Chapter 36      The Trial

 

 

 

Alexander stood in his stirrups and stretched.  He peered down the road, but could see little of it in the pre-dawn twilight.  It was incredibly cold, and the promise of a winter dawn brought small comfort.  He pulled his woolen scarf higher around his ears and noticed Cadmon doing the same.  Cadmon wore the scarf given him by Lady Em.  She would be pleased if she knew.

"It will be a cold ride," said Alexander.  His eyes teared, and he wiped them with his mitten.

"That it will," replied Cadmon, his voice muffled by the scarf.  "From this point on, we will be in thick woods.  Ride carefully.  How does your hauberk feel?"

"Comfortable."  Alexander shifted in the saddle.  The metal links of the hauberk slid over one another as if they had been oiled, tinkling slightly, like tiny bells.  The mail fitted against his under woolens like a glove to his hand, and it expanded and contracted with his every breath.  He smiled to feel the weight.  Had he been truthful to his knight's question, he would have exclaimed, "Wonderful!" but dignity prevailed.  Here, at last, he lived as he had always seen himself, as he would see himself forever more, girded for battle, riding proudly with Cadmon, a sword lapping against his thigh, his helmet tied to the saddle forepiece, ready for instant donning.  Yes, here he belonged.

He looked up and saw Cadmon watching him indulgently.  He blushed.

"Let us go," said Cadmon, and urged his horse into a trot.

Alexander followed, one length behind, as he had been instructed for this particular ride.  The track ahead would be fraught with danger of ambush, and so they would ride single file, each with a clear view of the road.  He determined to keep watch, to spot any assassin before he could level crossbow at Cadmon.  But would he take the bolt for him if he had the chance?  Well, he hoped he would, but that was not the rule of it.  He would slay the bowman ere he do his deed.  That was the rule of it!

Truth be spoken, he did not believe Cadmon in mortal danger.  A wound, perhaps.  A bruise.  A cut, at worst.  Ever something to heal whole.  Cadmon would never suffer a mortal wound.  Deep in himself, he felt that conviction as firmly as he felt the sun would rise each morrow.  Cadmon moved about the world with cat's whiskers, feeling threats and obstacles before he reached them in body.  No, when Cadmon finally met the author of the world, it would come by way of God's design, not Man's.

As surely as the sun would rise, no man could lay him under, and yet, what if a man were invested with God's true purpose?  Cadmon, himself, could not resist such an adversary.

But why should God wager with so noble a being?  Cadmon did not walk in pride, nor did he profit by his extraordinary abilities.  Humility clung to him as it did the humblest of priests.  Why would God take aim at such a man?  There was naught to teach.  Already, he was the most Godly man among them.  Yet, God had seen fit to let Cadmon's wife perish.  And Aubrey.  Why?  Did Cadmon not properly acknowledge God?  Not so other men could see, certainly, but in Cadmon's heart, where such things really mattered, he must.  Petty men did not inspire lofty virtue, so by reflection, if lofty virtue he felt, then the inspiration had greater virtue still.

The sun rose, cool and bright, but it shed no light on his preoccupations.  Detail and remembrance piled upon him, sounds and sights, each linking to the next.  The past flooded to the present and swirled, each tendril of memory entwining with its present counterpart, until his thoughts felt as tightly woven as linen.  In the end, Cadmon's secrets were unfathomable.  Yet, this he did know:  He loved his knight and would follow and serve him to the ends of the earth.

They rode on.  Branches creaked and rattled.  The horses exhaled jets of steam.  He could hear their hooves crushing the veneer of frost and pushing at the half-frozen mud beneath.  The horse's loins mimicked the sound of butter in a churn.  And above and about them, the glorious tinkling of mail!

The sun never really rose.  Instead, the sky became milky and vague.  The minor warmth from sunlight faded as they entered denser growth.  They were two men and two horses in a channel of trees under an indeterminate sky.  Small, insignificant.  Alexander took an imprudently deep breath and the air singed his lungs.  The pain reminded him of his duty.

Cadmon turned in his saddle to look at him.  Alexander kept his eyes level.  Cadmon seemed to study him.  He felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"Alexander," said Cadmon, after a pause, "though you have gained in skill, you are not yet ready for an all-out brawl with seasoned men."

"I know."  It embarrassed him to acknowledge the truth, but Cadmon spoke truth and expected truth, and so he answered truthfully.  It hurt.

And that was all the knight said.  He had given his judgment, his advice, and turning in his saddle, faced front, content.  It was up to the hearer to act appropriately after having thrown these words into the balance.  Cadmon, unless forced, would have nothing more of the matter.  Such was his knight.

Abruptly, Cadmon pulled his horse to a walk.  Alexander rode abreast of him and followed the direction of Cadmon's arm as he pointed to something emerging from a thicket some distance away.

