"Good? Well…" Brian looked away; and Jim stared. It was rare to see his friend embarrassed. The cold feeling in him increased. "I would say—but the fact is, James—" added Brian with a sudden rush of words, "I was lifted off Blanchard's back before I was well able to see him closely. Not to excuse myself—it is a man's own fault if he is set down—but let me say, first, he is indeed Bright, James; very, very Bright."
"Well, then…" Jim hesitated, hunting for a way to put the question that was foremost in his mind without hurting Brian's feelings. "I suppose you had trouble picking up the fine points of his lance work—"
"Oh, I was not as helpless as all that, James! I could hear the approach of his horse; and clearly, it was no trained and gifted warhorse such as Blanchard. More than that, his beast was uncomfortable. He was either sitting too far back in his saddle—a mark of a rider with little skill, as I have remarked to you before this—or holding his weapon too tightly, trying to aim with it; another fault of squires in particular and knights without real practice. But that brings me exactly to what I wish to suggest to you."
"What's that?"
"He will be too Bright to see clearly—so do you deliberately ride wide of him on your first essay against him—miss him, in short. They may cry coward at you, but the advantage is that I, watching from the side here, may see better how he does what he does, so warn you before your second pass, and give you the victory when you tilt next."
And Brian sat back in his saddle, literally beaming at Jim.
"I see," said Jim. His thoughts were racing furiously in half a dozen different directions at once. "You think I'll be able to win against him if you can tell me some things about him? You've never thought too much of my lance work."
"To be frank, James, I have not. But unless my ears deceived me, from the sound of his horse's hoofbeats, his own panting and grunting when he was close upon me, and the angle at which his spearpoint struck what might as well have been a blind man opposing him—" Brian halted the rush of words to smile at Jim.
"—and lo!" He beamed. "You behold me essentially unhurt! I was unhorsed, that much is true; but with such advantage he should have taken me in the helm and broken my neck, rather than at the base of my shield and merely pushed me out of the saddle. It is also true," he added, with a touch of darker tone suddenly showing in his face, "that I did not have my feet as firmly in the stirrups as I might have… because of the unusualness of his Brightness. Else he would never have taken me out of the saddle at all. But all this is not the point."
"Of course not," said Jim.
"The point is, he is as poor a man with a lance as—as any I've seen; and watching from the side where his light should not blind me so, I will be able to tell you how to meet him. Trust me, James—with a very little skill you will unhorse him. Then down you to the ground; and it is a matter of swords, with which I know you to be…" Brian coughed a little, embarrassed once again. "More fit to win."
Jim grunted noncommittally. He knew only too well he was only slightly better with the sword than he was with the lance—and that made him among the worst of knights with both. On the other hand, he knew Brian was just the opposite: a demon with a lance, a wizard with a sword. He had no doubt at all that Brian could tell him what to do, faced with the Bright Knight. The only question would be then—could he do it? What had Brian not thought to tell him?
Like most masters of an art or skill, Brian tended to forget that what was obvious to him now, with his years of long and weary practice, was not necessarily so to someone else who had no such experience. Brian had not prepared Jim for this moment.
A crowd of what Jim took to be retainers had come out of the small door in the castle entrance, undoubtedly to see the show. Another female figure in white was just now emerging and joining them. Jim peered at the crowd through the lower half of his spectacle lenses; then realized what he was doing and snatched them off his nose putting them in their case at his belt. It was not that he did not see as well through them, but he needed no unnecessary irritations at a time like this. He was aware of the strong beating of his heart in his chest.
Trumpets sounded from the castle. Both great doors swung wide. A figure on horseback emerged and rode out over the drawbridge.
Involuntarily, Jim's hands jerked in an attempt to come up and shield his eyes. For he could make out no detail of man or horse. The man himself was the center of a blinding glare of light. Trying to see him was, indeed, like attempting to look directly at the unyielding white sun of Lyonesse.
