Chapter 13
O nce the field was clear, Henry of Lancaster, the field marshal, returned. “Take your stations!”
An azure and gold-clad herald cried, “Let him come to joust who wishes to do battle!”
From opposite ends of the field, two trumpets answered each other. Pursuivants stepped forward to announce the contestants. It was traditional for each to boast of his own jouster’s skill and to revile the challenger. The more foul the insult, the greater the laughter from the crowds.
The inside of Prince Edward’s tent was organized chaos as the three squires removed Hawksblood’s armor, then dressed him in sable to match Edward’s. A slight altercation broke out between Paddy and John Chandos about shields.
“Prince Edward prefers the round shield, it is less cumbersome while in the saddle.”
“Prince Drakkar prefers the teardrop. Once you are on the ground, its sharp edges and point make it an offensive weapon.”
John Chandos was about to overrule the Irish squire, when Edward spoke up. “I defer to Hawksblood’s experience.”
Ali, who was in charge of their mounts, lined up two white chargers and two black, each identically accoutered with black harness, saddle, and caparisoned in sable silk, boasting the golden dragon of Wales. Inside Christian’s pavilion was a stack of forty fifteen-foot ashwood lances with lozenge-shaped heads of Castile steel. Armor and weapons sat in piles, ready to be snatched up on a moment’s notice.
In one corner, Randal sat talking softly to Gnasher, who was curled up on his shoulder. To be on the safe side, Christian had secured him on a long, silver leash.
The marshal’s list had been made up at the last possible minute to keep it current. They had shaken their heads over the number of times Prince Edward’s name appeared and alternated it as best they could. In the morning he was scheduled to ride in the third, fifth, seventh, and so on, up to and including the twenty-fifth joust. The fourth contest pitted Hawksblood against De Harcourt. This meant his changing into silver armor, then changing back to sable the moment it was over.
“We’ll have to polish off the first dozen in short order if we are to be effective throughout the afternoon,” Christian warned before the prince left the tent. The two men looked into each other’s eyes, grinned, then Edward lowered his visor and strode out to do battle.
The pursuivant had been instructed to announce him only as the Black Prince. It was a name they had chosen together, which could in truth be applied to both. “Sir John Holland challenging the Black Prince!”
A hush fell over the crowd as it waited to see if the Black Prince was indeed the Prince of Wales. When the sable-clad rider became visible, a great cheer broke from the spectators and rolled across the field like a wave upon the shore. For one moment, Joan was paralyzed by fear. Her throat closed so tightly, she could not cheer.
Prince Edward, with single-minded determination, hit Holand’s shield dead center. The grinding shock of the splintered lance forced Holland from the saddle. He fell so hard, his squires had to rush onto the field to carry him off.
Everyone in the stands surged to their feet, crying their joy at the top of their lungs. Joan’s fear turned instantly to joy. Her glance fell upon her embroidered sleeve, which he had attached to his scabbard ring, and her heart almost burst with pride.
Glynis pushed through to her mistress carrying the peony-colored mantle that matched Joan’s underdress.
“Hurry, Glynis, you’re missing the fun.” Joan handed Brianna’s cloak to Adele and slipped on her own.
“Sir Godfrey de Harcourt challenges Christian Hawksblood de Beauchamp,” cried the pursuivant. The majority expected the fierce-looking Arabian to defeat the Frenchman. Hawksblood simply angled his shield so his opponent’s lance glanced off it. At the same moment his own lance impacted De Harcourt’s shield so solidly the Frenchman dropped like a stone. Hawksblood’s lance had not even shattered. He tossed it to his waiting squire, Ali, and fell upon his opponent with such speed, Harcourt could not gain his feet. Christian pressed his powerful thigh across the Frenchman’s throat. He rendered his challenger helpless without drawing his sword. The crowd roared its appreciation of such agile strength. Even the king tossed him a purse.
Brianna forced herself to breathe normally. Her breath had stopped when she saw her crimson ribbon fluttering atop Hawksblood’s helm. She blushed deeply, hoping none guessed the favor was hers.
Next came the Black Prince against John de Vere, Earl of Oxford. Edward dispatched him to the dust while Paddy rapidly removed Hawksblood’s silver hauberk and replaced it with sable.
Joan’s heart was in her mouth when she heard, “Edmund, Earl of Kent, challenged by Prince Lionel, Duke of Clarence.”
Brianna took hold of Joan’s hand. “You fear for him?”
Joan replied, “Lionel is a giant and a bully, while Edmund is so slim.”
