In the Eye of Heaven (67 page)

There was a heartbeat

And Durand struck a man under a dog's-head crest Dog Head's lance swatted Durand's shield. His own splayed point stamped shield and fist into his victim's snapping ribs, the shaft exploding into white blades and ribbons. Then they were past.

Durand cantered on, sucking mud and air through his teeth. The girth on his saddle had held. The hit to his shield had not been a square one. He was alive. He threw the lance butt from his stinging hand and wheeled. Dog Head's mount cantered riderless. The man himself rolled in flying skirts.

"In line!"

More than just Lamoric's conroi, the captain called the whole company together. Durand focused beyond Dog Head's writhing to see Radomor's line thundering in a great wheel. Never slowing, they swung back through the rain. A hundred horses rounded like death.

The others were too slow.

Coensar clawed his helm back and swung his sword in the air, shouting "Wheel! Wheel! Back at them! Back at them!" But already the enemy ranks were rolling into their charge, shaking the earth under the hooves of their scattered adversaries.

On Moryn's side, lone riders wheeled, men slapped helms over bare heads, and warhorses pawed the air. There was no hope of turning the whole line in time.

Coensar's eyes flashed hollow, shouting only at the men near him: Lamoric's retainers.
"At them!"
And, alone, Coensar and the arrow of Lamoric's men sprang for the heart of the South Company.

Scattered allies flickered past, then, long before the stricken could leave the field, the conroi broke into the open ground before the enemy. It was mad and wild. Durand tore his sword free and thrust it high over his head, then the iron arrow and the thundering wave exploded over the fallen horses in the middle of the yard.

Men and horses screamed.

Lamoric's conroi struck deep, tearing, as the giant South Company spasmed tight around them. Durand's shield leapt under a storm of swords, maces, and beaked hammers. All he could do was spur the bay mindlessly onward hoping no one could take aim. Fallen horses pulled eddies around themselves. Durand ripped himself free and lurched into one such pocket. For an instant, he knew that a living man lay in the tangle under his horse's hooves.

As soon as he found this refuge, the storm of blades flashed down on him. Barefaced, Durand found he could see and act where men in full helms were blind. Almost before he realized this, the surge threw a knight against him: a savage who shuddered blows against Durand's shield while Durand fought to get his blade around. Razor edges sparked through the thin shell of planks. Durand jabbed his spurs, and, in an instant, his massive bay had launched itself forward, its half-ton bulk bulling a gap between the two horses ahead. The landing ripped a scream and a leg from Durand's attacker.

"Durand! This way.'-'

Coensar, barefaced, but in his blue and white, screamed from a clot of fighting men round Mornaway. There might have been a league between them.

"Watch Lamoric!" he roared.

Radomor's men had pried Lamoric from the rest of his conroi. Twenty paces separated Durand from his lord, with every step of that distance seething with soldiers. Already, it looked as though someone in the South Company had figured out that Lamoric—and the ransom of a duke's son—was ripe to be plucked. The old Red Knight helm bobbed and tumbled in the cataract of Radomor's killers.

Clamping his jaws, Durand spurred the bay into that mob. Blades flashed. He could have been plunging down a river. The bay lunged and wallowed. He found that the only way forward was to cock his feet over the brute's shoulders. Blows clattered over his shield and mailed knee. A thunderbolt fell over his back, turned by iron and padding. He lashed at anything that came close.

There was no room.

Each lunge covered less and less ground. A dead man could not have fallen in the crush. Stealing a glance through the storm, Durand made out Berchard pinned at his master's side, laying about with an ugly spiked hammer. Half the paint had scabbed from the man's helm. He couldn't last.

In one motion, Durand planted his feet on the bay's withers and reared up over the mob. A grin jagged across his face as he looked over the blind tops of helmets. Suddenly, Lamoric was only a few steps away. Durand pitched himself toward his comrades, stilting a wild path across the battle with his boots slamming down on cantles and groins and withers and thighs. Friendly knights swore. Enemies swung too late. Berchard, his now-naked head gleaming, spotted Durand at the last moment. Berchard's opponent glanced up, too, just in time to catch a three-foot steel blade through the eye-slit of his helm.

Heaving the dead man by belt and collar, Durand dropped into his place.

While he fought for Lamoric then, one vain quarter of his mind could not stop thinking of the spectacle he had just made.

That stalemate grind
outlasted the rain. Soon, even Radomor's company had had enough. The heralds, optimistic men, called a halt to the fighting. It was noontide and time for dinner.

Despite the muck and gore, Durand felt a grim satisfaction as he watched the enemy host withdraw, the men weaving their way back across the rutted, littered mire. A few men were still tussling. The two companies had been like pit-dogs locked at each other's throats. As they disentangled themselves, Durand could almost feel each long fang withdraw, one by one, leaving scattered, bloody knots behind. His eyes hardly registered the dead.

Lamoric's retinue drew
itself together and led its horses out of the lists. Shield-bearers ran skins of wine to their knights.

Durand felt someone jerk the reins from his hand. It was only as one of Lamoric's shield-bearers led the animal away that he noted the blue and green trapper hanging from it, and remembered that it wasn't really his. He would have to call it a trophy.

The boys had erected a pavilion within the walls, and soon they were through the flap and out of the weather. Guthred's crew of shield-bearers inspected men and gear, and each group ignored the conversations of the other.

A shield-bearer screwed a beaker of claret into Durand's hand.

"That's the worst morning I've had since before my wife died," Berchard rumbled—a joke, but forced. He sat down heavily.

"A bad one," Coensar agreed.

