Chapter 1 #2
Whispering astonishment ran around the circle and the men on the dais turned to speak to one another. Then the king beckoned the crier and spoke to him, and silence fell.
The crier straightened and bellowed, “Lord Clarence of Summerbourne stands here today as representative of the king’s brother, Duke Robert of Normandy, supporting Duke Robert’s false claim to the throne.
It is right and proper, therefore, that the king, too, have a representative.
However, King Henry here declares that if ever his brother Robert comes to challenge him in person, he will stand against him right willingly and prove his cause on his body. ”
At this, a great cheer rang up from all present.
“Now that’d be a fight!” said Truda.
Nan chuckled. “But one that’ll never happen. Duke Robert landed, but as soon as he saw his troops were outnumbered, he took a sackful of money and scuttled back home.”
The trumpets sounded again to command order and silence from the crowd.
The crier unrolled another scroll. “This being the first occasion upon which Renald de Lisle will act as champion, the king gives him this sword.” A servant stepped forward, bearing a naked blade.
“A sword of finest German steel, gift of the emperor, the hilt set not with a jewel, but with a stone from the tomb of Christ in Jerusalem. May it fight always with honor.”
The champion walked forward to kneel before the king and accept the sword.
“If the champion loses,” Truda asked, very quietly indeed, “what happens then?”
Nan’s eyes shifted all around and she leaned very close. “As I understand it, God will have said that the king can’t be king.”
Truda blessed herself. “Lord a’mercy!”
The champion returned to face his opponent and both men put on conical helmets, lacing them under the chin, and took up their long shields.
“Do you call upon God,” the crier demanded, “to use your bodies to prove justice and right?”
“I do!”
“I do!”
A priest stepped forward. No, not a priest but a bishop in his glittering robes and tall miter.
He presented a golden crucifix for each man to kiss.
Then he sprinkled holy water on each man’s bowed head.
Finally, he dipped a thumb in holy oil and anointed them, so whichever died would have received the Last Rites.
When he stepped back, the crier announced, “May God show the truth of your cause!” and the king raised his hand.
As Lord Clarence of Summerbourne drew his gleaming sword, a cloud skittered across the sun, stealing any touch of brightness from the moment.
It was slow at first. The men swung and blocked with shield or sword, but despite thud and clang, they were just testing each other. As they worked their way across the circle kicking up dust, the rhythm became almost monotonous.
In a show fight the crowd would be jeering by now, calling for more action, but nothing here was for show.
One of these men would die today, and if they wanted to tread the path warily, that was their right.
A battle like this could take all day, and be decided in the end more by exhaustion than warlike skill.
Truda didn’t think Lord Clarence would last all day. Something in the way he moved already suggested weary muscles.
Then, as if contradicting her thought, he surged forward. His blows rang harder, striking sparks from that German blade and from the iron around the champion’s shield.
Sir Renald held his own but no more, retreating steadily. Then he changed the rhythm and began to drive Lord Clarence back.
The accused man stumbled. The crowd gasped and the champion swung backward against the edge of his shield. Instead of beating it aside, however, the sword bit deep, right through the metal band and into wood.
And stuck.
As the crowd gasped again, Lord Clarence seized his moment. He aimed a swinging blow at his unbalanced opponent, a blow designed at the very least to crack ribs. At the last moment, Sir Renald’s shield turned it away, but awkwardly, leaving him wide open to a thrust.
But in the same movement he kicked Lord Clarence’s shield to free his sword, and leaped back out of danger.
Like one body, the crowd let out a breath. The two men paused to gather themselves.
“Oooh,” said Nan. “That was a nasty moment.”
“I’ve never seen a sword cut through a shield like that,” said Truda. “German steel? Lord Clarence had best watch out. That sword could cut through mail.”
“He’s got the right idea, though. Break some bones and it won’t matter if the champion’s bigger and stronger and has a German sword. He’ll be a dead man.”
