Chapter 6 #3
Aimery had not done much English fighting for years, and the next day he performed only moderately at it.
His spear skills had been kept up in hunting, and he hit the center twice.
With the ax he felt lucky to hit the target each time.
The throwing ax was not as heavy as the battle-ax, but it was heavy enough.
When Leo made a scathing comment about his performance, Aimery said, “Look, an ax is for hacking people apart, and with brute force more than skill. It makes as much sense to throw one as it would to throw your horse. And it’s about as hard. If you don’t believe me, try it.”
So Leo did. With his massive build he did quite well but missed the target one try out of three. He came back easing his shoulder. “Whew. I think I’d rather throw my horse. Tell me, what do you do in a battle when you’ve thrown your ax?”
Aimery laughed. “I’ve always wanted to know that. I think it’s a noble last gesture before going to Valhalla.”
“Talking of noble gestures,” said Leo, “the king gave me the job of arranging the sword matches. I’ve lined you up against Odo de Pouissey.”
“Am I supposed to appreciate that?”
“Yes. There’s clearly no love between you. Sword work’s no game. It’s always better for a bit of feeling.”
“The man’s a fool when he’s drunk and a bore when he’s sober. I’ve better things to do with my time than to squabble with him.”
Leo looked at him with disgust and then shook his head. “At times you are a damned Saxon, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Come on to the butts.”
Even the king took part in the archery. He did moderately well and showed no displeasure to those who defeated him. He presented a silver goblet to the winner.
He left the riding at the quintain to the younger men, saying it would be foolishness for the monarch to be knocked senseless in a game.
For all that he called it a game, the quintain was serious work, the basis of the Norman style of mounted warfare which was carrying them all over Europe, and which had won them the Battle of Senlac.
Aimery hit true with the heavy spear each of the three times he rode at the target; those less skillful found themselves knocked to the ground.
Odo de Pouissey and Stephen de Faix also rode clear but had close misses.
William awarded the prize—a handsome dagger with a carved amber pommel—to Aimery.
During the break for roast meats and ale, Odo glared jealously at the blade in its gilded sheath, so Aimery knew what to expect when the sword work began.
The weapons were blunted and the contestants wore mail suits and helmets, and carried long shields on their left arms, but it was still not a matter to take lightly. Aimery had hoped that by the time he faced Odo the man would have lost his animosity, but it wasn’t so.
“So,” hissed Odo as they sized each other up. “You think you can fight as well as a purebred Norman, do you?”
“Don’t be a fool,” retorted Aimery, watching the way Odo moved his feet and sword.
“It’s all in the training, and my training was thoroughly Norman.
” He switched feet and moved back on himself.
Odo was fractionally late in matching the move.
Was he clumsy or had he drunk too much, as was his way?
The man had a fair reputation as a warrior.
Odo swung his sword and Aimery took it on his shield. He could have thrust into Odo’s exposed body then, but that sort of deathblow wasn’t allowed in a training fight, and he’d have to pay wergild to his family. He hoped Odo realized that—and didn’t think Aimery’s death worth 1200 shillings.
He’d think it worth every penny if he knew it was Aimery who’d foiled his assault on the Baddersley heiress. When he remembered that dastardly attack, Aimery began to think it would be worth paying wergild for Odo.
They pushed apart and swung sword against sword, then against shield.
The clang and the thud and the concentration became all that mattered.
One of Aimery’s greatest faults, or so his teachers had always said, was that he was unable to take a training fight seriously.
Now to his surprise he felt the blood-burn of war, experienced the focus that led to death dealing. It was because of that attempted rape.
Aimery’s reactions speeded as he parried and swung. He landed a hard blow on Odo’s mailed shoulder. Odo staggered back and glared, then rushed in to retaliate.
It was hot fighting after that. Aimery guarded himself as if in battle, and both his sword and shield arm tingled from the constant blows.
His fingers ached with the grip on his sword.
Sweat ran into his eyes. He dimly heard the roar of approval at such fierce fighting, but his attention was all on his foe.
They locked, shield to shield, sword to sword, and pushed back to eye each other, both taking a moment to catch their breath. Aimery wiped sweat from his brow, and something beyond Odo caught his attention.
