This is episode fifty-eight of the novel, From Here To 1137 AD. If you would like to purchase, it is available on Amazon in Kindle format or paperback.
Trial By Combat
The pattered echo of the squire’s steps grew louder until reaching the colonnade of the great hall. The squire entered the great hall holding a long wooden case.
“Marshal Constable,” the earl said to one of the men near the throne, “take charge of the battle by combat.”
A man in a black robe trimmed in fur walked to the center of the great hall. He motioned for Tom and Bouchard to approach and stand before him.
As they slowly walked to the center of the great hall, Brian spoke telepathically to Tom. “The one challenged has the choice of swords. They are not equal. Bouchard knows which one is the better. One is well-made, sharp, light, and balanced. The other is shoddily made, dull, heavy, and not balanced.”
“Squire,” the marshal said, “bring the swords.”
The marshal handed a white glove to Tom. Tom accepted it and dropped the glove at Bouchard’s feet. Bouchard picked it up and stuffed it into his belt.
“With the challenge offered and accepted, the rules will be given,” the marshal said. “This is battle by combat. You will fight until one of you concedes or is mortally wounded. If there is a concession with no mortal wound, the court will pass sentence. The winner may recommend what sentence will be passed. It will not be binding. Do you both understand and agree?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
The squire handed the wooden case to the marshal.
“Place your right hands on this case,” the marshal said.
Tom and Bouchard placed their hands on the case.
“Do you swear that you are not using any sort of trickery, witchcraft, or sorcery?”
“I do.”
“I do.”
The squire removed the lid from the case. Two identical ornate swords were inside.
“The one challenged may choose his sword,” the marshal said.
Grinning and with confidence, Bouchard laid his hand on the handle of the bottom sword and stepped back.
Tom stood motionless. The subjects in the galleries began to murmur.
“You must take a sword,” the marshal said sternly.
Tom removed the lid of the case from the squire. He placed it on top of the case.
“You must take a sword!” The marshals said.
“I know,” Tom said. He pointed at Bouchard’s sword. “I want that one.”
The marshal pulled out the sword. He extended it to Tom. Tom stared at Bouchard as if the sword was not there. The marshal, knowing that he held the sword in vain, dropped it at Tom’s feet.
Two long-stemmed pedestals holding one bowl each of fruit stood on each side of the throne. Tom walked to the one nearest him and removed an apple. He tossed it to Bouchard.
And Bouchard, with a whisk of his sword, cleanly sliced the apple in half. He smirked. “Your throat will be next, peasant Bales.”
Tom removed another apple. He walked back to where his sword lay. He picked it up. He held the apple in his left hand and the sword in his right. He placed the blade of the sword against the apple. He pressed and sliced back and forth. The sword was not sharp enough to break through the skin of the apple. He rolled the apple across the floor and watched it come to a stop.
“Squire!” Tom called out. “Fetch me a hawking glove.”
The squire stood motionless.
“I beg Your Lordship this one small indulgence,” Tom said politely.
The earl flipped his hand, and the squire ran off, followed by his echo.
Bouchard strutted by the gallery of nobles who stood in the colonnade. They cheered and shouted encouragement to him as he passed. He held his head back and his chin high as if to guzzle in full the adulation of all. Everyone desired to curry his favor, for all knew he might be next in line to fill the role of the next earl. After all, the passing of the present obese, flabby, and aging count appeared near.
He moved away from the admiring nobles and continued to walk back and forth. As he did, he practiced slicing and thrusting moves with the sword. He added small hops and modified carole dance movements to entertain the crowd while mocking Tom.
“Any time you are ready,” Bouchard said.
“I would like to wait for the hawking glove,” Tom said, smiling at his performance. “I assume we have disregarded the rules on trickery.” Tom stuck the handle of the sword on the stone floor, and it fell off. He then held the sword in both hands and snapped it in two. “Go ahead and amuse yourself, swine.”
With sword pointed, Bouchard slowly moved toward Tom. He quickly thrust forward. Tom moved quickly to avoid the tip of the sword.
“That was my slowest thrust,” Bouchard said.
“If I told you that was my quickest avoidance, I would be lying. However, correct me if I’m wrong, we did suspend the rules. And does that not include things beyond trickery?”
“Indeed,” Bouchard said. And next, he tried a draw cut maneuver, but Tom backed away, past the sharp edge of the sword.
“I know what you are thinking,” Tom said, “How does he do that? The answer is, I know what you are thinking. Thus, I can anticipate your next move.” And Tom smirked.
Bouchard turned his back to Tom. He started to take a step away, but quickly whirled around and made a thrust and a draw cut move that sounded like a harsh wind passing through a barren tree. Tom avoided each maneuver easily.
“Where is that hawking glove?” Tom feigned impatience, digging his fists into his sides.
Bouchard moved around like a stalking beast, taking deep breaths.
“Remember the days of your youth,” Tom said. “When you were so much more agile and quicker. And now it seems to have escaped you.”
“I am as quick and agile as I have ever been,” Bouchard said.
“Then why am I not bleeding?” Tom said.
“You cannot avoid the cold steel of my sword indefinitely,” Bouchard said. “You will tire, and I shall prevail. I will lick your blood from my sword.”
