‘I have that honour,’ Gawin said. He tried to find something wittier to say, but he was more interested in defusing the tension than in scoring points.
The one called Gaston laughed. The rest laughed too.
The beautiful knight leaned down from his saddle. ‘Have your man clear your things from that corner room,’ he said. And then, in a particularly annoying tone, he added, ‘I would esteem it a favour.’
Gawin found that he was angry.
‘No,’ he said.
‘That was ill-said, and not courteous,’ the knight answered him with a frown. ‘I shall have it. Why make this difficult? If you are a man of honour then you may cede it to me with a good grace, knowing I am a better man than you.’ He shrugged. ‘Or fight me. That would be honour too.’ He nodded to himself. ‘But to stand here and tell me I can’t have it; that makes me angry.’
Gawin spat. ‘Then let us fight, ser knight. Give me your name and style, and I will name the weapons and the place. The king has announced a tournament in a two months, perhaps-’ Even as he spoke, the man was dismounting.
He gave his reins to Gaston and turned, drawing his sword – a four-foot long war sword. ‘Then fight.’
Gawin squeaked. He wasn’t proud of the squeak, but he was unarmoured and had only his riding sword – a good blade, but a single handed weapon whose only real purpose was to mark your status in life and keep riff-raff at arm’s length.
‘Garde!’ the man called.
Gawin reached out and drew his sword from the scabbard Toma held, and brought it up in a counter cut that just stopped his opponent’s first heavy overhand blow. Gawin had time to bless his superb Master at Arms – and then the giant cut at him again and he slipped to the side, allowing the heavier sword to slide off his own like rain off a roof.
The bigger man stepped in as quick as a cat and struck him in the face with one gauntleted hand, knocking him to the ground. Only a turn of his head saved him from spitting teeth. But he was a knight of the king – he rolled with the impact, spat blood, and came to his feet with a hard cut at his opponent’s groin.
A single-handed sword has advantages in a fight with a heavier sword. It is quicker, even if the wielder is smaller.
Gawin funnelled his anger into his sword and cut – three times, on three different lines, trying to awe the giant with a flurry of blows. The sword rang off the mirrored finish of his opponent’s armoured wrist on the third cut. It was a fight ending blow.
If his opponent wasn’t covered in steel.
The giant attacked, drove him back two steps, and then Toma screamed. The boy had been unprepared for a fight and stood frozen, but now tried to turn and run he’d became entangled with his master’s defensive flurry. Gawin almost fell, and the bigger man’s long sword licked out, caught his, and drove his thrust deep into Toma.
He kicked Gawin in the groin when he turned to look at Toma, whose head was cut nearly in half by the blade. Gawin fell, retching with the pain, and the big knight showed no mercy; knelt on his back, and pushed his nose into the mud in the courtyard. He stripped the sword from Gawin’s hand.
‘Yield,’ he said.
Northerners were reputedly stubborn and vengeful. Gawin, in that moment, swore to kill this man, whomever he might be, if it cost him his life and his honour to do it.
‘Fuck yourself,’ he said through the mud and blood in his mouth.
The man laughed. ‘By the law of arms, you are my prisoner, and I will take you to your king to show him how very much he needs me.’
‘Coward!’ Gawin roared. Even as part of his mind suggested that slumping in pretended swoon might be the wiser course.
A gauntleted hand rolled him over and pulled him up. ‘Get your things out of my room,’ he said. ‘I will pretend I did
Gawin spat blood. ‘If you think you can take me to the king and
The blond man sniffed. ‘You killed your own squire,’ he said. He allowed himself just the slightest smile at the words and, for the first time, Gawin was afraid of him. ‘And calling a man who has bested you in a test of arms “coward” is poor manners.’
Gawin wanted to speak like a hero, but rage, sorrow, fear, and pain spat his words out ‘You killed Toma! You are no knight! Attacking an unarmoured man? With a war sword? In an
The other man frowned. He leaned close.
‘I should strip you and have you raped by the grooms. How dare you call me – me! – an unfit knight? Little man, I am Jean de Vrailly, I am the greatest knight in the world, and the only law I recognise is the law of Chivalry. Yield to me, or I will slay you where you stand.’
Gawin looked into that beautiful face – unmarred by anger, rage, or any other emotion – and he wanted to spit in it. His father would have.
‘I yield,’ he said, and hated himself.
‘All these Alban knights are worthless,’ de Vrailly laughed. ‘We will rule here.’
And then they all dismounted, leaving Gawin alone in the courtyard with the body of his squire. The boy was quite dead.
