Revenge by David Pilling Page B

handled his horse, a big chestnut mare, better than Richard handled Gwen, and had more skill with the lance. Trollope was a renowned champion of the lists, and Richard had never heard of him being discomfited.
    The marshal of the lists was one of Somerset’s knights. He raised his white baton and, after a dramatic pause, let it fall to earth. This would usually have been the signal for the crowd to roar as the contending knights drove in their spurs and charged, but the stalls either side of the lists were empty. The only other man present in the tiltyard was Somerset. He stood leaning against a barricade at a safe distance, watching intently as the knights hurtled towards each other.
    At the last moment Richard flung his entire weight into the collision, leaning low in the saddle and aiming the tip of his wavering lance at the middle of his opponent’s shield. He gritted his teeth against the pain that was sure to come.
    A tremendous shock threw him back against his high cantle, jarring his spine and driving an invisible blade through the scar in his back.
    Trollope’s lance had exploded against Richard’s breastplate. The left side of his vision briefly darkened as one of the jagged fragments flew into his visor. By the grace of God it missed his eye, but sliced open his forehead. Blood started to flow hot and fast. Half-blinded and stunned, Richard swayed dangerously in his saddle as Gwen cantered on, slowing to a halt as her master fumbled with his helm.
    Richard wrenched the suffocating steel bucket off his head and gratefully sucked in cool, fresh air. The joust had barely lasted a minute, but sweat rolled down his face, mingled with blood pouring from the gash over his eye. Wincing at the pain, he reached up and carefully plucked out the splinter.
    The sound of clapping reached him. Somerset was sauntering down the lists, all well-muscled elegance in his short black tunic and red hose, smiling lazily as he applauded.
    “Well ridden, Bolton,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Andrew?”
    He stopped and glanced up at Richard’s opponent. Trollope tossed away the shattered remnant of his lance and grunted as he heaved off his tilting helm.
    “I would indeed, lord,” he replied, panting. “He kept his seat, and came damn near to throwing me off mine.”
    That was a lie – Richard’s lance had missed Trollope’s shield by a wide margin – but a good-natured one.
    “My thanks,” said Richard, bowing his head, one hand clamped against his wound to staunch the bleeding, “and I apologise if I caused you any offence last night.”
    “Not at all,” said Trollope, smiling and displaying a mouthful of broken and rotting teeth. Richard felt elated. He had survived the joust without embarrassment or serious injury, and succeeded in impressing Somerset.
    At dinner that evening, when he and Trollope were toasting each other in spiced hippocras, a stranger was brought into the hall by two men of the garrison.
    He looked exhausted, white-faced and unshaven with deep pouches under his eyes. His cloak and boots were sodden and travel-stained.
    “Who are you?” demanded Somerset, who hated to be disturbed at meat.
    The man halted in the middle of the hall, bowed, and went down on one knee. “Thomas Swale, lord Duke, an esquire in the King’s service,” he said heavily. “I have news from England. Dire news, lord, with no means of sugaring it.”
    Somerset swallowed and wiped the crumbs from his mouth. “Well? Spit it out, Swale.”
    “Three days ago, the Earl of Warwick met the King’s army in battle outside Northampton. The Earl won a complete victory. Over three hundred of our men were slaughtered, killed in the rout or drowned as they tried to cross the River Nene. With my own eyes I saw the Duke of Buckingham slain, along with the Earl of Shrewsbury, and the Lords Egremont and Beaumont. All slain, lord, outside the King’s tent, attempting to defend His Majesty’s person.”
    Richard felt a chill steal