“I showed him,” Elizabeth said.
“Aye,” Cristen said faintly, “you certainly did.”
“If he had killed my father because he loved me, perhaps I could forgive him. But that wasn’t it at all.”
Cristen was speechless.
“Do you know how I know that?”
Cristen shook her head.
“I said I would run away with him, but he wouldn’t. Do you know what he wanted? He wanted me to beg the king to allow me to marry him. The king was very persuadable, he said. The king would not be able to deny me.” She turned to look at Cristen, and now it was quite clear that it was fury and not sorrow that shone in her magnificent eyes. “He wanted my property and he was afraid that if we ran away together, the king would confiscate my lands. It wasn’t me he wanted. It was my lands!”
Cristen said to Elizabeth, “I am afraid that the only person Sir Richard is capable of loving is himself.”
To herself she thought, And in you he would have found a perfect match.
The blast of a horn caught Cristen’s attention and she turned to look at the man standing a few steps in front of where the bishop and the chief justiciar were enthroned in high-backed chairs. The herald blew another blast, to make certain he had everyone’s attention before he announced into the attentive silence:
“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye. We are here today to witness trial by combat to prove the guilt or innocence of Sir Richard Canville of the death of Gilbert de Beauté, Earl of Lincoln. Guilt is maintained by Lord Hugh de Leon, who will defend this charge with his body. Guilt is denied by Sir Richard Canville, who will refute the charge with his body. Let God be the Judge.”
The herald stepped back, and William Rotier ducked under the ropes and advanced to the middle of the arena. Hugh and Richard walked to join him, their unsheathed swords in their hands.
Rotier stood stoically between the combatants, a red flag raised above his head. At a sign from the bishop, he brought the flag down and stepped away, leaving the opponents facing each other.
The Judgment of God had begun.
The two men raised their swords. They looked to be an ill-matched pair as they stood in the windy sunshine taking each other’s measure.
Cristen thought that Hugh looked no more than a boy, with his light, slender frame and his black hair blowing in the stiff afternoon breeze. He moved like a boy, too, lithe and graceful, his weight perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet.
Richard, on the other hand, was every inch a man: tall and powerful and supremely confident as he regarded his opponent. Cristen saw his lips move as he said something to Hugh.
In reply, Hugh struck with his sword.
It happened so fast that Richard was not expecting it, and barely had time to get his own sword up to parry the blow. As it was, Hugh’s blade drew blood from Richard’s hand.
Anger showed briefly on Richard’s face, and then he struck back with the full strength of his powerful body.
Hugh parried the tremendous blow, his own sword scarcely dipping in response to the force of Richard’s stroke.
“Jesus,” Thomas said behind her. “Hugh must have wrists of steel.”
The fight went on for what seemed to Cristen an eternity. Without the protection of a shield, each man had only his sword to keep him safe, forcing the fight into a contest of thrust and parry, thrust and parry. Both men gripped their swords with two hands for maximum power, and the echo of the great blades as they fell upon each other was audible even to those packed into the Bail on the other side of the wall.
Every once in a while the combatants’ lips moved as they spoke to each other, gasping out words between the exertion of dealing out and defending against blows.
Surprisingly, the two men appeared to be evenly matched. An astonishing level of strength and power resided in Hugh’s slim body, and Richard’s superior height and weight did not give him the advantage that everyone, Richard included, had expected it to. On the other hand, Richard seemed to be fully as fast as Hugh, and Hugh’s left-handedness caused him no problem.
How could they bear it? Cristen thought. How could their arms take such a pounding and still lift the heavy sword to strike again? How long would it be until one of them was a little too slow to parry and felt the cutting edge of that powerful blade?
She felt sick thinking what such a weapon could do if it fell on unprotected flesh.
The February day had turned cold and windy, but the two men in the arena sweated profusely. For half an hour they had remained in the center of the arena, advancing, retreating, and sidestepping within a relatively small area, neither man able to drive the other one back.
Then, before her horrified eyes, Richard escalated his attack, increasing the rhythm of his strokes, attacking Hugh’s guard with a relentless assault of powerful blows.
After a minute, Hugh slowly began to back away.
“Jesus,” Thomas said in anguish. “Hugh is tiring.”
Richard evidently had come to the same conclusion, for he began to smile. Again and again he struck at Hugh, always attacking, not giving Hugh a chance to launch a blow of his own. Again and again Hugh parried, moving back slowly but inevitably to escape the punishment of the other sword.
Step by step, Richard advanced; and step by step, Hugh retreated. Back and back and back toward the high stone wall, where Hugh would be unable to retreat any farther, where he would be trapped.
Cristen’s nails bit into her palms as she watched Hugh being driven to his death.
Help him, God. God, please help him. Do not let him die. Do not let him die.
Next to her, Alan moaned in distress.
Thomas was muttering, “Come on, Hugh! Come on, Hugh! You can do better than this! Come on!”
The angle of the sun bathed the entire arena in a merciless light. Richard’s hair was dark with sweat and Hugh’s blue tunic was drenched. The breathing of both men was audible in the breathless silence of the packed courtyard.
They were almost at the wall. Hugh had only a few more steps before his retreat would be cut off.
Cristen saw him take a quick look behind, to ascertain just how far he had to go.
That look almost cost him his life as Richard, quick to take advantage of the momentary lapse of attention, struck with all his power. Hugh managed to get his sword up in time to protect his body, but the white sleeve of his sword arm suddenly turned scarlet.
“He’s hit!” Thomas cried in anguish.
This can’t be happening, Cristen thought. I can’t believe that this is happening.
Now Hugh was at the wall. His left arm dangled at his side, useless. With his right hand he raised his sword, ready to parry Richard’s blow. Blood poured from his left sleeve and dripped on the ground. How could he possibly withstand Richard with only one arm?
Richard seemed to tower above his victim as he lifted his sword in both hands for the last time and drove it hard, drove it directly at that single, vulnerable sword arm, drove it at tendon and bone and muscle and flesh, drove it with intent to maim and then to kill.
What happened next happened so fast that it took the onlookers a full twenty seconds to realize what had occurred. As Richard drove at him, Hugh dropped his own sword and ducked under Richard’s thrust.
An aghast intake of breath came from the onlookers. Why would Hugh give up his sword?
Then, to everyone’s astonishment, Richard’s sword clattered from his hand, and he fell to the ground.
And Hugh stood up.
“Jesus,” Thomas said.
“What happened?” Alan cried. “How did Hugh do that?”
It was Cristen who answered in a shaky voice, “I believe he must have used Thomas’s nice long dagger.”
27
Richard Canville was dead. God had spoken. The murder of the Earl of Lincoln was requited.