The horse whinnied. The ears flattened.
He charged down the field.
The second charge was worse — because this time, he knew what was coming.
:
The impact slammed him, streaking pain across his chest, as he was lifted bodily up into the air. Everything became slow. He saw the saddle moving away from him, then the horse’s rear flanks revealed as he slid away, and then he was tilted back, staring up at sky.
He smashed onto the ground, flat on his back. His head clanged against the helmet. He saw bright blue spots, which spread and grew larger, then became gray. He heard Marek in his ear: “Now stay there!”
Somewhere he heard distant trumpets as the world faded gently, easily into blackness.
:
At the far end of the course, Guy was wheeling his horse to prepare for another charge, but already the trumpets had sounded for the next pair.
Marek lowered his lance, kicked his horse, and galloped forward. He saw his opposite, Sir Charles de Gaune, racing toward him. He heard the steady rumble of the horse, the building roar of the crowd — they knew this would be good — as he raced forward. This horse was running incredibly fast. Sir Charles charged forward, equally fast.
:
According to the medieval texts, the great challenge of the joust was not to carry the lance, or to aim it at this target or that. The challenge was to hold the line of the charge and not to veer away from the impact — not to give in to the panic that swept over nearly every rider as he galloped toward his opponent.
Marek had read the old texts, but now he suddenly understood them: he felt shivery and loose, weak in his limbs, his thighs trembling as he squeezed his mount. He forced himself to concentrate, to focus, to line up his lance with Sir Charles. But the tip of his lance whipped up and down as he charged. He raised it from the pommel, couched it in the crook of his arm. Steadier. His breathing was better. He felt his strength return. He lined up. Eighty yards now.
Charging hard.
He saw Sir Charles adjust his lance, angling it upward. He was going for the head. Or was it a feint? Jousting riders were known to change their aim at the last moment. Would he?
Sixty yards.
The head strike was risky if both riders were not aiming for it. A straight lance to the torso would impact a fraction of a second sooner than a lance to the head: it was a matter of the angles. The first impact would move both riders, making the head strike less certain. But a skilled knight might extend his lance farther forward, taking it out of couched position, to get six or eight inches of extra length, and thus the first impact. You had to have enormous arm strength to absorb the instant of impact, and control the lance as it socked back, so the horse would bear the brunt; but you were more likely to throw off the opponent’s aim and timing.
Fifty yards.
Sir Charles still held his lance high. But now he couched it, leaning forward in the saddle. He had more control of the lance now. Would he feint again?
Forty yards.
There was no way to know. Marek decided to go for the chest strike. He put his lance in position. He would not move it again.
Thirty yards.
He heard the thunder of hooves, the roar of the crowd. The medieval texts warned, “Do not close your eyes at the moment of impact. Keep your eyes open to make the hit.”
Twenty yards.
His eyes were open.
Ten.
The bastard raised his lance.
He was going for the head.
Impact.
:
The crack of wood sounded like a gunshot. Marek felt a pain in his left shoulder, stabbing upward and hard. He rode on to the end of the course, dropped his shattered lance, extended his hand out for another. But the pages were just staring at the field behind him.
Looking back, he saw that Sir Charles was down, lying on the ground, not moving.
And then he saw Sir Guy prancing and wheeling around Chris’s fallen body. That would be his solution, Marek thought. He’d trample Chris to death.
Marek turned and drew his sword. He held it high.
With a howl of rage, Marek spurred his horse down the field.
:
The crowd screamed and pounded the railings like a drumbeat. Sir Guy turned, and he saw Marek coming. He looked back down at Chris, and kicked his horse, making it move sideways to stomp him.
“Fie! Fie!” the crowd shouted, and even Lord Oliver was on his feet, aghast.
But then Marek had reached Sir Guy, unable to stop his charge but sweeping past him, shouting, “Asshole” as he struck Guy’s head with the flat of his sword. He knew it wouldn’t hurt him, but it was an insulting blow, and it would make him abandon Chris. Which it did.
Sir Guy immediately turned away from Chris as Marek reined up, holding his sword. Sir Guy pulled his sword from the sheath and swung viciously, the blade whistling in the air. It clanged off Marek’s blade. Marek felt his own sword vibrate in his hand with the impact. Marek lashed out in a backswing, going for the head. Guy parried; the horses wheeled; the swords clanged, again and again.
The battle had begun. And in some detached part of his mind, Marek knew that this would be a fight to the death.
:
Kate watched the battle from the railing. Marek was holding his own, and his physical strength was superior, but it was easy to see that he did not have the expertise of Sir Guy. His swings were wilder, his body position less sure. He seemed to know it, and so did Sir Guy, who kept backing his horse away, trying to open space for full swings. For his part, Marek pressed closer, keeping the distance between them tight, like a fighter staying in the clinch.
But Marek could not do it forever, she saw. Sooner or later, Guy would get enough distance, if only for a moment, and make a lethal blow.
:
Marek’s hair was soaked with sweat inside the helmet. Stinging drops dripped into his eyes. He could do nothing about it. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. It didn’t help much.
Soon he was gasping for breath. Through the slit of the helmet, Sir Guy appeared tireless and implacable, always on the attack, swinging repeatedly in a sure, practiced rhythm. Marek knew that he had to do something soon, before he became too tired. He had to break the knight’s rhythm.
His right hand, holding the sword, already burned from constant exertion. His left hand was strong. Why not use his left hand?
It was worth a try.
Spurring his horse, Marek moved closer, until they were chest to chest. He waited until he had blocked one swing with his own sword, and then with the heel of his left hand, he punched upward at Sir Guy’s helmet. The helmet snapped back; he felt the satisfying thunk as Guy’s head struck the front of the helmet.
Immediately, Marek flipped his sword over and slammed the butt of the handle against Guy’s helmet. There was a loud clang, and Guy’s body jerked in the saddle. His shoulders slumped momentarily. Marek struck again, banged the helmet harder. He knew he was hurting him.
But not enough.
Too late, he saw Guy’s sword hiss in a broad arc, toward his back. Marek felt the brutal sting like a whip across his shoulders. Did the chain mail hold? Was he hurt? He could still move his arms. He swung his own blade hard against the back of Guy’s helmet. Guy did nothing to ward off the blow, which rang like a gong. He must be dazed, Marek thought.
Marek swung again, then wheeled his horse, coming around; and he swung broadly for the neck. Guy blocked it, but the force of the impact knocked him backward. Reeling, he slid sideways in the saddle, grabbed for the pommel, but could not prevent his fall to the ground.
Marek turned, started to dismount. The crowd roared again; looking back, he saw that Guy had leapt easily to his feet, his injuries a sham. He swung his blade at Marek while he was still dismounting. Marek, with one foot still raised in the stirrup, parried awkwardly, somehow got clear of his horse, and then swung back. Sir Guy was strong, sure of himself.
Marek realized his situation was now worse than before. He attacked fiercely, but Guy backed up easily, his footwork practiced and quick. Marek was gasping and wheezing inside his helmet; he was sure Guy could hear it, and would know what it meant.