him. He pushed back his mail coif. Sweat streaked his face, stained with
rust from inside the helm, marking the edge of his curling, half-plastered
black hair. He did not look toward Lancaster, but still to her, breathing in
great deep gusts.
She watched the attendants rehelm their master, and then met her
champions silent plea with calm indifference. He closed his eyes and turned
his face upward, like a man under torture.
The duke rushed at him. Without helm, the Green Sire came on guard. He
ducked his lieges left-handed swing and pressed close inside the other
mans reach, nullifying the lack of a helmet. Lancaster tried to grapple him
with both arms, but the injured one would not lift past his waist. The
dukes sword cut awkwardly across the back of the Green Sires head,
spreading crimson on black curls and mail. The blades locked at their hilts,
crossed, pointing at the sky, shaking with the force of each mans strength.
Lancaster made a hard shove, turning his sword inward between them,
trying to slash it into the green knights unprotected face. The tip sliced
her champions cheek, but he used the sudden motion to thrust his elbow back
and up in one vicious lunge, ramming the guard against Lancasters fist,
breaking the dukes hold on his weapon. The duke made a desperate recovery,
trying to retain his blade. The sword dropped, the tip lodging for an
instant against the earth just as Lancaster caught it. As he stumbled, the
Green Knights blade came up broadside against his helmet.
He fell sideways over the lodged sword, his exclamation of agony audible
above the noise as he hit the ground on his injured side. He rolled onto his
back.
The Green Sire stood above his liege, sword point at his throat.
Lancaster lay weaponless, injured, felledand still made no surrender. The
crowd held its breath so still that the panting of the two knights seemed
the loudest sound.
Her champion looked up at her, holding the sword steady. The blood on his
face and hair was darkening, gathering dust; he looked like a devil risen
from some pit, imploring her to save him.
My lady! The words were an exhalation of despair.
Melanthe lifted her plume and fanned herself. She laughed aloud, in the
silence, so they could all hear.
Yes, thou mayest have pity upon him, she said, with a mocking bow of
her head.
Her knight pulled his sword from the dukes throat and flung it half
across the list. As Lancaster sat up, the Green Sire fell on his knees
before his prince, head bowed. He pressed his gauntleted hands over his
eyes. Slowly, like a tree falling, he leaned lower and lower, until his
hands and forehead touched the ground.
Pax, my dread lord. His muffled voice was agonized. Peace unto you.
Painfully Lancaster hauled himself to his feet, standing against the
support of one of his attendants. Still in his helmet, he seemed to overlook
the man in the dirt at his feet. He searched out Melanthe on the
escafaut,
and then turned his back to her, walking unsteadily out of
the lists with his attendants clustering about him.
Melanthe rose and descended the steps. As she walked toward the gate,
youths and men-at-arms and onlookers parted, gazing at her. She moved to the
center of the dusty lists, where the green knight still knelt with his face
to the ground, blood matting his hair and staining his neck.
Green Sire, she said mildly.
He sat back, staring for a long moment at the hem of her gown. Then he
wiped his gauntlet across his eyes, smearing blood with rust. He turned his
face up to her.
All light of worship and chivalry was gone from his look. He was still
breathing hard, his teem pressed together to contain it.
She knelt and reached for his right arm, tying the jesses about the
vambrace and mail. The heat of his body radiated from metal armor.
Gryngolets varvels made a silvery plink against his arm, the precious
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