“He will acquit himself well, Joan. He has twice Lionel’s intelligence.” Their attention was drawn to Princess Isabel. She came to her feet with an avid look upon her face. She was licking her lips over this match. When the jousters impacted, Lionel leaned his great weight into his lance and it was inevitable that the lightweight Edmund left his saddle. Kent, however, anticipated the move and aimed to the side while Lionel was off-balance. Clarence too was unhorsed.
Isabel screamed, “Kill him!”
Queen Philippa tried to hush her, thinking she rooted for her brother.
Edmund had his sword drawn by the time he gained his feet. Lionel the Ox was clumsy as his nickname. He lumbered to his feet and advanced upon the smaller man, thinking to defeat him by brute force. In a trice, Edmund caught his sword and sent it spinning away, leaving him weaponless. Lionel conceded in one second flat, wishing to God they were fighting in teams as they had the previous year.
The king and queen were both disappointed in their son’s defeat, but Isabel snatched a purse from her father and flung it down to the young Earl of Kent. He lifted his visor and touched his fingers to his lips in a gallant gesture to the princess, and the crowd burst into applause.
The few hard-bitten knights who had the temerity to challenge Warrick regretted the impulse when the warrior made mincemeat of them.
The Black Prince rode out time after time, taking up the challenges issued to him by the earls of Pembroke, Northampton, Lincoln, and Hereford. He set down his opponents one by one, either by lance or by sword. By this time all the knights had lost their fine silk jupons, as well as their favors from the ladies. Even their mount’s caparisons hung in shreds.
The entire throng was agog that their prince fought and won joust after joust. It was a feat unmatched in history. Both Christian and Edward were thankful for the coolness of the morning, knowing by afternoon the day would heat up considerably.
Pondering Hawksblood’s victory, Brianna had been struck by a disquieting thought. What if the brothers Beauchamp fought a joust? Who would she cheer on to victory? She would champion Robert, of course; it was her duty to do so, yet she silently prayed they would not joust together. She shivered and Adele wrapped her in the gray velvet cloak.
She felt as if her mother’s arms had stolen about her. The Black Prince was again upon the field. Surely he was the most gallant prince in all Christendom to meet so many challenges. Suddenly, Brianna went still. The knight in the sable armor who rode down the field so relentlessly was not Edward. It was the Arabian, Hawksblood! She could see him as clearly as if he rode without armor. She turned to Joan, expecting her to know the identity of the Black Prince, but quickly realized Joan had no idea when she said, “Edward’s strength must surely be spent. This time he will go down.”
Brianna’s glance again flew to the jouster clad in sable mail. “Nay! None will defeat him!” She watched in fascination as Christian couched his lance and spurred down the lists as deadly accurate as the Angel of Death felled his chosen victim. Hawksblood danced a violent ballet that was perfection. Brianna could not understand why it was not clear to everyone that this was the Arabian.
“Edward, Edward, Edward,” they chanted, and the king was on his feet, waving the great banner of England.
The sergeants removed a few unruly Londoners from the front ranks and everyone sat back to enjoy the next contest. Joan clasped Brianna’s hand as she heard, “William de Montecute challenges Robert de Beauchamp.”
Robert looked enormous as he charged down the field. The Countess of Salisbury screamed as her son was flung from his saddle. De Beauchamp withdrew his sword and beat down his opponent without dismounting, as was his right, but Brianna could not dispel the thought that it was unchivalrous.
The excited crowd applauded the win, however, and she joined them. Joan whispered, “Montecute is always so full of himself, I’m glad Robert defeated him.”
The final joust of the morning was announced and who else would it be but the Black Prince? Brianna watched intently. This time, however, she knew it was Prince Edward beneath the sable armor. How strange it was to be able to tell them apart as if they were day and night. Suddenly the sun blazed forth and she slipped the warm cloak from her shoulders. The moment the mantle fell away, her clear perception disappeared. Had her imagination played a trick on her? She glanced down at the gray velvet and wondered. Her mother had the gift of second sight. When Brianna had been wearing her cloak, she too had seen things other people seemed unaware of.
The royal stewards made their way into the loges with refreshments for the queen and her ladies. The king departed for his own pavilion. He was on the afternoon program and eager to join the lists.
Paddy and John Chandos ate heartily, sharing their food with Randal and the Gnasher. Christian and Edward, however, did not eat. So they would not become dehydrated, they drank water brewed with rosemary and agrimony to keep them alert. Ali massaged the muscles of both men with almond oil and myrrh. The prince was most impressed by the Arabian squire’s talents.