"A man," said Alexander in a whisper.

"Yes, a man.  Known to us."

The man drew nearer.  Alexander squinted and held his breath to steady his sight.  Was this lurching figure James Beaumont?

"It is James," said Cadmon, as if in confirmation of his thoughts.

"He looks exhausted.  What could be about?"

"We will ask."  Cadmon urged his horse into a canter and, doing likewise, Alexander followed him.  Momentarily, they drew abreast of a panting James.

James leaned toward them and, nearly toppling, steadied himself against the shoulder of Cadmon's steed.

"We are besieged!" he panted.  "I have come to warn you of ambush."  His words erupted in bursts between breaths.

"At the farm house?"

"Yes."

"Was anyone hurt?"

James shook his head and took in another swallow of air.  "No."

"How many?"

"They say many, but I think not more than a handful.  They asked for you by name."

"Did they?"

"Directly, and the man who spoke formed his English like a Frenchman."

Cadmon nodded and sat back in his saddle.  He contemplated the far distance in the direction of the farmstead.  His face seemed calm, but his eyes betrayed a frigidity, in comparison to which, the air around them sweltered.  Cadmon said, "We must not disappoint them.  Alexander, I must ask you to give your horse and arms to James.  Mount behind me."

Alexander looked from his knight to the standing figure.  The words plunged deep.  James looked uncomfortable.  To take another man's sword and mail, to take his horse, these could be insults incapable of forbearance.  Yet, he was still but a green squire, and all knew it.  There should be no shame in surrendering his accoutrements to James, yet he sickened.  He felt tears of embarrassment and shame sting the corners of his eyes, but in the chill air, the sorrowed moisture mixed with that exacted by the cold and revealed nothing.  This is what Cadmon had referred to a short time before.  The knight had anticipated this eventuality.  He would not fight it.

He dismounted and removed his leather sword belt.  This released the only hold upon both the weapon and the hauberk.  Lithely, he shifted the mail from his shoulders and let it fall at his feet.  Instantly, he picked it up by the shoulders and offered it to James.  If he was to be so trodden, then he would endure it with good grace.  He aspired to knighthood within the shadow of Cadmon Druce, and that required much.  So be it.

James accepted the mail with uncharacteristic solicitude, and thanked him by name.  As James prepared himself, he swiftly explained what had happened.  Then, with sword buckled on, he took the reins and mounted without recourse to the stirrup.

Alexander took the offer of Cadmon's empty stirrup, however, as he had not the room to maneuver up otherwise.  He mounted and settled himself behind the set shoulders of his knight.  He sat behind the cantle, as close as he could wedge himself to the saddle, so as not to place weight on the horse's kidneys, a circumstance which could well result in a rear and a fall.

James concluded his report, saying, "They will likely wait in the woods this side of the farmyard.  They have crossbows."

"Good," responded Cadmon enigmatically.  To Alexander, he said, "Hold well.  Thou art a balanced man.  You have right to be proud."

These words warmed him, but the warmth faded.  It was too tiny a spark to melt so much frost.  Cadmon clicked with his tongue and his horse responded instantly.  They were off.

There was no malice in Cadmon's stripping him of his horse and armor.  It had logic.  Was he naught but a fledgling squire and James, despite his well demonstrated personality flaws, a fully trained knight?  Yes, it made sense, but it rankled and inflamed something beneath the currents of prudence and logic.  He felt insulted.  That was the truth of it.  Insulted and demeaned.  It was demonstration before the world ‑‑ before James, anyway ‑‑ that he was not up to the task at hand.  In his marrow, he did feel up to it, by God!  Up to it as far as the Devil's teeth.  Yes, James had the proven skill, but if he were in Cadmon's place, he would not have....  And he paused, his thought poised like a hunting hound, frozen like a bubble in ice.  If he were Cadmon -- he forced himself to continue -- if he were Cadmon, yes, he would have done just as Cadmon had done.  The thought cooled him so swiftly, he shivered.  Mortification sublimed, and he felt himself weak, as from fierce labor.

On they rode.

The trees grew denser, arching over the track like grasping hands.  Vague shadows drifted from each trunk like smoke, only to diffuse into nothingness.

Cadmon signaled a halt.  The horses pulled convivially toward one another as the men upon them conferred.

"These trees are made for ambush," said Cadmon.

James surveyed the woods and agreed.  "But I think them farther on.  With a small force, they cannot hope to bottle up a bunch of knights like so many grapes.  They will not split their forces far."

"You have good assay.  Yet, let us err on the side of caution."  And with that, Cadmon let his horse find passage through the brambles growing beside the road and, in single file, they entered the rooty basement of the forest.  The way lay reasonably clear for horse or man afoot, but far too close for cart or wagon.