Someone.
D’Oilly’s man-at-arms was watching the fighting.
The flicker of inattention was only momentary, but Odo took advantage.
He leaped forward. Aimery raised his sword to catch the other man’s blade but suffered a bruising blow on his thigh from the shield.
As he staggered, he narrowly missed having the pointed end of it driven into his foot. The crowd howled at that unfair move.
He charged Odo with a hard, swinging sword, needing to beat the man down, to defeat him.
As in battle the pain disappeared. He swung and blocked and locked shields as if his energy was endless.
Then he landed a blow, as he intended, on just the spot on the shoulder that must still throb.
Odo dropped his shield slightly even as Aimery swung back short to hammer his wrist so that his sword fell.
Odo grabbed the sword. He would have continued, but the horn sounded as the king called an end.
He graciously complimented both men but gave Aimery the victory for the disarm.
Odo snarled and stalked off. Aimery let his gaze wander back to where d’Oilly’s man stood.
The man looked up as if sensing eyes on him, and for a moment their eyes locked.
Was there anything to read in that flat gaze? Nothing, Aimery decided, that was to any purpose. If the man recognized him and intended to denounce him to the king, there was nothing Aimery could do about it. He went to sit with his friends and watch Leo trounce Stephen de Faix.
His brother was huge, strong, and surprisingly nimble. He was formidable with a sword. Stephen tried his best, but it was clear from the start he just hoped to come through the bout with body and honor intact.
Aimery had to fight twice more. He steadfastly put the watching man-at-arms out of his mind, and despite the fact he still ached from his previous fight, he did well. He might have won the contest except for the fact that his last opponent, of course, was his brother.
“You swing from the right too often,” gasped Leo as they recovered, sprawled companionably on the grass.
“It doesn’t matter where I swing from against you, you great ox.”
“True enough.” Leo shook hair wet with sweat. “But you shouldn’t be so predictable. Someone should have beaten it out of you.”
“I think they tried.” Aimery waved to Geoffrey, who came and cheerfully poured a bucket of water over them both. “I’ve never had a true sword hit yet, though.”
“Battles. No one’s studying you in a battle. If you come up one to one, a justice fight for example, a good opponent would spot it. De Pouissey should have. I could have killed you half a dozen times.”
Aimery sat up and slicked back his wet hair. He looked at his brother seriously. With the state his life was in these days, a one-on-one fight to the death was not impossible. “Who’s the best sword master hereabouts?”
“Me,” said Leo with a wolfish grin. “We should have a few weeks to work on you before I have to go home. But if you don’t learn fast, little brother, you’ll be black and blue.”
Leo was as good as his word, and he showed he had been telling the truth about Aimery’s vulnerability.
Leo’s blunt sword was too often able to land a heavy blow and, despite the padded leather they wore, some days Aimery felt he could scarcely crawl out of bed.
He didn’t find it any easier when his father or the king came to watch and make scathing comments.
At least d’Oilly had left and taken his man with him without any suspicion being directed at Aimery.
The king announced the marriage agreement between Judith, Countess of Huntingdon, and Waltheof, soon to be earl.
Some Normans were disgruntled to see such a tasty morsel thrown to an English hound, but generally the betrothal was taken as an excuse for celebration.
The court moved on to the town of Huntington in high spirits.
Despite daily belaborings from his brother, Aimery enjoyed his weeks with the court.
If William had suspicions about Aimery’s activities he was not acting on them, and for a while Aimery didn’t have to deal with conflicting allegiances and ever-present injustice.
He even began to hope the worst was over.
The English nobles appeared to be finally accepting William and, apart from opportunistic raids from the Scots and Welsh, peace just might be on the horizon.
There was always the question of what Hereward would do, of course. Aimery wondered if it was time for him to try to bring his uncle and the king together, but that, too, would have to wait.
There seemed little danger of anyone realizing he was the notorious Golden Hart. In fact, the myth was now to his advantage for even as he was making merry in Huntingdon, Golden Hart was apparently murdering a Norman knight in Yorkshire, then leading a mini-insurrection near Shrewsbury.
So he hunted, feasted, sang, and whored, and felt more carefree than he had since Senlac.
Until Gyrth turned up.