Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [88]
Wearing no armour, he assumed all would be well: an initial leisurely course during which the brat dared not hurt him and Mar would deliver one nicely judged blow, to send him toppling to the ground. And then look out Lang Bessie if she tried to escape him again. It amazed Johndie Mar, therefore, to spur his horse down the lists and see, on the other side of the bar, the opposite lance driving nearer and nearer, and not clearly intending to deflect its first blow at all.
A prince could not dodge. Mar waited until the last excruciating moment and then swung his lance sideways, battering the other weapon off course and allowing both combatants to reach the opposite ends of the lists with no damage. Mar turned his heaving horse and bestowed a menacing smile on the Shepherdess. The Shepherdess, surprisingly, smiled back, thus disguising the fact that a small sheep had escaped from her fold.
This time, the two riders had almost met, each lance aimed for the jugular, when the sheep ran bleating under their feet, pursued by three dogs. Mar’s horse stumbled and fell. So did Henry’s. Both the riders got up. Johndie Mar drew out his blade, which was sharp.
‘Your grace!’ Will Roger called. Sprinting on to the field, he carried two whalebone swords. Henry took one and Mar, slowly replacing his steel blade, took the other. They squared up to fight.
Now it was Henry who had the advantage. Whalebone wouldn’t kill, but it hurt. Fitter than Johndie, in fine practice from Sersanders’s grudging training, Henry advanced on Johndie Mar and began to rain blows on his body. And Mar responded by dropping the whalebone and drawing his own magnificent sword.
A gasp travelled round the spectators. In the stand Simpson smiled, and the fat man sat still, his face stolid. At the end of the list, there was a rumbling sound. Mar turned round. Willie Roger, excusing himself, stepped forward and whipped the sword from the Prince’s fingers, handing it to a page and offering the whalebone instead. Mar punched it away: ‘What d’you think you are doing?’ At the end of the lists a line of carts had appeared.
‘If my lord would finish the fight?’ Roger said. ‘It’s the pigs. They can’t wait much longer, and I’m afraid the pig-wives have got at the drink.’
‘What?’ said Mar; just as Henry’s whalebone sword knocked him down. He tried to get up, and found three dogs endeavouring to herd him. He got his sword and knelt, hitting at Henry, but Henry, politely not hitting back, kept gazing anxiously at the end of the list and Mar realised that, unless he got up and ran, a line of pig-asses, bells jangling, was about to run him over. He got up and jumped, and the pig-asses swept erratically by, their carts thunderous with fountaining pig-shards and their drivers’ whips cracking. The drivers, in short skirts and striped headgear, were all female, and tipsy.
They raced to the end of the lists, and someone was awarded the prize, to much cheering. In mid-field, Mar faced Henry. ‘Now,’ said Mar.
‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ said Will Roger, appearing before them. ‘It’s over.’
‘What gave you that idea?’ said Johndie Mar.
Nicholas appeared. Nicholas de Fleury, the Burgundian. The Burgundian said, ‘I am sorry, my lord. But three courses were run. One inconclusive, one where both contestants fell, and the last exchange on foot, won by St Pol here.’
St Pol glared at the Burgundian. Roger looked meek. Mar threw away his practice sword for the second time, and looked for his own.
It had gone, and the page with it. The sheep had gone. The dogs had gone. At the end of the field, the painted platform was empty. Lang Bessie had gone as well.
‘Where is she?’ said Mar.
‘Why, my lord?’ Nicholas said. ‘The lady is the prize of St Pol.’
‘Damn St Pol,’ said Johndie Mar sweetly, and drew his knife, and lunged