Chapter Four

Through a summery Dorset and Wiltshire, by Salisbury, Ludgershall and Reading they pursued him. Following the Thames Valley, they spent nights at Windsor, Wallingford, and Woodstock. They were always a day or two behind. It wasn’t until they called at the great abbey of Ely that Strongbow and Raymond again caught word of his movements. The king, the monks said, was making for Westminster.

Everywhere Strongbow and Raymond had camped on their journey they found evidence that Henry’s court had been there before them: trampled ground and abandoned barrels, the remains of cooking fires, horse faeces and fly-covered food waste. At each fortress people were pale-faced as they described the sudden and unanticipated appearance of the king and how they had been commanded to provide food, drink, entertainment and accommodation for his court as he had stayed in their region overnight. New justices had been appointed, they described. Landowners had been summoned, cases had been tried, and land disputes going back to Stephen’s reign had been settled. Everything had been recorded by his army of clerks. Then, as abruptly as he had arrived, Henry was gone and his huge entourage with him, and the townspeople were able to breathe easily and count the cost his visit. The king’s whirlwind progress through the kingdom was nothing new. It was said that Henry set a fast pace to his life in an effort to stave off weight gain. When he wasn’t travelling with his court, he was hunting, hawking or riding in the countryside with his friends. The only time he stopped was to eat and even then he couldn’t keep still and proudly walked around, reading aloud from books purchased at great price from Irish monasteries and the Muslim states of Spain on subjects as diverse as law and medicine. Even the business of his vast state was conducted from the saddle.

‘I heard one ambassador dropped dead of exhaustion right into Queen Eleanor’s warm lap when Henry toured Aquitaine last summer,’ Raymond joked to his conrois. Alice of Abergavenny was the only one to laugh. Everyone else in Strongbow’s retinue was too exhausted to join in their captain’s merriment.

A frustrating week at sea had brought their company to the mouth of the Loire and three more days had taken them to the city of Tours. It was only as they prepared to make the overland journey to Poitiers that they heard that King Henry and his eldest son had already passed through Anjou into Normandy and thence onwards across the Narrow Sea to England. And so the weary men of Striguil had clambered back into their lord’s ship, Waverider, and pursued the king northwards. By the time they had landed at Wareham in Dorset, Henry was already halfway to Westminster and they had been forced to give pursuit for another two weeks on horseback. Their efforts had left each of them angry, bored and exhausted. Everyone, that was, except Raymond. He was in his element. By day he teased, chivvied and babbled incessantly to his men, setting them tasks such as scouting ahead of their column as well as leading them out to hunt in the evening. Every day he had something new for his men to do, inspiring them to work hard despite their exhaustion and the summer heat which roasted their backs. He laughed at their jokes, took his turn on the picket line and none dared complain too loudly when their captain did more work than any two of them combined. While Strongbow feasted with the local lords and took rooms in their castles, Raymond spent time amongst the men of the conrois in the towns below, drinking long into the night with one and all, swapping news and rumours from around Henry’s dominions.

Raymond was happy. He had Alice.

Despite Strongbow’s protestations, Raymond had insisted that she join the conrois which had crossed Henry’s lands and, dressed in a leather jerkin over her flowing blue gown, Alice had proven hardy enough to keep up with the men of the company. Since the first time that they had slept together in Striguil, Raymond had been caught in a web of lust which she made sure he enjoyed at every possible opportunity. For Raymond it was a new and fascinating experience. He had enjoyed the companionship of women when he could, but he had never had a long-standing mistress or a wife. He had always told himself that it was due to his lifestyle which he believed left little time for a marriage, that he had not the stable income to afford a wife, or support a family. In truth it had always been because of his pitiable and impossible love for Basilia de Quincy, daughter of the Earl Strongbow.

With Alice it was easy. Yet Raymond still felt a crumb of discomfort with their liaison for, despite not being married to Basilia or ever having any hope of making her his, he still felt shame that he had bedded Alice of Abergavenny, as though he had been unfaithful to Strongbow’s daughter and that if she discovered his treachery, his dream of being with her would be over forever. That feeling of guilt had lessened the further that he had travelled from the March of Wales, and now, hundreds of miles from Striguil, while he sensibly did not flaunt it, he was becoming ever more used to their arrangement. In return for his protection and patronage for her brother, Raymond received something that he hadn’t realised he had been missing for a long time: intimacy. That his relationship with Alice relied solely on his ability to promote Geoffrey’s interests at Abergavenny with King Henry was not forgotten. Theirs was a relationship that would end whatever the outcome of their visit to the royal court. Success for their claim would mean that Alice would become a great lady and could no longer be associated with a landless warrior like he. Defeat meant that an alliance with Raymond was pointless, and he would be cast aside like an old sword that no longer kept its edge. Whatever happened he would lose Alice. Raymond hoped that they would never catch up with the royal court and that the happiness of the last month could continue further.

