Chapter  7      Quarterstaffs

 

 

  

An army in the days of King John, assembled as a mob, fought as rabble, looted as thieves, and returned home as peasants.  Mercenaries from the north countries, bred and steeped in strict military traditions, often added the fire of Hell to an attack, unless the wind changed, in which case, they might just as well sell themselves to the winning side in time to share a quick victory.  Or, if things looked altogether too ugly, mercenaries might just as easily decide their services were urgently needed elsewhere.

Kings hired mercenaries.  Only kings had enough power to make a mercenary honor his contract despite the direction of prevailing winds.  As men, mercenaries were despised, and as warriors, they were feared, for they approached battle as a blood sport, not an opportunity for civilized hostage taking and ransom.  Mercenaries were hired by unpopular leaders, and by leaders valuing certainty over chivalry.

Mercenaries hired by John waited to join the mesnies of Lord William and Baron Stephen on the French shore.  This much, they had been told.  But first, the army had to get there.

The army trod its way north to catch the old Roman road extending south from Cirencester.  The mucky ruins of Roman roads shot, for the most part, as straight as arrows over scrubby hills and through heavy forests.  Though the roads were overgrown, muddied and unrepaired, still it did not take long to reach Cirencester.  At the steeple of the church, the army turned down the road to Cricklade, then over a longish stretch devoid of settlement, toward Newbury.  It took two days to reach Newbury because Stephen and his family had a long-running dispute with the castellan of Marlborough, so the direct route south lay closed.

Clouds followed the column like dogs.  Rain and blowing mist suffocated their exertions.  Necks chaffed red against wet wool, fingers shriveled, feet grew sores, and private parts itched.

Mid day gloomed like twilight and a sooty blanket of cloud pulled tight against the trees, sealing out stars and a fledgling moon.  The knights and their men camped alongside the road each night, bought fresh produce and meat from one-family villages where they could, and slogged their way south.  Roadbeds oozed with a nauseous mixture of mud, animal dung, straw, and urine.  Prickly weeds and brambles from the roadside reached to snag them.  The horses had an awful time of it.  Hoofs grew soft and shoes were thrown regularly.  The sergeants and other men afoot heaved their loads through the morass with wet feet and foul tempers.  The knights bickered about trivialities.  Two men, a knight and a man afoot, fell ill with a cough and were installed in the house of a freehold farmer, who accepted a small bag of silver pennies for his hospitality.  The other sergeants took the gift of money to the farmer as a good sign that Lord William intended to see his men again.

Briery meadows interspersed with trees formed the landscape between Newbury and Silchester.  After Silchester, the sky slowly developed definite clouds, each cloud separating from the broad sweep of gray like peels of old paint, until at sunset, the sky line shone like amber and a yellow light slipped through at the horizon, illuminating the bottoms of clouds.  Immediately, the army spotted the spire of Winchester cathedral.  Nearly everyone paused to point and exclaim.  At about the same time, they caught sight of the battlements of Winchester castle, where Henry II had commissioned a portrait of himself as an eagle and his four sons as eaglets, each poised to tear the flesh of their father.  No one had, of course, actually seen it, but it was famous nonetheless.

The lord and Baron Stephen decided to camp north of the crossroads rather than invade the merchant district with a passel of rowdy knights and worse yet, foot soldiers, who by this time wanted nothing better than a tankard and a good row.  Neither nobleman wished to pay fines to the bishop or the castellan.  Keeping an army was strain enough on their pocketbooks, but they owed forty days service each year to their liege lord, John, so when called, they went.  Besides, in the present circumstances, it was in their interests.  A French occupied England would be no England at all.

Thomas, Cyril, Beaumont, and their squires pitched their square, man high tents on a relatively dry hummock of ground, eaten low by sheep, then started walking as far south as the pickets would let them, trying to get a better view of the cathedral they had heard of but had never seen before that day.

Rising phallically through the trees, they saw a massive stone edifice, a hint of stained glass, and tall towers against a purplish blue sky.  Low battlements of a castle protruded above the trees to the west.

Thomas stared at the walls with a sense of uneasy familiarity.  They reminded him of a gray, battlemented skyline, the shriek and thump of heavy siege engines, and a chill which only touched him as he rode a nightmare.  Strange unclear memories came to him at times in his sleep, as if from the brain of someone else, someone in terrible fortune from another time.  He shivered and turned gratefully from the memory as Cyril spoke.

