Flash In The Pan - 18. Taking a Hit

Helm off, and without his chain-mail mittens, Robert FitzSimon sat on cool grass and chewed morosely on a hunk of bread with a slice of meat for his midday meal. He spat out another lump of gristle before turning to take a gulp of sour red wine to wash the rest down. Then came a sigh – the last few coins had been wasted on the food.

Life as a landless knight was precarious. The tourney at Warwick was the latest amongst many such hopes of attracting a wealthy baron on the lookout for men. Visions of holding his own fief and castle came and went. He looked around the field crowded with contestants, food sellers, hawkers, and spectators. Not for him the luxury of a gaily-coloured tent, servants, and a squire eager to attend his needs.

"My charger eats more than I do."

The heavily-built dun horse napped at grass close by, tail swishing. In the sun, sweat trickled down Robert's back under the thick, padded gambeson. How knights on crusade in the Holy Land survived, he couldn't imagine. Tales recounted by those who returned were scarce believable with descriptions of fabulous beasts, an all-conquering sun, and never-ending sand. Even his chain mail was hot to the touch. A doze threatened.

The lethargy went away when one knight in particular rode by. A metal coif lay pooled on his shoulders, allowing Robert to feast his eyes on noble features and a shock of reddish-gold hair. The man held his seat well, sitting upright and moving easily with the horse. His shield was painted with the device of a red hawk on a white ground. Robert glanced at his own – dull and well-used – like its owner. He scowled. The knight wore a plain linen surcoat over his armour – another custom brought back from the Holy Land. Had he returned from fighting in faraway lands?

Robert stared until the other man and his entourage passed from view. Excitement over, he lay back and allowed his eyelids to close.

"God give you good day, Sir Robert."

The young knight jerked awake and leapt to his feet to greet the speaker. "And to you, Sir Thomas."

Everyone knew the man stood before him. His heart thumped. Thomas de Beaumont was a rich baron who held Warwick and other fiefs for the Crown. It was rumoured in the town he spoke often with the King at court.

The older man regarded him with interest. "You did well in the lists – a steady horse is a boon."

His praise made Robert glow. The other man must have sought out his name before he approached. One of the accompanying squires stared at Robert's plain, well-used shield and weaponry; his lip curled with disdain before looking away.

Beaumont smiled. "I welcome any knight with skill at arms into my household. It is rumoured the King plans a campaign against the Scots. They are up to their usual tricks."

Robert held his breath and listened closely.

"Should you win the contest, my patronage and protection will be yours in return for service given."

"I thank you, Sir Thomas." He smiled broadly.

The other man gave him a quizzical look. "You have to be made champion first. Guy de Moulins is a skilful jouster. Many have failed to meet his challenge."

The same squire answered, his voice breaking halfway through. "He is skilful, my lord. Sir Giles d'Assailly was unseated in their last joust."

Robert glowered at the youth. Dull-eyed and stocky, he looked an unpromising addition to the knighthood. A family with influence and wealth had no doubt persuaded Beaumont to take him on for training instead of some other youth possessed of more merit. He shrugged. Moulins, on the other hand, would be a dangerous opponent. His stomach clenched at the thought.

With a gracious nod, Beaumont moved on. Robert watched him approach another knight and start a conversation. His mood darkened. It was an offer being made to any knight left in the contest who didn't already hold land. Another shrug – the offer would be of no use at all if he didn't win his next bout.

Later in the afternoon, Robert stood by his horse, a nest of vipers writhing in the pit of his belly. The herald had announced the final joust - Moulins and himself, Robert FitzSimon. Out of habit, he checked his chain mail, or what he could see of it, for damage. Satisfied, he pulled the coif over his head, settling links flat. Gauntlets followed. Selecting a lance was easy - he had one left.

"You, boy!" Robert spotted a young squire nearby. "Pass me that helm."

Willingly enough, the youth grasped hold and heaved it up into view. Robert took the iron helm and put it on, fastening the leather strap under his chin. Stuffy, hot darkness surrounded him, with only a slit to see through.

He climbed into the saddle – the same boy stood close. "Lance. ... Shield." He was ready.

Nothing mattered but his opponent's shield. Hurtling towards each other at the speed of a galloping horse, Robert's eyes, squinting through metal, fixed on that one spot. Sweat poured down his face. He crouched forward in the saddle. A green castellated device filled his world. He grasped the lance more tightly. Time to act, to win.

Dazed, Robert FitzSimon lay sprawled on trampled grass; his horse circled nearby. Everything ached. It was only by God's grace no limbs had been shattered as he fell off. Staring up at the sky, the young knight tasted the bitterness of defeat. It had come upon him with such swiftness. At the last moment, the other rider served slightly. His own lance missed the target. The other man's weapon connected with such shattering force on his shield that remaining mounted was impossible.

Slowly, he picked himself up. Castles, a fief, being a household knight - they would all have to wait until another day.