the movement of the horse, the co-ordination of the weapon and the force of the blow. He reached his mark once more and turned. Right, enough of accuracy and solidity. This time he was going to be clever. Sir Geoffrey was always telling him that brute strength wasn’t enough, that he had to think a bit more. This seemed a bit unnecessary to Martin – why not just hit the target really hard? – but if Sir Geoffrey wanted him to be clever, he would try. Up until now he’d been concentrating on hitting the shield right in the middle, with his lance square on to it. This time he would aim to strike it at more of an angle, swerving away from it and dodging the quintain as it turned.
As he rode he brought his lance down in a smooth movement. The target came nearer and nearer, and he urged the horse on. The end of the lance smacked into the shield at exactly the angle he’d planned, and he felt a momentary glee, which he didn’t have the chance to enjoy before a huge thump on the back sent him tumbling from the saddle.
As he fell, he remembered what he’d been taught. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and rolled as he hit the ground. It was hard, baked in the sun, but the thick layers of horsehair and wadding in the gambeson cushioned most of the blow, and he was already starting to rise as Adam ran over. He was ashamed more than anything, which proved he wasn’t hurt, so he made light of it. ‘That’s the last time I pretend he’s a Frenchman! Next time I’ll tell myself it’s Sir Geoffrey, and I’ll treat it with more respect!’ He stood for a moment and moved his shoulder round, sensing some soreness, but it was fine. The horse, another one used to the exercise, had wandered off to the edge of the tiltyard and was standing still, nibbling at the dusty grass; Martin brushed off Adam’s help and ran to fetch it. Important to get back on, of course, and this time he’d take more care. It was still more enjoyable than politics. He rode back to his mark.
The hall was absolutely heaving with people when it was time for the evening meal. Outside, the air had cooled slightly, but inside it was hot, sweaty and airless. As Edwin walked in and saw everyone he nearly turned and walked out again: perhaps he might be better off going to see if his mother had any of the day’s warm pottage left for him. But as he stood in indecision he was spotted by Brother William, sitting at the end of the nearest long table, who moved up and beckoned him over. Edwin squeezed himself on to the very end of the bench, bracing one leg to make sure he didn’t fall off and make himself look foolish. He looked sideways at the monk, trying to see if he could glimpse any sign of the extraordinary behaviour he’d witnessed earlier, but his companion didn’t mention it and gave no hint. Edwin began to wonder if he’d imagined the whole episode. But as Brother William pushed back the sleeves of his habit ready to eat his meal, Edwin could see the thick muscle of that powerful right arm. Not many monks looked like that.
Brother William was introducing himself politely to the other men around him, who nodded in greeting. Edwin looked past him and the packed lower tables towards the top end of the room, where the high table was just as crowded, if not even more so, with all the earl’s family there. Indeed, it was not one table but two – another had been added to it so there were places for fourteen, and it took up so much space on the dais that there was barely room for the squires and servants to get round it. Thomas wasn’t there, Edwin noticed: perhaps he’d been banned after making Martin spill the wine earlier. But as he watched, the page scuttled out from the service area at the bottom of the hall, his mouth crammed with something – some stolen delicacy, no doubt – and made his way to the top table where he slipped into the milling crowd without anyone really noticing. Edwin wondered if any of the nobles would spot that some
As he rode he brought his lance down in a smooth movement. The target came nearer and nearer, and he urged the horse on. The end of the lance smacked into the shield at exactly the angle he’d planned, and he felt a momentary glee, which he didn’t have the chance to enjoy before a huge thump on the back sent him tumbling from the saddle.
As he fell, he remembered what he’d been taught. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and rolled as he hit the ground. It was hard, baked in the sun, but the thick layers of horsehair and wadding in the gambeson cushioned most of the blow, and he was already starting to rise as Adam ran over. He was ashamed more than anything, which proved he wasn’t hurt, so he made light of it. ‘That’s the last time I pretend he’s a Frenchman! Next time I’ll tell myself it’s Sir Geoffrey, and I’ll treat it with more respect!’ He stood for a moment and moved his shoulder round, sensing some soreness, but it was fine. The horse, another one used to the exercise, had wandered off to the edge of the tiltyard and was standing still, nibbling at the dusty grass; Martin brushed off Adam’s help and ran to fetch it. Important to get back on, of course, and this time he’d take more care. It was still more enjoyable than politics. He rode back to his mark.
The hall was absolutely heaving with people when it was time for the evening meal. Outside, the air had cooled slightly, but inside it was hot, sweaty and airless. As Edwin walked in and saw everyone he nearly turned and walked out again: perhaps he might be better off going to see if his mother had any of the day’s warm pottage left for him. But as he stood in indecision he was spotted by Brother William, sitting at the end of the nearest long table, who moved up and beckoned him over. Edwin squeezed himself on to the very end of the bench, bracing one leg to make sure he didn’t fall off and make himself look foolish. He looked sideways at the monk, trying to see if he could glimpse any sign of the extraordinary behaviour he’d witnessed earlier, but his companion didn’t mention it and gave no hint. Edwin began to wonder if he’d imagined the whole episode. But as Brother William pushed back the sleeves of his habit ready to eat his meal, Edwin could see the thick muscle of that powerful right arm. Not many monks looked like that.
Brother William was introducing himself politely to the other men around him, who nodded in greeting. Edwin looked past him and the packed lower tables towards the top end of the room, where the high table was just as crowded, if not even more so, with all the earl’s family there. Indeed, it was not one table but two – another had been added to it so there were places for fourteen, and it took up so much space on the dais that there was barely room for the squires and servants to get round it. Thomas wasn’t there, Edwin noticed: perhaps he’d been banned after making Martin spill the wine earlier. But as he watched, the page scuttled out from the service area at the bottom of the hall, his mouth crammed with something – some stolen delicacy, no doubt – and made his way to the top table where he slipped into the milling crowd without anyone really noticing. Edwin wondered if any of the nobles would spot that some
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