The list was crude: a series of mismatched poles hammered unevenly into the village commons and strung together with odd lengths of rope. The rectangle had been fashioned by bemused peasants, who had never before heard of a list, nor yet seen a wager of battle. With no real understanding of their labor, they had applied themselves more to their ale than the list's construction, and it showed in the wavy line of poles and rough ground.
Eamon of York walked the length of the list, back and forth in the morning mist. His eyes were downcast as he went, and he paused on occasion to toss aside a stone, or stamp a tuft of weeds that might trip his horse.
The young man-at-arms was watched by a growing crowd of peasants. These spectators appraised Eamon as if he was a bull or terrier; they gauged his strength in anticipation of wagers soon to be made. He did not inspire much awe. While strong and sturdy, he couldn't be called tall, and clad in his padded gambeson, he merely looked fat. The kinder peasants called him beefy. And he was obviously poor. In the minds of the serfs who studied him, a strong fighter must be successful, and therefore rich; most associated his faded, patched and stained garb with failure: with weakness.
The mist was cleared and the sun fully risen when Eamon was approached by a messenger. He was a dark little cockerel of high Norman breeding: preened and smug. He looked down his nose at the English peasants gathered upon the commons, who stared back with naked, shameless interest, for there wasn't one among them that couldn't smell intrigue a mile off.
“I am Philip, squire to Bairon of Anjou,” the young man introduced himself, but besides receiving a cursory glance, was ignored. He frowned, and followed Eamon for several steps before venturing to speak further. “My lord is given to understand that you have no kinship to his cousin, and that you owe Lady Jouiae no service. He hopes to avoid any unnecessary bloodshed today. If coin is your sole motivation perhaps an equally generous sum could persuade you to use a... what is the word: a lance with a couronne?”
The question stopped Eamon in his tracks. His opponent would pay him to use a blunted lance? He looked at the sly-faced squire and understood the meaning of the request.
“Your master is asking me to lose,” he said in perfect French.
“This is a petty family squabble that has gotten out of hand,” the squire demurred, happy to switch to his mother tongue. “There is no need for anyone to come to grief.”
“Nobody but the lady you mean,” Eamon muttered, and resumed walking the list.
“Lady Jouaie has doubtless exaggerated her cousin's ill-will for her. Once he is established in his rightful place, she will be cared for, as befits a baron's cousin. She'll have her own house, servants and all the comforts due to her as a lady.”
“Your lord is a bastard and a pig,” Eamon answered flatly. “And if he doesn't cry craven, I'm going to kill him today. I look forward to killing him. Go tell him that.”
The youth recoiled, shocked by Eamon's words -and the dry, unfeeling manner of their delivery. He remained silent long enough that Eamon resumed inspecting the list.
“I shall tell him you rejected his offer,” the Norman eventually called after Eamon. “But I should tell you that my lord Bairon will not ride against you today. He fell ill last night. Ogier Rufus will champion his cause.”
The boy's smile was gloating. He waited for Eamon to recant his defiance and amend his harsh words, but he waited in vain. The English knight walked on, as if he hadn't even heard.
The news of Ogier's substitution spread among the betters like wildfire. Spectators, coming from as far as Shrewsbury, half a day's hike to the north and east, were sometimes already informed before arriving. The would-be baron was widely denounced for a coward, but there was nothing to be done about it. Bairon was well within his rights, and being a nobleman, surrounded by a retinue of men-at-arms, he was largely irreproachable. The betting, which had heretofore been relatively even, grew lopsided, as every man with a coin sought to buy a piece of the free money that was now up for grabs.
Eamon's servant, Reed, reported on this as he helped his master dress for the combat. They were in a tent upon the commons, just outside the list, and Eamon sat a stool in its center as Reed slowly poured a long shirt of mail over his shoulders.
“Bloody purser has it at sixteen to one on account of this brute,” the servant growled. He was a gaunt old weasel, with a voice like a rusty hinge and a mean, villainous look. Dirty and shabbily dressed, he looked more like a poacher than a servant. “He's a big old bastard.”
“I've seen him.”
“They say he's a savage one. Killed four men in a fight last year, all on his own.”
“I heard it was ten.”
“Aye, it's probably bullshit. But if the fight ends 'afoot you'll have to work for it.”
“It will end in the first pass.”
Reed was skeptical. Leaving Eamon to settle into his hauberk, he crossed over to the tent flap and cracked it for a peek.
At the other end of the list, the big Norman stood outside his own tent. Ogier was already girt for battle: dressed in dark mail and a breastplate of red-dyed cuir buiolli. He held a red shield in his off hand, and with the other, practiced drawing and swinging his sword. The heavy blade did not whistle when he swung it, but groaned.
“I'll sharpen your ax anyway,” Reed muttered.