Now, heading towards the great Palace of Westminster, Raymond hummed a portion from the Song of Roland and watched the outline of Alice’s backside, hidden below the stylish blue gown, as she perched on the saddle of her new palfrey just ahead of him. In the bright sunshine which poured through the alley of leafy trees, she looked stunning as she talked to her brother, schooling Geoffrey in what to say if and when he met King Henry.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it,’ Strongbow said as he fell in beside his captain. Raymond blanched, but one glance at his lord told him that the earl was not admiring Alice’s arse as he had been, but the Middlesex countryside, full of fields of wheat and locked by sunshine and flowering plants.

‘Yes, Lord,’ Raymond answered with a small smile. ‘It certainly is that - soft and bountiful.’

Strongbow sighed. ‘What are the chances that Henry has already left Westminster, this silly coronation done and dusted, and headed back to France? Should we have waited in Normandy?’

‘We have no choice but to press on, Lord,’ Raymond replied and glanced at Alice, hoping that Henry had indeed continued onwards towards the south coast. It would mean another few days in her company. ‘Unless you mean to abandon Diarmait, your marriage to Princess Aoife and the crown of Laighin?’

‘Never,’ Strongbow uttered, showing a resolve which Raymond had seen only rarely. ‘We press on until we catch up with him, even if he leads us a merry dance all the way to the gates of Jerusalem.’ The earl nodded his head as if he was still trying to convince himself of the truth of his proclamation.

Strongbow may have been exhausted from the long journey, but it was the stress which was hurting him most, Raymond determined. At every great fortress town of England Strongbow had mentally steeled himself for the momentous meeting with King Henry only for it to have been in vain as they found the king already departed. His lord had developed a cold and Raymond wondered how long he could keep up the punishing pace and the constant anxiety which the approaching royal meeting put upon him.

‘Hold there,’ a loud voice suddenly demanded ahead of the column which shuddered to a halt, ‘in King Henry’s name stop.’ Two horsemen in the swaggering lion livery of the Angevin King of England stepped onto the road followed by a band of over twenty crossbowmen with their weapons trained on Strongbow’s men. The warriors on foot were routiers, mercenaries from Spain, Flanders and Germany, loyal only to the English king’s purse and damned to Hell by the Holy Father for their irreligious profession.

‘Goodness gracious,’ Strongbow expressed at the unexpected appearance of the ragtag band of crossbowmen.

‘Well, we’ve finally caught up with King Henry,’ Raymond replied with a hint of reticence.

At his side Strongbow began to splutter.

Raymond deflected the sword thrust with his shield and brought his own weapon down on the helmeted head of the man wearing the colours of the Earl of Oxford. Dreigiau turned quickly, allowing his master to bounce a spear lunge from another enemy over his head and then punch the pommel of his sword into his new assailant’s face. The man’s great helm rang like a church bell and Raymond was sure that he heard the man encased in armour cry out his surrender as he fell from his saddle to the hard, dusty earth.

‘Raymond de Carew,’ called an excited voice from behind him. ‘Get back into formation. Now!’

He considered ignoring the order. The Earl of Oxford’s men were ready to break and run from the tourney field and Raymond wanted to take more of enemy knights captive and so quench his desperate need for money. Strongbow’s bribes and Alice’s upkeep in the inn in Westminster had left him in significant arrears and the arms, mail, trappings and mounts of captured knights could be sold to clear some of those debts. Their ransoms would make him rich for the first time in his life.

‘Bollocks to you,’ he said under his breath and kicked his courser forward to meet another of the Earl of Oxford’s men. The knight’s lance was only a few feet from striking his chest when Raymond nudged Dreigiau to his right and clear of the point. Once past that danger he stood in his long stirrups and struck the helpless knight twice in succession as their momentum took them passed each other. When Raymond turned sharply the rider was on the ground and his weapons loose of his grip.

