The Unicorn Hunt - Dorothy Dunnett [50]
‘They’ve spoiled our day,’ Nicholas said. ‘Let’s go. No, we have to stay for the King and the children.’
Adorne won, and was crowned with laurels and promised his unicorn horn at the banquet. The King ran his ceremonial course, auburn hair gleaming in the light of the fires. Adorne was duly unhorsed and went to kneel at the feet of the youth. The lists emptied, and the lines of mounted children took their places at either end, armed with their stout wooden swords for the Little Mêlée. Robin, Old Berecrofts’s grandson, was among them. And John of Mar, the King’s youngest brother. And Simon’s son Henry, in silver armour.
Far behind him, the vanquished Simon de St Pol stood frowning in his gorgeous array and glared at the boy.
But for the glistening armour, as offensive as the far more extravagant attire of Kilmirren, young John of Mar would probably never have chosen to single out an opponent so junior. At first, no one noticed. Free entertainment was not to be scorned, but the main contests were over; attention on the common side of the field had relaxed, and some parties were leaving. No one had left from the stands. These were their children.
Now the silhouette of the Castle was black against the fading glow from the west, and the blue haze from the blood-bright braziers swam over the ground. Julius said, ‘Poor little monkeys, they’ll kill one another in the dark. My money’s on Robin’s team, unless they’ve been told to lose out to Mar. Nicholas?’
‘My dear Julius,’ Nicholas said. ‘Children don’t always do what they’re told. They’ll probably kill one another.’
‘Stop that!’ said Katelijne from below. Her fancily wreathed face, thrown upwards, was livid.
‘And go to Purgatory. It’ll be like Liège,’ Nicholas continued thoughtfully. ‘Astorre and Thomas in some expiatory field condemned to batter into chivalric shape a mob of unpractised young, speaking exclusively in the Scottish vernacular. Do they have jousting in Purgatory? I feel sure they do.’
‘Listen. Stop talking,’ said Will Roger suddenly.
‘Why?’ said Nicholas, stopping courteously.
Julius saw why.
In the field, the lines had engaged. For a few moments, in the dim light, the boys had fought as they had been trained, as a team, but now it had become a general struggle, of the kind to be seen outside any school, with screaming child battering at screaming child and blood running.
The King’s brother John of Mar was not screaming. His arm raised, he was dealing blow after blow at the silver armour of the heir to Kilmirren, and matching words to the blows. The words, if you listened, came quite clearly.
‘That for Chamberpot’s grandson. That for what your family did to Liège. They’re bastards. They’re traitors and bastards. Aren’t they? Say it! Your grandfather’s a bastard!’
‘He’s not!’ Henry screamed. His arm lifted and fell, his strokes glancing off the royal armour. He dropped his reins and took his sword in both hands.
‘Yes, he is. I think he likes boys. I think he licks the French King’s arse when he’s asked. I think –’
The words broke off. A two-handed blow from the furious child caught him in the face, and then full in the chest-piece. John of Mar jerked free of the saddle and then, leaning forward, grasped the boy Henry round the waist and dragged him with a crash to the ground. He got up slowly, and panting. ‘Go on,’ said the King’s brother. ‘Get up. Say I’m wrong. Say your father’s got so many women he doesn’t know who you are. Who are you, Henry?’
At that point, Julius got to his feet without quite knowing why. He saw that the girl Katelijne had jumped up also, Will Roger beside her. Julius looked to see what Nicholas thought. Apparently Nicholas had no opinion: he sat without expression or movement, his gaze on the field. You couldn’t even be sure he saw what was happening.
The boy Henry