Dust swirled through the air and the roar of the crowd, oddly dulled by the close fit of his armet, still seemed to thud against Edward’s body. Bohemund turned between his knees, the powerful warhorse reacted almost instantaneously to the lightest touch of the spur, again and again he spun and Edward kept his seat like the expert horseman he was. All the while the young knight formed a tent of steel over his head with his longsword, sparks flew as blows slid off the blade like a steeply pointed roof in a mountain village.

A trio of knights on tall horses circled Edward like the sharks he had once observed off the coast in Bordeaux. They swung their blades down like a group of Master smiths forging a sword, each striking one after the other in a tattoo of concussive force that left Edward no chance to respond. All the newest knight of the Emperor could do was guard and pray his blade held against the onslaught, a rapidly dwindling prospect given the shower of sparks that continued to show the removal of more of the blade’s steel.

The Grand Melee had gone from bad to worse in moments, from the second the Marshal gave the call to engage it had become clear that the Knights of the Great Company were the targets for everyone. It had been made apparent that Sir Felix was now the prime choice to assume the mantle of Ober-Captain, and with Reichenbach dead there were few with the birth or the name to command. Some argued that this was not the way, but Edward knew better. Even the common men amongst the companies put value on a commander’s renown and nobility, anything could be questioned if a man was believed to be of less worth.

Once the inter-camp politics were out of the way there was the matter of the upper echelons of the Empire. Sir Felix was the grandson of the Grand Duke von Rabsburg, one of twelve Grand Dukes who held the title of Elector within the Empire. When an Emperor died it was from these twelve Households that his successor was chosen and the von Rabsburgs had grown especially powerful under the auspices of the current Emperor von Bludden. It was due to this that the Emperor had been slowly turning his favour away from his once prized servants, unwilling to give cause for them to become his heir apparent as he entered the latter stages of his life, especially with his eldest son not yet ready to compete for the crown.

All of this and more were unnecessary thoughts in Sir Edward’s mind as he continued to fend off the strikes of his assailants. The Emperor had entered a team of his own for the Grand Melee and they had targeted the Company’s as soon as the lay on was called. At least three other teams had shown their hand as well, and Edward was sure that Imperial gold lined their saddle bags as well. Without another thought on the matter, the young knight put spurs to his undeserving steed and rammed Bohemund breast to breast with one of the knights, the large Destrier reared back in protest and struck out with a hoof. It was not strictly within the rules but there was also no rule forbidding the action, and judging by the roar of the crowd they thought it was an ingenious stratagem for handling the unfair numbers.

The hoof collected one knight in the breastplate and Edward cringed internally at the steel shod mace blow it must have felt like, as he saw the man tumble over his crupper and into the sand of the arena. With one down Edward’s sword struck like a viper. He used his knees to guide Bohemund towards the next man as he took his sword in the half sword position and made a rowing motion, striking the man in the head first with the blade and next with the hilt. Strike after strike rained down on the man and as suddenly as it had begun the fight shifted again, with Sir Edward as the aggressor. The knight he fought had a grail on his arms and retreated under the assault, sawing on his reins and making weak one handed covers as Edward bore down on him.

The assault could not be maintained, however, as Edward realised too late he had forgotten the third knight in his haste to strike Sir Grail, as Edward had named him in his mind. The third Knight’s blow landed like a bolt from the heavens on Edward’s outstretched forearm, and in its wake it left a finger deep divot in the vambrace, and pain lanced like fire through the whole arm. Edward couldn’t be sure if he screamed or not, but judging by how raw his throat felt later he had to imagine he did.

The bruised arm came back to Edward and he pressed it against his chest as he spun Bohemund between his legs once more. The roles reversed once more as Edward made his covers with a single hand, he leveraged his blade against his own shoulder to compensate and allow the blows to slide off his sword. It was an imperfect system and he knew it would not last long. As if the thought itself had gone from his mind to the ear of the Worthies, the blade snapped.

It was a strange sensation, Edward was sure he had made the cover and yet a blow rocked his head to the side like a strong punch from a big man. Spots danced before his eyes and he was certain there was now blood in his linen helmet liner from a cut over his right eye. The blade had snapped at about the midway point, so Sir Edward was left holding a hilt and about two feet of blade, the most useless weapon now on the list field. In desperation he threw the broken blade at his attacker’s face and once more put spurs to Bohemund’s flanks, collecting the reins in his uninjured hand as he powered into a lumbering gallop to try and find some daylight in the heaving press of the melee.