“Just fetch me my greaves first,” Eamon replied testily.
Some minutes later, Eamon too was clad head-to-foot in iron. He waited with grim patience as Reed sharpened his ax. More minutes passed. They were eventually joined by the man they had been waiting for: the king's reeve and official of the combat, Jon fitz William. He was a fat man, middle-aged, and remarkably coarse for a Norman noble. This was because he was not a nobleman-born, but an elevated peasant. He was a veteran of the king's campaigns in Normandy and England, and had won his spurs for his faithful service. He had later been made reeve for his loyalty and acumen. Pragmatic, with a reputation for honesty and fair-dealing, fitz William was widely respected by commoners and Saxons, and an object of perturbation and loathing among his Norman peers.
A thin old priest followed the reeve into the tent. He held a large bible in his arms, almost like a babe, but he shifted it in his hands and held it forth, transforming himself into a lectern.
“Place your hand on the bible,” Jon commanded, with a rather sardonic expression and twinkle in his eye. “And swear you've done no witchcraft or sorcery to affect the day's outcome.”
Eamon complied. “I swear it,” he said dryly.
Jon hooked a thumb at the priest. “Would you like to be shriven?”
“I don't plan on dying today,” Eamon told the expectant priest.
“Are you sure I can't persuade you my lord?” the priest pressed. “I don't mean to disparage your confidence; I'm sure it's rightly placed, but an accident could always happen. Your horse might falter, or a strap might break.”
“No.”
The priest was troubled by this flat refusal. He began to protest -to insist, but Eamon cut him off. “I'm getting thirsty sitting here fitz William.”
The reeve chuckled and threw open the tent flap with a flourish. Eamon led them outside, and paused to blink up at the cheery summer sky. Fitz William took this opportunity to linger at his side for a moment.
“I bet six pence on you,” he said.
“Before or after you heard about Ogier?” Eamon replied, and fitz William laughed. He then strode confidently to where his horse waited for him.
Kicker was a high-spirited and swift rouncey in her prime: fractious, but swift and fearless. The lean mare harried the groom holding her bridle and pawed the earth impatiently, until she saw her knight, whereupon she became poised and alert: eager for what was to come.
The groom, like the tent, belonged to Lady Jouiae, whom Eamon championed. He was a middle aged man by the name of Hal. Though conscientious and affectionate with the beasts under his care (he barely reacted to Kicker's biting, stomping and pushing), he was an unfortunate simpleton: forgetful and often ignorant of the most commonest of knowledge and good sense. He'd forgotten to set out the step-stool, which would have made mounting easier for Eamon. Worse, Kicker's saddle needed much tightening and adjustment before she was safe to ride upon.
Reed harangued the man for these failures and so put Hal into a state of distress. Torn between holding the bridle and fetching the stool, the end result was that the groom did neither. He blubbered a mixture of apology, resentful defense, and didn't Eamon know that Kicker was more comfortable if her cinch was a little bit loose?
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Eamon fumbled with Kicker's straps as she danced impatiently. Ogier heckled him. The crowd laughed. Reed and the groom stood uselessly by, arguing. Eamon was a confident young man, but he wasn't above being embarrassed by the indignant spectacle he had become. He grew flustered and a little bit rough with his horse; Kicker was in turn rough with him: more heckling. He eventually mounted however, without the stool, and though he did so easily, he did so without grace or dignity, his face burning.
Once securely seated, Eamon reached down with both hands to take his helm from Reed. He forced it down over his mail coif, and twisted it back and forth until the eyepieces in the face plate were properly aligned, and all was snug and proper with the various layers of padding and metal he wore. Reed passed up his shield: a battered brown teardrop without heraldry. As Eamon settled the shield on his arm, Reed ran for the rack of lances by the tent, picked one at random and rushed back. He passed the weapon up to his master just as a horn sounded over the commons.
Jon fitz William stepped out into the list; his mail-clad arms were stretched up, naked palms out. The clamor of the crowd, diminished to a din by the horn, hushed completely.
“We're gathered here to witness a wager of battle,” the reeve declared in French. He then paused, so that a herald could repeat his words in English, and then in Welsh. “The Lady Jouiae claims ownership of this demesne by right of inheritance. Her cousin, Bairon of Anjou, claims the same right. God and strength of arms shall decide the matter.
“As Bairon has fallen ill-” This declaration was met with boos and derisive calls as the listeners heard it in their respective languages: each round a little more enthusiastic than the last. Rather than grow angry at the interruptions however, Jon grinned. “Ogier Rufus will champion his interests.”
Ogier raised his lance and reared his pale horse. His huge voice boomed out over the crowd, cutting the translations short as he shouted a wordless war cry. The cry was taken up by his handful of servants, who waved their arms and so exhorted the crowd into answering with hearty cheers.