“What’s that I hear?” Tom said. “You best be about it, because I hear the squire’s return.”
Bouchard’s head jerked at hearing the echo of the squire’s feet patter against the stone floor.
The squire entered the great hall with the hawking glove.
“Quick, lad,” Tom said, “toss it.”
The squire tossed the hawking glove, and Tom caught it. He slipped it on his left hand as Bouchard advanced.
Next, Bouchard thrusted and attempted as many as two dozen draw cuts, hoping to slice Tom’s flesh. With the assistance of MAS, Tom was able to avoid some and others he parried with the hawking glove.
Indeed, there was entertainment, but not what was expected. The gallery of nobles applauded Bouchard’s attempts. The gallery of peasants restrained their approval, although it became noticeably troubling for the nobility.
Bouchard backed away. He walked to the far end of the great hall. He stared up at the light piercing through the cathedral openings above the balcony of the peasants. Faces mocked and sneered at him, yet they remained silent in fear of the earl and the other nobility.
He let out a primal growl. No one had ever heard a sound like that before. The great hall fell silent. Only the breeze beyond the cathedral openings was heard.
Bouchard heard an eerie, rapid thumping. His eyes darted, searching the great hall for that ghostly sound. His eyes settled when he realized it was his own heartbeat that he was hearing.
With heavy breathing, he addressed Tom. “I will prevail. And when I do, I will slice you open, and every nostril in this room will be filled with the foul odor of your bowels. I promise that.”
Tom stepped forward. He glared into Bouchard’s sunken eyes and spoke firmly and clearly. “The only odor from a bowel in this hall will be that of your own duty in your braies.”
Bouchard charged like a madman, wildly swinging his sword.
A sadness and disappointment fell over the spirits of the nobility. For they knew that even if Bouchard had managed to defeat and execute Tom, he would have lost favor. His manhood would become greatly diminished.
A ferocious downward draw cut came from the tightened grip and gnashing teeth of Bouchard. Tom sidestepped it. The sword struck against the stone floor. Tom grabbed the blade with his hand, wearing the hawking glove. Bouchard tried to withdraw the sword, but Tom held fast to it. Bouchard pulled and was not able to dislodge the sword from Tom’s grip. He panicked and grabbed with both hands, but still could not dislodge the sword. It was as if the sword had been grafted into the stone floor.
Tom stiffened his right hand. He quickly drew back and came forward with a slap across Bouchard’s face. Bouchard released his grip of the sword and stumbled backwards to the floor.
Tom quickly advanced and stood over Bouchard.
Defeated, Bouchard rested on one hand.
“This is the sword I want,” Tom said, holding its point to Bouchard’s forehead.
“On your knees, Bouchard,” Tom commanded.
Bouchard rose to his knees. “Have mercy, please, Master.”
Tom looked with disgusting pity at Bouchard’s face. “A brave, mighty, and good man would at least say, ‘make it quickly.’”
“Make it quickly, please,” Bouchard begged.
“For god’s sake, Bales!” The earl called out, “Make it quickly, make it slowly, but make it. I can’t bear this cur’s cowardly drivel.”
“Run him through!” Many sounded off from the peasants’ and nobles’ gallery.
Tom turned toward Thomas, who stood near the wall and next to Lattice. “Come here.”
Thomas handed his torch to Lattice. He walked forward and stood next to Tom.
“If you wish,” Tom said, “you may put this man to death. It is simple. It takes a stroke slightly below the jaw. The move is like slitting the throat of a pig.”
“It would bring great pleasure,” Thomas said. “It is nothing I care to live with.”
“Thank you, young master,” Bouchard said with theatrical remorse.
Tom motioned for Thomas to return to his place.
“Lattice,” Tom called. “Come here.”
Lattice handed both torches to Thomas. She slowly moved toward Tom and stood beside him. He handed the sword to her. She pressed it against Bouchard’s neck with only enough force to dent the skin.
Bouchard trembled. He closed his eyes, and tears cascaded from beneath his eyelids.
“Confess before I slice your neck,” Lattice said resolutely and with a single tear rolling over her cheek.
Bouchard opened his eyes and looked up at Lattice. His voice quivered. “As my last breath, I did ravish you. I had wantonly coveted you from long ago, but it was Geoffrey Bales whom you loved, and he loved you.” She paused and pressed harder. “I pity you and the breath you breathe in and exhale.” She handed the sword back to Tom. “You are the one who has bested this man. You should be the one honored to bring about his death.”
Tom accepted the sword. He held it against Bouchard’s cheek and swiped. Bouchard shrieked. It sounded like a woman’s scream.
Tom turned to the earl. “My Lordship, I beg that this wretched man be spared. However, he should lead the next charge in defense of your dominion.”
“And he be recalled as a hero?” The earl questioned.
“No matter how he dies, he dies,” Tom said. “Bouchard will always be remembered for this moment. Let the foes of this land imagine they have slain a loyal nobleman—and you and those after you will laugh at your enemy for unwittingly performing a desired service.”
The earl pondered Tom’s words. He nodded. “So it shall be. Arrest Bouchard and hold him until the next battle.”