Chapter Fourteen
But there was no mystery to it, Jim realized almost at once. The white sun of Lyonesse in its morning position was well clear of the trees directly behind him; and the armor his opponent was wearing was as reflective, if not more so, than the finest glass mirror. Magic was at work here, again; and undoubtedly it was some of it that was now focusing the reflection from the armor directly into his eyes.
He tried moving his head. Sure enough, the blaze of reflected light seemed to move with him. There would be no avoiding its blinding effect. It was far more powerful than any such thing he might have expected to encounter here. To safely ride past the other knight without crossing lances with him, Jim would have to ride a good ten or fifteen feet to one side of the direct path.
Nor had Brian been speaking idly about the spectators crying "Coward!" if he rode so. From what he had seen of tournaments, and other warlike exercises, those who watched would not be slow to make their feelings known. It was no matter to Brian, who—once convinced he was in the right—would not care if the whole world cried "Coward!" at him. But Jim had grown up being responsive to the reactions of others.
He became conscious that already the glare was making his eyes water. Jim rubbed them clear with the heels of his hands, temporarily shutting out the light—and with the feel of the hands against his closed eyelids, understanding dawned in him. He had not only been blinded, but unthinking… "Look for the front hooves of his horse. With luck you can see him coming," he heard Brian saying, in a tone of encouragement, beside him.
"It's all right, Brian," he said, still covering his eyes with one hand. With the other he felt for the case holding the glasses, found them and fished them out. "I've got something of my own, here—"
His first thought had been to alter the glasses slightly to make them a perfect foil for the glare. Then he was nagged once more by the recollection that he dared use none of his magic if Morgan le Fay was watching—as she probably was.
The glasses would have to serve as best they could without any changes. Still keeping his eyes shielded, he sneaked the spectacles up on his nose and hooked the temples over his ears.
Cautiously, he took his hand from his eyes and looked in the direction of the Bright Knight; and the spectacles needed no adjusting. They worked excellently. The glare was gone. The upper half of the lenses wiped it out, leaving all else plain to be seen. He found himself looking at the shape of a knight in armor, a shape that was perfectly featureless. The blackness of him was so solid and lightless it was as if his shape was a hole into a starless infinity, cut into the scene before the castle.
"These things I just put on my nose," he said, low-voiced, to Brian, "are magic engines. It's all right. I can see him clearly, now."
"Can you so?" But there was no doubt in Brian's voice. The magic word magic had taken care of any disbelief there might have been in Brian. "Still, James, I would counsel you to pass him untouched on the first essay; and on the second, follow my advice."
"Be glad to," said Jim. He was about to pull down the newfangled visor he had recently talked the castle blacksmith into adding to his helmet, when he realized this would knock the glasses off his face.
For the ride-by it wouldn't matter; and he might be able to figure out something before he had to ride directly at the man. A gust of irritation moved him. Damn all magic things, anyway—there was always a limitation, either to the magic itself, or to whatever was necessary to make it work.
A
trumpet pealed. Jim, looking, saw the young boy in livery he had met earlier, taking a long, straight horn of silver from his lips.
"He starts!" said Brian; and Jim saw that the Bright Knight already had his horse at a trot, working up to the gallop that he and Jim should both be at when they came together.
There was no more time for thought; and Jim was just as glad there was none. He lifted his reins, leaned forward. Gorp in his turn broke into a trot, understanding immediately what he and Jim were up to and snorting an eagerness to be at the oncoming horse.
The Bright Knight came at him more swiftly as their speeds increased. Jim saw he was indeed sitting too far back, as far as the high cantle of his saddle behind him would allow. The point of his lance, already leveled in Jim's direction, was wavering around in the air—a certain proof he was, as Brian had suggested, holding it too tightly and trying to aim for Jim too early, instead of merely balancing the long weapon in his grasp until the last possible moment. Only in that last second should he be seizing it with all his strength, to direct it at an opponent already upon him.