"The bones of King Canute lie there," he said.

     "Where?" asked one of the squires.

"Beneath the alter, I imagine."

Canute, the pirate turned king.  Thomas had heard of him.  In the days after King Alfred, Canute the Dane sacked the country then stayed to build a kingdom.  He was an "example" used by some of the priests to show the natural tendency for Goodness in Man.

"Probably the bones of some pig he ate," declared Beaumont.

"But such a fine pig," said Thomas, with a sincere expression.  "Why, I will wager the bishop will lay your bones beside Canute's, when the time comes."  He peered closely at Beaumont, who returned a cold smile and a colder eye.  "One can never have too many saints," he concluded.

Beaumont's eyes glittered, reflecting Thomas's black horse and a hundred other diminutions.  "Let me be an example to you, dear Thomas," he said.

"Oh, you are, James, you are."  Thomas smiled broadly.  To push away the unease of his dreams, he provoked without judgment.  It distracted.  What he needed was cleansing activity.

James was trying to locate the hidden barb in Thomas's last remark, but failed.  "What was that?" he said with an edge.

"I said you were a great example.  Ho!  You are better than that.  You are unique!"

The squires sensed trouble coming and stepped back a prudent distance.  Cyril watched closely, gauging how serious things were going to get.

James Beaumont glared as Thomas smiled with calculated blandness.

"To Hell with you!" Beaumont exploded, and before Thomas could raise his guard, Beaumont landed a blow square against his cheek.

Thomas staggered back a step, his feet immediately finding their trained positions of fighting balance.  Beaumont unexpectedly slipped his dagger from its sheath and stood with his legs wide, the triangle shaped blade weaving a path through the air like a moth around a candle.  Instinctively, Thomas felt his belt, but remembered even as his fingers touched leather that he had placed his dagger in the tent along with his other belongings.

"Lose your knife, Sir Thomas?  You can borrow mine.  Come get it," said Beaumont in a too-calm voice.

"Break it off," said Cyril.  "Before you attract attention."

"Shut up.  This is not your fight," said Beaumont.

Beaumont made a feint, and stepped back to his position.  Thomas mirrored the movement, easily avoiding the blade.  The margin had been large.  For all his bluster, James really had not intended a cut.

"This is not the time," said Cyril.  "Put down your knife.  Make a challenge for personal combat if you wish, but this fighting in the mud like two hens over a worm is not knightly!"

Thomas flicked a glance at Cyril, and smiled.  "I quite agree, Cyril, but it is difficult to put down what you are not holding."

Cyril sighed.  "James, what say you.  Let us repair to the hill and fight it out like knights."

"What cat issues formal challenge to the rat?"

"A well mannered cat," said Thomas.  The dream memories were fading but were not gone.

Cyril suddenly looked shaken.  Thomas caught the expression and started to look for the source when the flat side of a sword slammed against Beaumont's shoulders.  Lord William, himself, had made the blow.

"What is this?  Two of my new knights having a common brawl in the mud?  And under the shadow of one of the greatest cathedrals in Christendom.  I am ashamed!" roared William like an angry father catching two youngsters stealing apples.

"Lord William!" cried Beaumont.

"So!" responded William sternly.  "If you can remember the name of he who made you a knight not so many days ago, I am encouraged.  Give me that dagger!"

James reluctantly handed it over, grip first.

William looked hard into James's face.  "Did you intend to use this on a brother knight?  Did you!"

James shrugged.

"Let us hope not."  William then shared his attention between the two.  "Formal challenge for each of you," he said.  "Both of you acquire your armor and meet in front of my tent in ten minutes.  You will exhaust your energy Sir Thomas, and your spleen, Sir James, in full view of your peers.  Bring your quarterstaffs."  And without another look, he strode back to the encampment.

After the lord was out of earshot, Cyril shook his head and said, "Well, you two will have healthy appetites tonight.  You had better take that hill at a canter if you will meet his time."

"You are a sage fellow, Sir Cyril," Thomas said.  "Squire," he continued, throwing a heavy arm across Burke's shoulders, "let us assemble ourselves."

Thomas and his squire began walking up the hill at a stiff pace.  Thomas stopped, turned and said to Cyril, "You will be there?"

"I would not miss it for a look at Becket's heart," said Cyril.

