“How do they decide who wins the tournament?” Bessie asked.
“The jouster’s aim is to dismount his opponent, but that rarely happens. Next best is to shatter the lance on his head or body. The heralds keep the score sheets. Marks are awarded according to which parts of an opponent’s armor are struck, even if the lance does not split. The helmet scores highest, closely followed by the breastplate.”
She shuddered. “That sounds passing dangerous to me.”
I had been struggling not to think about that aspect of things, glad of Bessie’s questions to help keep my mind off my fears that someone dear to me might end up dead before the day was through. The throbbing pain in my head had subsided to a dull ache, but my stomach remained queasy.
“The knights break their lances across a high barrier to prevent collisions. They did not always do so. The contest was running volant—without lists—the day Ned Neville nearly killed Will Compton during a tournament.”
Bessie’s eyes widened. She was silent for a moment, then asked if the lances themselves were sharp.
“They are hollow, and fluted, and they have blunted points. They are designed to shatter on impact.”
The force of two jousters colliding could shower long wooden splinters in every direction. They could blind a man. They could kill. While Will Compton had almost died at the hands of a good friend, I did not like to think what might happen when an opponent was filled with hatred and bent on revenge. Picturing Longueville and Guy in all their fine armor, lying side by side in a puddle of blood, I shuddered.
The tournament began to a roar of approval from the crowd. All through the first two events men brandishing drawn swords shouted and whooped. The crowd cheered every time the flat of a sword clanged against armor. And as every hit reverberated, I shivered inside, thinking of what was to come.
When the tourney added horses to the mix, there was even more noise from thudding hooves and equine screams. The crowd greeted every foray by the king’s team with enthusiastic cries of approval.
Although the ground was hard packed—a layer of sand deep enough to rake topped by a thick layer of gravel sealed with plaster—the horses stirred up great clouds of dust. It coated everything, spectators included. Throat clogged, vision obscured, I strained to see what was happening on the field and breathed a sigh of relief when I realized the tourney had concluded with no serious injuries.
The joust came next. Longueville rode out, matched against the king. He held his lance strongly braced in his right hand and charged without faltering. The horses raced toward each other, and within seconds both lances shattered with a crash like a thunderclap. I was certain I saw Longueville’s armor bend from the impact, but he rode off as if nothing had happened.
Brandon took on Guy Dunois with a result nearly as spectacular. I let out a breath I had not been aware of holding when I realized that Longueville’s half brother was no novice at this sport either. I should not have been surprised that Guy was competent. He was efficient, clever, and skilled at whatever he undertook to do. For just a moment, the memory of his kiss came to mind.
I quickly banished it by shifting my attention to Charles Brandon. There was something in Brandon’s manner that I did not like. Lord Edward had been one of his particular friends in the old days, and Brandon was just arrogant enough to think he could use this tournament as an excuse to seek revenge. Would he? And would it be ruled an accident if he killed his opponent?
The challengers and the answerers were evenly matched. The king had taken care to assign knights of equal ability to each team. He had always preferred a fair fight in which to test his own mettle. Indeed, few things irritated him more than facing an unworthy opponent in the lists. I tried to take comfort from that knowledge, telling myself that I had no cause for alarm, but I could not quite quell my fears.
Lance after lance broke to loud applause and cheers. Once again dust filled the air, making it almost impossible to see the barriers. A part of me was grateful to be spared that sight. By then the wood was liberally caked with spatters of spilled blood.
“I thought there would be more falls.” Bessie had been quiet for so long that I had almost forgotten she was there.
“Gentlemen warriors are trained from childhood to keep their seat. At Eltham, even as a young boy, King Henry was wont to practice leaping onto his horse from either side or the back while the horse was running. He could grab the mane of a galloping horse and jump into the saddle while wearing helmet, breastplate, and cuisses.”
Only after close to a hundred lances had been broken did I begin to relax. The tournament was almost over. No one had been killed.
Then a soft, spring breeze carried Meg Guildford’s venom-laced words to my ears: “Harry told me there were plans for a fight to the death. Only a direct order from the king put a stop to them.”
“There is still the mêlée,” her sister said in a cheerful voice. “Anything can happen then.”
Seeing me cringe, Bessie leaned close to whisper, “What is a mêlée?”
“It is the general battle on horseback at the end of a tournament. Rival parties of knights fight using either long spears or blunted swords.”
“Is it more dangerous than what has gone before?”
“It can be.”
I remembered one time in the last reign when the mêlée had turned into a near riot. It had been necessary to call in the king’s guard to quell it. I prayed matters would not go that far today.
“At most tournaments,” I said to Bessie, “the rules are carefully laid down in advance and a marshall is present to enforce them. That prevents most serious mishaps and injuries.”
Once again the king fought the duc de Longueville. Once again there was no clear victor. Then Guy rode out to face the Duke of Suffolk for a second time. I felt a chill run down my spine.
Charles Brandon was the most skilled jouster among the king’s friends. Years of practice had made him a formidable opponent. When he’d been a young man, I remembered, participating in tournaments had kept him poor. That was no doubt why he’d decided to marry a wealthy widow rather than his pregnant mistress…or me.
The armor Guy wore had come from the king’s own armory. I could not shake off the frightening notion that it might have been tampered with. There was no reason to think so. There had been no sign of trouble in the earlier bouts. The armor was cunningly jointed and padded. At most, even if a competitor took a solid hit from a lance or a sword, he should come away from a tournament with no more than a few bruises. But when Brandon and Guy took their positions at opposite ends of the course, my fingers strayed to my rosary.
A rare moment of absolute silence fell over the crowd. In the stillness, I heard Guy’s visor slam shut. His warhorse, also borrowed from the king, pawed at the ground. Then there was nothing but the thundering of hooves as the two combatants galloped toward each other.
Wood thudded against metal. Guy’s spear shattered into three pieces against Brandon’s breastplate. A second later, Brandon’s lance struck Guy’s helmet just at the edge of the eye opening in the visor. Guy’s head jerked back.
I was on my feet, my hands pressed tight against my lips to hold back a cry of distress. Had the visor been properly fastened? Even if the tip of the lance had not penetrated, if so small a thing as a splinter worked its way inside, it could do most terrible damage.
All around me spectators stood, cheering for the Duke of Suffolk. Shouts of “Finish him off!” and “Kill the Frenchman!” filled the air.
Guy swayed in his saddle but kept his seat. His horse carried him to the other end of the course and disappeared behind the row of tents set up for the combatants. Trembling, I sank onto my cushion.