‘Damn you, you bloody fool! Come back here,’ Roger de Clare, the Earl of Hertford, cried again as Raymond repelled two strokes from another rival. He brought his sword down on the knight’s outstretched arm. The blow was not enough to break the skin, but the man dropped his weapon from his nerveless hand and tried to steer his horse away from the attack. Raymond forced Dreigiau in front of him, backhanding the knight with the rim of his shield in his steel-covered face. The man crumpled onto his back as Raymond circled around with his sword aloft.

‘I offer you a pledge, I offer you a pledge,’ the man shouted and held up his hands. Raymond smiled and pulled out of the downwards sword thrust.

‘Get their names and oaths,’ he ordered Geoffrey of Abergavenny. The Earl of Oxford’s men were retreating at top speed from the mêlée and there would be no more ransoms from this encounter. Raymond spotted a small copse of trees in the distance which might offer them some respite and assumed that was where the Earl of Oxford would hide out and regroup.

‘Raymond, you Welsh dullard, get back in line,’ Lord Hertford, commanded sternly as he removed his great helm. Whether or not he was jealous at Raymond’s three successes so early in the tourney was hard to say, but the earl was certainly annoyed that he had paid two shillings to have such a wayward lance like Raymond in his conrois.

The captain from Striguil cast a grin at Lord Hertford as he passed him and took his place in the crimson and gold line. The earl was one of the most valuable targets on the field and any fighter from the eight other competing teams in the tourney would love to claim the vast ransom by capturing him. Raymond reckoned that the nobleman was probably nervous and that was what made him so prickly. As Hertford shouted orders up and down the line, Raymond cast his eye over the meadows on either side of the London Road. Two miles to the west he could see Sir Robert Dagworth’s men take on the conrois of the Lord de Ros while closer to Westminster, a Breton count took on a small conrois led by a Yorkshire knight in a white and blue surcoat. Raymond did not recognise him, but he was impressed by the way he directed his unit. Beyond that, Sir Nigel d’Evecque led his few warriors in a flanking attack on the rear of Lord de Ros’s conrois in conjunction with Dagworth’s men.

‘Dagworth and d’Evecque have joined forces,’ Raymond informed Hertford. His words were lost as a thundering charge from the west saw the entry of Prince Harry into the mêlée. A hundred or so knights followed their lord’s command and plunged into the fray and from the crowds on the far side of the river a cheer went up. To a man they had gathered to watch the young prince’s company compete.

‘God for Anjou,’ the prince shouted as he hoisted his lance in the air and pointed the way for his men. The audience echoed his call and applauded King Henry’s eldest son as his knights attacked Dagworth’s flank. From this distance, Raymond could make out little but it seemed that Prince Harry’s huge conrois smashed right through Dagworth’s men and into those of Lord de Ros and d’Evecque. He could not imagine how much it would have cost to put such a huge number of knights in the field. No less than fifty pounds, Raymond considered with a disbelieving shake of his head. It was as much as his father’s estate at Carew Castle would make in a decade.

‘We are going after Oxford,’ the Earl of Hertford announced as he cantered up the line, ignoring the prince and the cheers of adulation. ‘I want his armour to adorn my feasting hall! And you,’ Hertford turned on Raymond, ‘make sure and stay in the line this time.’ The earl’s voice was muffled and steely below the great helm which covered his head. ‘My noble cousin Strongbow may think you a good fighter, but the mêlée is different to anything that you will have seen in Gwent. So stay in order,’ he snarled. Hertford could not believe how a man mounted on such a small horse could possibly hope to survive the tourney, but Strongbow had insisted the stout warrior was worth the gamble. Certainly, he had shown a brute strength in taking three ransoms, but the tourney was about discipline, not the wild fighting he would’ve seen on the Welsh March. ‘Must I explain the rules of the tourney for a third time?’ the earl asked.