The labored breathing of the knights filled the silence for a time. Around the circle were broken noses, smashed teeth, snapped fingers, and sprung shoulders. Lamoric wasn't the only battered one. Wind over the walls lashed a patter of rain over the tent's roof.

"How many'd we lose, do you think?" Lamoric said.

"It's hard to say. One we had from Garelyn. A handful of the others didn't make it back," Berchard said. Something had him wincing.

'Three," said Coensar.

"I don't suppose there's any chance we could withdraw," Berchard quipped.

A few of the men snorted.

"Ah well," said Berchard. "If we don't fight him now, I suppose we'll only be fighting him later."

"He likely won't forget us," Coensar murmured.

"You're right. We'd best get him now." Berchard flashed a grin. "It's the only safe thing to do."

While the bearded campaigner chuckled, a scowling Guthred probed broken rings over his knee. Berchard winced.

"I'm taking a look," said Guthred, levelly. "Get the legging off."

"Ugh. I'll have to do it all over again!" Berchard griped, and Guthred fished high under the man's hauberk, reaching— Durand guessed—for the cord that knotted chain leggings to his belt. Berchard caught his wrist.

"What do you think you're doing? Get your hand out! If you've got to take the legging off then the whole thing comes off. I'm not going in to fight this bastard all crossed up."

Lamoric smirked through the rusty smears on his face. "You put them on right once today already—"

"And that's why I'm still here to complain."

The whole conroi was fighting with grins.

But Guthred would not be put off, and soon Sir Berchard sat perched on a barrel in nothing but a pair of gray breeches. Everything came off: surcoat, hauberk, gambeson, tunic, cap, and leggings—all to uncover a wound, in the end, that was nothing but a purple smear of bruise. There was nothing Guthred could do. Undeterred, however, he hauled out a bacon-stinking salve and rubbed it deep. Berchard swore that the man was punishing him.

Finally, Berchard stood in the middle of the tent, all pasty skin and plastered rings of hair. "All right," he said. "All of it Right back on."

Lamoric's knights were weeping with laughter.

Berchard ignored the whole lot, gesturing to his woolly-headed shield-bearer. The boy picked up the gambeson.

"No no. The leggings first No, always the left first." As the knight sat, the boy pulled the quilted leggings over Berchard's big white feet "Right, now I'll tie them up. The gambeson's next."

The boy picked up the sodden coat and struggled to get it over the knight's head. Berchard slithered into the heavy thing, bouncing to shake the kinks out.

The dome of his skull gleamed like a fresh bun as it bulged from the collar. Berchard did not smile. "Next it's the hauberk, boy." The shield-bearer bent over the heap of what looked like disarticulated iron links, and pawed with increasing agitation under the scrutiny of the knights until signs of the collar and shoulders allowed him to see which way was up. Soon, though, a smiling Berchard had the hauberk, and was struggling half-in and half-out to reach the sleeves and get the long coat over his shoulders. The shield-bearer's help saved him.

"Well done, boy." Briskly, Berchard tied a red coat-of-plates around his trunk. It looked, except for long rows of rivet-heads, like a regular surcoat right down to his blazon: three yellow songbirds. "Saved my life a hundred times," he said, rapping himself on the chest. Finally, he plucked up his white linen arming cap, and tied it under his beard. The shield-bearer handed him his chain hood. "Well guessed," the knight said, dropping the thing over his cap. "Leave the gauntlets. I won't put them on till I'm ready to leave.

"Gods, though," Berchard said, pressing the palm of his hand to his side. His good eye blinked. "Do you think I've got time for the privy?"

They nearly threw the tent down on him.

When he finally shook off the last laughing attacker, Berchard brushed off his surcoat.

"Oh." He looked up at the shield-bearer. "I've lost my helm." He turned to Coensar. "I threw it off during the fighting, but it looks as though the chain snapped." There was a roundel on his coat of plates from which a finger's length of chain dangled. "I shouldn't be surprised." He looked to the boy. "Do you think you can find the thing? It's got my birds here on the crest. Or it did have. I suppose we'll see."

Durand watched the young man duck through the tent flap, excited by the attention and responsibility. Then Durand remembered just where the boy was running and the blood and dead men who had been trampled into the mud by two hundred horses. He had never seen anything like that at the boy's age. Some pale corner of his mind realized that he'd never seen anything like that himself until that day. He stared into the swirls of the carpet, forgetting the wine in his hand.

Before an hour had passed, a herald's boy ran past the tents announcing that the last melee was about to resume.

There were carrion
birds over the field. No one had had the wits to shoo them away. The men shuffled to a halt The creatures hopped among the bodies, plucking and tearing with the black daggers of their beaks.

"Never seen anything like it" Berchard said.

"Nowhere but a battlefield," Coensar said.

As they spoke, Berchard's young shield-bearer reappeared. He had the helm clutched to his chest. A syrupy filigree of blood, muck, and rain streaked it Its crest was mangled.

At a glance, Berchard stopped—the boy's eyes stared from gray-bruise circles. Berchard took the helm gingerly. "Good boy."

The great men
of the kingdom slid their way back onto the long benches of the reviewing stand. Durand read the gray pages of their faces. He saw Lady Maud with her chin high, moving like Heremund's ship in bunting. He saw an active-looking lord with an iron beard and sycophants trailing from his sleeves: Beoran. He saw Prince Biedin set his black-gloved hand on his brother's arm. He saw the king, loaded down with gems, but grim and watchful as a lion in a snare. Rain poured down. Coensar was speaking.

"I'll say it once more. We're to fight as a conroi. No one wanders off. No one lets another man get separated. We'll shove ourselves into Radomor's face and stay there till he can't stand the stink of us. We'll do all that 'cause breaking up nearly cost us this morning."