I took his advice, talked to the squire, and found that the price was twelve pence the lesson. Twelve pence was two weeks pay for a workingman, but a bargain if I could learn something that might save my life. The lesson was to be held right after the combat. Certainly the squire had no doubts about whether his master would be in shape to teach after fighting.
At high noon or thereabouts, a trumpeter played something to get everyone’s attention, a priest said a prayer, and the challenger and champion waited with their helmets off before the crowd. The champion was a quiet man in his thirties. The challenger was much younger, with a smile and flashing eyes. He had very smooth and regular features, was handsome almost to the point of being effeminate, and someone told me that his nickname was Pretty Johnnie.
A herald read two proclamations, one from each party in the dispute, which said what they were fighting about. Some peasants had set up benches, and I paid for a seat right on the fifty-yard line, with Anna watching over my shoulder.
Two armored men charged each other from opposite ends of the field, the champion somberly dressed in gray and brown. The challenger was more gaily clad in yellow and blue, his family colors.
As they met, the champion raised his heavy lance, and at first I thought he meant to give the first round to his opponent. Pretty Johnnie’s lance slid off the champion’s shield, and Sir Boleslaw brought his lance straight down, like a club, on the helmet of the challenger passing by.
I could hear the bonk from the sidelines.
The crowd gave a polite round of applause as the challenger slumped in his saddle and then fell from his horse. The champion waved to the crowd to acknowledge the cheer, then dismounted to see if the challenger would get up.
He did, so the champion unsheathed his sword and walked over to him. He politely waited a few minutes until the challenger stopped staggering, then said, “Defend yourself!”
The challenger tried to do that, but made a poor showing. After a few swipes that the champion contemptuously brushed aside, the champion gave him a backhanded blow that caved in the front of his barrel-style helmet. He fell in a heap.
The champion took off his own helmet, raised his sword, and proclaimed that God had upheld the right, and that henceforth Lady Maria’s right and title of her lands would go unquestioned. He then bowed and returned to his tent.
Several people came out to tend the unfortunate challenger and found that they could not remove his helmet. It was bashed in so badly that they had to pick the man up and carry him over to the blacksmith’s anvil. Getting that helmet off attracted more interest than the fight itself had, and a crowd gathered to watch the smith go at it with crowbars and hammers. Somebody shouted that they should heat the helmet in the forge to make it easier to bend, and everybody but the challenger laughed.
When they finally got his headgear off, the challenger’s face was a red ruin. His nose was smashed flat and all of his front teeth were knocked out. Medieval dentistry being nonexistent, he was maimed for life. Pretty Johnnie wasn’t pretty anymore.
Chapter Seventeen
As arranged, I went for my lesson to the champion’s pavilion, a large circular tent, big enough for a man to ride through on horseback. He used it at tournaments, where it was considered classy not to show yourself until ready to fight.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t rise,” the champion said. “Sometimes an old knee injury of mine acts up. I take it that you’re the fellow my squire talked to. From your height, I’d guess you are the Sir Conrad Stargard everybody’s been talking about.”
“Guilty,” I said. “That was quite a beating you gave Pretty Johnnie. I thought you were supposed to go easy on him, Sir Boleslaw.”
“You heard about that, huh? Well, before you go thinking ill of me, just remember that I do this sort of thing for a living, my expenses are high, and the widow couldn’t afford to pay me much. What she paid me didn’t cover my overhead and expenses getting here. But it is the off-season, her cause was just, and my overhead would have gone on anyway, so I took the job. Can you really blame me for taking almost three times as much from -the challenger, not to throw the fight-I wouldn’t have done that for any money-but just to not hurt him badly?”
“But you maimed him for life!”
“True. My employer hated him and wanted it that way. A professional often has to walk a thin line to try to satisfy everybody. As I set it up, my employer is satisfied, and the challenger has no legitimate complaint. After all, he could have stayed knocked out after that blow I gave him to the head, the fight would have been declared over, and he wouldn’t have been seriously hurt.”
“Then why did he get up and fight? He must have known that he couldn’t win.”
“He got up because he was too angry to think straight. You saw what I did to him. A Florentine Flick to brush off his lance, and then I took him down with the Club of Hercules. I wouldn’t have dared try those on another pro, and by using them on him, I showed him up for the buffoon that he is. Yet I can always claim that my attack was designed to not injure him, which it didn’t. As to the subsequent face injury, why that was a single blow, and who is to say how well his helmet was made?”
“So you set it up to satisfy all parties and keep your own nose clean.”
“Of course, Sir Conrad. There’s more to this business than meets the eye. Anyway, that dog turd was-trying to throw a widow and child off their lands. He got less than he deserved. But that’s not what you came to see me about. You’re worried about meeting Sir Adolf next Christmas.”
“Who? And when?” I said.
“They haven’t told you yet? I guess that’s only to be expected, The concerned party is always the last to know. It’s been bandied around the circuit for weeks, so I’ll tell you about it. Just act surprised when you hear about it officially, since the heralds like to think that what they do is important. The short of it is that on the third day before Christmas, you will meet on the field at Okoitz with the Crossman Champion, Sir Adolf, in a fight to the death, with no quarter allowed. He’s going to kill you, so your best bet is to sell what you can and run away. That’s my advice and it’s well worth the twelve pence you’re going to pay me.”
“If I run away, a hundred forty children will be sold into slavery. I can’t allow that.”
“Those poor bastards are going to be sold in Constantinople whether you’re a live coward or a dead hero. You don’t look to be a starry-eyed fool, of the sort who memorizes the ‘Song of Roland’ and bores people with it at parties. You’re a sensible man. Do the sensible thing and run.”
“Sir Boleslaw, I tell you I can’t. But look here. If this Sir Adolf is so good, why can’t I hire a champion as well? I’m not a poor widow. I can afford the best!”
“No, you can’t, because the best will be fighting against you. All the rest of us are inferior to Sir Adolf, and we know it. This is a rough business. A fool doesn’t survive long in it, and neither do the suicidal. There’s not enough money in Christendom to pay me or anyone else to go up against him in a fight to the death. What good would money do me in hell? Because that’s exactly where suicides go, and fighting Sir Adolf is straightforward self-destruction! Run away.”
“Okay. Thank you for the advice. But I didn’t come here for advice, I came here for a fighting lesson.”
“As you will, Sir Conrad. But it’s a waste of time.”
He picked up a pair of wooden practice swords and we went outside. We were both already in armor, and that was all the athletic equipment required.
“I trust that fighting afoot will satisfy you, Sir Conrad, since my charger is being rubbed down and won’t be ready for hours.”
I said that this would be fine. We sparred around for a while, and I could tell that he was pulling his blows, as one would do with an amateur, and all the while pointing out various shortcomings in my style. But despite the pulled blows, I was still receiving a serious bruising while I don’t think I got a good one in on him.