‘No,’ Raymond replied with a smile. The rules were simple: this was war on a small scale and in a defined area with identified participants. Rival teams fought it out while a large audience watched from the sidelines, baying for blood. Not that many competitors died during the mêlée, but every so often someone had his throat cut or bled to death from a particularly heavy blow from an enraged fighter. And then you were in real trouble because the Church would not allow any knight killed in the tournament to be buried in Holy ground. What would happen to a man if he was not to be buried amongst the flock of Christ when Judgement Day came? Raymond shuddered at the thought. A tourney also provided opportunity to capture and ransom a rich knight or nobleman and make a fortune. He had heard of the exploits of the best mêlée fighters, of their fame and great wealth. Raymond’s jealousy pulsed in his chest. Even the most successful fighting seasons on the March could leave Raymond and his kin struggling to make ends meet – and each time they took to the field they risked their lives. There was not the same peril as a tourney knight. The most famous mêlées took place in Flanders, but this was Raymond’s first experience of one. Every other kingdom in Christendom had banned the dangerous pursuit under pressure from the Church, but in celebration of his forthcoming coronation, Prince Harry had convinced his father, the Old King Henry, to allow him to host a tourney with some of the greatest knights from around Europe. It made this unique meeting on the London Road one of the most violent, desperate and exciting day’s activity for both riders and their adoring fans.

‘We need to watch out for William Marshal,’ Raymond told the Earl of Hertford and lifted his arm to point in the direction of the danger. The earl followed his gesture to where, up on a hillock to the east, the greatest knight ever to set foot on the tournament field lurked: Sir William Marshal and his fifty-strong conrois. The man in the green and yellow surcoat had ruled the roost at every tournament in France and Flanders for a year and had become fabulously rich. It was said that he had never lost a tourney and that he had once singlehandedly taken on ten warriors and won. There was no more famous fighter in Christendom. Raymond wondered how much Prince Harry had been forced to hand over to get him and his company to leave the rich pickings on the continent for this scraggly English field. The potential takings from a prince, two earls, a foreign count, and a rich English baron may have been enough for Marshal to cross the sea to the backwater kingdom.

‘What is he waiting for?’ Hertford asked. ‘I suppose he thinks he is too high and bloody mighty to take part?’

Raymond shook his head. ‘He is waiting for us to exhaust ourselves by attacking each other. Once we are panting he will charge in and clean up the remaining ransoms.’

‘That’ll not please our little Harry,’ the earl scoffed and nodded at the prince’s conrois. ‘He’s not happy unless he is the centre of attention.’ The audience had stopped singing ‘God for Anjou’ and were chanting Marshal’s name, urging him to join the fight. ‘His father will have his guts for garters if he gets involved in the fighting. It’s not like Harry is a knight.’ The earl continued to watch Marshal until he disappeared from view. ‘We are taking old Oxford now,’ he proclaimed and kicked his steed into action, leaving Raymond’s concerns about Sir William Marshal behind. The rest of the conrois followed their lord, trotting over the London Road and uphill towards the copse of trees where the Earl of Oxford hid with his horsemen, licking his wounds. Raymond was the last to follow, chewing his lip as he eyed Marshal up on the hillock. The famous knight stood still, hidden beneath his great helm and barely moving as he stared across the wide London Road at the fight going on.

‘Make sure you get their names,’ Raymond told Geoffrey of Abergavenny and pointed at the three captured knights, ‘and then give them my address at the inn. They will meet us there later to set the price of their ransom.’ His new esquire nodded as Raymond, with one final glance towards Marshal, kicked his horse into a canter to catch up with the Earl of Hertford.

‘What happens if you are captured?’ Geoffrey shouted after his lord.

‘Then their ransoms become the property of my victor,’ he called back, not sure if his esquire would even hear his words. The knights’ ransoms would give him the equivalent of several years’ income and still allow him a bit of extra cash to bribe those court officials who Strongbow needed to support him when he finally met with King Henry. What he should do, Raymond knew, was to ride off the field immediately with his winnings safely pocketed. However, Hertford had paid him two shillings to fight with his company and he could not in all conscience abandon the priggish earl. Honour demanded that he remain at Hertford’s side and so he clipped his heels to Dreigiau’s flanks and urged him into a gallop.

Principle may have kept him there, but he was starting to enjoy his first mêlée. So why should he leave early? There were more ransoms to be taken and with that on his mind he charged after Hertford’s men towards the spinney of trees where the Earl of Oxford had gone to ground.

The Earl of Oxford ran rather than be captured. He fled to the jeers of the distant crowd and the curses of Hertford’s men who had again missed out on his rich ransom. The remainder of his conrois scattered across the London Road field leaving Hertford’s troop alone in the copse of trees with their handful of captured knights.

‘Damn it,’ the Earl of Hertford spoke from beside Raymond. He pulled off his great helm and loosened the chainmail around his throat. ‘Oxford will leave the tourney now. If I could have taken him prisoner...’ He shook his head in disappointment at the missed opportunity for great wealth.