They rode with as much speed as they could tolerate.  Cadmon seemed to have an unerring sense of direction in the thick woods, for they never paused to determine the route.  Branches tangled the sky.  Clouds raced above, but declined the wind's sincere effort at thinning their number.

Suddenly, Cadmon held his arm up and reined his horse to a stop.  The animals breathed heavily, yet above this sound, from the distance before them, came the unmistakable sounds of a fight.  Shouts and metallic ringings resounded frantically.

"We must abate them," shouted Cadmon.  "Onto the road!"

They plunged headlong through the trees and within a few dozen yards found the road curving to intercept them.  They galloped onto it's mottled surface through a gap in the undergrowth.

"Up!  Up!" shouted Cadmon to the horses.  And they flew for him, racing along the road at breakneck speed, trunks and branches sweeping behind them like the wake of a ship.

As they rode, Cadmon and James donned their helms.  That is, Alexander considered ruefully, James donned his helm.  But all was speed and urgency.  He had little time for speculative thought.

After a fleeting tattoo on the highway, they rode out of a curve and broke into a clearing where a pitched battle was underway.  More than a dozen men, some on horseback, hacked at one another with axe and sword.  Noise and color swarmed the field.  In the distance, two unmounted strangers, fighting in coordination advanced upon Thomas.  Though, swinging and shielding with practiced steadiness, Thomas was giving ground and soon would be exhausted.  Burke was on foot, taking the worst from a tall man with an axe, but though his shield was split, he appeared unharmed.  For the moment.

Alexander took all this in within seconds, while half thinking Cadmon had not only seen it, but had doubtless formed a plan of attack in the same space of time.

Then, from behind a crowd of horses, appeared Edward.  The shaft of a crossbow bolt projected from his right hip, and though hobbled, he advanced upon a red-capped adversary with driving force.  The Norbury men were outnumbered and giving good account, but losing.

In a heartbeat, Cadmon transferred the reins to his left hand and pulled his long sword from its sheath.  As he straightened, James shouted and Alexander felt something pass swiftly through the narrow passage between his chest and Cadmon's back.  A crossbow bolt!  Cadmon must have sensed the bolt's passage, for he instantly pulled his horse around and reared, blocking the view of his would-be killer with the well-trained bulk of the horse.  At the same time, he shouted "Off horse!"

Alexander swung himself from behind Cadmon and landed in a crouch.  He was conscious of having only a short knife with which to defend himself.  A crossbow took a while to cock and reload, but how many bowmen were in the woods?  He felt terribly exposed.

"Take cover," shouted Cadmon, and at a subtle command with his legs, the horse bunched its hindquarters and plunged away from danger.  James followed, but veered to the right, coming in behind the men fighting Thomas, intent on relieving Edward's plight.

Alexander drew his knife and ran quickly toward the battle.  He saw Cadmon guiding his horse with his legs and reins while selecting his first adversary.  Without pause, the knight engaged the nearest man, a thickset and murderous looking fellow on a bay palfrey.  He wore hauberk and helm, but carried no shield.

For the first time, Alexander saw Cadmon in real battle.  Like Thomas, he had pacing, waiting for blows to reach the correct point in their arcs before entering his blade for resistance.  Not many weeks before, such detail would have eluded him, but now, it danced before his eyes.  Cadmon cleaved his way through the thick set man as he would have whistled through a field of wheat with a fresh scythe.  He did not pause at the vanquished's fall, but immediately selected the axe wielding marauder pressing Burke.

The battle, thus far, had been enjoined with complete surprise, but the assassins' men now had time to assess the new combatants and reposition themselves.

The axe wielder spun at the sound of hooves behind him.  The axeman tried to cripple the knight's horse with a broad, low swing of the axe.  But Cadmon would have none of that.  He blocked the ignoble blow with the flat of his sword and before the axeman could pull his arm back for a second sweep, had it neatly smashed at the elbow by the compelling rise of Cadmon's return stroke.

That was one difference Alexander saw in his knight's technique.  Where most knights strike and let the strike play itself out before commencing another, Cadmon seemed to put as much energy into stopping the finish flight of a stroke and turning it into another strike as he did in making the stroke in the first place.  Thus combining his strokes, he seemed to move with grand fury, striking half again as many strokes as his adversary in the same amount of time.  He knew the effort required tremendous strength, and to continue such a style for long, endurance as well.

The axeman fell back and transferred his heavy weapon to his good hand.  His other arm hung smashed and useless.  Though the man's mail prevented a cut, the sharp edge of Cadmon's sword had spent its energy over such small area that the axeman may as well have laid his elbow on Edward's anvil and let the smith take a swing at it with a chisel.  Pain shocked the man's face, yet he stood ready to deliver a devastating blow to any creature foolish enough to enter the effective arc of his steel.  He was a professional.

