The Long Sword(69)
Jacques followed Nerio’s horse, bursting into a canter. I was recovering, but not as fast as I would have liked. Then something hit me like a butcher’s knife hits a carcass – from behind.
I’d lost the Bohemian knight in the press, and he was the wrong man to lose track of. His first blow to my helmet stunned me. Then he hit me three more times. I couldn’t get my sword up.
I fell. Suddenly, my knees could no longer keep the horse between them. I just couldn’t continue. The fall seemed to take a long time.
I was only out for about as long as it took me to hit the ground but that was the last time I wore that helmet. Blows to the head are everyday business in war, or in the tournament, and you need to be able to take a great many of them. In a mêlée – whether of peace or war – men hit you; your guards are never perfect, and your opponents don’t come one at a time. Many of my worst blows have come from behind or the side, and in a visor you cannot see those coming. I know men, good knights, who still prefer to fight in open-faced helms precisely because they fear the attacker they cannot see. My fancy bassinet with its long beak and light construction did not provide enough vision or enough protection.
But that was not my first thought as my eyes fluttered open.
I was lying on my back, and there was my lovely golden horse standing over me. He somewhat ruined the effect of his loyalty by voiding his bowels in the thoughtful way horses do, but he didn’t do it on me – he was really a very intelligent animal, for a horse.
I raised my head, and a spike of pain appeared behind my left eye. I may not have bounced to my feet like a hero in a romance, but I got up fast, got a hand in Jacque’s girth and let him pull me all the way up.
Once on my feet, I noticed that the king had his visor up and a pretty Polish maid was giving him water from a blackware jug. My Bohemian adversary was behind him, waiting patiently for the water – his visor was also up. Nerio was surrounded by people from the crowd.
The world swirled, my mouth filled with a salty taste, and then I was on the ground, throwing up inside my helmet. I don’t recommend it, but I see glancing around that you’ve all shared this glorious experience of the life of arms, so I’ll pass on.
Marc-Antonio appeared, sweating profusely, and got my helmet off me, then got a wet rag and began to wipe me down. The boy was going up and up in my estimation – apparently, he’d run along the crowd as we fought our way down the field, to be ready at hand.
Two young girls, one red and one blonde, appeared with a bucket of water. They were very young, and very determined to help, and dressed in their best clothes, covered in meticulous if not very well-rendered embroidery. But they wanted to help a knight, and I was chosen, vomit and all. And I admit they cleaned me up very nicely.
I drank a good deal of their water, and then managed to get back into my saddle. I did not vault, I promise you. There was a dent in my bassinet as deep as my thumb, and to the best of my ability to guess, my Bohemian adversary had struck the exact same place on my helmet three or four times.
I held it up to him and smiled.
He smiled back and rode over. ‘I did my best,’ he said in French, ‘but it was too late. The judges called the contest.’ He laughed. ‘Because in a moment your Italian gentleman was going to take the Emperor’s horse to the stake, and that would have been too humiliating!’ He stripped the gauntlet off his right hand and extended it.
His goodwill was evident – he was as big as me, handsome as a God, and a year or two older. We shook hands, and people began to cheer.
He reached down and patted the redhead on the cheek. ‘Oh, how I wish I had been on your team.’ He smiled. ‘Your king rides like a Turk or a Tartar. Or a Pole. The Emperor is too – cautious.’ He shrugged. ‘Or he assumed that he would be allowed to win.’