“Would you consider becoming my personal leech?” Edward asked.
Ali shook his head. “Alas, Your Highness, I was there when Drakkar was born and I shall be there when he dies, Allah be willing.”
Edward and Christian exchanged an amused glance, yet beneath the surface, both men were moved at such selfless devotion.
An infirmary tent had been set up with Master John Bray, the king’s physician, in charge. It was rapidly filling with casualties suffering cracked ribs, broken collarbones, dislocated shoulders, and concussions. Minor wounds, cuts, and abrasions were attended by squires in the jousters’ own tents.
Prince Edward began to pace in anticipation of the afternoon’s challenges. Christian stretched himself on the pavilion floor and appeared to doze. “How is he able to do that?” Edward asked Ali.
“Long years of discipline. First you must separate the three states of being: the mental, the physical, and the emotional, then it is simply a matter of deep breathing.”
But the moment the heralds sounded their trumpets, Hawksblood was on his feet ready to have Paddy don his hauberk. This time, both wore silver, for Edward was jousting as Hawksblood, riding against Warrick, then Christian and Robert de Beauchamp would do battle.
Brianna clasped her hands tightly as Warrick’s name and that of Hawksblood were announced. Don’t let either of them get hurt , she prayed.
Prince Edward knew he would have to unseat Warrick with his lance if he hoped to win, for if the seasoned warrior had him on the ground, then came at him with his powerful sword arm, he doubted the outcome.
Brianna surged to her feet as the pair collided with an ear-splitting crash that splintered both lances and sent the combatants flying from their saddles. Fortunately for Edward, he had not landed as heavily as Warrick and he was able to gain his feet first. Warrick, however, was able to swing his great broadsword from a kneeling position. When it struck Edward’s shield, however, the protective guard flew from the tip of the sword and Warrick stopped fighting immediately. It was a thing that happened often, usually resulting in a bloody accident, but Warrick was well discipined in swordplay. When Prince Edward saw Warrick put up his sword, he did likewise and the contest was considered a draw. Christian couldn’t have been more pleased with the outcome.
In the next joust, Prince Lionel challenged Lord Stanley, Earl of Cheshire. They were easy to tell apart, for Cheshire’s lance boasted a blue and white banner with three stags’ heads. Lionel missed his opponent’s shield by a mile and embedded his lance point in Stanley’s dappled gray charger. As the horse went down, the crowd gasped then groaned as they watched it thrash in agony. Stanley, concerned only for his mount, went down in defeat to Lionel, who totally ignored the frenzied animal. The crowd began to boo.
King Edward threw off his leg guards and sprinted onto the field. Without concern for his own safety, he quickly assessed the horse at close range. He withdrew his dagger and severed the horse’s main neck artery. It gave only one more kick, heaved a shuddering sigh, then lay in red ruin.
The crowd’s boos changed to cheers. They knew their king’s deeds were invariably brave as well as honorable. The animal was covered with the glorious flag of England and dragged from the field.
Prince John of Gaunt’s voice carried to Joan and Brianna. “By the Cross, that was clumsily done! Lionel has covered us with shame!”
His sister Isabel turned upon him. “A little blood and gore enliven a tournament. Stanley can well afford the loss of a charger.”
Prince John gave her a look that would have withered someone more sensitive.
In his tent, pitched next to Prince Lionel’s, Robert de Beauchamp inwardly seethed. The great clumsy Ox had not only been easily defeated by his older brother this morning, but had also gone down to defeat in the joust with the Earl of Kent. Now, for Christ’s sake, he had killed a bloody horse! Robert ground his teeth in chagrin. How the hell could Lionel aspire to kingship? The brainless swine would ruin all Robert’s fine plans for the future if he didn’t have a care.
Robert tried to focus on his own impending joust with his foreign bastard of a brother. He had been waiting for this moment all day. He knew he needed to vent his spleen, and what better target than the Arabian? The two jousters presently in the lists had removed their thigh guards in emulation of the king. As Robert’s squire held his horse so that he could mount, he saw that none of the men had kept them on. In a vainglorious gesture, he ordered his squire to unstrap his guards. It would give him considerably more freedom, especially on the ground, so his main objective was to separate Hawksblood from his charger.
Robert couched his lance, moved his shield across his body, and allowed his hatred full rein.