"Burke," said Cadmon above the huffing and clanging behind him, "this man will trouble you little now, but do not turn your back on him!"

"Thank you!" said Burke enthusiastically.  He brought the blade of his sword aloft.

"See well to yourself," said Cadmon, and entered the battle beside Thomas.

Behind the horses, Alexander saw James dismount and advance upon the knight attacking the smith.  The attacker seemed to be a knight, himself, for his dingy surcoat bore a device of some sort.

What James lacked in skill or patience, he more than made up for in energy.  Most knights maintain that in any contest, the strongest man wins.  Within that philosophy, James should prove one of their best champions.  He drove into the craven with two-handed fury, holding his bastard handled blade like a woodsman's axe and sweeping like an old woman in the thralls of May cleaning.  Edward advanced halfheartedly from the other side, but limped more than he had before.  He let James take the brunt of the affair, which he seemed pleased to do.  The wound was telling on the smith's reserves.

The attacking knight switched his stance to meet James, and fairly blocked James's first connecting blow, but underestimated the power behind it.  His sword emitted a sharp ring and burst from his fingers as if shot from a bow.

The knight looked surprised at his empty hands, but had the presence of mind to shout, "I yield!  I yield!" before another blow could fall.

James paused and shouted something Alexander could not understand.  Edward shook his head, and this apparently decided the fate of the defeated.  James pushed the man to the ground instead of striking him with the edge of his blade.

With two of the assassin's men down, the battle diminished around the edges and shifted focus.  James had a prisoner he could not trust to abide by the rules of chivalry, and so was compelled to locate a crossbow with which the wounded smith could shepherd him, freeing James for battle.  As James located a discarded bow, Cadmon reached Thomas.

Burke had been running toward Cadmon when he was beset by a mounted villain swinging a cavalry axe.  Burke was catching bad business from axes that day.  He dodged clear each time the horse spun upon him, and seemed at greater danger from the horse's flailing hooves than from the axe itself.  Alexander ran across the field, watching the ground for dropped weapons.  He found a lance and picked it up at a run.  He raised it to a couched position under his arm and visualized the point driving through the villain's mail and into his heart, saving Burke.

As he reached Burke, the mounted villain spotted him, and in turning to meet the new threat, spun his horse too sharply.  The animal screamed and fell heavily on its left side, spilling the rider, who jumped free.  By the time Burke got around the struggling horse, the man was on his feet.  The horse gained its footing and ran between Alexander and the villain.  Immediately after the horse passed, Alexander charged with the lance and nearly pierced him, but the man two-handedly swung his axe and deflected the blow.  A second mounted ruffian advanced upon them.

"Hadwin!" shouted the mounted man.  His voice was German and his extended hand that of a countryman to a fellow countryman in trouble.  The man with the axe gestured that his fight was over, and under cover of his comrade's sword, mounted behind him.  Together, they galloped to the road, deserting the battle.  Burke and Alexander looked at one another and let out a whoop of joy.  They ran toward Thomas and Cadmon, who were the only ones still in heavy engagement.

Suddenly, Alexander felt a sharp pain seer through the calf of his right leg.  He tripped over something and fell.  Burke continued on for several long strides before he realized his companion was missing.  He turned and saw Alexander raising himself from the ground.  He also saw a growing patch of blood covering the lower part of his leg.

From nowhere, James galloped past them toward the woods, his horse snorting plumes of steam.  He held his sword pommel first, so the blade would not catch in low branches, and without a pause, dove into the colonnade of black trunks in search of the archer.

Alexander cursed as he rolled himself over.  Burke reached him.

"What is it?" cried Burke.  He crouched beside him, his eyes quickly scanning the trees.

"Damn it!  Arrow.  A bolt," said Alexander, his voice full of rage. 

"It is clear through my calf, Burke!"

Burke glanced across the tree line again, and looked down.  "James is after them," he said.  "Let us get away from here!"

Alexander tried to stand.  "God, it hurts."

Burke swiftly gripped Alexander's tunic and hoisted him up.  "Lie across my shoulder," said Burke.  As soon as he had Alexander's weight, he started a hunkered trot toward Edward and Gavin.  "You tripped over the shaft," he said as he ran.  "You broke off the fletching.  We'll pull it on through when we get there."

Ahead, Burke saw Stewart rise to his feet in alarm.  The boy touched Gavin's shoulder to alert him of their arrival.  From the look on Stewart's face, he anticipated the worst.

Thomas heard hooves advancing from behind and a pang of fear jolted him.  He dared not turn to meet the new threat or the two men in front would have him.  Nevertheless, he would have to do something.  What?  In an instant, his training broke through.  He would dive and somersault to his feet.  He lowered his stance, waiting until the hooves reached within yards.

