The Complete Kingdom Trilogy: The Lion Wakes, The Lion at Bay, The Lion Rampant. Robert Low
paused then, breathing heavily, realising he faced a different temper of opponent than usual. Yet the man was an earl, a Tourney fighter, unused to the real world …
He started on a new series of cuts and slashes, found himself, shockingly, face to face with Bruce, who had stepped inside the arc of the sword. A hand took his wrist; Bruce spat in his eyes and stabbed downward with his own weapon, so that the fine-honed point went into the instep of Fulk’s left foot.
Blinded, the agony a shriek that went all the way to the groin and belly of him, Fulk staggered away, flailing wildly though he could not do much since his swordhand was gripped in what seemed like a forge vice. Bruce followed, jerked savagely and tore the sword from the Gascon’s grip as the man dragged screaming pain across his face, raking his own nose and forehead with his maille-backed gauntlet in an attempt to get Bruce’s spit out of his eyes.
He cleared them, but had time only to see Bruce’s sword go up and shied away from it. His own, in Bruce’s left hand, came up in a whirling stroke, wet and ugly, that took him under the armpit, cut the arm, half the chest and all life bloodily away.
The Gascons growled and started forward – then stopped. Kirkpatrick came pounding up with a score of riders behind him, Bangtail and others to the fore with their wicked Jeddart staffs waving.
‘We are leaving,’ Bruce said to the banner bearer. ‘You may have this offal when we are gone.’
He wiped Fulk’s blade clean on the man’s own jupon, smearing a red slick through the three green larks. Then he drove it into the ground, sheathed his own, mounted and rode off, his back to the Gascons in as pointed a gesture of scorn as anyone had seen.
‘By Christ, he can fight, though,’ Sim said admiringly as they caught up with each other, trailing in his wake and surrounded by the warm, safe, leather and horse stink of their own men. Bruce heard it and half turned, smiling wryly.
‘The German Method,’ he said and saw their bemused looks. Then he laughed and spurred ahead, so that only Kirkpatrick saw the tremble in the hands that held the reins so lightly, for he knew The Bruce as he knew his own hands, knew the fears in him were the same as other men and that the greatest one was not the Curse of Malachy, but failing to be anything less than best.
Kirkpatrick also knew that Bruce, for all he treated his henchman like a loyal dog, had long since relied on the skill, discretion and care Kirkpatrick lavished. Bruce thought he knew why the Closeburn noble did this and would have been surprised to find that Kirkpatrick, though he had once thought the same, was no longer as sure that it was only for advancement.
That night, with the fires sprouted like red flowers in the dark, Bruce came down to where Hal sat with the rest of the Herdmanston men. That itself was strange, for he had a panoply to shelter in, a great affair of blue and white with ropes as complex as ship rigging and a whole bed frame in it – he was a belted earl of the realm and used to the style of it.
Yet he arrived into the middle of the Herdmanston clutter, so that the chat died like a smothered candle.
‘I would share fire and a cup, if you have it,’ he said in careful English and with a lopsided smile, then waved a leather bottle in one hand so that it sloshed. ‘In case the cup is empty, I brought something to fill it.’
‘Welcome and doubled,’ Hal answered, realising Bruce was drunk. Since there was little else to do but be polite, he smiled and offered the earl his own seat by the fire. Yet Bangtail and the rest sat, awkward and silent, even when they shoved out their horn cups to have the contents of the bottle splashed waveringly in it.
‘Is Fitzwarin not joining us?’ Hal asked politely and Bruce, his face pure as a priest’s underclothes, announced that the Lord Fitzwarin was playing chess with Kirkpatrick. Hal did not say more; he knew already – as did everyone – that the haughty and annoying Fitzwarin, forever harping on about his kinship with De Warenne himself, grated on Bruce. No-one would be sorry to see the arse of him vanish over a horizon.
That ended conversation, all the same, and folk shifted uneasily, unable to speak.
‘What is the German Method?’
It came, fluted as a bell, from the Dog Boy and cracked the strain of the moment like a stone thrown on an iced pool. Men chuckled.
‘Aye,’ Lang Tam Loudon enthused, the dam in him burst and spilling words. ‘I heard your lordship say that about fighting yon Gascon. I am right sorry I missed it, too, for I am told it was a bonnie affair, as good as watching quines dance …’
He broke off, suddenly aware he was babbling, then stared, embarrassed, at his feet and finally buried his nose in his cup and slurped.
‘The German Method,’ Bruce said slowly to the Dog Boy, ‘is how knights fight. One way. A Tourney way of fighting, though not much used, in preference to the French Method, which everyone seems to be at these days.’
He stopped, seeing the rapt, bewildered face of the Dog Boy, fixed on the words but understanding nothing.
‘There are two ways of fighting for knights,’ he went on, drunken careful, speaking only to the Dog Boy though Hal saw every eye was on him. ‘One is to train man and horse to charge straight at anything and bowl them over even if you miss with the lance. There are those who say that such a knight, on a proper horse, could burst his way through a castle wall.’
There were murmurs, half fearful, half admiring, from those who had seen heavy horse like this.
‘That is called the French Method,’ Bruce went on. ‘The German Method is to ride a lighter horse, training it to avoid contact with the other mount. To skip to one side. To dance. Once your enemy has passed you, you ride after him and, before he can turn his great beast, you strike him from where he least expects it.’
There was a collective ‘aaah’ of understanding and folk nodded to one another.
‘Like you did with the Gascon,’ the Dog Boy added.
‘Aye,’ Bruce answered. ‘I was trained that way by the Auld Templar. But the German Method is one for war, not the Tourney. So it is not much used now, because Tourneys do not like it. Not chivalric. They only call it “German” as an insult to those folk, because the real name should be “Saracen”. Those are the folk who taught it to the knights of Christendom, and an expensive lesson it was, too, though only a few took it to heart, the Auld Templar of Roslin being one. Not the way a knight is supposed to fight – the gentilhomme prefers the French way, simply because it is French. Lane du commun est toujours le plus mal bate,
The peasant donkey is almost always badly saddled – Hal wondered if he should translate it, but drink was creating a common tongue.
‘Wallace doesn’t fight like a Frenchie,’ said a voice from the dark, and the others laughed.
‘Sir William,’ Bruce said, choosing his words as if he fished in a purse to find whole coins that were not pollards, ‘is lately come to the nobiles. It is to be hoped he learns the ways of a knight well enough – but not the French Method.’
‘Is it hard to be a knight?’ demanded the Dog Boy and there were a few chuckles as this, from those who only saw a boy asking endless questions. Bruce felt himself dragged in by those dark, liquid eyes, as if pulled towards some centre far away; he felt a sudden fear and thrill mixed, as if he was a fledgling on a high place, teetering on flight’s edge.
‘Have ye plans to be a knight?’ demanded Will Elliott and, though the question dripped with ripe sarcasm, everyone was surprised when the Dog Boy shook his head vehemently.
‘No. I leave that to Jamie. I will be a spearman. They are the lads who win fights.’
‘From the mouth of a babe,’ Sim declared portentously.
‘Jamie?’ Bruce asked and Hal told him. Bruce nodded owlishly.
‘Young James Douglas in France, with Bishop Lamberton. He is now the lord of Douglas, though he is not of an age yet and Clifford now holds his lands.’