Brianna wanted to leave. The last thing she wanted to witness was this encounter between the dissimilar brothers. But of course she could not; she was rooted to the spot. Turf flew from their chargers’ hooves as they began their inevitable head-on clash. In a blur she saw the yellow streaming from Robert’s helm and the crimson ribbon fluttering from Christian’s scabbard ring. It sounded as if the thud of the hooves beat upon her eardrums. She had no idea that it was her own heart that pounded.
Joan shouted encouragement. Brianna heard not the words, but knew which De Beauchamp Joan championed. The question was, which De Beauchamp did Brianna champion? She wanted neither to lose; she wanted both to win. She sucked in a breath, trying to distance herself from this contest. It was up to them; it had nothing to do with her! It had everything to do with her .
Christian Hawksblood’s arm became one with his lance. Through the slitted helm he saw every detail with crystal clarity, every movement in slow, fluid motion. Man and horse merged into one powerful entity. Hawksblood was a big man, but his half brother was both taller and heavier. Robert relied upon his brawn in all encounters. Hawksblood knew if he lured him off-balance, the sheer force of his weight would take him down. Christian shifted to his left so that Robert must overreach. ’Twas so subtly done, Robert expected his hated opponent to go down with the impact of the lance. Instead it slid harmlessly to the right, dragging him with it, while his brother’s lance hit him such a true and solid blow, it smote him from his saddle.
Hawksblood had couched, charged, and recovered as he had done thousands upon thousands of times. Robert was on his feet instantly, unable to check his fury. He did not expect Hawksblood to dismount; chivalry was the last thing he anticipated. Robert felt a surge of glee, for Hawksblood wore protective leg guards that would hamper him. Christian’s armor, however, was so well articulated, he could turn a somersault if the need arose. He unsheathed his broadsword, deftly blocking every slash and thrust Robert executed.
In Hawksblood’s experience it was the coolest head that prevailed, and he knew Robert was hotly mad. Christian saw the guard had come off the tip of Robert’s sword, if it had ever been there in the first place, and he knew his half brother was gripped by bloodlust. Robert plunged the sword with a mighty downward thrust. Hawksblood lowered his shield to protect his loins. Robert’s wide blade slid down the length of the teardrop shield and pierced his own ungirded thigh! He rolled to the ground, biting his lips so he would not cry out at the searing pain. Robert’s squires as well as Warrick’s rushed onto the field.
Randal, wanting to view the last two jousts of the day in which both Hawksblood and the Black Prince were scheduled to ride, stood at the barriers with the little ferret curled upon his shoulder. Since they were now the best of friends, he judged the silver leash unnecessary.
The crowd was in such an uproar, Gnasher decided to attack. He streaked across the lists, scented Christian, scented his enemy’s blood, flashed up De Beauchamp’s leg, and tried to sink in his teeth. Only the fact that Robert wore a protective codpiece saved his manhood. Gnasher, tenacious as a terrier, found the wound and bit down to the bone. Robert screamed in agony, the startled squires laughed in spite of themselves, and the Gnasher fled back to an abashed Randal.
Christian Hawksblood could not linger on the field. He had agreed to joust against the King of England in Edward’s place, and had to immediately change into sable armor. Amusement tugged at the corners of Christian’s mouth for the brother who had intended to draw blood and had succeeded, albeit his own.
Back in the pavilion, when he was ready, the two friends faced each other in their black helms and hauberks. “Don’t humiliate him too sorely,” Edward appealed.
“God’s teeth, I’ll be lucky if I can hold him to a draw. Your father has a passion for tournaments because his long arms and legs make him a champion!”
As he had expected to, Hawksblood hit the ground. In fifteen jousts it was the first time he had been unseated. However, King Edward had not been able to stay in the saddle either, and now the two men were enjoying the contest of wits and broadswords. The king was both thrilled and confounded that his son’s skills equaled his own.
Hawksblood was impressed by the king’s stamina as the fight went on and on. Finally the royal foot slipped on a patch of blood and he went down in defeat. Hawksblood wanted to protest that he had not won fairly, but speaking would have revealed his identity.
The crowd went wild. The Black Prince was their champion. More, he was their god at this moment. The throng along the palisades, the ladies in the loges, and the crowds who could not even get close enough for a glimpse, chanted his name in unison.
“Edward! Edward! Edward!”
The prince hurried to his pavilion to get Christian so they could share the glory, but Hawksblood had disappeared along with his squires. Edward took off his helm to run a frustrated hand through his flaxen hair. John Chandos handed him a note.
Today you became a legend. Never seek to destroy their faith in you .
The Black Prince stepped out onto the field to acknowledge the tumult.