lance length, Drake searched for an opening, his mouth and eyes in constant use. “I fear your mother bedded a donkey and her spawn came out the wrong end of a mule. What say you?—half-ass, complete ass, or the mule itself, equus riding equus , the smarter equus with hoofs carrying the dumber equus with boots? Surely you can find better sport than an innocent lass.”
The black lance repeatedly jolted the red-and-gold shield. “Not so innocent, Drake. Just ask every man jack. Better yet, ask your doting king about the pleasures his brother takes in highborn maidens the likes of Geneviève de Berneval.”
The lady’s name, tossed around as sport, belonged to the maiden Drake aspired to take as his wife one day very soon. She had sent him off at the start of the festivities and would have been watching now had the two knights stayed within the vicinity of the viewing stands, from whence she had cheered him on, her daisy yellow hair easy to spot and her beauty surpassing all the other fair maidens.
He answered Maynard’s insult with a sharp thrust of his sword. The jolt to Maynard’s breastplate caused the destrier to whinny, throw up his head, and step into a wide, counterbalancing circle. When beast and rider came back around, Drake made ready with another blow and delivered it with such unbridled ferocity that Maynard of Clarendon toppled from his saddle, landing with a thunderous thump and a louder, “Oomph!”
“Ah, landed on your arse … or should I say ass.” Drake dismounted and kicked away the knight’s dislodged lance.
Fumbling for the hilt of his sword, Clarendon scrambled to his feet.
“You owe the lady an apology,” Drake said, “and by God, she shall get one!” Two quick slices of Drake’s sword and Maynard lost his. A hook of Drake’s foot and Maynard fell onto his rump. A prick of white knight’s blade at the base of black knight’s throat, and Maynard broke out in sweat. Drake threw off his helm and slung back his coif. He intended to make Clarendon sweat a bit longer, too make his bowels run loose with fear, and to put the fear of God and of Drake fitzAlan into him.
The roar of hoofs approaching distracted him from his appointed task. Since his hearing counted only one horse, he took his time identifying the rider and appreciated instead the dread showing on the black knight’s face.
Drake misjudged the charger’s speed and turned too late. The horse arrived at full gallop. The rider’s boot hooked him under the jaw at the same driving gait, flinging him back in a clatter of armor and knocking him quite senseless.
Chapter 2
THIS MUST BE HELL, DRAKE decided, which meant he must be dead.
The evidence was convincing. The heat. The blood-red backwash. The smell of spilt blood. And the detached mind screaming into a black void. If this were Hell, it negated everything he had chosen not to believe. God existed. Perhaps even the Devil.
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. The words came to him unbidden, but it was too late. There was no turning back now. No amending a life spent as an unrepentant heathen. He had chosen, and his unbelief had brought him to this, his final reward, his ultimate destination, escape a hopeless wish.
Pater noster, qui es in coelis . Too late, even, for prayer but hopefully not too late for contrition. Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa ….
Miraculously the invocations were taking effect. Instead of plunging farther into a bottomless pit, he was rising up out of the dark. The reprieve from Hell’s depths, though, did not deliver the promised succor. Had he been at death’s door, he would have opened his eyes on a circle of loved ones. Had it been a bad dream, he would have left the nightmare behind. Had he been brainsick, he would have awoken irrational or raving. As it was, he vividly remembered the staggering blow that attacked him from out of nowhere but hadn’t the remotest idea of where he
The black lance repeatedly jolted the red-and-gold shield. “Not so innocent, Drake. Just ask every man jack. Better yet, ask your doting king about the pleasures his brother takes in highborn maidens the likes of Geneviève de Berneval.”
The lady’s name, tossed around as sport, belonged to the maiden Drake aspired to take as his wife one day very soon. She had sent him off at the start of the festivities and would have been watching now had the two knights stayed within the vicinity of the viewing stands, from whence she had cheered him on, her daisy yellow hair easy to spot and her beauty surpassing all the other fair maidens.
He answered Maynard’s insult with a sharp thrust of his sword. The jolt to Maynard’s breastplate caused the destrier to whinny, throw up his head, and step into a wide, counterbalancing circle. When beast and rider came back around, Drake made ready with another blow and delivered it with such unbridled ferocity that Maynard of Clarendon toppled from his saddle, landing with a thunderous thump and a louder, “Oomph!”
“Ah, landed on your arse … or should I say ass.” Drake dismounted and kicked away the knight’s dislodged lance.
Fumbling for the hilt of his sword, Clarendon scrambled to his feet.
“You owe the lady an apology,” Drake said, “and by God, she shall get one!” Two quick slices of Drake’s sword and Maynard lost his. A hook of Drake’s foot and Maynard fell onto his rump. A prick of white knight’s blade at the base of black knight’s throat, and Maynard broke out in sweat. Drake threw off his helm and slung back his coif. He intended to make Clarendon sweat a bit longer, too make his bowels run loose with fear, and to put the fear of God and of Drake fitzAlan into him.
The roar of hoofs approaching distracted him from his appointed task. Since his hearing counted only one horse, he took his time identifying the rider and appreciated instead the dread showing on the black knight’s face.
Drake misjudged the charger’s speed and turned too late. The horse arrived at full gallop. The rider’s boot hooked him under the jaw at the same driving gait, flinging him back in a clatter of armor and knocking him quite senseless.
Chapter 2
THIS MUST BE HELL, DRAKE decided, which meant he must be dead.
The evidence was convincing. The heat. The blood-red backwash. The smell of spilt blood. And the detached mind screaming into a black void. If this were Hell, it negated everything he had chosen not to believe. God existed. Perhaps even the Devil.
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. The words came to him unbidden, but it was too late. There was no turning back now. No amending a life spent as an unrepentant heathen. He had chosen, and his unbelief had brought him to this, his final reward, his ultimate destination, escape a hopeless wish.
Pater noster, qui es in coelis . Too late, even, for prayer but hopefully not too late for contrition. Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa ….
Miraculously the invocations were taking effect. Instead of plunging farther into a bottomless pit, he was rising up out of the dark. The reprieve from Hell’s depths, though, did not deliver the promised succor. Had he been at death’s door, he would have opened his eyes on a circle of loved ones. Had it been a bad dream, he would have left the nightmare behind. Had he been brainsick, he would have awoken irrational or raving. As it was, he vividly remembered the staggering blow that attacked him from out of nowhere but hadn’t the remotest idea of where he
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