Behind the two men the prisoners stood awaiting their fate  loss of armour, horses and a ransom which could cripple their household for a number of years to come. ‘Who commands the next biggest sum?’ the earl asked the man nearest to him.

‘The prince is worth most,’ Raymond answered, ‘then the Count of Rennes, I suspect.’

‘Rennes then,’ the earl said quickly. He, like Raymond, accepted that their forty-strong conrois would not be able to capture Prince Harry and nor would it have been politically sensible, though Hertford still could not shake his ambition to wrestle a hefty tribute from the king’s son. ‘Would it really be bad form to attack the snotty-faced little prick?’ he asked. ‘I know he paid for the tourney, but he is a pathological bore and it would wipe the smarmy smile off his face if he was forced to turn to his daddy to pay a ransom to me.’

‘His coronation is tomorrow, Lord,’ Raymond replied. His new chainmail, taken from Sir William de Braose, was tight around his chest and he had to flap his arms to get the links to sit correctly on his shoulders. ‘It is probably best that he be in a good mood for that.’

Hertford sniffed in disappointment. ‘His father would be rather angry.’ The earl looked back towards the town of Westminster where a number of horsemen made towards a tight curl in the river’s course. ‘And there goes the Count,’ he pointed his lance. ‘Get our men ready to move out,’ he ordered.

‘We should wait,’ Raymond told Hertford, placing a hand on the shoulder of the earl’s mare. ‘The prince has sent men to block his escape,’ he pointed out a number of men riding to the north-west. ‘Rennes will have to double back…’

‘And that will lead him right past us,’ Hertford finished his sentence with a look of complete joy. ‘Oh well done, Young Harry!’ he laughed, his head cocking back and forth much like Strongbow would have done. ‘He might make a half-decent king after all.’

The Earl of Hertford was still laughing when Sir William Marshal’s conrois launched their attack on the rear of his company.

Raymond clipped his heels to Dreigiau’s flanks as a sword flashed down in his direction. His sudden movement took him away from the blow and almost unseated the rider who had thrown all his weight into the strike. The thunder of hooves and the cry of exultation surrounded Raymond as more of Marshal’s riders poured through the trees to attack Hertford’s conrois. Raymond forced his small courser to turn sharply to take another sword stroke on his shield. Beside him, the Earl of Hertford cursed and fumbled with his heavy helm as he attempted to slot it back upon his head.

‘Geoffrey, with me!’ Raymond shouted at his esquire as Dreigiau dodged another of Marshal’s men who flew past, his mace and armour a blur of grey, green and gold as it swept in an arc well wide of his intended target. All around him there were warriors engaged in scuffles, but Raymond could instinctively tell that there was no hope for the Earl of Hertford’s company. They had been caught flat-footed and unprepared. A knight, astride the biggest horse that Raymond had ever seen, yelled a challenge as he levelled his lance and roared towards him. Raymond glanced at the earl, still calling for his esquire to bring him a weapon so that he could defend himself, and kicked Dreigiau into a wide bend, keeping the knight on his left and drawing him away from Hertford. As the man matched his move, Raymond suddenly darted his speedy courser towards him, closing the gap before the knight could swing his unwieldy lance into position. In the blink of an eye he had turned his adversary’s heavy lance aside with his shield and Raymond saw the man’s eyes open in fear just before impact of sword on shield. Marshal’s man disappeared over the side of the saddle as the captain from Striguil galloped past.

‘Leave him be,’ Raymond shouted at Geoffrey. To have taken the man hostage would’ve led to his own capture, he had no doubt, and as he looked left and right, Raymond saw that he had fought his way clear of Marshal’s line of horsemen. He was free. All he had to do to claim the ransoms from his earlier victories was to keep riding to the safe area, leaving the Earl of Hertford’s men to their fate. He turned to check on Geoffrey, riding close behind him, and in the distance he espied the earl through the dust cloud, surrounded by three of his esquires who were trying to fight off four of Marshal’s combatants. It was then that a big man in an emerald and gold surcoat resplendent with a snarling, crimson lion leapt his horse over a large bushel and into the fight. It was Sir William Marshal himself and he was aiming straight for the Earl of Hertford’s flank. Raymond looked through the trees and saw the open land beyond, the road back towards Westminster where Alice and three rich ransoms awaited him. He cursed as he realised that he couldn’t abandon Hertford, and so he turned Dreigiau and charged to his defence.