Once more Sir Edward thanked the Worthies for his wonderful horse. Bohemund was a king among destriers, and he threaded the gaps between horsemen like a master tailor threads a needle. Edward simply held the reins and bent over the cantle of his saddle, as he took blows across the steel of his back plate from passing knights. As luck would have it though, all the blows were thrown in haste with little planning only the opportunity provided let them be thrown at all and each rung off the steel leaving only a scratch or two to show they even struck and very little in the way of bruising for Edward himself.

Then, it was like the sun pierced the clouds, Edward found himself pressed from both sides, as plated knees crashed into his own, but curiously no blows rained down upon him. He allowed himself a glance up and around and found Davide and Sir Clement by his sides providing the cover he could no longer grant himself. The two knights pressed close and between them they managed to lead Bohemund into the cover of the Company’s wedge formation, with Sir Felix at its point. Clem gave a wordless salute by slapping his gauntleted hand to his helm before he focused on the knights that were attempting to encircle the wedge.

With the immediate threat to himself removed, Edward was free to observe as men of the Company performed feats of arms that would be much talked about that evening at the Emperor’s feast and party he planned to host for the participants and their ladies. Sir Clement stripped a sword from the hands of another knight with a simple grab of the pommel and guard, followed by a swift jerk and twist before he handed the stolen blade to Edward. Bohemund was safely ensconced in the rear ranks of their wedge and Edward was free to use his good arm for his newly acquired sword rather than his reins, trusting to the press and his knees to guide the large horse through the dust of the list field.

The Company’s wedge’s advance was implacable as they moved through the List, their blades and gauntlets seemed to devour knights who got too close like some horrific machine. Davide broke ranks once to thread a line of knights, and in one of the greatest feats of horsemanship Edward had yet seen, his friend threw two knights into the dirt as he passed between them and scooped a foot from each stirrup on his way through, keeping his steed perfectly collected between his knees.

Battle, even a staged one like that of the Grand Melee, can be formulaic at times, with the constant movement and reaction of teams to one another, but there was always an element of chaos. The chaos of this tournament presented itself in the form of a riderless horse that ran itself under the hooves of Sir Felix’s very indignant stallion. The proud knight together with his destrier went down in a tangle of limbs and a cloud of fresh dust. A loud snap echoed out of the furore and Edward winced inside his helm as he recognised the sound.

A horse in pain will scream, and it is the single most heart wrenching sound a man can hear. That was what Edward heard now as the knights of the Company circled around their fallen captain. The horse who caused the fall rose and shook itself like a dog before it galloped towards the outer railings of the list field. Edward pressed Bohemund’s head into the dust to find his fallen Captain. The man himself was trapped under the flailing body of his own destrier. The powerful stallion was screaming for all his lungs were worth and Edward cringed to see the bloody foam that leaked from the beast’s mouth and nostrils.

The company’s youngest knight threw a leg over his cantle and slithered to the ground as fast as a man in full harness could. In moments he pushed his uninjured shoulder against the downed charger to free the Captain’s leg, who in turn came too with a scream when the weight moved on the broken limb. In time the horse was shoved away and Edward was able to help the Captain up, the older knight leaned heavily on the younger’s shoulder, keeping the weight off his broken leg.

Bohemund stood like a statue by his master’s side, the very picture of equine training and breeding. Edward handed the reins to his Captain and heaved the man up into the saddle where his damaged leg would not hamper his movement, “Try not to get taken my lord, I rather like this horse,” Edward told the man. Sir Felix gave a mock salute in response and was quickly back in place at the head of the wedge while Edward sheltered himself by the Captain’s fallen horse’s head, doing his best to calm the frantic animal.

The world around them seemed to still and fade away as Edward stroked his hand along the neck of the broken horse. His touch was firm and he applied as much pressure as he dared in his steel clad hands. The rolling eyes and foam flecked lips calmed slowly, until finally the liquid brown of the destrier’s eye met the jewel-like green of the young knight. The horse whinnied pitifully at the human, trust evident in every lined of its pain wracked body. Edward continued his firm hand on the neck and spoke soothingly to the horse, “I am sorry, you have been so brave my friend,” he continued crooning to the horse even as he drew his dagger and brought the animal into an embrace against his body, the blade then slid into its eye and ended the poor creature’s suffering.

Tears flowed from Edward’s eyes, hidden by the steel visage of Roland that still encased his head. The horse was the closest companion of the knight, and to lose one in such a way was the heartbreak of all men at arms. A destrier was an expensive horse, with such a defined purpose and narrow role they did not even make good riding horses. Unless one was in combat a destrier was simply a mouth that ate money, and never a more expensive corpse could be seen. The death of a good war horse could be financial ruin for a man at arms. Yet all such thoughts were the furthest thing from Edward’s mind as he cradled the head of the dead steed against his breast.

