King Peter slapped his visor open a horse-length from me. ‘Well fought!’ he shouted. Then he pulled it down and turned his horse. He held his horse for the length of his speech, half reared, perfectly collected, his weight back — he looked like a centaur. He was, in that moment, the knight I wanted to be.
The Cypriotes fell in as if they were mercenaries coming for a pay call. They seemed to gallop their horses straight into the line and de Mezzieres actually turned his horse on its hindquarters, with the beast’s front feet off the ground.
We trotted into position — the last three, let me add.
The king was in the centre. We all looked at him, and he looked right, looked left.
He tossed his sword in the air — and caught it.
‘Pour lealte maintenir,’ he said. His knights cheered.
I had no way of knowing it was his motto, but I flourished my sword, and we started forward.
The Germans had pulled their wedge back together. The squires had helped the three downed knights off the field, and now their nine prepared to take on our twelve.
This time, the Cypriotes stayed together, and we had a more traditional clash. Guy le Baveux, one of King Peter’s Cypriote lords, was slammed into the dust by the German wedge, and King Peter only avoided the same fate by charging his horse breast to breast with a Bohemian knight with a black lion on his golden coat. Both horses reared, the two knights swaggered swords, and I lost it all in the dust cloud.
We were almost off the end of the German line, and Fiore, on my right, swept in to make his capture. He met his opponent — Duke Rudolph, again — sword to sword. Rudolph cut hard enough to make sparks fly, and Fiore let him have the bind, leaned forward as his horse rose, and smashed his pommel into the count’s visor, rocking the man’s head back — but the sword continued its rotation, the pommel skidded across the visor and locked across the count’s neck, and the relative motion of the two horses unseated him.
I reined in to pass behind Fiore and collected his new-won horse, but the next knight in the line, a big man on a big horse with barred black and yellow barding, grabbed at the same reins and leaned out to swing at Fiore over Von Hapsburg’s now riderless horse.
Fiore took the blow on the back of his right shoulder and momentum carried him forward and I lost him in the dust. I changed leads over to the right and came up on what would have been Fiore’s right side, and I could feel Nerio hard on my heels. Again the black and yellow knight reached across the empty saddle to cut, this time at me.
I covered, crossing my sword with his, hilt-to-hilt and close to my head. He was big and strong, and I let him press me, then I locked my free, steel-gauntleted hand on the flange of his outstretched steel elbow and used my spurs to tell Jacques to pivot on his front feet. I think I laughed aloud as I controlled his arm with my hand and my horse, dislocating his shoulder and throwing him forward over his saddle as I dropped him, dragging him over Rudolf ’s empty saddle as my horse backed. I swear to you that Jacques understood my intention all through, perhaps better than I.
I got my hand on to Duke Rudolf ’s bridle. Nerio was flank-to-flank with yet another German knight, but he had black and yellow’s reins.
I had no opponent. I had a moment — there must have been a gust of wind — and I saw that the King of Cyprus was down.
Philippe de Mezzieres was locked in a steel embrace with the Emperor, and three German knights were hammering away at him while a pair of the Cypriotes I didn’t know tried to break into the circle around the king. The king’s horse was — I assume — hit with a sword or a sabaton-clad foot, because he bolted instead of standing by his master. The king was on his feet, reaching for his horse, but the animal went past his reaching hands and ran for the crowd line.
Well, I had a great desire for fame and a captured horse in my left fist. I remember crossing the two horse lengths between us, and my only fear was that someone else would get to him first.
Philippe de Mezzieres twisted, the Emperor rocked back, and de Mezzieres’ sword shot out and slammed into a German knight’s head, rocking him back and opening a hole.
The king saw me and took two steps towards me. He was coming right at me, and he leaped — got his right foot into the stirrup and mounted without stopping the horse. Really, it was one of the most spectacular feats of horsemanship I’d seen, then.
Nothing beside what followed.
He swung himself like a door on the stirrup leather, mounting with the horse’s stride, and then — as if he’d planned it every day of his life — he reached out his right hand and struck the Emperor in the helmet with his fist, pulled his arm back, reached under the Emperor’s arm and pulled him back. De Mezzieres let go his hold and got one of the Emperor’s legs and lifted — and the mightiest monarch in Europe was down in the dust.
Nerio skimmed through the melee at a canter, plucked the reins out of the air, jerking the Emperor’s horse’s head savagely, provoking the great best to a lumbering gallop. The reins broke, and Nerio was left without his prize, but they were galloping along, side by side.
Headed for the Emperor’s flag. By which I mean, the wrong way.
There were two Cypriotes down, by that time, and a third so badly injured — broken arm, dislocated shoulder — that he was staying at the edge of the fight, trying to avoid capture. But six of the Emperor’s knights were out, and the other six were already breaking off, slamming their swords into the king’s brother Hugh and riding clear of the dust.
Nerio was a patient hunter. He followed the Emperor’s horse across the field, penned it into a corner of the crowd, and got its bridle.
I was riding flat out by then, because all six of the Imperial Knights had gone for Nerio. By my side were the King of Cyprus and his chancellor, and from the other edge of the field Fiore was galloping at the Germans and Swabians and Bohemians. The two Bohemian knights turned and faced us, and they were good. Better than me, I’m not ashamed to say. I locked one of them up, and he was dragging me from my saddle when the king passed his sword across the other man’s neck and pulled him off me. The other Bohemian dropped de Mezzieres, which was no mean feat of arms, I can tell you.
That left four Swabians on Nerio. But it was Nerio’s moment — he cut and turned and cut, and he had his horse’s back to the crowd, which limited the ability of the Swabians to get at him for a throw.
By that time I was riding for him again, although I wanted to throw up into my helmet and I’d lost my sword. The king was by me.
The second Bohemian — the one who had put de Mezzieres down — was at our heels.
They were hammering Nerio as if they were armourers and he needed to be forged. Ever seen three master bladesmiths work a blade together? That’s how they pounded him, and yet he was as light as air, dancing under them. He took blows, but he gave them, too.
I came up on a knight in red and blue, caught his sword hand from behind and beside him, and disarmed him as if he’d passed me the blade. I tried to throw it over his head, and he slammed his fist into my visor, and I bent back like a bow — he was a puissant man. I lost a moment, but in that time the king hit him, and I recovered my seat — Jacques had danced clear of the fight, may God care for that horse.
My nose was broken inside my helmet, and blood was flowing over the cloth of the padding of my aventail and down my breastplate and my coat armour. The pain was blinding. But I could see Nerio’s green and gold, and I got my horse to do the work for me. I put spurs to Jacques — he didn’t deserve that, but I was hurt and in a hurry, and Jacques exploded in outraged innocence, put his head down and crashed into one of the Swabians with a sound like an army of tinkers doing battle with an army of wooden spoons.