Temptation stirred in Jim. In sharp contrast to Brian, Jim secretly hated jousting. Privately, to Angie, he had called it "an invitation to a train wreck." He had steadily avoided having a bout with lances with Sir Giles de Mer, at the Earl of Somerset's Christmas party the year before; in spite of the fact that Giles had come all the way from Northumberland in hopes of matching lances with both Brian and Jim. Brian, in fact, had taken for granted Jim would agree to meet Giles under Brian's critical eye, so that he could better instruct the two of them—and he had been puzzled as to how the chance to do this never worked out.
Now, however, for the first time in his experience, Jim was tempted to deliberately engage in one of the train wrecks. For the first time, he realized he was looking at a knight who might be no better with the lance than he was—indeed, the more he looked the more confident he felt. The feeling was outside all his experience—but the temptation was real.
He could explain to Brian, saying he had meant to pass by the Bright Knight, but blundered against him in the confusion of getting close—sanity returned to him just in time. Brian might believe anything linked with the name of magic, without question; but, with his experience in interpreting every move of a horse and rider, he would see through Jim's excuse in a flash. And facing Brian's shock on being lied to by his closest friend in that transparent, almost childish fashion, would be more than Jim himself could face—particularly if the Bright Knight had managed to unhorse him, after all.
No. He must do what Brian had told him to do.
But even while he had been thinking this, the combined speed of the two, now galloping, destriers had almost brought them together; and, to his surprise, Jim now saw the tight-held lance of his opponent swinging away from him, out to one side. After a sudden blink of bafflement, understanding flashed on him.
The other thought, Jim realized, that beyond doubt this stranger he faced, like all his other opponents up until now, was so light-dazzled he could not see what was happening.
The reason for the unusually tight grip on the lance, then, was that the Bright Knight had never had any intention of winning with the point of it. Instead—and even as he realized this, Jim saw the length of the other's lance being swung out to bar his path. He had just time to jerk Gorp's head to the side, throwing the big horse off-stride but turning him out far enough so that only the very tip of that lance scored a short path across the left edge of Jim's shield.
Snorting and tossing his head—now in deep annoyance at his rider—Gorp however let himself be steered back to Brian.
"A foul hit! A craven's strike!" fumed Brian as Jim halted beside him. "The ditch-born bastard! He would have struck you a sweeping blow had you not turned just in time. Let me see your shield—yes, there stands the proof for all to see; the scratch of his point on your shield. And to think it was the way he must have struck me, also, from my saddle—I thought I felt a blow on that side. But I was dazed from the fall; and, taking him for a gentleman, never suspected. James, cannot you by magick let me seem like you and ride this next time in your place? I would make him to learn what one who knows his lance work can do with such a one as he!"
"I'm afraid not," said Jim, suddenly finding reason for blessing the fact he could not use his magic here. "This is Lyonesse, remember; where I may not do much I know."
"Forgive me, James! Of course!" said Brian. "Yet it comes hard—nonetheless, I will put it from mind. Now, it is you who must ride against him in a moment. Let me quickly tell you what to do."
"Yes. What?"
"You remember how I have been at pains, James, to teach you the art of tilting your shield from a foe's point to make it glance off? This time I would have you use it in a new way."
Brian paused.
"Right—I mean, I shall!" said Jim, correcting himself hastily—remembering his medieval role as a pupil, he knew Brian was waiting to hear his promise.
"Very good. This time, then, when you meet him—perhaps even a moment before because you are not yet as practiced with the shield as might be; and because he will be so sure of his sweeping blow that he will not be ready to adjust to another—you must crouch low in your saddle."
Another pause on Brian's part.
"I shall do so," said Jim.
"Good. Cover yourself as largely as may be with your shield, and at the last moment swing it out to protect your left side, with its bottom point against the armor fringe there at the bottom of Gorp's saddle. So that you and he shall take the shock of the blow together. You understand?"
"I do," said Jim.
