The Dragon Throne (11 page)

At that moment Sir Jean struggled to his feet and issued some inaudible cry, gesturing, angry now, all protocol forgotten.

Sword to sword,
the big knight was indicating with his gestures, throwing down his shield and hurrying toward Edmund's mount. A profound dent marred his helmet, and the Chartrian lifted a hand to his head for a moment. Then he reached out, pulled Wowen from his mare, and dragged the young squire like a boneless thing.

The knight called out a further challenge, gazing up at Edmund through the eye-slits of his headgear, holding the struggling squire in one mail-clad fist.

Edmund desired nothing but to ride to the defense of Ester and her companion, but the big knight shook the squire so hard that Wowen could make no sound. Then he threw the boy aside, and seized Edmund's leg. As big as Edmund was, the Chartrian was no small man, and he had the grip of a giant.

Edmund kicked, kicked again, feeling his weight shift as the big man's effort proved successful.

Sir Jean gave a further, desperate tug, and Edmund tumbled to the ground.

“FORM A HEDGEHOG,” NIGEL SANG OUT AS the parley across the clearing collapsed. It was clear to Ester that this term referred to a purely defensive formation, shields up and swords bristling against the onslaught of the approaching knights. Hubert motioned meaningfully to her,
Keep your head down
.

And Ida whispered at her side, a ceaseless prayer repenting of all sins.

Rannulf was the first to leave this protective position, before the first lancer had struck. As the master knight took a stance, his sword arm cocked and his shield raised high, Ester felt everything grow cold. The sun, which had been a source of warmth until then, now cast an icy radiance.

Rannulf fended off the deliberately aimed lance with a blow of his shield, and drove the point of his blade into the barding—the leather covering—that protected the attacking knight's warhorse.

Until that moment, Ester had clung to the hope that the skirmish might be brief, a matter of a few threats and windy curses, to be concluded by a payment of silver. In Ester's experience at court, money salved all injury, and she believed that the threat of strife between knights was largely a form of extortion.

But the warrior confronting Rannulf responded with a series of thrusts, towering over Rannulf from his saddle and seeking gaps where the veteran knight's chain-mail coif left his flesh exposed. The horse gradually succumbed to his injury as this effort failed, collapsing to the ground. Rannulf set about killing the knight, blood gleaming on armor.

Hubert joined Rannulf, protecting the seasoned knight from an attack from his flank. The young knight was effective with his weapon, parrying and thrusting, driving off a new assailant, a man with a white plume flowing from his helmet.

Even in the confusion, however, it was clear that most of the attack's momentum was lost as horses hurried past the tangle of combat, and plunged their muzzles into the fast-running stream. Clydog defended the two ladies with a wood ax, lifting his voice in a battle lyric. Nigel left the last pretense of a purely defensive formation and went on the attack himself.

The silver-haired Nigel harried the improvised rearguard of this confused mass, wounding men with fast sword work. Clydog successfully intimidated an approaching squire with his bellowed war verse, but soon the two ladies were exposed under the sifting rain of dust.

Ester saw it as it happened. An attacker—a shield bearer judging by his simple leather helmet—struck Clydog a stunning blow. The redoubtable retainer staggered, and sank to one knee. The scutifer—a muscular youth with dazzling blue eyes—threw aside his pike and seized Ida. The young man gave out a cry of possession that was nearly lost in the general roar of man and beast.

Ester worked with determined effort at the last knot holding the crossbow suspended with the baggage. Finally, she despaired of freeing the weapon and turned instead to the pike, gleaming in the dust.

She picked up the weapon, surprised at the weight of the long, iron-headed span. Ester had seen hunters readying their spears as the beaters drove an antlered stag into ambush. She had also seen the hunt master's knife finishing off the bleeding hind.

She thrust with the pike, intending a threat more than an assault. The inhuman weight of the implement, however, caused the point to enter the attacker's thigh with more power than she had anticipated, into the soldier's muscle. The young man released Ida, who had been struggling and screaming, and gaped at Ester like a gored bullock.

