“Keep your temper,” muttered Noel to himself.
The destrier pranced in place, snorting and pushing at the bit. Noel tucked the reins beneath his thigh and at the herald’s shout of “Ready” he lowered his lance diagonally across the saddlebow.
He was maneuvering the lance with his right arm since his left shoulder was stiff and bound too tightly to permit much range of motion. The weight of the shield, however, dragged heavily upon his left arm. Although he felt no pain, sticky wetness at his shoulder told him the wound had reopened. He disregarded the squire’s advice to jam the blunt end of the grip against his body.
“Do that against a stronger man on a faster horse and you’ll be flipped head over heels quicker than you can blink,” Trojan had said. “Hold it loose. Let the saddle support it if necessary. Keep your elbow flexed. Before the fifteenth century it was all skill, not brute force.”
The herald dropped his arm and Noel’s horse sprang forward. There was no more time to think. He knew only the fear and excitement coursing in his veins. He heard only the thunder of the horses’ hooves. He saw only the blur of color and motion as they hurtled at each other. He wanted to do something Trojan called the Bleinheim twist. It involved slipping the lance point through any slight opening between shield and saddle, staying low to catch your opponent’s thigh. If you hit the precise spot correctly, the impetus and a slight twist of the lance would flip your opponent from the saddle every time.
Using the computerized quintain dummy on the training grounds, Trojan had a ninety percent score. Noel had managed it only once. After he cracked his collarbone by getting hit with a blunted practice lance, he’d quit jousting with Trojan.
These lances, however, weren’t blunted. They were deadly sharp and if he didn’t hold his shield higher, Sir Magnin’s red-and-white-striped lance was going to spit him like a shish kebab.
They came together faster than he anticipated. The crashing impact of Sir Magnin’s lance upon his shield was like being struck by a battering ram. Pain flared in Noel’s shoulder with a fierceness that wrung a cry from him.
His own lance, held low and on his horse’s withers rather than atop the saddle pommel, hit the inner edge of Sir Magnin’s shield and skidded in toward the man’s groin. The point imbedded itself in the saddle and bowed with a twang of stressed wood. It should have snapped, but it didn’t, and when the point ripped free of the leather it snapped Sir Magnin into the air.
A roar went up from the crowd, and Noel’s heart leapt, but Sir Magnin caught his saddle pommel and clung dangerously over the right side of his galloping horse until he could drag himself back into the saddle. He had dropped his lance, and his plumed helmet was askew, but he reined in his horse and wheeled around.
“Hold!” shouted the herald.
Noel’s horse had already swept to the end of the tiltyard. It turned around smartly, ready without instruction for another pass. Noel sat there, noise and yells around him, and panted heavily within his helmet. Sweat ran off him in a river. His shoulder throbbed with agony as though a hot iron had been pressed to it. He gripped his lance in a daze, disappointed that he’d failed to unseat the knight and uncertain what came next.
To his dismay the judges allowed Sir Magnin another lance. Boos came from the crowd. Men stood on their seats, shouting with anger. Tobin handed Noel a fresh lance.
“This one is fine,” said Noel.
“It could be cracked. You stressed it mortal hard.”
Noel’s lips tugged into a bitter smile. “Not hard enough.”
“No, sir. Not hard enough. But it was a shrewd aim you took. I thought you had him split for sure.” Tobin’s eyes met Noel’s. “You can’t hold back when it’s to the death. Go at him for the finish.”
He sounded like a football coach on the sidelines. Noel nodded, and pulled himself together.
Tobin took away the old lance, and while Sir Magnin reentered the lists Noel’s destrier pawed the ground. Noel felt the world blurring around him and struggled to keep his concentration. What he needed was a decisive unseating, but Tobin was right: he didn’t want to actually kill Sir Magnin. He knew that put him at a disadvantage, but he couldn’t help it.
He failed to notice the herald’s signal and only the destrier’s lurch into a gallop brought Noel’s attention back to the matter at hand. Something had gone wrong with his depth-of-field vision. His lance looked twenty feet long. It wavered dangerously. He knew his shield was too low, but he could not raise it without arousing sickening agony in his shoulder. Sir Magnin crouched forward, coming at him like a hornet.
The crashing impact stunned him. His point hit Sir Magnin’s shield square in the center and snapped. Sir Magnin’s lance rammed him backward, out and over the saddle with a wrenching twist of his spine. Noel hit the ground with a thud.
He lay in the churned dust, wheezing for breath. His shield covered him like a broken wing. His steel helmet felt like a lead weight holding him down. Only the sound of approaching hoofbeats roused him. He struggled to lift himself too late to avoid Sir Magnin’s lance.
It caught the edge of his shield and flipped it. The leather straps snapped, jerking Noel’s arm mercilessly. The world went gray with a sickening wave of agony. Gasping, he could do little more than roll away from those deadly, dancing hooves. He groped for his sword, although the dim part of his brain still functioning told him he hadn’t a prayer against a man on horseback, especially without his shield.
“Secondary weapons!” shouted the herald.
Sir Magnin wheeled away and handed over his lance in exchange for a ball and chain. He swung it a few times, making the heavy, spiked ball whistle wickedly through the air.
Noel pushed himself to his knees, but by then Sir Magnin was cantering toward him. Noel dragged out his sword and tried to lift it. The point sank to the dust. He planted it in the ground and started to use it to climb to his feet, but Sir Magnin was too close, bearing down on him like thunder.
Noel seized the long hilt of his sword with both hands and swung it up like a bat, pivoting on his knees as he did so. The spiked ball struck the flat of his blade with such a clang Noel feared the impact had snapped his weapon. But the steel held although sparks flew from its length.
Unbalanced, Sir Magnin turned his black horse so sharply the animal stumbled. The ball whistled mere inches over Noel’s head as he ducked. Sir Magnin flipped it to wrap the chain around Noel’s sword. He yanked hard, but Noel had been expecting such a trick. He did not resist; instead, he went with Sir Magnin’s tug, using the impetus to gain his feet.
A cheer rose from the crowd, and it heartened Noel. He could see Sir Magnin’s black eyes glaring at him through the visor.
“Fool!” said the knight. “You cannot beat me now. Why not surrender and end this farce?”
Noel bit back a groan. “Now? When I’ve got you right where I want you-”
Sir Magnin yanked his sword from his hands and sent it flying. The sun flashed on the blade as it spun end over end through the air. Noel heard the groan of the crowd.
Sir Magnin laughed.
It was a smug, malicious sound-the sound of a bully who can afford to play with his victim. Noel’s temper flared. He rushed at Sir Magnin’s horse and kicked it hard between its hind legs. With a scream, the animal reared. Noel seized Sir Magnin’s foot and twisted it within the stirrup.
Cursing, Sir Magnin kicked at Noel but he was hampered by the stirrup and his horse’s rearing. His spur rowel raked his horse’s side, and the mount threw itself sideways in a twisting, bucking leap that sent Sir Magnin flying to the ground.