want the lady burned at the stake?”
“No,” said Noel, chastened.
“I should think not. Lady of mercy, do watch what you say. And nothing to drink.”
“I’m thirsty,” said Noel.
“Suck on your own spit, then.”
A fanfare of trumpets kept Noel from retorting. He saw Sir Magnin coming onto the field on a jet-black charger, a white saddlecloth embellished with scarlet falcon heads flowing to the horse’s knees. The cloth was whipped aside to reveal heavily embossed bardings, including a fanciful chanfron fitted with a mock unicorn spike. Sir Magnin himself also wore white and red, the same falcon heads represented upon his surcoat and shield. A red pennon fluttered from his lance. Long plumage flowed from his helmet, and sunlight glittered upon his steel breastplate and knee cobs.
The herald rode into the center of the field, and the red-cloaked judges took their places at each corner.
“Challenge has been made and accepted for the right to rule this province,” bellowed the herald. His voice carried plainly through the sudden silence. “This will be a full passage of arms, with the lance, the ax, and the dagger.” He hesitated a moment, and Noel saw Sir Magnin speak to him. “This contest is to the death. God’s hand be upon you both.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Noel swallowed hard and blinked fresh perspiration from his eyes. Adrenaline coursed through him like racing oil. He had to admit he was scared. He didn’t want to die with a pole run through his guts. Trojan had shown him how to hold a lance one day when they were horsing around on the training grounds. In return Noel had taught him how to drive a chariot. He wished he were driving a chariot now, in a circus, with the crowds cheering for blood. That, at least, was familiar.
The herald went on with a fresh speech, outlining rules of combat and chivalry. Perhaps chivalry also demanded that Noel and Sir Magnin meet halfway and shake hands, but they didn’t. Even across the field he could feel Sir Magnin’s rage blazing at him.
He knew he had to keep Sir Magnin’s fury hot to the point of recklessness, to the point of mistakes. That was his only chance against the man’s superior skill.
Tobin handed him a lance. The yellow and black pennon flapped across Noel’s helmet, momentarily blinding him until Noel jerked it free. He fumbled to get a grip behind the vamplate, cursing the mail mittens, and managed to jab his horse’s side with the butt end. The destrier shied, nearly stepping on Tobin, and Noel almost dropped the lance altogether in an effort to maintain control.
Some onlookers laughed; others jeered loudly. Tobin calmed the destrier; Noel’s face flamed inside his helmet. He felt like an idiot. He was certain he looked like one.
On the field Sir Magnin rubbed it in. With his lance held straight up, he cantered across the field, then put his horse through several stylish dressage maneuvers. The crowd cheered.
“Show-off,” muttered Noel. But having Sir Magnin overconfident was almost as good as having him angry.
Noel deliberately fumbled more with his lance and nearly impaled Tobin in the process.
The man angrily slapped it away. “Watch your point!”
More people laughed. “Drunkard’s courage. Look at him!” called one.
Noel started the destrier forward, but Tobin caught the reins.
“Settle deeper in the saddle, but keep your feet loose in the stirrups. Else, you’ll be dragged when you go off.”
“Who said I’m going off?” retorted Noel.
Tobin’s cynical eyes never wavered. “See his breastplate? It’s got a lance rest to fit the grapper to. It makes the whole breastplate take the shock, and not just his arm. You brace the end against your side; that’ll give you firmer balance, see?”
Noel nodded, and Tobin sprang away. The destrier lunged forward with his armored nose outstretched eagerly. He swung around the end of the tiltyard so sharply Noel nearly tumbled from the saddle. He was having trouble compensating for the weight and length of the, thirteen-foot lance. It was constructed of ash; the wood was not heavy, but balancing it was difficult. The crowd jeered him again, hooting insults freely.
“Keep your temper,” muttered Noel to himself.
