Blood Lance (30 page)

But God help him. As much as he tried to suppress the feeling, tried to deny it, he could not. Because for all of his protestations, all the rationalizing, he
wanted
to joust. He
wanted
to be a knight again at least one last time.

He turned. Thomas wore an anxious face, pocked with sweat. Slowly, reluctantly, Crispin reached for the helm in Thomas’s hand and grasped it, pulling it loose from his yielding fingers. It was a mere quarter of a stone in weight and as finely fashioned as the breastplate and the fine steel mesh of the habergeon hanging from its padded dummy.

In a low roughened voice, he said, “Arm me.”

22

WITH NUMBED FINGERS, CRISPIN
unbuttoned his cotehardie, and when it lay open like the skin of a butchered animal, Thomas took it from him and slipped it over his own shoulders.

Jack stood at the tent door, guarding the entrance, alternating his attention between the doorway and Crispin.

Thomas said nothing more as he helped arm Crispin. There was little left to be said. Crispin knew he should be praying, but he felt weightless, as if this was happening to another, and he couldn’t come up with even the simplest of prayers. Instead, he stood like a child being dressed by his nursemaid, arms out, as Thomas slipped him into the sleeves of the aketon, pulled it taut against his chest, and laced it up.

Next, he lifted the mail shirt from its stand. Crispin bent forward and let Thomas slip the habergeon over his head, arms through the sleeves. When he straightened, he felt the weight of it resting over his shoulders as it flowed down his body to his upper thighs.

Thomas then knelt and held a sabaton for Crispin to slide his boot-clad foot into. The fit was tight—after all, it was made to fit Sir Thomas—but the straps and spurs held it in place. It would have to do. On one knee, Thomas unstrapped the greaves from his own shins and clapped them over Crispin’s, pulling the leather straps tight. He rose for only a moment and that was to retrieve the cuisses from the arming table. He soon knelt again and affixed them to Crispin’s thighs, pulling the leather buckles almost painfully taut. Crispin didn’t complain. He accepted it as he accepted all of it.

The poleyns were next, fitting just over Crispin’s exposed kneecaps.

As the armor rose up his body, so did the fear at what was about to happen. His mouth felt dry. How he wished he had spent the day in the Boar’s Tusk rather than coming here. His mind raced with the things he had yet to achieve. There was bringing Osbert and his ilk to justice, for one. And Anabel. She had yet to be dealt with. And then there was the Spear. Its fate was still unknown. If it did confer the power the abbot claimed it did, it was a dangerous object.

The abbot. Nicholas, his friend, dying at his estates. He would have liked to spend some time with the old man, perhaps played a last game of chess. How Nicholas would wag a finger at him now if he saw what foolery Crispin had let himself get into.

Then there was Lancaster. He would have liked to have seen Lancaster one more time. His anger at the duke for deceiving him, for putting him in the state in which he now lived, had suddenly dispersed. The fear at his impending doom appeared to have chased it into the mist.

And finally there was Jack. His gaze found his apprentice, one eye glued to the slit of the tent flap. That clever boy. Crispin did not fear for Jack Tucker now. He had skills he could use. He would have to hone them but he could do it. He could succeed Crispin. True, he could do with a few more years in his apprenticeship, for he would stumble and get into trouble, but he was sharp. He would survive.

Crispin jerked at the suddenness of the breastplate entombing him. The heaviness of it seemed to rob him of his breath. He could not help but gasp for air even as Thomas bound him within. He put his hand to it, feeling the smooth planes of steel, the delicate carvings that made up the arms of Saunfayl. It was beautiful armor. A shame he could not fully appreciate it.

The tassets were next, articulated plates hanging over his privities and backside. Then his arms, then the gauntlets, the padded arming cap for his head, and then the mail coif over that with its wide camail that flowed across his chest and over his shoulders. He felt light-headed. Was he being choked to death by the very armor that served to protect him?