Truda stole a look at the king, whose fate apparently hung in the balance here. He sat still as a statue, hands relaxed on the arms of his chair, face almost contemplative. She liked that. A king should have dignity even in the face of disaster.
Especially in the face of disaster.
A clang told her it had started again and she turned back.
Lord Clarence must have been encouraged. Now he swung mightily, pushing the champion back under a torrent of blows. Truda found she had her knuckle between her teeth.
Trouble for kings always meant trouble for lesser folk.
But then Lord Clarence’s furious swinging turned wild.
Now he looked like Willy and his friends, playing with sticks and swinging without much plan or skill.
The champion still had his strength. In a move that even she could see was graceful, Sir Renald turned the fight.
Steadily he forced Lord Clarence to retreat.
The accused man staggered, as if his legs were failing, and his sword drooped on a weary arm. Instead of surging for the kill, the champion checked his swing. Truda thought his lips were moving. What could there be to say at this point?
Perhaps it was a taunt, for with a hoarse, defiant cry Lord Clarence revived and swung.
Sir Renald blocked that wild blade with his shield, beating aside his opponent’s shield with his fist. Then he impaled Lord Clarence through chain mail right to the heart.
“Oooooooh.” The sound wove around the circle even as the traitor crumpled, dead before he hit the ground.
The champion collapsed to his knees, and for a moment Truda thought he’d been injured as well. What would that say about the right of the king to the throne? But then the man blessed himself and started to pray.
Chatter rose from the field like a flock of starlings.
“Bit short,” said Nan, tucking her spinning into a bag.
“Is he dead, Mam?” asked Willy.
“Yes, love. And the king is proved to be the good and just man we know him to be.”
“Didn’t last long.”
“Long enough, Willy. Long enough to kill a man.”
Truth to tell, it had been a strange sort of fight. Even as she steered her son to follow the crowd back to market stalls and houses, to breweries and smithies, she glanced back at the tableau in the dust.
“Mam?”
“Yes, love?”
“I thought mail was suppose to stop a sword.”
“It is, love. It is. I’ve never heard of someone being killed that way before. Normally it’s bash, bash, bash until one’s too bruised and broken to keep going. Neater this way, though …”
Something about the scene around the body made her pause.
Lord Clarence’s attendant was on the ground, his master in his arms. He’d taken off his lord’s helmet and pushed back his mailed hood so he could stroke the sandy hair. During the fight, clouds had gathered, weighting the scene with shadow, but now a chance beam of sunlight picked out the group.
Picked out Sir Renald, still kneeling in prayer. Picked out jewels on the clothes of the three standing nobles who’d gathered, forming a backdrop to the men on the ground.
Why, it looked just like the picture on the wall of St. Mark’s, the picture of Christ taken down from the cross! Truda hastily blessed herself in case she’d thought a sacrilege.
The champion must have dropped his sword, for one of the other men picked it up. It was the High Champion—the one called FitzRoger—with his dark hair and rich, somber clothing.
He cleaned the blade on a cloth which turned scarlet, then presented it to the kneeling man.
The blade looked strangely shadowed, as if it ate the dull light.
Everything froze, becoming like a painting, but then the victor pushed wearily to his feet and took the sword.
After a moment, he kissed the hilt and pushed it into his scabbard.
Then he turned and walked over to the dais where the king awaited.
“Well of course,” said Truda, half to herself. “It’s that stone from Jerusalem. It was a miracle him being able to kill that way, that’s what it was.”
“Mam!”
She looked down. “Stop pulling my sleeve like that!”
Willy let go, but jiggled around. “There’s a pie-man over there. Can I have a pie on the way home? Can I?”
“No, you can’t!” But then she shook her head. “We’ll buy a few and take them home for all to share. Come on. Let’s hurry.”
The rain had started, plopping heavily to make dark circles in the dusty ground. In one spot, it began to form a crimson pool.