43 Fighting

The two combatants fell apart, breathing hard.  They glared at each other, neither wanting to show weakness by asking for a break, but both grateful when the Chief Marshall called out, “Five minutes, gentlemen!”

They backed away from each other, maintaining eye-contact until they reached their respective corners, then sat, shielded from each other and the spectators by their attendants.

Sir Digby of Wessel heaved off his helmet to reveal a nasty gash above one eye.  His squire did his best to staunch the wound, while his mentor, old Sir Herbert, gave hurried instructions.

“Use your feet more, keep out of his way!  He’s got at least a stone on you in his birthday suit, and that fancy armour is weighing him down even more.  Stay in the middle of the lists, and don’t let him goad you into doing anything foolish.”

In the opposite corner, Sir Simon of Mendir leaned back in his seat while his squire and groom both fanned him as if their lives depended on it.  Which they probably did.  His brother stood with arms folded and shook his head.

“What possessed you to wear that armour?  Yon youngster doesn’t need to land a blow on you; he only has to keep you chasing him around the lists and you’ll die of a seizure.”

“Your encouragement is overwhelming as always, Cedric.”

“The whole enterprise is foolish.  All this fuss over a… a woman!”

Sir Simon leaned forward with a snarl.  “The Lady Isabella is the purest creature on God’s green earth and I’ll hear no ill words of her, from you or anyone else.  Is that clear?”

Cedric stood his ground and shrugged.  “Whatever you say, dear brother.”

Before Sir Simon could respond, the Chief Marshall called the fighters back.  As Cedric climbed out of the lists, he became aware that someone was staring at him.  When he turned his head, his eyes met those of Lady Isabella and he raised a quizzical eyebrow.  She merely shrugged and returned her attention to the duel.

He made his way through the crowd to where she sat.

As he bowed, he murmured, “This is all your doing.”

She gave a slight nod of acknowledgement without looking at him.  “What can a mere woman do against the pride of men?” she whispered back.

He straightened before replying.  Careful to keep his face neutral and still speaking in an undertone, he said, “She can stop this fight for a start.  Declare a winner.  Declare a draw.  Declare that she has already accepted my hand and that this is all a charade, created by a fit of pique.”

She had the grace to blush and lowered her eyes.  “I did not intend for things to go this far,” she whispered.  “But you made me so angry…  Dancing all night with that…”

“Daughter of the king.  I was playing the politician not the dastard, Bella.”

“I… I know…”

At that moment, they became aware that the spectators had fallen silent and both returned their attention to the lists.  Sir Simon lay face down on the churned-up ground and Sir Digby stood over him with sword raised, looking towards Lady Isabella for permission to deal the finishing blow.

Taking a deep breath, she stood, opening her mouth to speak.  But before she could say a word, she fainted, falling into Cedric’s arms.  All attention was now on the lady, and the two combatants suddenly found themselves alone in the lists.

Sir Digby thrust his sword into the ground, took off his helmet, and offered his hand to Sir Simon, helping him to his feet.

“What’s going on?” asked the older man, removing his own helmet.

“Looks like the game’s up,” the other replied, nodding towards Lady Isabella’s chair.

The lady was seated again, gazing adoringly into Cedric’s face.  The gentleman was kneeling before her chafing her wrists and speaking words for her ears alone.

“Doesn’t seem much point in carrying on when we’ve both lost,” Sir Digby grinned.

Sir Simon shrugged, as well as he could in his armour.  “You speak a deal of sense, Wessel.  Let’s go and get drunk together, and see if we can’t find a couple of honest wenches of our own!”

“An excellent plan, Mendir!”