Balin and Columbine (A Children of the May Novella - Book 1.5b)

Chapter Nineteen: Blood and Torchlight

Though the tournaments in those days did not, strictly speaking, allow competitors to kill each other, fatalities were not an irregular occurrence. Sometimes these killings were deliberate, motivated by the settling of grudges; most often, however, they were accidental deaths. They occurred particularly frequently in the lower lists, where the poorer, unknighted men, fought to win riches and honour. The experienced knights in the upper lists moderated their violence for self-preservation’s sake, but the fierce ambitions of those involved in the earlier competitions often drove towards someone’s death.

Balin could remember everything of the first passage of his bout against Lanceor and Griflet. He had tried to keep his head, as Lanceor seemed to know what he was doing. The man of Erin instructed Griflet the squire in a good defensive tactic: rather than attack Balin from either side, as less skilled fighters might have done, Lanceor correctly noted that the squat Griflet’s limited reach made a dual frontal attack a better option. The taller man positioned Griflet before him, instructing his heavily-set comrade to attack low, while Lanceor used his long arms to go for Balin’s head and chest. This did not please the majority of the crowd, who were only excited by blows and blood. The connoisseurs, however, nodded approvingly at the plan. At first the tactic had been successful: Balin had narrowly avoided losing both knees and neck to his opponents. Lanceor even gave him a nasty buffet on the shoulder. It was as that point Balin’s recall of the bout became fragmentary.

He remembered the surge of rage that descended on him with the pain. He remembered falling back to the rails of the ring, and the spectators’ hands pushing him back towards the fight. The young girl Petal, who had earlier been wilting over Sir Beaumains, had screamed her love for Lanceor in his ear.

Balin knew he had to separate his opponents to have a chance. He launched himself across the ring, leapt, and flew through the air.

He remembered one foot landing on Griflet’s solid chest, and the other boot smashing into the side of Lanceor’s face. He could hear the crunch; he could still feel the reverberation riding up his leg. The crack, the slick of bone and brain shifting around the toe of his boot. Balin hadn’t meant to kill the lad, but as so often his blow had been uncontrolled. The crowd roared at the precise moment the light went out of Lanceor’s eyes.

Griflet had not taken long after that. The squire was fearsomely strong, but Balin was quicker. Balin had forced him back to the fence with a nipping attack, before driving him through the fence with a boot to the chest. Once a competitor was outside the ring, he could play no further part in the lower lists. The solid squire had looked at Balin with pure rage, but known that he was defeated.

As Balin received the acclamation of the crowd he had caught sight of Garnish, standing on his box. The bookmaker was scowling, trails of tears running down his cheeks, as he paid out large piles of coin to the one or two folk who had gambled on the lone competitor. Clearly the genius had set odds favouring the two rather than the one.

Balin settled back down in the competitors’ pen, still breathing hard from his exertions in the ring.

‘Clever stuff,’ said grey-haired John of the Marsh.

‘Nowt clever about what I just did,’ said Balin, refusing the bottle the man from the marshes offered him.  ‘You really shouldn’t be drinking, friend.’

John’s face was desolate in the torchlight. ‘I have to,’ he said, ‘or I remember too much.’

* * *

Soon the lower lists came to their climax. There were four competitors left: Balin, John, a boil-covered Magyar who spoke little British called something like ‘Er’, and Damas the brother-killer. The marshal of the competition strode around the centre of the ring, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Though it was traditional for the final bout of the lower lists to be fought with swords, it was still technically the crowd’s choice. The marshal’s job was to ensure they chose correctly, before he told them to buy themselves one final drink and a couple of pies before the last bout of the night began.