“Eamon of York champions Lady Jouiae,” fitz William announced, as soon as he was able.
Eamon's introduction was answered with scattered, hesitant applause: nothing like the enthusiasm Ogier had received. He turned Kicker sedately about and casually tipped his lance at the lady.
Jouiae stood on a raised platform to one side of the list: a regal and resplendent figure in blue and gold. She was a rare beauty. Though no longer young, strictly speaking, her good looks were unspoiled by age, illness, or even conceit. She was remarkably composed, considering the occasion. To look at her, few would have known that the lady was about to witness two men fight, in order to determine the course of her immediate future. Wealth, power and influence hung on the outcome of the combat, to say nothing of her very independence, and yet she smiled, as though she presided over a mere fair. She reciprocated Eamon's salute with a curtsy; her retinue of young ladies and maidservants applauded decorously, and her few men-at-arms (all graybeards) glowered apprehensively.
As the reeve warned the crowd against interfering, and the combatants against trickery and cheating, Eamon turned his attention back to his opponent: that imposing hulk of bestial power and ferocity, all gird in leather and iron. Ogier was rather uninteresting however, and Eamon's attention wandered to the empty platform facing Jouiae's. It should have been occupied by Bairon and his own entourage, but only a handful of daring peasants trespassed there, and sat perched on its edge. Eamon briefly wondered at the meaning of his absence. Was Bairon truly ill?
“The combat will be fought until one man is dead, yields, or is unable to continue,” John continued. “Ogier, Eamon: at the drop of the flag, do your worst!”
Jon retreated to the sidelines as a happy young page dashed out to the center of the list. The boy lofted a square banner: a red field adorned with a pair of yellow lions -the banner of the Duke of Normandy and the King of England, Henry Beauclerc.
“Knock that French pig on his arse!” a voice called out anonymously from the crowd. It was answered with a scattering of laughter and wordless cries of agreement, but not much. Ogier was not loved, but he was widely feared and respected.
The page glanced excitedly from one knight to the other, dipped his flag, and sprinted out of the way.
Eamon didn't have to spur his horse; Kicker leapt forward entirely of her own accord. Ogier's stallion was only a hoof-beat slower off the start. They lowered their lances almost in unison, and the iron points hardly wavered as the knights thundered towards each other. They met. There was a clatter of wood on wood, and the ringing sing-song of metal: all over in an instant. The riders thundered on. They slowed their headlong charge, stopped at opposite ends of the list and turned.
The crowd murmured with disappointment. They had watched with mounting tension: had expected some catastrophic crash of flesh and steel – some kind of spectacle, but witnessed only anti-climax. Few were observant or knowledgeable enough to see what had happened: the way that Eamon had parried his opponent's lance with his own and neatly brought his point back into Ogier's throat. It had all happened too fast.
Now at Jouiae's end of the list, Ogier dropped his shield and lance, and he reached for his neck. There was a sudden spurt of blood when he disturbed the broken mail there, and it splashed brightly over his horse's white neck. A boy cried out in alarm and pointed when he saw it, and soon all eyes in the crowd were on Ogier. The knight immediately clamped a mail mitten over the crimson geyser, but the blood flowed regardless. It was hopeless; he was a dead man. But rather than sit back and quietly wait for his final moments to peter out, Ogier attacked. He grunted and gurgled in angry defiance as he drew his sword. So armed, he spurred his horse into a final charge. Eamon had no choice but to meet him again.
This time, the knights created the great crash the crowd had been expecting. Eamon's lance pierced Ogier's chest, lifted him from his horse, bent, snapped, and exploded in a shower of splinters. Ogier hit the ground in a clatter, rolled, and did not move again.
The crowd stared in shock, awe and dismay. For several seconds the only noises they made were appalled, unhappy sounds. And then one of those lucky few, having bet on Eamon, realized that he had won as well.
“English!” the peasant blurted, having already forgotten Eamon's name. Then, liking the sound of it, he repeated the cheer more forcefully. Others took it up, and the scattering of cheers coalesced into a chant of “English arms!”
The chant was weak and short-lived however. Few had bet on Eamon, and fewer spectators thought of themselves as English. The idea of a nation of England was as yet unrealized in the hearts and minds of her people: Saxon they were, Danish, Flemish, Welsh, and others, and of course, their overlords were Norman-French.
Eamon let Kicker have her reins. She pranced aggressively about, snorting and tossing her head in defiance. She had to make several laps of the list and see Ogier's big stallion chased away before she was content with her triumph. When Hal finally took her bridle again, she was almost complacent, and suffered his caressing and baby-talk with aloof indifference.
