The Champion by Elizabeth Chadwick Page A

blood run cold. He slapped the reins down on Soleil’s neck, drove in his spurs and thundered up the field like a fury.
    Alexander rolled away from the thud of the flail against his ribs a scream ripping from his throat, his knees doubling up. He heard the jink of the chain, the whistle of the iron end swinging through the air, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, tears wringing on to his lashes. The blow never descended. In its place he heard the snarl of his brother’s voice.
    ‘Strike again, le Boucher, and it will be your last act on God’s earth!’
    ‘Why should it concern you, de Montroi? Keep your face out of this!’
    ‘He is my brother, my youngest brother, and I will know why you are beating him!’
    ‘He attacked me first, with a spear. Was I supposed to smile and pat his head? God’s eyes, I won’t tolerate whelps like him darting in and out of the sanctuary, making a mockery of true knights!’
    ‘I wasn’t,’ Alexander croaked from the ground. ‘I was trying to help a fallen man.’ He stared up at the mask of Hervi’s helm. Below it, the broad shoulders rose and fell rapidly. ‘He was going to strike him with that flail, so I stepped in.’ He sat up, his arms folded around his ribs which felt as though they were on fire. It was impossible to draw breath except in short stabs.
    ‘Let him go, le Boucher,’ said Arnaud, manoeuvring his bay between Hervi and the standing man. ‘Alexander does not know the rules; he’s a green boy. It won’t happen again. Is your pride worth so much to you?’
    ‘He denied me a man’s ransom!’ Le Boucher jabbed a forefinger at Hervi. ‘I’ll have the payment out of your own purse!’
    ‘You will have no such thing!’ Hervi’s voice was raw with fury.
    Alexander hung his head, feeling sick, knowing that this was all his fault. And yet he could not have just stood by and watched.
    The knight whom he had rescued limped out of the enclosure, clutching his side. He had removed his helm and there were streaks of rust on his brow and cheeks where sweat and iron had met. He was in his early twenties, with light-brown hair, and a sparse ginger beard hugging the point of his chin. ‘Call it even,’ he panted. ‘The lad unhorsed you, le Boucher, and if he had known the rules, he’d have put that spear to your throat and demanded a ransom of you.’
    Hervi’s helm swivelled in Alexander’s direction. ‘You unhorsed him?’ He pointed at le Boucher.
    Alexander nodded. ‘I put the haft of your spear through the flail’s chain and pulled him off his destrier.’
    Hervi turned to le Boucher. ‘I would forget the incident if I were you,’ he said. ‘Any claim you press can be met with a counter claim.’
    ‘You would not dare!’
    ‘Can you afford to try me?’
    There was a taut silence. Le Boucher’s mail mitten tightened around the handle of the flail. Hervi’s dun stallion sidled.
    From the far side of the field, but galloping up fast, came a group of three riders, their lances couched, signalling a challenge.
    The tension broke. Eudo le Boucher ran to catch his mount’s bridle and swung into the saddle. ‘Bold words, de Montroi,’ he sneered. ‘Yes, I can afford to try you to the end of your luck, but I doubt that you can pay my price!’ Yanking the horse around, he rode away across the field.
    Hervi cursed and turned Soleil. ‘Get back inside that sanctuary!’ he snarled at Alexander. ‘And even if you see me dragged off my horse and killed, do not so much as lift your buttocks off the turf, understand?’
    ‘Yes, I didn’t intend to …’
    ‘Go, curse you, I haven’t the time to listen to your paltry excuses!’ Without waiting to see if Alexander obeyed, Hervi couched his lance and spurred forward to meet the rapidly approaching challenge. Arnaud circled round and spurred with him, one man going hard left, the other to the right.
    Alexander remained where he was long enough to see Hervi batter aside his opponent’s shield, knock