Then Rix entered the list, hopping over the rope on his long legs like a stork. He was dressed in a homespun tunic the colour of straw, belted at the waist, with his long sword hanging in a scabbard on his left side. He was bareheaded and his brown hair was cut short across the brow and shaved on the scalp at the back, high, from the neck up beyond his ears, in an old-fashioned style that would have suited a Norman of his great-grandfather’s day, one of William the Bastard’s men. His face, like his body, was long and lean, and he seemed entirely calm, like a man going about his daily business, rather than one about to engage in mortal combat to determine the Judgement of God.
Rix pulled the slung shield off his back and slid his left arm through the grips, and then he drew his sword. Once again I was struck by how beautiful the blade was: slightly slimmer than a normal weapon, and tapering gracefully to a razor point, the blade engraved with tiny golden letters along the fuller that ran down its centre. From where I stood, it was impossible to decipher their meaning. The magnificent blue sapphire, set into a thick ring of silver at the pommel, flashed as it caught the light on that bright spring day. It was a sword fit for a king, an Emperor even, and I wondered where he had obtained it. No doubt from some nobleman that he had slaughtered. I wanted it. I lusted after that sword; I desired it so much it was an ache in my heart.
But there was no time then for these covetous thoughts. At the crook of a finger from Prince John, who was seated in a high-backed chair in the middle of the northern side of the square and surrounded by his closest knights, Rix and Wulfstan came and stood before him, the blond Saxon eyeing his opponent with just a hint of trepidation. He was right to fear him, I thought. Standing in the eastern side of the square, I could see both men in profile, and I saw that Rix was a full head taller than his adversary, although with Rix’s slimness I would have guessed that Wulfstan weighed a shade more. Both men made a solemn declaration that they had not eaten that day and that they had no hidden witch’s enchantments or magical gewgaws about their bodies that would give them an unfair advantage in battle. Wulfstan then declared loudly that he was fighting to preserve his land, the land that had belonged to his father and his father’s father before that, and he called on God Almighty, Jesus Christ, and all the saints to aid him in this matter and prove for once and all time that his cause was right.
Then they began.
Wulfstan wasted no time. He charged at Rix with a wild yell and began to batter at the taller man with a welter of hard blows, wildly swinging with his strong right arm, and battering his opponent with powerful cuts at his head and shoulders. Rix fended off the attack with ease, blocking with his sword and letting the blows slide off his shield, slowly retreating before the fury of his foe. Wulfstan, I could see, was not unused to the sword: someone had instilled the rudiments in him and he would have made a decent if not particularly skilful manat-arms. I had trained worse men than him for Robin, and he had a passion, too, a rage in him that gave force to his sword cuts — he was fighting for his honour, for his family lands, and he knew in his heart that his cause was just.
But he was no match for Rix.
In the middle of a storm of blows from Wulfstan, the tall man’s long blade lanced out over the top of Wulfstan’s shield and plunged deep into the top of his opponent’s left shoulder. It was like the strike of an adder: fast, precise, deadly. Blood spurted red from the wound and Wulfstan fell back with a cry of rage and pain. His shield sagged, his torn shoulder muscles unable to support its weight. Then Rix struck again, once more on his opponent’s left side, the shield side, his sword flickering out almost delicately to carve a bloody furrow in Wulfstan’s cheekbone.
The blond farmer charged once more, red droplets flying from his face into the clear air; a howling surge of fury and desperation and blurring, hacking sword, but Rix merely blocked, dodged, ducked a blow, stepped forward and back-swung gracefully, chopping into the meat of his opponent’s bare right forearm. Wulfstan screamed and staggered back. He could barely hold up his shield with his left, and his sword arm now had a chunk of purple flesh flapping from it. He could no longer either attack his foe or properly defend himself and it was only a matter of time before blood loss pulled him down. He was a dead man — and he knew it. Every man watching knew it too.
A more merciful opponent would have finished him then, but Rix seemed to have no compassion in his lanky black soul. The next few minutes were excruciating, as Rix circled Wulfstan inflicting minor cut after minor cut. He slashed at his calves and drew a spray of blood, sliced into his side, into his right thigh, and carved a furrow on the right side of his face to match the one on the left side, this time taking the eye along with it. He was slowly cutting his opponent apart. Very slowly chopping the life from him.
The crowd had been cheering the display, whooping and applauding the first blood, but gradually the noise died away to a few scattered shouts as Rix played with Wulfstan as a cat plays with a wounded mouse. The Saxon could no longer protect himself, staggering about the square, weak with loss of blood, sword and shield held in drooping blood-slicked hands, and all the while Rix danced in and struck, each time leaving the man weaker and more gory, but disdaining to make the killing blow.
My stomach was sickened by this display. I have seen much of battle and death but this slow draining of a man’s courage and life force, mocking his pain and making sport with his pride, was too much for me. I looked over at Prince John, hoping that he would stop this cruel exhibition, but he sat there grinning, pointing and clearly sharing a joke with Sir Ralph Murdac, who was standing at his side.
The Saxon was by now on his knees in the centre of the list; he had dropped both sword and shield and he knelt there passively, head hanging low, beard dripping blood, as Rix took two steps in and sliced off an ear. Wulfstan made a low bellowing noise of pain and frustration but he barely moved except to rock to one side when the ear was lopped. He merely waited like a bullock for the release of death.
I had had enough.
I stepped over the ropes, and drew my sword.
‘Hey! You there, Rix, or whatever your name is. He is finished. Let him be,’ I said, striding into the centre of the square with my sword in hand.
It was an idiotic thing to do, and went against all the plans and stratagems that I had so carefully made. And, given his prowess with a sword, it was quite possibly suicidal, too. But I could not stand there and watch him torture a brave warrior any longer. So much for my being a cold-hot man.
Rix turned to face me, his beautiful blood-washed sword in hand. His smile broadened. ‘You have a proper weapon this time, boy, I see,’ he said in good French. ‘Not some child’s musical toy.’
Although he had insulted my much loved and very much missed vielle, I was pleased to note that he still bore the circular red mark from its strings around his neck. I lifted my blade and saluted him. ‘This time I do — and it is this weapon that will cut short your miserable life, you soulless, night-skulking man-butcher.’
‘No,’ shouted a harsh voice. ‘No, I will not have it! I will not have my men brawling with each other over a trivial matter such as this.’ Prince John had seen fit to take part in the dispute. ‘You sir, Dale — you will not interfere with my justice. This very morning you swore an oath to be my faithful vassal — have you proved to be an oath-breaker so soon? I command you to withdraw from the list. Now. And you, Rix: that is enough. You have done well, but you are dismissed. Let Milo deal with him.’