‘Beware right,’ Raymond yelled at Hertford, who petulantly squealed for his men to rally to his side and defend him from Marshal. Raymond urged his courser to great speed but he could already see that he would be too late. Marshal did not even break stride as he passed between two of the earl’s esquires and smashed his sword across the back of Hertford’s great helm, breaking the leather strap under the earl’s chin and spinning the steel pot around so that Hertford could not see. Raymond inhaled sharply through clenched teeth as Marshal prepared to bring his sword down again. The blow never fell. Instead, Marshal effortlessly juggled his sword into his left while simultaneously grabbing the reins from Hertford’s hand and dragging the blinded earl away from the fight. A much practiced move, Raymond was wowed by the ease at which Marshal handled both weapons and steed. Nonetheless, he knew his duty and kicked Dreigiau forward to intercept the knight as they made their way back into the tight trees.

Immediately two men from Marshal’s conrois came forward to block his path and Raymond snarled, veering between them as they leaned forward in the saddle to swing their weapons at him. Both lunges missed their target by a hand’s breadth, but beyond the duo were more yellow and green-surcoated warriors and Raymond darted through circling shields and flashing swords, searching the spinney of trees for a glimpse of the famous knight and the earl. He could sense the presence of the two warriors who had dodged seconds before and turned his horse suddenly to deflect one warrior’s blow with his shield and another from the other side with his sword as the two horsemen swept past him. Another man on foot came at Raymond with his sword in the air and a deep gash in his cheek. Strongbow’s captain didn’t even bother using his shield, but removed his left leg from his stirrup and kicked the man full in the face with the sole of his foot.

Replacing his armoured leg, Raymond pulled Dreigiau around and searched the trees for any sign of the earl. There was no sight of him and he cursed. Around him, men in the arms of Hertford were being led away to give up their ransoms while those left at liberty were still fighting desperately to avoid the same fate. Hertford’s part in the tourney was all but over.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Raymond told Geoffrey. As he pulled alongside his esquire he espied a look of sheer terror pass across his face. Sir William Marshal had arrived back on the tourney field and he came straight at Raymond de Carew.

As he had done with Hertford, Marshal approached Raymond from behind, aiming a sword blow at the Welshman’s head and it was only the widening of Geoffrey’s eyes in fear that warned Raymond to the danger. He tried to turn Dreigiau to meet him, but Marshal was not known as the greatest horseman in Europe for nothing and at the last second he let his steed drift to the left, sweeping his weapon down on his enemy’s head. Any other man would have been knocked unconscious by the move, but somehow Raymond had the presence of mind to drop his reins and throw his sword across his back. Marshal’s weapon clanged off the captain’s blade – sending reverberations up both of Raymond’s hands – though it proved enough to bounce Marshal’s sword strike over his head. If Marshal was shocked that his trick had not worked he did not show it as he leant down and dragged Raymond’s long reins from his lap and dragged Dreigiau forwards by his bridle.

‘Marshal!’ was all Raymond could muster to shout as he almost fell out of his saddle. Dreigiau was dragged forward by Marshal’s bigger, stronger charger and Raymond, devoid of reins and balance, struggled to adjust his seat. ‘Wait!’ he exclaimed, but to no avail. The famous knight was not about to let another ransom go to waste. As he had Hertford, Raymond supposed, Marshal would drag him from the wood to where a group of men would be waiting to force him to surrender at spearpoint. Strongbow’s captain could not afford to pay even the smallest ransom, never mind replace his saddle, sword and new armour. The thought of losing Dreigiau was unbearable and so he stayed in the saddle rather than cast himself onto the ground and escape on foot.

They had come out of the small copse and Raymond could see a small knot of men waiting down by the river for their leader to arrive. Some of those already captured by Marshal were unhorsed and watched by those warriors. Amongst them was the Earl of Hertford and Raymond knew he would soon join the nobleman if he did not act. Suddenly inspiration came to him. He desisted from pulling on Dreigiau’s mane and instead squeezed the speedy steed’s sides to increase his pace. Within a couple of strides Dreigiau had closed the gap on Marshal’s charger and Raymond took aim and struck, not at his captor, but through his own reins, releasing himself from Marshal’s grasp. He laughed as he softened his leg grip and leaned to his left, turning Dreigiau back towards the spinney and allowing Marshal to speed away from him. His amusement quickly turned to fear as Marshal realised that his captive had slipped the hook. If he wasn’t so desperate to get away Raymond would have applauded Marshal’s impressive horsemanship as he turned his horse on a sixpence to pursue him. He only had a split second to lift his shield as Marshal’s mighty blow fell and knocked him backwards off his saddle, but as he tumbled the short distance from horseback into a prickly hedge, Raymond did consider that he had never been hit so hard. The branches scraped harshly on his armour as he tumbled through its grasp to meet the ground with a solid thump. He could hear the people on the other side of the river roaring Marshal’s name, urging him to strike and take another ransom. They sought Raymond’s defeat and good sport.

