knights, their destriers pulling at the restraint of their bridles as they pawed the earth with impatience. In the brightness of the summer sun, painted shields and polished helms sparkled and flashed. Overhead, and far above, a lone hawk soared and wheeled against the blue sky. Suddenly the long wail of a massed set of trumpets split the air and a second later, a huge shout rose up from the throats of the crowd as the two teams of knights lowered their lances and shot towards each other like quarrels loosed from opposing crossbows. The ground trembled beneath the thrum of the horses’ hooves, then seemed to tilt as the two waves of armoured men met in a crash of shields and splintering lances. Fallen horses screamed and men cursed as slowly those riders who had retained their seats emerged from the tangled mass.
Bascot wheeled his mount up one side of the field, feeling the animal beneath him prancing in the excitement of the moment. On the other side d’Arderon was following the same course, the other pair of Templar knights making their pass in the opposite direction.
Riderless horses bucked and plunged through the confusion and those knights who had fallen yielded up their shields to a team of heralds busily noting names and escutcheons. Those still in the fray raced their horses back to their respective starting positions, then wheeled their mounts in preparation for the next charge. Bascot watched the second clash of muscle and steel with envy in his throat. How well he remembered the thrill of battle, the great surge of exhilaration that coursed through body and mind as one’s lance found its target. Even with the memory of Isobel in his mind, he knew there was no joy that could replace it. Was he, like many another, guilty of lust, the lust to kill? Had God allowed him to justify it by leading him to join the Templars in the war against the infidel? Had he been wrong to turn away from such a life?
On the field, Richard Camville unhorsed his fourth knight. Conal was still in the saddle also, as were Roger de Kyme and Ivo de Rollos. Alan de Kyme had fallen in the first clash. Although swords and lances had been blunted, and the sharp flanges of maces wrapped in coarse linen, there were still many combatants who had suffered cuts and bruises, and one or two with a broken arm or leg. Leeches from the priory were tending the wounded in the shelter of the trees, salving mangled flesh with ointment before wrapping the injuries in strips of cloth. As the first hour wore on, those being cared for by the monks became more numerous, and by the time that the marshal called for a brief recess, out of the one hundred knights that had begun the contest, there were only some forty left. Of these, only fifteen still had ribbons of green fluttering from their arms. It looked as though the yellow side would be the victor.
Bascot and d’Arderon dismounted and drank a cup of wine at the edge of the trees. “Richard Camville looks to be champion,” the preceptor said, “even though it appears he might be the only one remaining of the greens.”
“He has a good arm,” Bascot agreed, “and so does Conal. They are both young yet, and whole of body.”
The preceptor looked sharply at Bascot. “You speak as though you are an old man, too feeble to hold a lance. Let me tell you that there are men here with a score more years than you who could take those youngsters in one pass. Gerard Camville for one, myself for another. Youth is no master to experience. Your fighting days are not over, Bascot, nor is there any need for them to be. And I do not think you want it so.”
D’Arderon had been speaking roughly, almost with anger. Now he paused to draw breath and continued in a gentler tone. “I saw your face when the melee started, Bascot. You would have been out there if you could. And would be as formidable as ever. There’s many a paladin that has lost an eye and found no lessening of his skill. Why do you not come back to the Order, where you belong? Your brothers in Christ would welcome you with hearts full of gladness.”
Bascot smiled at his mentor, aware of the truth in his words. “I know, my friend,” he replied softly. He could not explain to the crusty old campaigner the maelstrom of emotions that beset him. D’Arderon would not, could not, understand. “But I must find my way as God wills it,” he tried to explain, knowing his words were unconvincing. “I am not yet sure what it is that He has called me to do.”
“There is no doubt of His purpose for you in my mind,” d’Arderon answered promptly. “You were called to fight for Christ and kill Saracens. And you can’t do that in Lincoln.”