“The Devil take thee, lady,” protested the fighter—
the Dele tae thee.

Ester withdrew the weapon with some difficulty, but before the young fighter could counter Ester's attack, he was distracted by a new tumult.

Farmworkers approached, dressed in the beige wool tunics of their class, some fitting stones into their slings and others hurling stones with their naked hands, dozens of howling field hands. Men dressed in the dark gray, soft-combed wool of yeomen or farm steward's assistants also approached, bending bows.

As a rule, knights loathed and resented archers. While the crossbow was tolerated as a variety of
gyn
—war engine—employed by noblemen and their ladies, knights had no respect for the common bow and arrow. Ester looked on now as an arrow hissed through the air.

This force of laboring folk was led by a figure in a flowing blue hood and gown, and joined by the unshaven pikeman from the castle tower, the guard now hurrying into the clearing and calling out encouragement to the farmers.

Three children held a large, billowing banner at the top of the castle tower, and as Ester watched they managed to unfurl the heavy pennant. It bore a faded Agnus Dei—the Lamb of God.

The fighting broke into confusion, and scattered.

The lady approached Ester, taking her by the hand.

“By the grace of God,” said this gentle-voiced woman—
Par la grace de Dieu—
“I am glad to see you unhurt.” Her gown had been a rich blue, judging from the deep color still visible in the folds of the garment, but the cloth was faded now, and Ester recognized the needlework that had kept the sleeves in repair.

Ester prepared some high speech of her own, but a distant sound of violence dashed the words from her lips.

At the edge of the scarred and sodden clearing, Sir Edmund and Sir Jean were still fighting.

SIR JEAN WAS A BETTER SWORDSMAN THAN Edmund—the younger knight could see that at once.

Edmund parried Sir Jean's violent attack, each blow a shock to his joints and sinews. The youth was astonished at the older knight's speed and craft, and Edmund now regretted throwing aside his shield.

But he remembered a few elementary fighting lessons of his own. The young knight kept his stance centered, equal weight on both feet. He fought purely defensively at the start, backing away and circling to the right, away from the power of Jean's sword arm.

The afternoon sun was hot against Edmund's iron helmet, and the armor was heavy, chafing against his shoulders. The helmet limited his visibility, too, and when one especially violent blow turned the iron bucket askew for an instant, Edmund could see nothing at all until he raised a mail-clad hand and readjusted it.

Through the heavy metal tub of his helmet, Edmund made out the ebbing sounds of battle far across the clearing, as what seemed to be a small army of vineyard laborers made fast work of what was left of Sir Jean's men. The Chartrian was aware of this fading skirmish, too, and swung his weapon with increasing desperation.

Sir Jean slipped in a puddle of gore, and stepped right into the palm of his squire's severed limb, the lifeless fingers seeming to close around his boot.

Both knights stopped fighting.

Sir Jean lifted a hand, and called out a muffled, “One moment, I pray.”

Kill him now
.

Was it Wowen's voice, the young squire jumping up and down, well away from the skirmish? Or was it some violent sprite, or perhaps an urging from inside Edmund's own heart?

The big Chartrian knelt and lifted the severed arm, and placed it beside the now inert body of Hamo. This gesture of respect and compassion for a fellow fighter touched Edmund.

And it convinced the young knight that there had already been enough death under Heaven in recent months. Even when they began to fight again, Edmund bore the older man no ill will. The big Chartrian had been a fellow Crusader, after all, and a feeling of comradeship gave Edmund the incentive to close on Sir Jean once more, grappling hard this time, refusing to be thrown off.

EDMUND FELT THE OLDER KNIGHT GIVE way slightly, long minutes of effort beginning to tire the veteran.

“By the holy cross, Sir Jean,” Edmund managed to say, in a tone both correct and heartfelt, “please sheathe your sword.”

Perhaps there was a moment during which Sir Jean appreciated Edmund's suggestion. The moment did not last long. With a deft wrench and bob, like a market-day wrestler, the big knight escaped Edmund's grasp.