Suddenly, a wave of relief hit him as he heard a familiar voice.

"Fight on, Thomas!  It is Cadmon."

And in moments, the knight had dismounted and was beside him.  Cadmon accepted fight from the larger man, leaving the shorter man to Thomas.

The pair in front paused, taking swings with their blades designed to provide thinking time rather than effective offense.  They assessed the new situation.  Their faces were set, their eyes dark, unblinking.

The shorter man flicked his eyes from Thomas to Cadmon.  "Cadmon," he repeated.

His voice was French, and to Thomas, it was familiar.  "The leader," said Thomas.

That simple declaration had a profound effect on Cadmon.  The knight's face suddenly drained of emotion and all signs of strain vanished.  In the blink of an eye, Cadmon acquired a freezingly ascetic quality, and he began to fight.  He fought as Thomas had never seen him, for defense gave way wholly to offense, and the carriage was overpowering.

Cadmon pressed the enemy, stroke after stroke, and the larger man, though an exceptional swordsman by all accounts, began losing ground.  He had little choice.  Cadmon's energy swept the man before his blade as a gale propels a channel boat.  Cadmon moved as a harvester through grain.  The shorter man, and the better swordsmen of the two, gave way to Thomas only to remain beside his companion. 

Edward followed the swordplay with concern.  He sat upon a saddle blanket and half reclined upon a saddle while Gavin and Stewart worked with cold-stiffened fingers to remove the head of the bolt from his thigh and block the wound.  Cadmon, long from his sight, was now an unknown quantity.  Did he still retain the skill with which he impressed Saladin in Acre?  Could he prevail against practiced swordsmen?  But as Cadmon's blows rained upon the larger man, Edward found himself smiling.  It was the old Cadmon, all right, and quite a show to boot!  He felt so large within himself, he barely felt the wound or Gavin's ministrations.  He had to share Cadmon's prowess with someone.

"Hold it, Gavin," said the smith.  "Turn and watch a knight at work!"

And Gavin turned.  His face betrayed no emotion beside the strain he habitually felt in simply moving about with his deformity.  Edward quickly gave up on seeing a look of shared exultation from the monk.  He turned to Stewart, but found the boy staring blankly to the right, his young face registering nothing at all beyond total attention.  The smith glanced in the direction of Stewart's stare.  He saw Burke running toward them with Alexander thrown across his shoulder.  Abruptly, the joy was gone.  Another fallen man.

Edward returned his attention to Cadmon and Thomas, feeling the world had plunged into shadow and these two were now at hazard.  He felt for the crossbow James had given him, and with a murderous look toward James's prisoner, said to Gavin, "Finish and help me up.  This bow may be needed yet."

Gavin cut the shaft from the head, which remained in the smith's flesh, and hastily tied a bandage.  The job was half done at best.  Gavin pulled the fabric of Edward's legging over the wound as best he could.  Edward was already rising to his feet.  Gavin helped him, but the smith would have managed by himself.  Certainly, the smith was not one to complain or let imagination enlarge his wounds to incapacitating proportion.

As the smith rose, a swift blur exited the woods.  A crossbow bolt flung itself across the space toward Cadmon.  Edward watched it transit the distance, hypnotized by its potential.  It angled in and struck the knight upon his chest, but the superb, tight-linked, six-to-one mail held, and the bolt fell to the ground.

The large man facing Cadmon paused as the bolt went home, but he underappreciated the speed with which his opponent would recover his fury.  In truth, the knight barely noticed the bolt.  It distracted him no more than the first drop of rain from a cloud.  In that ill-considered half-second of time, the large man's life lay exposed, and in that same moment, Cadmon struck.  His sword fell against the man's mailed neck with incredible force, and the neck snapped.  The man seemed pulled to the earth, for in the blink of an eye, he was down.

Thomas had not noticed the bolt, but when the big man fell, he cast a furtive glance at Cadmon.  The knight was turning toward his adversary.

"I claim this man," said Cadmon coldly.  He thrust his sword forward and caught a blow from the Frenchman an instant before Thomas's own sword would have caught it.

Thomas lowered his blade with squinted eyes.  His first impulse had been to protest, but it was Cadmon's right.  It was Cadmon's justice, his trial.  Thomas took a step back and gave the knight free space to face the Frenchman.

A chill breeze moved the air.

"Cadmon?" asked the Frenchman.

Almost imperceptibly, Cadmon nodded, and as he did so, his sword flung itself into motion.  Indeed, it seemed as if the very metal had come alive, and guided and propelled itself in the knight's hands.  It flowed into motion, and the Frenchman found himself immersed in a cataract of blows.