Thomas approached him with the helm and Crispin—feeling stiff and unfamiliar in the constricting armor—could only watch as the knight lifted it like a coronation crown, and lowered it over him. Time seemed to stop. Ears already padded by layers of cloth, batting, and a mesh of steel were further chambered by the helm. His vision was now relegated to trim rectangular slits. His breathing was harsh and loud within the confines of the steel encasing him and smelled of oiled metal. Thomas pushed the visor up and Crispin breathed freely again, at least as freely as the weighty breastplate would allow. It seemed heavier than he was used to, but ten years separated the last time he had worn any kind of armor, so he knew his memory was frail at best.

Thomas strapped the belt with its decorated scabbard about Crispin’s metal-clad waist. He walked over to the fallen sword and took it up. Thomas did not move, looking at it for a long moment. He had meant to take his life with it. Crispin wondered what was going through Thomas’s mind as he returned to Crispin and essentially surrendered it to him. His eyes met Crispin’s briefly before he rested the tip at the opening of the scabbard before shoving it in.

Crispin huffed a muffled sound deep in his chest. Was it a laugh? Was it relief? Here he stood, dressed as the knight he used to be, sword at his side. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment. Dammit, if he were to die today, then he’d much rather end his life like this, dressed as he was born to be.

Eyes still closed, he rolled his shoulders experimentally. The leather squeaked. His muscles rippled under the sussurating mail. The plates of armor clacked over the others. Yes. He remembered. He moved his arms, bending and extending them. He raised each leg in turn, felt the solid metal encasing him. He reached over to the scabbard—just where it was supposed to be—and closed his gauntleted hand over the sword hilt. With a hiss of steel, he pulled it free and swung it, satisfied with the expected whistle through the air.

He couldn’t resist looking at Jack. There was still terror in his eyes, but there was now something more. His mouth parted in what looked like awe. He realized that Jack was seeing him for the first time as he should have been. Walking toward his apprentice, armor clanking, he smiled at the novelty of the armor moving with him. Sheathing the sword, he rested his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

“Well, Jack. Here I am at last.”

The corners of the boy’s mouth curled up in a fond smile and in a whispered voice he said, “You don’t look no different to me, Master Crispin.”

Suddenly, all that Crispin wished to say gathered as a knot in his throat. He opened his mouth but could not speak. Instead, he nodded and slowly closed the visor with a solid click.

Thomas peeked out the tent flap. “They are coming.” He grabbed Crispin’s hood and thrust it over his own head, pulling it low as he moved into the shadows, dressed as Crispin had been.

The squire near the entrance stopped the men from approaching, but Thomas cried loud enough for them to hear, “I’m coming out!”

He nodded to Crispin and Crispin nodded once to him. He curled a gauntlet into a fist and lightly tapped Jack’s chest with the steel knuckles before he took a deep breath, grabbed the tent flap, and stepped outside.

23

THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT
being clad in armor again that washed away all his fear. He felt more alive than he had for a long time. Even though his face was covered and his eyesight limited by the visor, he seemed attuned to everything. To the clatter of the horses trotting nearby; the people moving in the stands; even the sound of the distant flapping pennons. Every color was deeper, every sound magnified. And then, as if waking from a deep sleep, his heart warmed with the simple truth that he would be able to do it. He would win. He
knew
it with certainty.

He laughed, looking around, and brusquely strode toward the stands where King Richard sat with his quiet wife, the lady Ann.

His squire, that is,
Thomas’s
squire, met him and gave him a solemn look. “Shall we, my lord?”

Crispin nodded.

“God watch over you this day, Sir Thomas,” said the squire as they walked forward.

He nodded again to the young man and strode stiffly toward the stands. A page walked ahead and carried a staff with a banner rippling above it. Crispin remembered all those distant days when he strode out to the lists just like this, with his banner above him. But instead of the red dragon he expected to see of his own arms, Thomas’s were a bright green and white on the fine material.

It was a wonderfully clear day. Crispin caught the deep blue of the sky out of the eye slits, inhaled a bit of the scent of sweet fresh hay through the holes in the long pointed snout of his helm. It was a good day for a victory.

Out of the corner of his vision, Crispin noted another knight approaching.
Ah, the king’s champion.
His armor was similar but at this angle, Crispin could not see the blazon his page carried. Crispin wondered if he knew the man. It was a shame to have to kill him.

