The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [49]
There were three courses to run, and three lances to break, if he could. The horse pounding towards him on the opposite side of the barrier showed no fear; no intention of deviating, and the long, heavy shaft gripped in Simon’s right glove pointed steadily at the heart of his cuirass. Adorne adjusted his plated grip very slightly, and moved his weight in the saddle in the way his horse knew. The horses drove together; the point of Simon’s lance flashed towards him and then slid, diverted from the plate at his breast while his own point, with all the force of his shoulders and back and arms, struck Simon in the centre of the incrustations by his shoulder and, locking there, thrust him half out of the saddle.
Half, but not quite. The next moment Adorne was past, the lance dragged free and Simon had gone, his horse somehow responding to his command even as he began to bring the weight of his body back to the saddle and reclaim his stirrups. Then they reached the ends and turned and took lance for the second course. And this time, Simon would be angry. Which, reflected Anselm Adorne, was not necessarily a bad thing.
The buffets the second time were full and direct: Adorne met the point this time without turning his mount or his body, and aimed his own solely to unbalance. His lance broke. He felt the impact through his whole body, and saw Simon shudder, but they passed, neither dislodged.
He reached the other end and turned, glancing down to take the fresh lance being offered him. His memory gave him, in retrospect, the roar of the crowd at the moment of collision and his eyes showed him now the grinning, jostling faces, colour drained from their tunics, their jackets, their caps. In the stand, flushed by the brightening gold of the braziers, he glimpsed the confident face and red hair of the child Margaret whose scarf he wore, and further along, almost equally distinct, the intent face of Nicholas de Fleury, once vander Poele. Below, a drift of white on stout cushions, sat the retired singing maidens, Will Roger beside them. The musician had his hand on the shoulder of Adorne’s niece Katelijne who, her face bent, was rocking Emmelot her maid in her arms. Emmelot, who came from Liège.
He had almost missed the trumpet. Adorne saw that St Pol was already coming at full gallop towards him. He drew himself together, and collecting his horse, threw it forward as well.
Everyone saw the hesitation. Julius, his courses satisfactorily completed, inserted himself beside Nicholas without removing his gaze from Adorne for an instant. He sat chanting, ‘Come on. Come on. Are you dreaming?’
‘Be quiet,’ said Nicholas.
The collision occurred. For a moment, as the horse-cloths swirled, it was difficult to tell what had happened, except that both horses had stopped. Then it could be seen that Adorne was in the saddle, trying to control a plunging, curvetting horse, while the saddle of Simon’s horse was empty. Nicholas stood, wrenching up Julius with him. Men ran on to the grass.
They were bending over the glimmering object of the smith’s art that was Simon. They put their hands under his arms and lifted him to his feet. He stood.
Nicholas said, ‘He isn’t dead. What a pity.’
Below him, Katelijne lifted her head. She said, ‘How can you say that?’
‘It’s quite easy,’ Nicholas said. ‘Oh look, now they’re going to fight each other on foot. Sword, axe and mace. My money’s on Adorne. Simon’s shaken. Look, he’s dropped a couple of rubies. No, his chin is bleeding. Help us, Lord, upon this erde That there be spilt no blood Herein. Simon’s down.’
‘He’s lost his temper,’ said Julius. ‘Adorne counted on it. I must say he’s good. I’m not taking your wager. It’s a foregone conclusion. Simon loses.’ He watched, with some irritation, as events proceeded to prove him right.
Adorne wasn’t as fast, but he had a great deal of experience, a gift for tactics, and a level head. For the rest, they