********************

Edward eventually retreated to the edge of the Lists and spent the rest of the contest in that most ignoble of positions in a Melee, on foot and doing everything he could to avoid capture. With the captain mounted on Bohemund he was untroubled by his injured leg and led the remnants of the Company team to a decisive victory, with most of the remaining knights put in the dust and their horses captured and corralled by the waiting Pages, the young lads and lasses showing all the spirit of those who know a reward is coming, and certainly several of them would be made squires later that day and given one of those steeds.

The Company retired from the field in triumph, rand the Emperor waved in congratulations to them, any sign of irritation that his well planned attack was unsuccessful was completely absent from his features. It was a serenity that Edward both admired and envied in equal measure, and something he saw reflected in the expression of humble victory that Sir Felix wore, as he bowed to the great monarch over the cantle of his saddle.

The knights returned to the camp triumphant and buoyed by their success. Edward was disarmed by his new squire and his very obviously broken arm was splinted and tied into a sling, while the same was done for Sir Felix’s leg. The wounds of the Company were carried like badges of honour and the men at arms welcomed their commanders and comrades back to the camp and a festive atmosphere permeated the fire circles as men recounted their feats and combats blow by blow.

As night fell the pages and servants were called to attend their masters and every knight dressed to their best ability. Edward was resplendent in black silk and a belt of gold plaques on his hips shone. His arms were now enamelled on the central plaque and he wore his rondel dagger provocatively on his hip. He looked every inch the hero as he strode forth with his squire in matched hose and cotehardie and carrying his Lord’s purse.

The Emperor’s feast was a display of wealth and opulence that seemed out of place so close to the squalid mercenary camp. Banners in Imperial Purple and cloth of gold decorated the great hall in which the Emperor held his court. The man himself was resplendent in a gold and purple gown that trailed behind him and at the sleeves with a high tulip collar and a line of pearls. Even the garment’s buttons were made of solid gold rather than gilt and represented the cost of three prosperous towns in the western continent.

The prizes for the tournament were generous and freely given, the Emperor may have not wanted Sir Felix to win but he was unstinting in his praise and Edward could find no fault in the chivalry the man showed in his lordship. Men were called forth and given rewards for their valour and their skill. Davide was given a rose crafted entirely of gold with such skilled metalwork as to look like it would grow before his eyes, with small shining drops of sapphire on its leaves and petals that appeared as the morning dew.

Edward was called forth after most of the men of the Company, and the Emperor smiled to see a face he recognised, “you have proved yourself a most compassionate and exemplary knight in Our employ Sir Edward,” the soft spoken, almost angelic monarch informed him as he extended a hand for Edward to kiss the Imperial Seal. The Emperor showed genuine pleasure as he looked over the belt and silk that clad the young knight, “you did well to support your Captain and We saw how well you fought even when injured,” he looked meaningfully at the sling that held the young man’s arm, “your promised lands in my demesne have been found and the charter of your lordship is being written up as we speak, but you deserve a reward for today’s efforts, and as such I have a gift for you,” the Emperor held a hand out to his side and a servant placed a bundle in his hands. The Emperor drew back the black cloth that covered what appeared to be more folded cloth.

It was a banner that held Sir Edward’s personal arms and quartered with them in the upper right were the arms of the von Bludden family, a golden eagle on Imperial purple. The crowd gasped at the show of acceptance, Edward was free to bear the arms of the Emperor with him wherever he went, it marked him as the Emperor’s liegeman and empowered him to dispense justice anywhere within the empire. The young knight prostrated himself before the Emperor, “your Highness, I am unworthy of such a gift, I shall spend the rest of my days trying to prove myself as your knight,” it was a pretty speech couched in the language of chivalry and there were sounds of approval from all around.

The Emperor raised Edward with his own hand and allowed him to withdraw with the banner clutched to his breast. As the night wore on the Emperor finally called on Sir Felix and raised him from his knees immediately to stand beside the monarch. He gestured to the knight and raised his voice to speak over all the gathered knights and nobles, “Sir Felix von Rabsburg has proven himself time and time again as Our most faithful and loyal servant, as such it is with great pleasure that We name him Duke of the Imperial Court and grant him the command of the mercenary armies of Siegesstand as Our new Obercaptain, may you wage a war as preux and puissant as the tournament team We have seen you command your grace,” Sir Felix bowed as those gathered cheered.

“Your will, my hands, your Highness,” Sir Felix answered.