My lord-why did you choose the axe? When I am accounted a master with it?
For that very reason, the other returned curtly.
And because, with the axe, you killed my nephew. He died
honourably, in fair fight. No call for you to risk your life, proving
your houses honour.
You will allow me, sir, to be custodian of my own honour.
Aye. But to choose the axe there, means that you meant to kill.
Or be killed. And your ransom near paid. Why?
Need I account for my actions to you, sir. A rebel?
Hal So it is still the same! You have learned nothing, my lord?
The bitter English pride! I am sorry for you…
Abruptly the other wheeled his charger round, and rode back to his base.
However blunt an instrument, the mace required considerable skill for effective use in mounted warfare. Like the axe, it was short in haft, but its knobbly head was heavier, and in consequence, lea well-balanced. It was therefore notably short in range and hard on the wrist, and against armour demanded very shrewd placing.
At the trumpets imperious signal, the two contestants rode at each other, a seemingly ill-matched pair. Bruce having to restrain his lighter mount. Hereford, with superior height, and therefore reach, but a horse which would tire more quickly, was out for a quick decision. He wasted no time on preliminary skirmishing, but drove straight at the other.
Bruce knew that he would be expected to dodge and use his agility. He therefore waited until the other was all but on him;
then, as the Earl raised his mace high, ready to smash it down on whichever side his foe decided to veer, he jerked his pony right round in what was almost a full half-circle, under the very nose of the black charger. He achieved it with only bare inches to spare, and went trotting off a yard or so in front of the lumbering destrier whose rider was leaning forward over its neck, flailing furiously but quite ineffectually, the King not even turning his head to look back.
Oddly enough, this manoeuvre, which might have looked like the craven shirking of an encounter, did not; rather it gave the impression of cocky and quite insolent confidence.
The great shout of laughter from all around-which was partly what Bruce was playing for-revealed the appreciation of at least a majority of the company.
It was easy to keep just the right distance ahead of the challenger.
The King kept it up for just long enough to make it clear that he was in command of the situation. Then, spurring, he cantered away for seventy yards or so, before flinging his beast round once more and sending it headlong towards the other.
This time Hereford was more wary however angry. He slowed.
The other did not disappoint him now. Straight as an arrow he came, at full canter, almost a gallop. As the distance closed, at that speed it was clear that he could by no means repeat the previous manoeuvre and draw up. Hereford was poised, ready.
The King drove in. At the very last moment he achieved the unexpected in two ways. The first was not so very unusual; he twitched his mounts head so that it bore down on the enemys left side, not his right, thereby spoiling the reach and stroke of both of them, since the maces were in their right hands. The second was altogether more dramatic; instead of standing, to gain height, he flung himself forward, almost flat along his gar ron outstretched neck, and so lying low, half-turned to his left, shield-up to take the others mace-blow.
The Englishmans was a botched stroke, inevitably. He was too high, and his weapon on the wrong side-and in heavy armour a man does not twist and bend with any great suppleness. Only a glancing blow struck the swift-moving shield, and then they were past. Bruce slamming in an unhandy sideways swipe over his horses ears in the by-going, more as a gesture than anything. It contacted Herefords leg-armour- but only just.
Again the laughter rose in great waves. This was clowning rather man true jousting, deliberately making a fool of Englands High Constable.
If anyone doubted this interpretation of the Kings purpose, they did not do so for long. He proceeded to make circles round his less nimble opponent, without ever coming close enough for a blow.
Time and again the Earl had almost opportunity to use his superior height and range, and then was denied it. More than once, as the other swept past, he heard Hereford shouting wrathfully within his helm for him to stand and fight like a man.
Even the crowd grew a little tired of this, and offered some positive advice to both contestants.
Bruce had not come into the arena to fight in this way. But the Englishmans arrogant words, his insolent naming of him as a rebel, demanded different treatment from sporting gallantry and knightly behaviour. He fell to be humiliated rather than just defeated.
So Hereford was made angry, resentful, outraged-and tired.
Tired as his heavy warhorse was already growing tired. And then, in
one of his innumerable darts-in and drawings-off, Bruce did not draw
off. Instead he swung round hard in a tight circle, his
garronrearing, almost walking on hind hooves, to come down immediately
at the rear of the other beast, all but pawing its back. And before either horse or rider could twist round, Bruce rose this time in his stirrups and stretching his fullest reach, smashed down his mace between Herefords armoured shoulder-blades. The Earl pitched forward, toppled from his seat, and fell in clanking ruin.
Without any of the usual flourishes and bows towards the royal box, or any acknowledgements of the crowds applause, the King turned and trotted out of the arena.
Armour discarded, with Irvine, he made his way back to the gallery, rather shortly rejecting the plaudits of those he passed. Sir Gilbert Hay came to meet him.
Let that teach overbearing Englishery to challenge the King of Scots, Sire! he exclaimed.
Here was pretty fighting.
That was not fighting, man! Bruce snapped.
Mummery, playacting, call it what you will-but it was not fighting.
He required a lesson, that is all.
Nevertheless, it was notably well done.
You think so? I do not.
Mounting to the royal enclosure, the King paused in his steps.
The gallery was a deal more crowded than when he had left it And markedly quiet, silent. He stared.
A new party had obviously arrived in the interim, dusty and travel stained, half of them women. All looked towards him, and none spoke.
He recognised his sister Christian. She was older, of course, with grey in her hair-but hadnt they all? She was smiling, and though drably dressed, still looked remarkably unlike a nun despite all her years shut up in an English nunnery.
Christian! he cried.
Praises be-heres joy! For a wonder!
Welcome! Welcome home. And he started forward.
Her smile fading, and the jerk of her head to one side, gave him pause. He glanced quickly towards where she had indicated. A young woman stood beside Elizabeth, thin, anxious, shrinking almost, great-eyed. Two great tears were trickling down the Queens cheeks.
Sweet Christ-God! Bruce gasped, and stood, for once utterly at a loss.
None there could find words to help the moment past. And Christian and Edward Bruce, at least, were seldom at a loss for words.
It could only be Marjory, his own daughter. His only child. And he had not known her. He had welcomed his sister, but not his child. But how could he have known? He had thought of her always as last he had seen her, a child of eleven. His mind knew that she would have grown up, in eight years; but his inner eye had still looked for the child he knew. Not that he knew her very well.