The ditch is a little wider than a horse is long, a jump I could make without much effort in a tunic and breeches. But it will take a great effort to make the jump in my armor. I hesitate at the edge, absently noting the tips of sharpened stakes that line the bottom. A group of soldiers sitting on the front-most benches watch me closely, so I try to strike a relaxed posture, and watch the action on the field. Tristan takes position at my side.
The king nearly severs an old man’s head. The blood sprays in a dozen streams, like sunset rays in a misted forest. A woman wearing bloody blonde plaits at either side of her face takes hold of Richard’s armored leg. He hacks off both her arms with one swing, then stabs her in the face several times. The blood flows down her cheeks like tears.
“No.” My words push out through clenched teeth.
Richard cleaves the top of the woman’s head and she topples backward stiffly.
Morgan’s voice rings out from somewhere behind me. “This is mortal sin! These are God’s creatures he murders! They can be cured!”
The king’s horse falls to its forelegs as plaguers find gaps in the barding. Richard swings out of the saddle and sheathes the sword, draws a maul from the dying horse’s saddle. No more careless sweeps. Death comes for the plaguers on the end of a five-pound slab of metal. Their bodies are mashed and spattered onto the field. He destroys them. Strives to rid the tilting field of all humanity.
A wounded plaguer in a herald tabard rises behind Richard. The king spins as the afflicted man crashes into him and the two fall to the ground.
King Richard roars and rolls so that he is on top of the plaguer. He holds the maul’s handle at the very top, so that his gauntlets are above his head and the thick head of steel down by his chest. Another shout resounds across the lower courtyard as he buries the man’s skull beneath five inches of steel and three inches of Norfolk clay.
Richard whirls to face the crowd. He raises the maul crosswise over his head and howls once more.
If there is cheering, I do not hear it.
All I hear are the boisterous swells of conversation and the sharp laughter of the nobility. The king holds his pose for a few heartbeats. The frog-helm pivots so he can take in one end of the crowd, then the other. He jogs the maul up and down a few inches again, as if the crowd might notice the motion. But they do not.
He hurls the maul to the ground. The weapon bounces, ringing off the grass. The king throws off his gauntlets and twists four bolts on his shoulder. He removes his helm and tosses it to the ground, fumbles with the cords of the leather cap he wears.
Richard is not as handsome as his father was, but he possesses a fineness of features that Elizabeth says makes him attractive. Those fine features glisten with sweat today. His body is slender, so slender that his secret nickname among many knights is, “The Damsel.” He wears a mustache and trimmed beard, and a thick mass of unruly black hair falls to the nape of his neck.
The king motions toward the squires. “Come!” he shouts.
One of the young men shoves planks across the trench and another squire crosses the boards, holding his arms out for balance. Richard waves toward the stable where the two knights are posted. “More!” he shouts. “No breastplate or helm this time.”
One of the knights holds up a fist toward the king to acknowledge the instructions. The squire begins unbuckling the straps of the king’s breastplate.
He wants to do it again. He wants to butcher more men and women, and I cannot allow it.
I am the champion of the dead.
The wide trench stands between me and my oath. I back up three steps, take a long breath, and run at the ditch. Three paces. One. Two—
Something crashes into me. I stumble to the side and put my hand down to keep from toppling into the trench. A soldier in chain mail grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet.
“Where are you off to, then?” he
The king nearly severs an old man’s head. The blood sprays in a dozen streams, like sunset rays in a misted forest. A woman wearing bloody blonde plaits at either side of her face takes hold of Richard’s armored leg. He hacks off both her arms with one swing, then stabs her in the face several times. The blood flows down her cheeks like tears.
“No.” My words push out through clenched teeth.
Richard cleaves the top of the woman’s head and she topples backward stiffly.
Morgan’s voice rings out from somewhere behind me. “This is mortal sin! These are God’s creatures he murders! They can be cured!”
The king’s horse falls to its forelegs as plaguers find gaps in the barding. Richard swings out of the saddle and sheathes the sword, draws a maul from the dying horse’s saddle. No more careless sweeps. Death comes for the plaguers on the end of a five-pound slab of metal. Their bodies are mashed and spattered onto the field. He destroys them. Strives to rid the tilting field of all humanity.
A wounded plaguer in a herald tabard rises behind Richard. The king spins as the afflicted man crashes into him and the two fall to the ground.
King Richard roars and rolls so that he is on top of the plaguer. He holds the maul’s handle at the very top, so that his gauntlets are above his head and the thick head of steel down by his chest. Another shout resounds across the lower courtyard as he buries the man’s skull beneath five inches of steel and three inches of Norfolk clay.
Richard whirls to face the crowd. He raises the maul crosswise over his head and howls once more.
If there is cheering, I do not hear it.
All I hear are the boisterous swells of conversation and the sharp laughter of the nobility. The king holds his pose for a few heartbeats. The frog-helm pivots so he can take in one end of the crowd, then the other. He jogs the maul up and down a few inches again, as if the crowd might notice the motion. But they do not.
He hurls the maul to the ground. The weapon bounces, ringing off the grass. The king throws off his gauntlets and twists four bolts on his shoulder. He removes his helm and tosses it to the ground, fumbles with the cords of the leather cap he wears.
Richard is not as handsome as his father was, but he possesses a fineness of features that Elizabeth says makes him attractive. Those fine features glisten with sweat today. His body is slender, so slender that his secret nickname among many knights is, “The Damsel.” He wears a mustache and trimmed beard, and a thick mass of unruly black hair falls to the nape of his neck.
The king motions toward the squires. “Come!” he shouts.
One of the young men shoves planks across the trench and another squire crosses the boards, holding his arms out for balance. Richard waves toward the stable where the two knights are posted. “More!” he shouts. “No breastplate or helm this time.”
One of the knights holds up a fist toward the king to acknowledge the instructions. The squire begins unbuckling the straps of the king’s breastplate.
He wants to do it again. He wants to butcher more men and women, and I cannot allow it.
I am the champion of the dead.
The wide trench stands between me and my oath. I back up three steps, take a long breath, and run at the ditch. Three paces. One. Two—
Something crashes into me. I stumble to the side and put my hand down to keep from toppling into the trench. A soldier in chain mail grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet.
“Where are you off to, then?” he
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