The Champion by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

him off his horse and turn to deal with the man in the centre, then retreated to the enclosure.
    ‘That was a brave act, lad,’ said the competitor whom he had saved. ‘I am grateful to you, even if no one else is.’ He extended his arm. ‘My name is John Marshal. If ever I can be of service to you, do not hesitate to seek me out.’
    Alexander shook the proffered hand. He was tongue-tied by embarrassment and still too shaken to give a coherent reply.
    John Marshal smiled. ‘And you are called?’
    ‘Montroi, sir. Alexander de Montroi.’
    ‘I won’t forget you, I promise.’ The knight withdrew his hand, nodded pleasantly and with his squire in tow, walked off across the enclosure.
    Alexander stared after him and clutched his aching ribs.
    That evening, Alexander and Hervi dined a second time at the de Cerizays’ fire, and there was much to talk about. Hervi and Arnaud had had an excellent day upon the field and taken several ransoms. Their enthusiasm was full-blown and every move and tactic, strike and counterstroke had to be discussed in detail. Also talked to death was Alexander’s encounter with the scourge of the tourney field, Eudo le Boucher.
    ‘I still cannot believe that you unhorsed him!’ Hervi declared, his earlier fury at Alexander’s insubordination mellowed by the day’s triumphs and the excellent wine he was drinking. ‘Jesu, he’ll never live it down. Pulled off his horse by a green youth straight out of the monastery – David and Goliath!’
    ‘He’ll never live the grudge down either,’ warned Arnaud, who had drunk more than Hervi, enough to become a trifle morose. ‘He’s a known killer.’
    ‘God’s life, the lad isn’t likely to tangle with him again!’
    ‘No, but we are.’
    ‘Oh, close your mouth on your cup!’ Hervi grinned indulgently and tilted the wine flagon towards his friend. ‘Last one. We’ll need to be sober for the morrow.’ He glanced sidelong. ‘How are your ribs now, Alex?’
    ‘Sore,’ said Alexander ruefully, and rubbed his hand over the tight linen bandaging in which he had been wrapped for support. The pain had been mitigated by John Marshal’s presentation to him earlier that evening of a very fine gilded sword belt in token of his gratitude. ‘For when you win your spurs,’ the knight had said with a smile.
    John Marshal, Hervi had discovered by asking around, was the nephew of the great William Marshal, lord of vast estates scattered throughout England, Wales, Ireland and Normandy, and a baron in high favour with the ruling Angevin dynasty. In his youth he had been the greatest jouster ever to level a lance on the tourney field. In his mid forties now, he was still a formidable warrior. That Alexander had brought himself to the attention of a member of the Marshal clan was another reason why Hervi had gone lightly on his younger brother.
    ‘You can stay in camp tomorrow,’ he told Alexander. ‘There’s harness and armour to be cleaned. For all your prowess on the field, I shall feel safer knowing you’re nowhere near the conflict.’
    Alexander gave a careful shrug. His ribs hurt too much for him to protest, and after today’s adventure, he was not averse to spending a day by the fire.
    Monday stooped to remove the empty flagon from between the men. The scent of woodsmoke and lavender drifted across Alexander’s nostrils. Hervi’s eyes narrowed on the girl and then filled with indignation. ‘You’ve put her in a wimple!’ he said accusingly to Arnaud. ‘And she has such lovely hair!’
    ‘It was time, and past time.’ Clemence emerged from the tent where she had been fetching some sewing. ‘You are not the only man to notice her hair, Hervi. She is a young woman, not a child any more, and this is a decent household.’
    Hervi was startled by the prim note in Clemence’s voice. ‘Of course it is.’ He recovered swiftly. ‘I was just taken by surprise … and regret, if the truth were known.’ He smiled at Monday. ‘I