With a nimbleness surprising in such a weary swordsman, Sir Jean slipped among the pack animals, cutting one free, escaping with the startled, snorting steed into the vineyards. Only the occasional shaking of far-off vines, or the rising, startled flight of a crow, marked his passage.

“Fifty pennies,” called Sir Nigel, arriving helmetless and red-faced with exertion, “for the head of Sir Jean.”

The farmworkers brandished their implements, giving a cry of enthusiasm. This was a considerable bounty. The services of a war-proven knight could be purchased for ten pennies a day, a squire for less.

And the farmers, excited at having driven squires and shield bearers into the acres of tall, grape-laden vines, were keen at the prospect of running down an even more distinguished warrior. No knight liked to be forced to retreat, and Edmund felt a further degree of sympathy for the man.

 

Hubert pounded Edmund on the back, as Wowen helped free his head from the confines of the helmet. How refreshing the air was! And how sweet the sounds of crow-calls and horses sneezing. For a moment Edmund hoped he would never have to wear a helmet again.

“Another few strokes,” said Hubert, his voice hoarse with relief, “and you'd have had him begging for quarter.”

Edmund felt weak in every limb. He shook his head, thankful to be alive. “Another few blows, Hubert,” said Edmund with a laugh, “and I would have fainted dead away.”

Edmund was grateful at the light in Ester's eyes as she set the end of her pike—that was unmistakably what it was—on the ground, leaned on it like a castle guard, and asked, “Are you certain, Edmund, that you are not hurt?”

Edmund's response died on his lips.

He hurried to Ester, reaching out, but afraid to touch her and cause her further pain.

There was gore on her hand. And on her mantle, dark stains.

“This blood,” she said, “is not my own.”

“Ester, I thank God!” gasped Edmund, forgetting to call her
my lady
or
good Ester,
as courtesy decreed.

If Ester was in the least offended, she gave no sign.

 

The clash of steel against wood came from far across the vineyard, in the direction of Sir Jean's pursuers. The sound of cries of encouragement and pain, too, drifted through the dark green rows of vines.

At last the peasants limped back into the clearing, their homespun tunics sweat-darkened and torn.

One of the peasants fell to his knees, calling out in his dialect that the big knight had eluded them.

Nigel called for Rannulf, and gave a clipped command to Edmund.

 

They came across Sir Jean's mount dead at the far edge of the vineyard.

A crude flint-blade hatchet was buried in the animal's head. Both Surefoot and Strikefire bridled at the sight of the stricken animal, and it was not the first time Edmund felt as much pity for a horse as for a man.

 

They found Sir Jean up to his waist in the slow-moving current of a river. He was challenging his enemies through his helmet, but had not bothered to draw his sword again—a knight reserved his weapon for opponents he respected.

Peasants stood on the bank and showered the big knight with missiles, sling stones, and smooth river stones, the projectiles dashing the slow current all around the knight. Archers took careful aim and loosed their shafts, and while the arrows glanced off the armor, they left punctures in the knight's coat.

“You are weak puppy dogs,” bellowed the Chartrian. “You are little strengthless piglets,” he called, his voice growing hoarse. An arrow had found its way under his mail coif, the armor protecting his throat, and protruded there, a yellow shaft.

Edmund called for the attack to cease, spurring his mount among the taunting, stone-throwing farmworkers. His English imperatives,
stoppe
,
ceese
, and
do way
, were lost among the howls and jeers of the attackers. No knight wanted to lose his life in a battle against a foe like this. Edmund worked to put his mount and his own body between the big Chartrian and his enemy peasants. The laboring folk simply scampered to new positions on the bank, singing out taunts.

Rannulf, after a long moment of looking on, shaking his helmeted head, used his lance to part the peasants, knocking them to the ground.

But it was too late.

Edmund's offered hand was lost on Sir Jean, the knight reeling, hands to his helmet as he staggered, struck by yet another arrow, and another jagged rock, missiles that glanced away but punished him nonetheless.