If he lived to see the end of it.
The trumpets sang out again and the men raking the arena floor rushed toward arched exits at track level, swinging shut heavy iron gates as they gained whichever access tunnel was closest. A series of muffled booms like distant cracks of thunder rolled across the arena as the massive grillwork gates slammed shut. These, clearly, were leftovers from the era of gladiatorial games and bestiary fights, which would have produced a fine and grisly abundance of corpses to be dragged off the field between successive bouts. The arena was, Stirling had to admit, beautifully engineered for its bloody purpose. He was thankful this was not a genuine gladiatorial death match, even if Cutha harbored intentions of making it one.
On the balustrade overhead, an official shouted: "Upon the trumpets' next signal, you will leave the starting gates and ride a countersunwise circle around the full distance of the arena. Cutha will then return to the far end of the course and turn to face the starting gates. The trumpets will signal the beginning of your charge with lances. If your lance strikes anywhere but an opponent's shield, you will be instantly disqualified and your opponent named victor. The aim of this combat is to exhibit skill at arms in honor of King Lot Luwddoc and King Dumgual Hen, not to maim or kill your opponent. Combat will end the moment a man has been deprived of all his weapons and shields, including those held in reserve, or when he formally yields. A man rendered unconscious will be judged to have yielded, granting his opponent victory. May Almighty God, slayer of heathens, who smites the sinner with His flaming sword, strengthen your sword arm and lend you the cunning to achieve victory. Amen."
If that so-called benediction was meant to include Cutha, Stirling would eat his horse, hooves and all. Ancelotis gave a snort of laughter. It's perceptive you are, that's certain. Then the trumpets sang out and it was time. Ancelotis put heels to his charger's flanks and the horse shot from the gate at a thunderous pace. The stallion required a firm hand on the reins and several stern verbal commands before Ancelotis could collect the animal's stride and hold him to the decorous pace demanded by a formal lap around the arena. The immense war-horse seemed almost to levitate across the long straight stretch of sand, so smooth was the action of that effortless floating trot.
Stirling had been to Vienna once, to see the Lipizzaners dance, gliding more like great white birds than stallions of solid flesh and bone, descendants of Europe's finest war-horses, capable of killing a man with those ancient battlefield maneuvers they performed so gracefully. Here, under the sullen rain-bruised sky, there was no chandeliered ballroom, no raked tanbark ring beneath marble balustrades, no portraits done by Europe's finest master painters, no loudspeakers, no great classical scores penned by Vienna's most gifted composers. The comparison began and ended with Ancelotis' war-horse, which had clearly been schooled by similar methods in similar maneuvers and doubtlessly at nearly as great a cost.
Sterling's presence made Ancelotis' grip with thighs and calves less certain than normal, sending the animal mixed signals and causing it to fret and sweat down its neck and flank. Cutha's horse, not nearly as massive as Ancelotis', had also broken from the starting stall at a canter, sweeping down the long stretch of straightway less than a sword-length's distance from Ancelotis. Neither man so much as looked at the other, which was intensely irritating to Stirling, who wanted to learn as much detail of the Saxon's equipage as he possibly could before coming to blows with any of it.
They rounded the great curve at the far end of the central spine, cantering around and down the homestretch, past cheering Britons, a handful of sneering Saxons, and the royal pavilion where Morgana and the flower of Briton royalty sat, the former, at least, as still and white as an ancient marble masterpiece. Her fear, Stirling realized, was as much for Ancelotis, her brother-in-law, as it was for a necessary show of strength before the Saxons. They flashed past the terminus of the central spine and Ancelotis reined around to face the far curve once more, moving his dancing charger sideways until the animal stood more or less in place at the right-hand side of the low spine. Cutha had reined around as well, heading at a gallop for the far curve, where he took up a similar position.
It was to be a joust in fine medieval style, but with critical differences. Both men readied lances, shafts of seasoned ash a full five feet long with wicked iron points that added another seven inches to the weapon's length. But unlike medieval lances of later centuries, these featured no hand guards, no bell-like flare to help brace one's grip. Ancelotis tucked the butt end under one arm, securing it as snugly as possible while using hand and wrist to point the tip toward Cutha—no easy feat, given the weight of the weapon. Neither he nor Cutha wore armor that would even begin to deflect such a lance's point, driven at full power by a charging war-horse. It was abruptly all too clear why men had died at this sport, even when protected by the heavy plate armor of "classical" tournaments of knights. In a.d. 500, the very concept of "knights" had yet to be invented.
The Scots king lifted his shield to protect his torso, draping the reins loosely across the front of his saddle. With a skill that bespoke years of practice, he guided the massive war-horse with knees, legs, and feet alone. They were in position now, weapons at the ready. Stirling tensed, waiting for the signal. The bruised sky flickered with lighting, like bubbling pots and cauldrons in the sky. Wind blasted through the arena and hurled cold droplets against his face, the first spatter of what promised to be a deluge very soon.
Trumpets screamed at Stirling's back.
Ancelotis and Cutha kicked their horses into a thundering gallop. The central spine whipped past, a blurred red snake in Stirling's peripheral vision. They crouched low behind shields, lances held like battering rams. Closer... closer still...
The shock of concussion nearly unseated Stirling.
He came several inches out of the saddle, both arms almost numb. Without stirrups, he'd have landed flat on the ground. Cutha's lance had struck his shield a glancing blow, failing to bite solidly into the wood. His own spear had smashed into Cutha's shield with such force the collision slammed the young Saxon nearly a foot backwards. Lacking stirrups, Cutha toppled right off his horse's backside, dragging Ancelotis' spear with him. With its point deeply embedded in Cutha's shield, the long shaft dragged at his arm, hindering him as Cutha staggered to his feet on the arena floor.
Stirling's surge of confidence was short-lived, however. Even as the Briton crowd roared approval, delighted at the Saxon's early downfall, Cutha tossed the encumbered shield aside, scrambled to recapture his horse, and vaulted back into the saddle. The man detailed to assist him raced forward with a second shield, then put booted foot on the other one and yanked out Ancelotis' spear, handing it up to Cutha. Ancelotis snarled under his breath, but his own man, Gilroy, had already reached his side, handing up two Roman-style pila to add to the one he still carried. The javelinlike weapon was not as useful for cavalry work as the long, heavy lance, but Stirling was quite happy to postpone hand-to-hand fighting as long as possible, given the state of sixth-century medical care.