Edward propped himself upon his good leg and aimed the crossbow at Cadmon's opponent.  If anything unwanted occurred, the bolt would fly.  The smith's powerful arms held the engine as steady as an anvil.  His eyes followed every move.  So closely did he focus that he did not see, but rather heard, a burst of hooves from the tree line, and looking up, saw a thin man riding hard upon Cadmon with a bolt in a cocked bow.  A horse length behind the bowman emerged James, spurring his horse, but not gaining upon his quarry.

The mounted bowman, raised his machine toward Cadmon as he approached the knight.  He intended to fire at such close range that the bolt would pierce Cadmon's mail, regardless of the fabric's merits.  Without hesitation, Edward swung his own crossbow from the Frenchman to the mounted bowman and aiming a little in front of the man's position, squeezed the lever and felt the kick of the prod as his bolt shot forward.  From behind it, the smith saw the bolt diminish to a speck, then strike the mounted bowman in the chest, the bolt stuck, but dangled.  The head had caught in the man's mail.  It had wounded him, but nowhere near fatally.  Edward blinked and searched for the man's crossbow, but the impact had made him drop his weapon.

The man was not done, though.  Edward gave him full marks for courage and presence of mind.  In an instant, the mounted man had a sword drawn, and without deflection continued to bear down upon Cadmon.  James had no bow and no chance of intercepting him before he got within striking distance of the knight.  Thomas was moving, but was on the wrong side of Cadmon.

Cadmon saw the attack, anticipated the scythe sweep of the sword, and knowing he could not withstand or deflect the combined energy of a horse and rider pushing forward upon the edge of steel, fell flat upon the ground as the rider thundered by.  The sword stroke passed through empty air inches above his head.  No sooner had the whistling steel departed than the knight was rolling away to his feet, a hair's breadth ahead of the Frenchman's downward chop.  The Frenchman's sword caught against Cadmon's steel and hissed metallically along it until reaching one quillion of the hilt.  By the sound, Edward could feel the strength of the impact.  Cadmon's sword rang.  It was good steel, well made.

Edward looked about for a bolt.

"Another bolt!" shouted the smith.  "Get me another bolt!"

"There is none!" responded Stewart, taking his eyes off the advancing forms of Burke and Alexander.

"There is the one you took out of my leg!"

"It is only a shaft," said Gavin.

"Give it to me!"

Gavin handed the headless bolt to the smith with a wry smile.

"Good man," said the smith.  "Can you cock this damn thing for me?"

Gavin took the crossbow, put his foot in the stirrup and pulled up on the string until it caught with a click in the revolving nut.

"Here!" said the smith.  "Give it to me!"

Gavin complied, and in a second, Edward had fitted the bolt to the string and was again aiming at the horse-borne assassin.  The rider had pivoted about and now faced James, ahorse, and Thomas, on the ground.  He pulled his horse to the left and spurred the animal into a gallop around Thomas, using the young knight as a shield from James's hungry blade.  He was having another go at Cadmon!  The fellow had nerve.  He also had loyalty.  Both were qualities Edward admired and did not expect in an assassin.

Edward aimed his weapon and loosed the bolt.  It sped away as it had before, but there similarity ended.  The shaft pulled to the right and passed harmlessly behind the rider.

"Damn it!" berated the smith.  "By God's teeth!  Damn it!"

Gavin raised a calming hand, but Edward was in no mood.  He grabbed his sword and hobbled toward the fight as fast as his wound allowed.  His entire leg felt numb and barely responded to his commands to move.

"Edward!" called Gavin, but Edward took no notice.

 By then, Burke had reached them with his burden.  Gavin shook his head in exasperation at the smith, then turned his attention to Alexander.  The squire was watching his knight with absolute intensity.  His expression said with plain feeling his regret at not being beside the knight. 

The rider circling around Thomas had his sword arm raised and he bore down with rapidity.

Cadmon swung his sword at the Frenchman in an upward diagonal.  The Frenchman leaped backward to avoid the blade, and so the blade rose upward unimpeded.  With perfect timing, it contacted the outstretched arm of the charging rider and with a loud rending of mail, took the rider's arm off at the elbow.  The momentum of the horse took the rider past, and recovering his balance, Cadmon again turned to the Frenchman.

Edward labored into the arena in time to see the dismembered rider fall from his horse.  James rode upon the fallen man, roaring like a demon.  After the hooves of James's horse had passed, the man moved no more.  He was beginning to like the kind of man James might become.

The Frenchman paused.  Cadmon paused, also.  The Frenchman looked about the field and found it empty.  He was the only man of his force left standing.  He looked at Cadmon with an ironic smile and shrugged.

"I see," said the Frenchman.  He let it go at that.  Both men were breathing heavily.

