shield.
Adam leaned over the saddle and took up a lance, then rode Vaillantif to the quintain course down the long edge of the ground.
Smiling slightly, Miles strolled over to the knot of expectant men and paused beside his grandson.
‘He’s using the French style,’ Renard said with interest as Adam couched the lance under his arm and fretted Vaillantif back on his hocks.
‘Well that’s because it’s a French sport,’ said Jerold. ‘Besides, underarm’s better than over. More thrust behind it when it’s positioned like that.’
Renard shook his head. ‘I’ve tried, but God’s life, it’s difficult.’
‘Watch,’ said Jerold, giving him a silencing look. ‘Hold your tongue, and learn.’
The quintain was a crossbar set on a pivot, with a shield nailed to one edge and a sack of sand to the other, the objective being to strike the shield cleanly in the centre and thus avoid being struck from the saddle or severely bruised by a knock from the bag of sand.
Adam crouched behind the shield and positioned the lance across his mount’s neck. He tightened the reins and Vaillantif ’s forefeet danced left-right on the ground. ‘Hah!’ he cried, and drove in his heels. Vaillantif arrowed down the tilt run, dust spurting from beneath his hooves, sunlight flashing on the bit chains, stirrup irons and bright sorrel hide. He moved effortlessly, eating the ground, and each stride that he took hammered the word brother into Adam’s skull. The tip of the lance wavered and readjusted. Adam hit the target precisely where he intended and cried out in triumphant rage as he ducked over the pommel, his face buried in Vaillantif’s flying blond mane. The sandbag kicked violently on the post and grazed the air over his spine.
Vaillantif galloped on to the end of the tilt. Adam sat up and reined him round, set heels to his flanks again and repeated the manoeuvre, swirled in the dust, and charged back down the tilt. The lance cracked the shield and the sandbag hurtled round. Adam ducked, drew on the bridle, and hurled the lance point-down into the dust. There was no sense in foundering a good horse just to take the edge off his frustration. No sense in anything. He looked at the quivering ashwood shaft, wrenched the tip free of the ground and walked Vaillantif over to his audience.
‘Christ!’ declared Renard, eyes round with admiration. ‘I’d hate to face you across a battleground!’
Jerold FitzNigel was watching his lord with a peculiar look in his pale eyes. He knew Adam playing and Adam for real, and just now they had been permitted a rare, deadly glimpse of the latter.
Miles kept his own eyes lowered and his thoughts to himself, but when Renard began to demand enthusiastically to be shown how it was done, he cut him short with an elder’s brusque prerogative.
‘It’s all right.’ Adam managed a smile as he slid down from Vaillantif ’s back. ‘We all have to learn some time - don’t we?’
5
France, Late Autumn 1126
William le Clito, claimant to the Duchy of Normandy and the English crown, both currently held most firmly by his uncle Henry, shoved the girl impatiently off his lap and scowled across the room at the immaculately dressed man sitting on the hearth bench drinking wine. ‘You said it would be simple,’ he complained, and pitched his voice in singsong mimicry, ‘An arrow from the rocks above, or a sudden ambush in the forest, or even a second White Ship - but there she is, safe at her father’s court in London without so much as a scratch to show for your efforts, and all the barons and bishops preparing to do her homage!’
Warrin de Mortimer stroked his close-cropped beard and regarded the petulant man opposite with an irritation that did not show on his heavy, handsome features. Le Clito - the Prince. Prince of nothing. King Henry had robbed le Clito’s father of England, Normandy and his freedom in that order; but stung by conscience and the protests of his nobility, had left
Adam leaned over the saddle and took up a lance, then rode Vaillantif to the quintain course down the long edge of the ground.
Smiling slightly, Miles strolled over to the knot of expectant men and paused beside his grandson.
‘He’s using the French style,’ Renard said with interest as Adam couched the lance under his arm and fretted Vaillantif back on his hocks.
‘Well that’s because it’s a French sport,’ said Jerold. ‘Besides, underarm’s better than over. More thrust behind it when it’s positioned like that.’
Renard shook his head. ‘I’ve tried, but God’s life, it’s difficult.’
‘Watch,’ said Jerold, giving him a silencing look. ‘Hold your tongue, and learn.’
The quintain was a crossbar set on a pivot, with a shield nailed to one edge and a sack of sand to the other, the objective being to strike the shield cleanly in the centre and thus avoid being struck from the saddle or severely bruised by a knock from the bag of sand.
Adam crouched behind the shield and positioned the lance across his mount’s neck. He tightened the reins and Vaillantif ’s forefeet danced left-right on the ground. ‘Hah!’ he cried, and drove in his heels. Vaillantif arrowed down the tilt run, dust spurting from beneath his hooves, sunlight flashing on the bit chains, stirrup irons and bright sorrel hide. He moved effortlessly, eating the ground, and each stride that he took hammered the word brother into Adam’s skull. The tip of the lance wavered and readjusted. Adam hit the target precisely where he intended and cried out in triumphant rage as he ducked over the pommel, his face buried in Vaillantif’s flying blond mane. The sandbag kicked violently on the post and grazed the air over his spine.
Vaillantif galloped on to the end of the tilt. Adam sat up and reined him round, set heels to his flanks again and repeated the manoeuvre, swirled in the dust, and charged back down the tilt. The lance cracked the shield and the sandbag hurtled round. Adam ducked, drew on the bridle, and hurled the lance point-down into the dust. There was no sense in foundering a good horse just to take the edge off his frustration. No sense in anything. He looked at the quivering ashwood shaft, wrenched the tip free of the ground and walked Vaillantif over to his audience.
‘Christ!’ declared Renard, eyes round with admiration. ‘I’d hate to face you across a battleground!’
Jerold FitzNigel was watching his lord with a peculiar look in his pale eyes. He knew Adam playing and Adam for real, and just now they had been permitted a rare, deadly glimpse of the latter.
Miles kept his own eyes lowered and his thoughts to himself, but when Renard began to demand enthusiastically to be shown how it was done, he cut him short with an elder’s brusque prerogative.
‘It’s all right.’ Adam managed a smile as he slid down from Vaillantif ’s back. ‘We all have to learn some time - don’t we?’
5
France, Late Autumn 1126
William le Clito, claimant to the Duchy of Normandy and the English crown, both currently held most firmly by his uncle Henry, shoved the girl impatiently off his lap and scowled across the room at the immaculately dressed man sitting on the hearth bench drinking wine. ‘You said it would be simple,’ he complained, and pitched his voice in singsong mimicry, ‘An arrow from the rocks above, or a sudden ambush in the forest, or even a second White Ship - but there she is, safe at her father’s court in London without so much as a scratch to show for your efforts, and all the barons and bishops preparing to do her homage!’
Warrin de Mortimer stroked his close-cropped beard and regarded the petulant man opposite with an irritation that did not show on his heavy, handsome features. Le Clito - the Prince. Prince of nothing. King Henry had robbed le Clito’s father of England, Normandy and his freedom in that order; but stung by conscience and the protests of his nobility, had left
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