Read Online The Champion by Elizabeth Chadwick - Free Book Online Page B

a sweeping backhand slash at Alexander’s right knee. The young man leaped over the blow and his sword flickered up inside Hervi’s shield edge and touched his torso. Triumphant, Alexander withdrew, a half-smile on his lips. It was quickly wiped away as Hervi’s leg shot out, swiping his feet from under him, and Alexander found himself looking along the length of a blade, a steel point in the hollow of his throat.
    ‘Never assume that you have made a kill until your enemy is down,’ Hervi panted. ‘If that had been a real battle, the force of your strike would have done no more than nick me, probably not even that if I had been wearing mail. One good hit does not constitute a victory.’ He removed the sword, leaving a crestfallen Alexander free to rise.
    ‘Still,’ he added judiciously, ‘you’re coming along. A month ago you would have got nowhere near me, and I’d have downed you with that first leg blow.’
    ‘It seems to take forever.’ Alexander puffed out his cheeks and remained on the ground for a moment, taking what respite he could.
    ‘You are trying to squash what takes five years to learn into as many months,’ Hervi said. ‘Indeed, you are making far better progress than I anticipated. Rush your training and it will let you down when you need it the most.’ Squinting in the sun’s glare, he sheathed his sword. ‘Enough for now. It’s too hot to be wearing all this padding. This evening, when it’s cooler, we’ll work on your horseback skills.’
    Alexander nodded with relief and rose to his feet. Within seconds he had removed the stewing weight of the gambeson, followed by his tunic. His shirt clung to his body, and perspiration gleamed in the hollow of his throat. ‘If you want me, I’ll be down by the river with my scribing tools.’
    Hervi grinned. ‘If you want me ,’ he replied, ‘I’ll be at Edmund One-eye’s with a jug of wine.’
    Alexander gave a knowing roll of his eyes and departed to collect his small portable lectern and writing materials from their tent. Then he mounted his horse and rode off in the direction of the river.
    In the ten weeks that had passed since Alexander’s arrival on the tourney circuit, Samson, as he had been named, had filled out with good grazing and a conditioning of oats and barley. His hide was like a black mirror, and beneath it, his muscles were long and fluid. He was intelligent, strong, but not too large, the perfect kind of animal to train up for the mêlée and individual joust. Even Hervi, who was seldom fulsome with his praise, had nothing critical to say about the stallion.
    Alexander’s mind turned to the comments meted out just now as he lay defeated in the dust. Better progress than I anticipated; coming along . ‘But I want it now,’ he said aloud, his tone full of frustration. Skill lay an unspecified time away and could only be attained through the sweat of learning and experience.
    Samson’s ears flickered and he gave a playful buck. Alexander tightened his thighs as Hervi had taught him. He no longer required a saddle to remain mounted these days, could ride at a canter bareback without falling off, and could vault astride without recourse to stirrup or mounting block. Hervi said that the true test of skill was vaulting to the saddle in full armour, and then controlling the horse with the thighs whilst manipulating a shield and lance in the hands.
    Alexander had tried on Hervi’s mail shirt while cleaning it. The weight had not seemed too bad, although it was mostly carried on the shoulders and upper torso. Once leggings, coif and helm were added, however, Alexander doubted that he would be able to leap into a saddle with any degree of agility. That too, apparently, came with the sweat of practice.
    Man and horse approached the sleepy flow of the river. Here, on the edge of the Fôret de Roumare, the waters of the Seine were sluggish, turbid with tench, bream and pike, the blue reflection of the sky woven with green ribbons