The air grew still and quiet.  The croak of a single raven whispered into the clearing.  Cadmon and the Frenchman regarded one another, the Frenchman with a curious look of humor, Cadmon, with no humor whatsoever.

"Gentlemen about to kill one another should at least know each other's names," said the Frenchman.  "My name is Jacques."

Cadmon did not answer.  Moments passed.  Thomas, James and Edward formed a rough circle around the two.  Within the circle, Cadmon and the Frenchman took notice only of each other.  They transfixed one another with steady lines of sight.

From the side, Edward regarded the Frenchman's eyes.  Yes, he had courage.  It was plain in the cast of his steady gaze.  It was unfortunate his honor did not match his courage, part for part.

"I see the lay of your mind," said the Frenchman to Cadmon.  "Shall it be individual combat between us, or will you have your men conduct me to the earth?"  He smiled grimly.  "No.  This is your duty, is it not?  Your penance for not taking the shaft which took your wife."

Cadmon did not speak.

"Shall we have trial by combat?" asked the Frenchman.  "Yes, let us put our cases before God and let providence decide.  Let us revive an old tradition.  What do you say, Cadmon?  The best man walks away."

Cadmon assented by raising the tip of his sword.  The knight seemed carved from some cold, northern stone.

Stewart and Burke, supporting Alexander between them, reached the arena.  Gavin remained with the prisoners, but watched the coming trial with the point of his sword pressed against the axeman's throat.  The prisoners would not move.  They were secure.

Despite the movement around them, Cadmon and the Frenchman were oblivious to those around them.

Alexander looked for recognition from Cadmon, but the knight saw no one but the Frenchman.  For him, nothing else existed.  Something smoldered in Cadmon's brain, a dying funeral pyre, a kindling fury.  Whatever threads textured its composition, it grew inexorably, with the force of ice splitting granite.  The very air trembled.  The temperature dropped.  Was it the air?  Alexander looked about.  No, the air was still.  The winter sun made a glowing spot in the sky.  The chill he felt issued from the mouth of Cadmon's soul.  It was outrage incarnate.  It frightened him.  What man could withstand so chilled a blast from so noble a soul?

Cadmon spoke.  "It was Count Linceul, was it not?"  He wanted confirmation.

The Frenchman tilted his head to the side, then smiled his humorless smile.  "The author should not remain anonymous.  It was."  And so the author of the plot, begun months before across the channel, was known.

"Prepare," said Cadmon.  "Bring us shields."

"Ah, that is the proper way.  Swords and shields."  The Frenchman spoke easily, as if he were conversing over a tankard.

Alexander spoke to Stewart, who ran back to the horses and returned with Cadmon's shield.  As Stewart handed it to the knight, he noticed the two emblems comprising the device:  the silhouettes of two ravens.  Cadmon fitted the shield to his arm without removing his eyes from the Frenchman.

Thomas found a shield among the fallen and gave it to the Frenchman.  Audaciously, the Frenchman extended his left arm for Thomas to fit the shield as if he were a squire.  In answer, Thomas merely placed one strap in the man's hand.

The Frenchman smiled broadly.  "Why, thank you!" he said with sarcasm.  He used his sword hand to fit the shield to his forearm.  He moved casually, apparently unconcerned about his safety.  He trusted to the honor of Cadmon's men not to act rashly.

Then, they were ready, both in hauberk, both armed with sword and defended with shield.

"Have you rules to this game?" asked the Frenchman.

Cadmon remained silent.  The hatred he bore the Frenchman surpassed knowing.  In Cadmon's soul, the ethereal winds pitched and blew.

"If I win," continued the Frenchman, "I have your word of honor I will be given a horse and allowed to leave?"

"Across the saddle!" shouted James.

"You will be allowed to leave unharmed," stated Cadmon.

James lost his smile of anticipation.

"Then, I see no need to prolong this interview," said the Frenchman.  As if drawing himself upright to view the field, he suddenly whipped his sword forward in a lunge, aiming for Cadmon's middle.

Stewart gasped in surprise at the speed of the attack.  But Cadmon was ready.  He hit the sword with his shield and let the point of the blade slide past him.

Now, Cadmon threw himself into motion.  Having rested from the fight with the large man, he fell upon the Frenchman with renewed energy.  The fight began in earnest.

It was obvious from the onset, Cadmon's intent was the Frenchman's death.  Nothing less would satisfy the knight.  Edward saw no other possible outcome.  In the end, some might call it simple revenge.  Some might call it justice.  Some, like Stewart, would see it with higher significance, a tableau where the powers of goodness smote the powers of darkness.

Alexander truly did not know of the merits, and did not care.  If Cadmon wanted the man dead, so did he.  For certain, though, the steel on both sides held keen edges and the arms wielding it, skill and strength.  The Frenchman showed excellent prowess with the blade.  The outcome was not assured.