Thomas waved and continued up the hill.  Beaumont glared after him for a moment, then followed at the same pace, his squire tumbling to keep up.

Cyril and his squire exchanged a long look, then a smile.  Cyril turned for a last look at the cathedral.  The sun was nearly off it now.  Night would be full in another half hour.  He turned to his squire.  "Us simple folk had best follow to help pick up the pieces and sort out which parts belong to who."

The squire's laugh sounded a little unsure, but he followed his master up the hill, eager to see the outcome.

Not long after, a smallish crowd quickly grew to unanimous proportions around the lord's tent, including sergeants, grooms, smiths, and knights.  The two combatants emerged from their tents, strode through the parting crowd, and stood looking rather awkward in full hauberk.  Each held a polished oak staff six feet long and just big enough around that their thumbs could touch their middle fingers.

Whispers, guffaws, and betting calls raced through the crowd.  Odds, from what could be overheard, seemed equally split.  Betting cascaded until it came to an abrupt halt as Lord William emerged from his tent, followed by Baron Stephen.  The banneret and two marshals stood to one side.  It began to look very formal and the crowd grew silent.  Necks craned for a view.

Lord William addressed the crowd.  "We have had a disagreement between two knights.  The two knights, Sir Thomas of Oakham and Sir James Beaumont, both new knights of my household, will now fight it out.  The first knight knocked from his feet signals the end of this combat."

Thomas immediately perceived there was no mention of wrong or right, losers or winners, and certainly no reference to the traditional trial by combat.

A stir of disagreement rolled from the crowd.  Lord William held his hands up to silence the complaint.

"I am aware that tradition requires a knight to fall three times before a winner is declared, but darkness is falling faster than knights and the haunches are on the spit.  We will proceed with dispatch.  And one more thing.  There will be no other combats without my permission.  Is that clear?"  He addressed Thomas and James, who both nodded in their helmets.

"Begin, then.  I am ready for my dinner."

Thomas and James stood about four paces apart, facing each other.  Both being right handed, each held their staffs at the middle with their right hands, and a quarter way down with their left.  According to the manner of the mesnie, each stepped one pace forward and touched the upper ends of their sticks together with a loud clack, signaling mutual readiness.  The crowd grew quiet.  Only the haunting sounds of distant rooks shivered the evening air.

The two knights stepped back one pace and let their weight find lower perch in a wide-stanced crouch.  Thomas moved easily, with evident patience.  James Beaumont moved equally well, but the tension in his body betrayed his impatience.  Both held their staffs cross body, a defensive position from which several offensive moves could be initiated.

Beaumont stepped to his left, as did Thomas.  Balance was restored.  Beaumont then jerked his right arm enough to feign an attack, but Thomas did not react.  The audience began to shuffle its feet.

"Well, James," said Thomas in a voice which was pleasant, though muffled by the helmet, "I am hungry, too.  Do something!"

Beaumont nodded.  "Do not worry, friend Thomas.  This will not take long, but I much doubt you will have the same appetite afterwards."

"I will not let your share go to waste, if that is what you are worried about," replied Thomas, maintaining distance as James circled.

Someone from the crowd shouted, "Ach, they are just going to talk!  My old grandmother could do that!"

Beaumont shifted his head slightly at the remark, but to Thomas, that slight movement signaled a momentary lapse of attention.  He stepped into Beaumont's swing zone, raising the stick over his head, as if readying a downward slash.  In an instant, Beaumont noticed the movement and instinctively began placing his stick to fend the blow, but too late, as his momentum carried the stick upward, he saw Thomas change direction and drive the short end of the staff toward his belly.

Chain mail is designed to protect the wearer from cuts, but its very flexibility grants ample effectiveness to just the sort of tactic Thomas plied.  The staff landed perfectly, and the crowd exhaled so loudly in sympathy with the blow that Beaumont's own utterance went unheard.  Beaumont collapsed heavily on his backside and began to heave for breath.  He let go his staff and rolled half onto his stomach, fighting to get air back into his body.  A high pitched wheezing permeated the air.

"Ah!  And my venison is still warm!" chortled Thomas.  Memories of the dream had all but faded away.

The crowd shifted its gaze to Thomas.  The men were not prepared for such a short contest and they stood looking rather stupidly, waiting for a development.  Nothing changed, except that the wheezing became louder.   More air was getting in.