felt his own faculties return to him and now he watched warily as his opponent knocked his vizor down again and came closer.
The axe swung, Baldwin ducked away from it, but then the mace was aimed at his face. Baldwin evaded that too, just in time to see his axe sweeping back to cut at his knees. He thrust the sword blade in the path of the axe and raised it immediately to knock the mace aside as it aimed for his head. Sir John shrieked at him.
But Sir John’s attack had produced a fine spray of blood from beneath his arm as he lifted the axe once more. Baldwin knew Sir John was dying, that it was only a matter of time. But the huge man wouldn’t give up. Baldwin dodged from under the axe and as he did so he saw the mace lift again.
Quickly, Baldwin shifted his position, lurching forward on exhausted feet to close with Sir John. He clubbed Sir John’s mace hand away, and stepped to his side. Sir John tried to slam his helmet into Baldwin’s face, then brought the axe to play again, but he was too late. Pushing the point of his sword into the gap between the plates of steel under Sir John’s armpit, Baldwin thrust with all his strength, now using both hands to force the point of the blade deep into Sir John’s chest, through his lungs, and twisting, grimacing as he butchered the still-living body.
Sir John coughed, choked, and Baldwin could hear the rattling from within his throat as blood dribbled from his mouth and nostrils, but Baldwin could take no risks. He jerked the blade from one side to another, feeling the edge grating on bones.
It was enough. Baldwin felt Sir John sag and had to kick him to free his sword. He tugged it out with difficulty, and was about to try another blow when Sir John fell to his knees, then on to his face, the vizor closing as he dropped.
‘Air! Air!’
Baldwin felt a wave of revulsion wash over him. Sympathy for the dying man made him drop his sword and help Sir John on to his back. He fumbled at the knight’s helmet, trying to release the heavy metal, but his fingers were dulled after trading blows and it took time. When he did, Baldwin was confronted by a mask of blood. Sir John’s mouth foamed with a bloody froth; his nostrils ran with blood; his every breath produced a fine spray of blood.
‘Mercy! Mercy!’ came, the hoarse, gurgling cry.
Baldwin had seen wounded men often enough in his life. Sir John was slowly drowning in his own blood. Leaving him would be an act of cruelty. No physician could save him.
‘Sir Baldwin, I beg,’ Sir John choked, a stream of bright blood flooding from his mouth and staining the grass at his head. ‘End this!’
Before the seconds could arrive, Baldwin drew Sir John’s own misericorde and pushed the point through Sir John’s eye.
Simon stood in the great stand near Roger, and stared as Baldwin slowly bent and retrieved his sword. He moved like an old man, exhausted from the short but intense battle. Then he straightened and hesitated before walking over to where the shards of the lances lay scattered. He stooped and picked up broken slivers of wood up to two feet long and appeared to be studying them.
Roger gave Simon a delighted thump on the back, but Simon’s attention was fixed on the knight. As if he had been a participant in the fight, he was aware of a bone-deep lethargy as though he himself had aged twenty years in the last hour.
Others in the stands and all about did not feel the same fatigue. There were roars of applause as those who had gambled upon Baldwin’s success celebrated their victory; a larger number had wagered on Sir John and these men and women rolled their eyes and muttered contemptuously about the dead man’s incompetence as they filed away, seeking wine merchants with whose help they intended forgetting their unprofitable speculation.
Simon heard the King Herald bellow the success of his cause and the Divine Judgement, but his mind couldn’t take it all in. He found he was shaking, suddenly enfeebled. He had to grip the handrail to support himself.
Out in the field he saw Sir Edmund and Edgar at Baldwin’s side. With an affectionate and gentle care, Edgar took the sword from Baldwin and passed it to Sir Edmund before looping Baldwin’s arm over his neck and helping him from the field. The sight made Simon realise that his friend was wounded and instantly his torpor fell away. He dashed from the ber frois and down the stairs until he found the trio.
Baldwin gave him a weak grin. ‘You should be in church giving thanks!’
‘I’ll go there as soon as I know you’re all right.’
‘I am fine.’
‘Really?’ Simon asked.
He stepped forward and took Baldwin’s left arm to help lead him away, but the hissing intake of breath made him pause. ‘Right, Edgar, you take him up to the castle and tell Meg to prepare a bed in the castle’s lodgings. I’ll go and call a physician.’
‘Oh, in God’s name, Simon! There’s no need for that. No, I’ll go back to my tent and sleep there.’
‘I think you need a physician.’
Baldwin was about to argue when another wave of pain washed over his left side. ‘Tell him to see me at my tent. But before that, go and look at the lance. I think I know why Hal and Wymond made so much money from jousting. I’ll explain later. For now, Edgar, by Saint Paul, take me to the tent.’
Simon stood feeling oddly small and insignificant as the trio made its way towards the pavilions, Edgar supporting the slack figure of Baldwin, his head dangling like that of a hanged corpse.
‘You!’ Simon shouted at an urchin. ‘Fetch the castle’s physician and send him to Sir Baldwin’s tent. At once!’
Simon was torn. There were many things to be done, but he was aware that the investigation must continue, even if Baldwin was unwell for days. Wonderingly he walked to the tilt-area and studied the shards of wood.
It was because he was there that he didn’t see Andrew as he joined Baldwin’s little group. ‘Sir Baldwin? Could I talk with you a moment?’ The squire asked.
Edgar stepped forward. ‘My master is very tired, sir. He cannot talk to you now.’
‘It is about the lances, Sir Baldwin,’ Andrew continued urgently, ignoring Edgar.
Baldwin closed his eyes. ‘Later, please. Or tell some one else. I am too worn out.’
‘It must be you, Sir Baldwin. Because of your sword, I know I can trust you.’ The squire had lowered his voice.
‘My sword?’ Baldwin echoed dully.
‘Yes. The Templar cross.’
Baldwin leaned more heavily on Edgar and paused to spit out a mouthful of blood. He was on fire with pain all over, and his ears still rang with the battle. He could barely speak, for the aftermath of the duel had left him all atremble. ‘Very well,’ he said slowly. ‘Come to my tent and speak to me there.’