Another man approached, coming from the direction of the stands. He was vested in a surcote and wore a wide-brimmed roundel hat with a lengthy liripipe trailing over his shoulder. Crispin assumed this was the
Chevalier d’honneur,
the judge of the bouts. He would insist that the jousters observe the rules and make a judgment about the victor should it be called into question. Crispin wasn’t certain what would be allowed, but since this was a judiciary joust, he assumed that a tilt to the death might be expected. After all, if Sir Thomas had lost, he would be hanged immediately.

But of course, this was no longer Sir Thomas’s neck on the line. It was Crispin’s. Yet for the life of him, Crispin could not muster the idea of any other outcome but a victorious one.

When the
Chevalier d’honneur
turned, Crispin could plainly see that it was Geoffrey Chaucer. Damn.

King Richard looked down on both of them with quiet grace. He tilted forward slightly, waiting for Chaucer to make his announcements. In a loud, clear voice, Geoffrey declared, “Your grace—” He bowed to the king, “—my lords, we are gathered here on this spot for a solemn occasion. Sir Thomas Saunfayl has been called forth to face the charges of cowardice and desertion from my Lord of Gaunt, his grace the duke of Lancaster’s service.” He was interrupted by the jeering of the crowd. Crispin raised his helmeted chin and faced them. After all, if he was to play the part of Sir Thomas, he would do it justice. “He denies these charges,” Chaucer cried louder, hushing the masses, “and has accepted the judgment of the Wager of Battle to settle the charge against him in this unusual spectacle. Because the charge is against a knight and challenges his knightly valor, the Earl Marshall’s court has determined that this judicial conflict will be decided with a joust. They will tilt until one is wounded, killed, or one or both are unhorsed. If there is no clear winner, then combat will commence on foot. The opponent is the king’s champion, Sir Osbert de Troyes.”

Crispin snapped his head over, encumbered by the helm. Osbert! That whoreson! Yes, there were the colors on his banner. So, the king’s champion, was he? Looking back toward the stands Crispin could just see Suffolk beside the king. No doubt the choice for Sir Osbert had been de la Pole’s.

But Chaucer had continued and Crispin turned his ear again. “… justice done this day. If the defendant is overpowered and yields the lists, he will be conveyed to the gallows and hanged. Now. The both of you must swear you are free of any sorcery or witchcraft. You must swear that neither of you have eaten, drunk, nor have upon your person neither bone, stone, feather, nor any enchantment, sorcery, or witchcraft whereby the law of God may be abased, or the law of the Devil exalted. Do you so swear?”

Osbert, in a voice Crispin clearly recognized, cried out, “I swear by Almighty God.”

Crispin, disguising his voice as something coarse and roughened, declared, “I, too, so swear.”

Osbert angled his helm at Crispin and seemed to stare a long time before Chaucer motioned for them to take their places.

Crispin was marched toward the horse waiting beside a groom. The horse was a destrier, chestnut brown with a glossy coat under the colorful green and white caparison. His fetlocks were adorned in long feathers, elegant as the long train on a lady’s gown.

The squire bent with his hands interlaced below the stirrup to give him a boost up. Crispin stepped into the lad’s hands and launched himself onto the saddle while the squire helped him fit his armored feet into the stirrups. Each little gesture jarred a memory of long ago. As dangerous as this situation was, he could not stop himself from smiling.

He settled on the saddle and shifted so that his back rested against the raised support. The armor felt good. Surprisingly so. This wedge shape to the chest for jousting, for deflecting hits, was ideal. He wished he had had something similar in his day. And yet, here he was, in sparkling new armor. He did not feel doomed. Quite the contrary. He would unhorse Osbert. Then he would take him down for the murdering coward he was.

His musings had taken his attention away from the proceedings, for Crispin finally noticed the squire standing beside his horse with his shield and lance. Suddenly aware that the lad had been waiting patiently for some time, Crispin leaned over and took the shield first, pushing his left arm through the wide leather straps. Once it was secure, he leaned again and closed his right hand around the heavy oak lance shaft. The unfamiliar weight gave him pause. But he held it straight up, securing his hand in the conical vamplate and taking a moment to balance the weight of it on his stirruped foot. It was all coming back to him, bit by bit, as if he had never been away, as if an entire decade had not separated his time on the lists from this day.