horse was staggering as he reached Shea’s end of the lists and he himself reeling drunkenly in the saddle, clutching for support.
Satyrane was judged winner amid a patter of applause. Shea caught sight of Chalmers in the stands, shouting with the rest. Beside him was a heavily veiled woman, whose slender-bodiced figure in the tight gown implied good looks.
Another knight had taken his place at the opposite end of the lists. The crowd murmured.
«Blandamour of the Iron Arm,» remarked Britomart. as the trumpet blew. Again came the rush and the
A squire hurried past with a cup of wine. Britomart called at him: «Am I needed yet?»
«No, my lady,» he replied. «Ferramont is to ride the next run.» Shea saw a little dark man with a black triangle on gold across his shield climb aboard his horse and take Satyrane’s place. The pace of the jousting began to quicken. After Ferramont’s second trip down the lists, two knights appeared at the opposite end. A page pushed past Shea calling for someone whose name sounded like «Sir Partybore» to join Ferramont for the defenders.
This time there was a double crash from the lists, which were getting dusty. Sir Partybore, or whatever his name was, went down. But he got up, clanked over to his horse, and pulled a big broadsword from the saddle bow. He waved it at the knight who had overthrown him, shouting something muffled in his helmet. The other turned back and dropped his broken lance. He drew a sword of his own, and aimed from the stirrups a blow that would have decapitated an elephant. The defender turned it easily with upraised shield. The man on foot and man on horseback circled each other, banging away with a frightful racket. Ferramont had downed another opponent in a cloud of dust, and new knights from either side were preparing to ride.
Shea turned to Britomart. «Aren’t you going to get in?»
She smiled and shook her head. «Those are the Lesser knights of either side,» she said. «You must know, good squire, that it is the custom of these tourneys for one or two knights of good report to ride at the beginning, as Satyrane has done for us and Blandamour for them. After that, those younger men have their opportunity to gain reputation, while such as we the Companions remain aside until needed.»
Shea was about to ask who chose the sides. But Britomart gripped his arm. «Ha! Look! With the gyronny of black and silver.»
At the other end of the lists Shea saw a big blond man ducking into a helmet. His shield bore a design of alternating black and silver triangles all running to the same point, which must be «gyronny». «That is Sir Cambell and none other,» continued Britomart impressively.
* * *
As Britomart spoke, the big man came storming into the press. One of the lesser knights on foot, attempting to stop him, was knocked down like a nine-pin, rolling over and over under the horses hoofs. Shea hoped his skull had not been cracked.
Ferramont, who had secured another lance, was charging to meet Cambell. Just before black-and-gold and black-and-silver came together, Cambell dropped his own lance. With a single clean, flowing motion he ducked under the point of Ferramont’s Lance, snatched a mace from his side and dealt Ferramont’s a terrific backhand blow on the back of the head. Ferramont clanged heavily from his saddle, out cold. The stands were in a bedlam, Britomart shouting, «Well struck! Oh, well!» and shifting from foot to foot.
Near by Shea saw Satyrane’s face go grim and heard his visor clang shut as Cambell turned back into the mкlee, laying furiously about him with his mace and upsetting a knight at every stroke. Shouts warned him of Satyrane’s approach. He turned to meet the chief defender and swerved his horse quickly, striking with his mace at the lance head. But Satyrane knew the answer to that. As the arm went up, he changed aim from Cambell’s shield to his right shoulder. The long spear took him right at the joint and burst in a hundred shivering fragments. Down went Cambell with the point sticking in his shoulder.
With a yell of delight the defenders threw themselves on Cambell to make him prisoner. The challengers, more numerous, ringed the fallen knight round and began to get him back. Those still mounted tilted against each other around the edges of the mкlee.
A trumpet blew sharply over the uproar. Shea saw a new contestant entering the arena on the side of the challengers. He was a big, burly man who had fantastically decked every joint of his armour with brassoak leaves and had a curled metal oak leaf for a crest. Without any other notice, he dropped a big lance into position and charged at Satyrane, who had just received a fresh weapon on his side of the lists.
Britomart turned to Shea. «This is surely a man of much worship,» she said, «and now I may enter. Do you watch me, good squire, and if I am unhorsed, you are to draw me from the press.»
She was gone. The wounded Cambell, forgotten amid the tumult around this new champion, had been dragged to the security of the tents at the challengers’ end of the lists. The press was now around Satyrane, who was trying groggily to get up.
A trumpet sounded behind Shea. He turned to see Britomart ready. Oakleaves heard it, too, He wheeled to meet her. His lance shattered, but Britomart’s held. Though he slipped part of its force by twisting so it skidded over his shoulder, his horse staggered. Oakleaves swayed in the saddle. Unable to regain his co-ordination, he came down with a clatter.
The warrior girl turned at the end of the lists and came back, lifting a hand to acknowledge the hurricane of cheers. Another of the challengers had taken the place of the oakleaf knight. Britomart Laid her lance in rest to meet him.
Then a knight — Shea recognized Blandamour by the three crossed arrows on his shield and surcoat — detached himself from the mob around Satyrane. In two bounds his horse carried him to Britomart’s side, partly behind her. Too late she heard the warning shout from the stands as he swung his sword in a quick arc. The blow caught her at the base of the helmet, Down she went. Blandamour leaped down after her, sword in hand. Somebody shrieked: «Foully done!» Shea found himself running toward the spot, dragging at the big sword.
Blandamour had swung up his sword for another blow at Britomart. He turned at Shea’s approach and swung at his new adversary. Shea parried awkwardly with the big, clumsy blade, noticing out the corner of his eye that Britomart had reached a knee and was yanking a mace from her belt.
Blandamour started another swing. Can’t do much with this crowbar, thought Shea. He was trying to get it round, when he got a violent blow on the side of the head He reeled, eyes watering with pain. More to gain balance than to hit anything, he swung his sword round like a hammer thrower about to let go.
It caught Blandamour on the shoulder.
Shea felt the armour give before the impact. The man toppled with a red spurt of blood. The world was filled with a terrific blast of trumpets. Men-at-arms with halberds were separating the contestants. Britomart snapped up her visor and pointed to the man in armour at her feet, jerking like a headless chicken.
«A favour for a favour,» she remarked. «This faitour knave struck you from behind and was about to repeat the blow when my mace caught him.» She noticed that the grovelling man’s surcoat bore the green bars of Sir Paridell. «Yet still I owe you thanks, good squire. Without your aid I might have been sped by that foul cowardly blow that Blandamour struck.»
«Don’t mention it,» said Shea. «Are we taking time out for lunch?»
«Nay, the tournament is ended.»
Shea looked up and was dumfounded to see how much of the day had gone. The herald who had opened the proceedings had ridden across to the booth where the judge of the tournament sat. Now he blew a couple of toots, and cried in his high voice:
«It is judged that the most honour of this tournament has been gained by that noble and puissant lady, the Princess Britomart.» There was a shout of approval. «But it is also judged that the knight of the oak leaves has shown himself a very worthy lord and he also shall receive a chaplet of laurel.»
But when Britomart stepped up to the judge’s stand the knight of the oak leaves was nowhere to be