The destrier pranced in place, snorting and pushing at the bit. Noel tucked the reins beneath his thigh and at the herald’s shout of “Ready” he lowered his lance diagonally across the saddlebow.
He was maneuvering the lance with his right arm since his left shoulder was stiff and bound too tightly to permit much range of motion. The weight of the shield, however, dragged heavily upon his left arm. Although he felt no pain, sticky wetness at his shoulder told him the wound had reopened. He disregarded the squire’s advice to jam the blunt end of the grip against his body.
“Do that against a stronger man on a faster horse and you’ll be flipped head over heels quicker than you can blink,” Trojan had said. “Hold it loose. Let the saddle support it if necessary. Keep your elbow flexed. Before the fifteenth century it was all skill, not brute force.”
The herald dropped his arm and Noel’s horse sprang forward. There was no more time to think. He knew only the fear and excitement coursing in his veins. He heard only the thunder of the horses’ hooves. He saw only the blur of color and motion as they hurtled at each other. He wanted to do something Trojan called the Bleinheim twist. It involved slipping the lance point through any slight opening between shield and saddle, staying low to catch your opponent’s thigh. If you hit the precise spot correctly, the impetus and a slight twist of the lance would flip your opponent from the saddle every time.
Using the computerized quintain dummy on the training grounds, Trojan had a ninety percent score. Noel had managed it only once. After he cracked his collarbone by getting hit with a blunted practice lance, he’d quit jousting with Trojan.
These lances, however, weren’t blunted. They were deadly sharp and if he didn’t hold his shield higher, Sir Magnin’s red-and-white-striped lance was going to spit him like a shish kebab.
They came together faster than he anticipated. The crashing impact of Sir Magnin’s lance upon his shield was like being struck by a battering ram. Pain flared in Noel’s shoulder with a fierceness that wrung a cry from him.
His own lance, held low and on his horse’s withers rather than atop the saddle pommel, hit the inner edge of Sir Magnin’s shield and skidded in toward the man’s groin. The point imbedded itself in the saddle and bowed with a twang of stressed wood. It should have snapped, but it didn’t, and when the point ripped free of the leather it snapped Sir Magnin into the air.
A roar went up from the crowd, and Noel’s heart leapt, but Sir Magnin caught his saddle pommel and clung dangerously over the right side of his galloping horse until he could drag himself back into the saddle. He had dropped his lance, and his plumed helmet was askew, but he reined in his horse and wheeled around.
“Hold!” shouted the herald.
Noel’s horse had already swept to the end of the tiltyard. It turned around smartly, ready without instruction for another pass. Noel sat there, noise and yells around him, and panted heavily within his helmet. Sweat ran off him in a river. His shoulder throbbed with agony as though a hot iron had been pressed to it. He gripped his lance in a daze, disappointed that he’d failed to unseat the knight and uncertain what came next.
To his dismay the judges allowed Sir Magnin another lance. Boos came from the crowd. Men stood on their seats, shouting with anger. Tobin handed Noel a fresh lance.
“This one is fine,” said Noel.
“It could be cracked. You stressed it mortal hard.”
Noel’s lips tugged into a bitter smile. “Not hard enough.”
“No, sir. Not hard enough. But it was a shrewd aim you took. I thought you had him split for sure.” Tobin’s eyes met Noel’s. “You can’t hold back when it’s to the death. Go at him for the finish.”
He sounded like a football coach on the sidelines. Noel nodded, and pulled himself together.
Tobin took away the old lance, and while Sir Magnin reentered the lists Noel’s destrier pawed the ground. Noel felt the world blurring around him and struggled to keep his concentration. What he needed was a decisive unseating, but Tobin was right: he didn’t want to actually kill Sir Magnin. He knew that put him at a disadvantage, but he couldn’t help it.
He failed to notice the herald’s signal and only the destrier’s lurch into a gallop brought Noel’s attention back to the matter at hand. Something had gone wrong with his depth-of-field vision. His lance looked twenty feet long.