The trumpets sounded for the continuation of the melee and the two Templars resumed their roles as judges. As the next hour wore on and the sun grew hotter, it was plain that some of the knights were tiring. With the time allotted nearly at a finish, only Richard Camville and Conal were left of those who had worn a green ribbon, with some fifteen left on the yellow side, headed by Roger de Kyme. Ivo de Rollos was still in the saddle, but he carried his shield awkwardly and it was clear that he had injured his shoulder. Still, with grim determination, he kept his seat and rallied for what would be the last and final charge as Richard and Conal wheeled their horses at the far end of the field and, with a great shout, drove their steeds at the bunched mass of opposing knights.
Lances had been discarded some halfway through the battle. Now the knights fought with sword and mace only. Richard carved his way through with an easy sweep of his blade, finally unseating young de Rollos and delivering another knight such a blow with the edge of his shield that the man tumbled to the ground. Conal was not so fortunate, however. He met with Roger de Kyme, shield to shield, and although the younger man had the advantage of a longer arm, de Kyme had more strength of muscle. Within two or three seconds, the flat of Roger’s sword had dented Conal’s helm and knocked his sword from his grasp. Hilde’s great-nephew had no choice but to yield.
As if by common consent, the remainder of the knights fell away as Richard Camville turned to face the man who had unhorsed his friend. They both set at each other with a will, reach and strength equal. The crowd rose to its feet, sensing that this was the match that would determine who was champion. Blows were rained by each man on the other with devastating effect until slowly, very slowly, it could be seen that de Kyme was beginning to tire. Richard seized his advantage, renewing his onslaught until Roger’s shield was battered and dented, with its owner struggling vainly to protect himself behind it. Finally, Richard spurred his tired mount forward and dealt his opponent such a blow to the head that de Kyme dropped his sword and slumped to the ground. A roar welled from the throats of the crowd as Richard Camville turned alone to face the remnants of the opposing team. Not one of them took up the challenge. In one movement, they all dismounted, signalling their decision to yield by laying up their swords and removing their helms. Richard Camville had won the day for his team and also the prize for champion.
When the tourney was over, the prizes awarded and a merry celebration well on its way, Bascot returned alone to Lincoln Castle. He was weary, not only from a night without sleep and the rigours of his vigil in the chapel, but also from the disquiet that d’Arderon’s words had put into his mind.
The bail was nearly deserted, with only a few guards at their posts on the wall, and a lone goatherd milking one of his herd. Bascot made his way to a small dank chamber set at one side of the old tower where, under cover of a stout stone arch, one of the castle wells was situated. With the aid of a bucket, he filled a large padded wooden tub with cold water, then stripped off his clothes and stepped into the soothing coolness. On a small table several tablets of soap made from wood ash and tallow were kept, and Bascot helped himself to one, scrubbing vigorously with a brush as he lathered away the sweat and dirt that had collected on his body. The water was quickly lined with scum, and once he had finished cleansing himself, he emptied the tub out onto the ground and rinsed himself off.
As he did so, he thought of d’Arderon’s words again. Was the preceptor right-should he rejoin the Templars? Ruefully he looked down at the tub from which he had just stepped. He would have to go back to wearing the sheepskin drawers and lambskin girdle the Saracens had forced him to discard. There would no longer be the pleasure of washing his naked body all over as he had just done. A small price to pay for vowing service to the Lord? Perhaps. He did not know. As for Gianni-the boy was growing up, already there had been a rift, if a slight one, between them. Bascot had been too lenient, treating the lad as if he were an equal and not a servant. If the boy were to stay in his service, he-Bascot-would have to be more severe, show Gianni his place, not let the lad usurp his authority. Had he the heart to do that? Again, he did not know.
He picked up a piece of rough linen from a pile that lay beside the supply of soap and began to towel himself dry. Life was difficult to understand. He knew that if he left the Order, he would be rootless, like a puff of sea spray blown onto an arid shore, left to dry and disappear forever. All the time he had been in the Holy Land there had always been, at the back of his mind, the thought of home-his father and brother, a new generation come from his sister-by-marriage’s swollen belly. Through imprisonment and torture there had always been that comforting thought, that he did not matter, he was only another soldier for Christ, his father’s line would carry on without his help. When he had returned to England he had been bowed, but not completely broken, looking forward to the consolation of his family, the security of the walls of his father’s keep. Within that sanctuary he would have been