Eamon dismounted and removed his helmet. He thought to pass it to Reed, but his servant was nowhere to be seen. Eamon was not troubled by this however. He knew Reed well enough to guess the truth of his absence: that, having wagered on his master, he had rushed off to collect his earnings. Doubtless, Reed would enjoy a 'quick' tankard of ale as well: it being only proper to celebrate on such an occasion. He therefore tucked his helmet under his arm and meandered across the commons in the direction of the lady and her retinue.
Upon his approach, Jouiae took Eamon's helmet from him, passed it to one of her ladies, and so she was free to take his hands in hers and kiss them. This grand gesture of gratitude was met with more cheers: the most enthusiastic yet, and she raised one of his hands to the crowd in a symbol of triumph.
The lady's joy and gratitude had diminished sharply just a short time later however. In the privacy of her keep's strongroom, she stood by in stiff and cold silence as her Moorish handmaid counted coins into Reed's greedy hands. Her eyes no longer shone, and her pink lips were no longer smiling, but were drawn into a thin, displeased line.
Her coffers had been depleted sadly in the course of that year. When her rights were cast in doubt, many of her tenants had deferred paying their rents and tithes, or else paid them to Bairon, who paid none of the upkeep for the castle or the land and its people. Likewise, the sum of silver held in trust by the church had been denied to her until the matter of its inheritance was legally resolved. The coin being paid to Eamon was therefore a sizable fraction of what remained on hand, and Reed didn't make its loss easy to bear. Many of the coins that passed into his hands were tarnished and clipped, and his squabbling with the maid grew unseemly. He threatened to fetch scales, and when the handmaid got the upper hand in their verbal sparring, he was clearly heard to mutter about “a frigid bitch's Muslim whore.”
“Reed!” Eamon finally interjected. He bowed to the lady. “I apologize for my man. He has been drinking and it makes him foolish.”
The knight's words and tone gave Reed pause, but he did not apologize for himself. He was only doing right by his master, making sure he wasn't shorted, wasn't he? The counting resumed in silence, and tension remained thick in the air. As the last coin fell into Reed's open purse, the lady curtsied stiffly, and left without a word.
“Go and pack our things,” Eamon commanded, once the maid had left them in the hall.
“What? We're leaving now?”
“Yes. Now. Go!” Eamon had to restrain himself, and the back of his hand was left hanging in the air as Reed scurried away.
Reed didn't want to go, because it was to be an impromptu holiday for the disparate villages and estates of the demesne: an evening for music and dance, marriage arrangements, business, and visiting between estranged families. A feast was rapidly being organized. Tables and benches were being set out as fire pits were fueled and set to smoldering. Some aging livestock were slaughtered and spitted, and an improvised kitchen rapidly turned the offal into pies, puddings and sausages. A stream of flour left the castle, and having been delivered to the ovens of the village houses, returned as freshly baked bread. A crowd of thirsty peasants coalesced around barrels of ale brought up from the keep's cellar, and Reed's grumbling intensified when he saw it.
“No rest,” he muttered. “No drink. Just another hike to beg for more work before the last sod's blood is even dry. Christ. What a life.”
Eamon ignored his servant as he led him and his horse away from the keep and festivities. As they passed the list, now the scene of an impromptu wrestling tournament just getting under way, they were spied by Jon fitz William, who quit his place upon Bairon's platform and quickly moved to intercept them.
“Eamon! You weren't leaving?” he exclaimed in surprise, seeing the young knight's warhorse ignobly laden with her owner's few belongings.
“I have business in town,” Eamon explained.
“What business could you have that can't be put off for a single day? You'll insult the lady.”
“She has already been insulted,” Eamon replied. Though he made no accusations, Reed looked guiltily away, just as if his master had in fact fixed him with a withering glare. “And my business shouldn't wait.”
Jon looked from the knight to his servant and back again. “What business?” he asked, though it wasn't the question he most wanted to voice.
“I have debts fitz William,” Eamon said reluctantly.
“Debts to who?”
“Many people. But it's a man named Weevil I'm going to see.”
“Oh, that bandit. Aye. Even if you get to him by noon, he'll still charge you interest for the day. Would you like to borrow a horse for your man? It should cut a few hours from the trip.”
“You trust me with a horse?”
“Why shouldn't I?”
“We haven't known each other a week Jon.”
“Aye, but you turned down Bairon's bribe, so I know you're a man of honor.”
“How did you know about that?”
“Oh, I suppose I didn't until now. I just heard about Bairon's little lapdog coming to see you and figured.”
“Well guessed.”
Jon waved a dismissive hand. “Wait here. I'll be back with a horse.” Jon returned, leading a mare that was a good deal finer and better groomed than the sloppy creature who climbed awkwardly into her saddle. “You can leave her at my house in Shrewsbury.
“I have some business I would like to discuss with you,” Jon added, speaking low. “If you're still in town the day after tomorrow, come see me.”