He rolled out of the bush as Marshal pulled his horse around to face him. Raymond still had his shield but his sword had disappeared in the long grass. Against a mounted man of Marshal’s skill he knew he would not stand a chance in any event. He stole a glance to see if he could get to Dreigiau before his opponent attacked the short distance between them. However, the courser had trotted off to join the small group of knights awaiting Marshal’s command.

‘Oh, thanks a lot,’ Raymond grumbled at his disloyal horse as he turned back to face Marshal. Sir William’s steed snorted and stomped her feet, impatient to attack the unhorsed Raymond, but for many seconds the knight held her back and simply stared at the unhorsed warrior as if expecting another trick.

Strongbow’s captain breathed out slowly as he attempted to come up with a ruse that would save him from utter penury.

‘Think, think, think,’ he kept repeating as he watched Marshal’s slow, careful advance. The knight was not charging him like a madman, but trotting slowly in a wide arc, eying up his target calmly and professionally. Obviously Raymond’s initial defence during the fight in the trees had made Marshal wary. For his part, Raymond wondered what sort of man was hidden below the great helm and chainmail when not one hint of human flesh was visible. With nowhere to run, he kept his back to the thorny hedge, denying Marshal the ability to get behind him. His opponent was only ten paces away and did not flinch when he saw Raymond turn his back on his advance and try to clamber through the hedgerow and into the next field.

But Raymond de Carew was not ready to run. Instead he hauled at a prickly branch with his hands and then tore away the few remaining tendrils that held it in place. He then darted towards Marshal with the rudimentary weapon held aloft. Raymond fancied that Marshal must have let a grin break across his face, hidden beneath the great helm, when he saw the seemingly panicked charge of the defeated man armed with a branch. However, his mare’s reaction to the unexpected threat of the rustling bush was to suddenly scuttle sideways in fear.

Any other rider would have fallen from the saddle, but somehow Marshal hung on as his charger dropped her shoulder to get away from the prickles. Raymond was not about to let the chance go a-begging and he dragged the branch along the horse’s flank, setting her scurrying the opposite direction with a frightened snort of horror. No man could have held onto the twisting and bucking horse, and Marshal finally slammed onto the ground as the crowd, and his knights, gasped in astonishment.

Raymond laughed as he watched Marshal sprawl on the ground. Many men would have stayed down, winded from the heavy fall but Marshal grunted only once on impact and then slowly pulled himself to his feet, seemingly unaffected by the fall.

‘So you are human,’ Raymond smiled as Marshal put his hand to his chest.

Raymond’s opponent did not respond as he dragged his sword from the scabbard and stabbed it into the ground before him. He began dusting himself off as two of his knights galloped forward to aid their commander.

‘Sir William,’ one shouted and pointed at Raymond, ‘shall we take him?’ Marshal did not answer but held up his hand to wave them away. It was enough for the two knights who swapped nervous glances and then directed their horses back towards their companions and their captives.

‘You know,’ Raymond said loudly towards Marshal, ‘I haven’t two brass beans to rub together. Capturing me would be a waste of your time and effort.’ The man clothed in metal pulled his sword out of the ground and in answer pointed it at Raymond’s head. ‘No, really,’ he continued, ‘I am Strongbow’s captain! How much could a man working for him actually be worth? You must have heard the stories?’ He held up the prickly branch. ‘I can’t even afford a proper sword,’ he laughed.

‘Here’s one,’ Marshal spoke for the first time, kneeling and picking up Raymond’s sword and throwing the weapon in his direction.

Raymond nodded in gratitude of Marshal’s chivalrous behaviour and cast the rudimentary, yet successful, branch aside in favour of steel. He took a deep breath as Marshal stalked forward and raised his sword aloft. Behind the famous knight, the nobles and townsfolk in the crowd cheered the greatest contest of arms they had yet seen on the prince’s tourney field.