"Very well. Remember, be sure your head is down below the top edge of your shield, with no more than a small part of the top of your helm showing above. There is no shame in doing this, James, for you know there are no rules in wayside encounters such as this."
"I shall so perform!" said Jim, doing his best to commit Brian's every word to memory.
"Wait. One last word, for I see him making ready to come at you again. The blow of his lance sweep, if unsuccessful, will unsteady him in his saddle; and if you, yourself, hit him at the same time with a sweep of your own lance—hitting him in the back, James, in the back!—it cannot fail to topple him from his saddle. In a tournament this would be disgraceful beyond belief—but here, against such a foe, it is perfectly justified. Then quickly get you down and your sword at his face. He will yield—and now time is out. You must go."
"Right!" said Jim, forgetting himself completely. He hastily poked his spectacles back into their proper position—they had slid down his nose while he was talking with Brian—lifted Gorp's reins, and rode.
The Bright Knight was already into his trot, holding what seemed through the spectacles to be a pure white, but otherwise a perfectly normal if somewhat light, lance. As Jim rode, his opponent broke into a canter, and a moment later Gorp followed suit on his own initiative.
Suddenly it was all too real. The fear of the meeting at arms was utterly gone from Jim; and with it the temptation to compete with his own skill against a rider no more skillful than he. What was left was a surge of adrenaline all through him, and the realization that this land was solid as any earth he had walked or ridden on—and lance sweep or not, the aim of the Bright Knight was to kill him, either after he had been knocked out of the saddle or once he had been conquered and made prisoner.
He and his opponent drew together at what seemed a much faster pace than before. When he saw the white lance shaft of the other swinging out sideways, he crouched behind his shield, holding it as Brian had told him; and, blindly, swung his own lance. It struck something so solidly that his hand quivered and stung as if he had tried to catch and hold the moving part of an engine.
He almost dropped the lance, but not quite. As he pulled Gorp to a skidding stop and turned the horse about, he saw the Bright Knight lying motionless on the grass. His horse, evidently as untrained as the knight himself, was running off toward the ca
stle.
He took Gorp back to the fallen man and dismounted, tossing his reins ahead to the ground. Gorp instantly stood still. The Bright Knight still lay unmoving, his eyes shut, his face pale. Jim felt a sudden emptiness inside him; had he killed the other—no, the knight was still breathing, steadily. Just knocked out, probably.
Jim dropped to one knee to loosen the wide, padded collar of chain mail that protected the Bright Knight's throat, to make it easier for him to breathe—and at that moment became aware of a tumult of voices and an approaching pounding of feet. He looked up to see all those who had been watching running toward him.
"James! Out sword!" cried Brian's voice in his ear; and a manacled hand, its chain stretched tight to the other manacle, reached swiftly to pull out the sword still in the fallen knight's sheath.
Jim drew his sword and stood ready against the onrush. Brian had said there were no rules in these wayside adventures.
The retainers' lives and livelihoods, he remembered, would be invested in their overlord. Knightly honor was for knights—it was beside the point if swarming over a knight on foot and knifing him to death—even if half a dozen of them were killed or crippled in the doing—would save their Lord or master. As Brian had pointed out, this was no tournament field with an audience watching closely for any violation of honor or manners. It was a private fight and practicality ruled.
But a high voice overrode the other shouts—a high voice on a note of command. The shouting stopped, the rush of retainers stopped; and the woman in the elaborate white dress came forward alone. She ran to kneel at the side of the fallen warrior.
Jim, seeing her alone, had returned to unlacing the neck armor. Just then it came loose and fell away, as did the helm; and for the first time Jim took a good look at the face of the man before him.
Having done so, he stared, for the face he saw under a thick thatch of black hair was the beardless face of a boy just turning the corner into manhood—probably not yet out of his early teens. No wonder he had been as inexpert as Jim, in a time when most squires could be seasoned fighters, with a number of different weapons.