Brother Rufus then backed slowly towards the rope barrier and the contest began.
Standing with Gwyn behind the coroner, Thomas de Peyne watched the drama with tremulous fascination.
His classical education allowed him to compare the scene with some Roman gladiatorial contest, as the two men, out there alone in an empty arena, circled each other while they each took the measure of their opponent.
Shields across the chest and swords half lowered, they glared at each other across ten paces of hardened mud.
Both were about the same height, but Henry was the heavier, from both muscle and some fat, and there was little doubt that he was a strong and dangerous adversary, for all that he was six years older than Nicholas.
He made a sudden feint, jumping forward with a yell and making de Arundell step back. No blow was exchanged, but Pomeroy shouted at Nicholas to unnerve him.
'You've no bloody archers behind you now! I'm going to cut you to pieces, as I would have done at Grimspound if you'd fought fairly'
Nicholas made no reply, but a moment later, as Henry charged at him, he sidestepped and brought his sword down, making a chip of wood and leather fly from the edge of Pomeroy's shield.
From then on, the fight was fast and furious, a sequence of advances and retreats, shield bosses clashing and then breaking apart. Both men seemed evenly matched as far as skill and courage were concerned, and a rising tide of yells came from the onlookers, urging them on to even greater efforts. Though the sympathy of most people was with de Arundell, as the circumstances of this dispute were widely known, there was no doubt that Henry was putting up an excellent performance and he had a number of spectators shouting for him, in addition to his own men.
As the two combatants hammered away at each other, without so far inflicting any damage except to their shields, Gwyn muttered into the coroner's ear, 'If I was a gambling man — which I am — I'd put my money on Pomeroy at the moment, more's the pity.'
De Wolfe, his eyes glued to the action, replied without turning his head. 'There's nothing in it so far, Gwyn. Nicholas is the younger man, so maybe he can keep this up for longer. I don't see how they can carry on for very long like this.'
As if they had heard him, the fighters abruptly pushed each other away and circled at a distance, both with heaving chests and gasping for breath. John now saw a long rent down Nicholas's tunic below the jerkin, but there appeared to be no blood, so it looked as if Henry's sword had only slashed the garment, not the flesh underneath.
After a few moments' respite, the younger man returned to the attack, and this time de la Pomeroy backed away, his face almost purple with effort, his lips curled back in a rictus of angry excitement. Then he rallied and, with a burst of energy, forced de Arundell back to the centre of the square. They hammered away for several more minutes, and in spite of the cold, both men were seen to be sweating, perspiration visible on their brows below their helmets. De la Pomeroy, whose activity seemed almost demonical, looked as if he was about to explode, his face engorged and his eyeballs prominent.
As more shouts of encouragement erupted from the sidelines, mostly shouts of 'Nicholas, Nicholas!', the lord of Hempston again began driving Henry back, with a ferocious charge that took them halfway to the ropes.
Then catastrophe occurred, as Nicholas stumbled over a hardened clod of earth kicked up by some beast and fell forwards on to his shield and sword hand.
In a flash, Henry Pomeroy leapt towards him with sword raised, and as Nicholas rolled sideways and began pushing himself up, he suffered a glancing blow from the blade on his right arm.
John saw the sleeve rip and blood well out, as the agile de Arundell sprang up and instantly slashed back at his adversary. But it was his sword arm that had been injured, how badly de Wolfe had no means of telling. An experienced campaigner, de Arundell deliberately ran backwards to give himself a few seconds in which to slide his good arm from his shield hoop and change hands, so that his weapon was now in his left hand. Though not so powerful as his right, years of practice had strengthened it to a reasonable degree — but he was now at a considerable disadvantage. Henry came charging at him, yelling at the top of his voice, drowning the cries from the spectators. Nicholas held his ground and managed to strike at Pomeroy's shield so hard that a split appeared in the wood, which was now only held together by the leather covering. Once again a furious hand-to-hand combat ensued, which at least reassured de Wolfe that Nicholas's injury could not be life-threatening or he would have failed already from loss of blood.
'They can't keep this up for much longer,' snapped de Furnellis, standing alongside the coroner. 'Henry de la Pomeroy is like a man possessed. He'll make a mistake in a moment and Arundell will have him.' But he was wrong, though for a good reason.
After a brief circling, the lord of Berry again came at Nicholas like a madman, roaring and slashing as if he intended to conquer his enemy by sheer weight and speed. The quick-footed Nicholas sidestepped again and, left-handed, jabbed behind Henry's damaged shield.
The thick leather cuirass absorbed most of the blow, but the point of his sword pricked Henry's belly and he gave a yell of pain, even though the injury was not serious.
The wound put him in a towering rage, and he swung back determined to cut this tormentor in half.
As he bore down on de Arundell, a hush descended on the crowd, who half expected to see this bull-like leviathan trample the slimmer man into the mud.
Nicholas expected the same, as he saw Henry's eyes bulging in his puce-tinted face, rage vying with triumph as he saw victory within his grasp.
Suddenly, the charging man stopped. He seemed to crumple at the waist, and his sword fell from his fingers as he grasped the neck of his jerkin and sank to the ground, a gurgling, gasping sound bursting from his purpled lips.
De Arundell gaped in amazement, his own sword still raised, but as de la Pomeroy did nothing but writhe on the frozen mud, still scrabbling at his throat, he cautiously went nearer. Half suspecting some trick, he kicked away the other man's sword so that it was out of reach, then dropped to his knees alongside him. By now, people were racing across the arena towards them, and seconds later the sheriff and coroner were by his side.
'What's happened to him?' demanded de Furnellis.
'God knows. Some kind of seizure, I think.'
'He's bleeding from his belly,' said Brother Rufus.
De Wolfe ripped at the thongs that secured the leather jerkin down the front of Henry's body. 'Give him some air, he's choking,' he commanded, for the stricken man was still gasping and tearing at his neckband. John explored the wound under the tunic and found it to be little more than a surface puncture.
'Nothing to do with that,' he said, looking up at Ralph Morin, who had joined the group clustered around the fallen man. For a fleeting moment, de Wolfe felt it ironic that so many were now solicitous about Henry's welfare, whereas five minutes earlier they were quite prepared to see him mortally wounded on the end of de Arundell's weapon.
By now, Joan de Arundell had broken away from her cousin and John's own wife and had raced across to her husband; hugging him, she demanded to see his wounded arm. The blood was running down his sleeve and dripping off his fingers, but he seemed oblivious of it, being more concerned with the extraordinary turn of events.
'It is the will of God, praise be,' exclaimed Brother Rufus. 'He has decided the outcome in the plainest manner.'
John de Alencon, also kneeling by the stricken lord, looked rather less convinced that this was a show of divine intervention, but he held his tongue.
'We must get him moved,' said the practical sheriff, and yelled at Sergeant Gabriel to find a litter to carry the victim to the keep, where he would at least be out of the biting breeze. At that moment, someone with a better understanding of seizures arrived, in the shape of Richard Lustcote, the apothecary, who had been amongst the spectators.