After the first shock, Cadmon and the Frenchman resumed their stances, their gazes riveted upon one another.  The Frenchman relaxed, then tightened his fingers on the grip.  Cadmon had always told him to watch the eyes, the hands, the center of gravity of an adversary.  The tip of the blade told little, but the rest, much.  The Frenchman was about to make a move.

It came swiftly.  Five strokes delivered in furious time to different points, each one casually parried by Cadmon in the same leisurely style demonstrated in the Norbury courtyard during the fight with James.  Did James remember these actions as he watched?  A quick glance at the horse-mounted knight revealed nothing.  James's face twisted in sympathetic rage at the blows.  He barely held himself in check.

Thomas faced the battle solidly.  He watched it dispassionately.  Whatever might happen, he would study.  It was his nature to do so, and though it made him seem aloof, it served him well enough as a knight.  From any outcome, he could learn, but if it came to Cadmon losing, he knew he would step into the arena in Cadmon's stead.

The attack paused.  The Frenchman withdrew to a safe distance and assessed what he had learned from his adversary.  He approached the contest as a professional, unrattled, unshaken.  What he felt inwardly was anyone's guess.  Such a man, possessed of courage without honor, might view the fight as does a millstone to grist, without reflection, simply as a job to do.

Edward, leg bleeding and propped up by the stock of the crossbow, watched with concern.  His eyes were nearly shut, the fleshy wrinkles around them falling into familiar patterns as they evoked the expression taken when their master peered into the flames of the forge.  For his part, the Frenchman would not leave this glade.  Cadmon's pledge was not binding upon him.

On the field, Cadmon stood patiently before the Frenchman.  He invited another attack.

"You are very good, sir knight," said the Frenchman.  "But I, too, am very good."

Cadmon lowered his head slightly, an acknowledgment.  Then he struck.  Cadmon's blade sliced the air right to left in front of the Frenchman, then continuing the stroke, formed a figure eight and sliced down toward the Frenchman's right shoulder.  The Frenchman dodged the blow, but now, Cadmon began his advance, never halting the figure eight sweep of the sword.  Down, across, up, down, across, and so on, creating a deadly rhythm.  The Frenchman parried and dodged, but the resounding clangs of steel against steel told of the energy expended in the blows and the energy necessary to keep them at bay.

Was Cadmon playing with the man?  His rhythm formed a predictability which was obviously easy for the versed Frenchman to counter.  Indeed, the tactic would do little but eventually weaken the knight, yet the constant, steady advance continued, and the Frenchman parried and backed away, waiting as a good fighter would.

Glancing briefly to Thomas, Alexander sought some indication of merit for this tactic from an acknowledged swordsman.  But the same open, analytical expression graced Thomas's face as had since the fight commenced.

The field sounded like the interior of Edward's forge, the sword shocks coming hard and rhythmic, like hammer blows.  Shields resounded hollowly, blades with harshness.  The Frenchman rejoined the offense, trading blows when the rhythm allowed.  Without warning, Cadmon's strokes began taking different, unpredictable pathways.  Still slicing rather than thrusting, he began his new attack in earnest.  The Frenchman fell back, stumbled, recovered.  He pressed another attack upon Cadmon, but was thwarted by the knight.

Cadmon pressed, his muscles and tendons strained past the points where fatigue would claim most men.  Edward understood.  Cadmon wanted to wear himself out.  He wanted the catharsis of battle.  He had demons to purge.

The Frenchman took blow after blow.  Both men were nearing exhaustion, must be.  They breathed heavily, and though the pace of the onslaught had not diminished, it could not continue much longer with such energy.  Mortal men must rest.  Even Cadmon.

Then, abruptly, the fight ended.

The Frenchman, with a look of surprise -- not terror -- took Cadmon's first thrust of the combat, a blow to the left side of his chest, just below the shoulder.  The tip of Cadmon's sword pierced the mail and entered, tearing through wool and leather undergarments, and touched the well of the Frenchman's life.  Cadmon pulled his sword free.

The Frenchman fell to his knees.  Steaming blood stained his tunic.  He said nothing, but in the moment of consciousness left to him, looked up at the man who had slain him.  Cadmon regarded the Frenchman directly.  No emotion played upon his face, no pity, no triumph.  In seconds, the Frenchman toppled onto his side and lay still.  The blood no longer flowed, but it continued to steam obscenely.

For a long time, no one moved.  Then Edward limped forward and put a hand on the knight's shoulder.  Cadmon turned.  There was sadness in his eyes, but not for the Frenchman, for something much farther away.

In silence, they gathered their horses and weapons while Gavin tended the wounded.  Gavin decided to transport Alexander to the house by cart before he attempted to remove the bolt and dress the wound.