The Greatest Knight Read Online Free PDF

the change seems to work.”
    De Lorys raised a sceptical brow and turned his mouth down at the corners, but held his peace.
    “I did not mean for you to receive a bad horse,” de Tancarville said gruffly.
    “It isn’t a bad horse, my lord,” William answered, smiling. “Indeed, it is probably the best of all those given out.” He hesitated as he was about to duck inside the tent. “I would ask you not to say anything to Adam Yqueboeuf about that. He has wagered his sword that I won’t win a tourney prize on Blancart, and I want to surprise him.”
    De Tancarville gave a snort of reluctant amusement. “William, you surprise us all,” he said. “I won’t say anything; it’ll be evident soon enough. Make haste now, or you’ll not be ready to form up with the rest of the mesnie.”
    “Yes, my lord.” William crammed the last chunk of bread into his mouth, moistened it with a swallow of wine from the pitcher standing on his campstool and, chewing vigorously, beckoned a squire to help him arm.
    ***
    Compared to William’s baptism in battle at the desperate, bloody fight for Drincourt, the tourney was a jaunt. Death and injury were hazards of the sport, but the intent was to capture and claim ransom, not to kill. His stallion was fiery and unsettled, but William could deal with that. It was a matter of remembering to go lightly on the reins and do more work than usual with the thighs and heels. When he lined up in close formation with the other Tancarville men, his heart swelled with pride. He had chosen a place in the line well away from Adam Yqueboeuf, but each knight was aware of the other’s presence. William did not allow himself to think of failure. He would make gains today; his honour and his self-esteem depended on it, and he would rather die than yield his sword to a conceited turd like Yqueboeuf.
    Their opponents were a medley of French, Flemish, and Scots knights, as eager for the sport as the Normans, English, and Angevins. De Tancarville stayed at the rear of his mesnie. For him the tourney was a place to meet friends and peers and display his largesse and importance through the number and calibre of knights fighting for him. The sport was for the young and reckless whilst he and the other sponsors looked on.
    At the trumpet call from a herald, the two opposing lines spurred towards each other. William felt Blancart surge under him, the motion as smooth and powerful as a wave in mid-ocean. He selected his target: a knight wearing a hauberk that glittered silver and gold like the scales of a carp, his warhorse barded in ostentatious saffron and crimson silk. As the two stallions collided like rock and wave, crashing, recoiling, crashing again, William wrapped his fist around the knight’s bridle and strove to drag him back to the Norman pavilions. “Yield!” William’s voice emerged through his helm in a muffled bellow.
    “Never!” The knight drew his sword and attempted to beat William off, but William held on, ducking, avoiding blows, striking back in return, and all the time drawing his intended prize towards his own lines. A second French knight who tried to help his companion was beaten off by Gadefer de Lorys. William saluted in acknowledgment, ducked another assault by his now desperate adversary, and spurred Blancart.
    “Yield, my lord!” he commanded again, dragging his victim far behind the Norman line.
    The knight shook his head, but at William’s single-mindedness and bravado rather than conveying refusal. “Yielded,” he snarled. “I am Philip de Valognes and you have my pledge.” He gave a lofty wave. “You were fortunate to catch me before I had warmed to the sport.” His tone suggested that William’s vigorous assault and grim determination to hold on were not quite chivalrous. “Release me and have done…and I would know to whom I have yielded the price of my horse.”
    “My name is William Marshal, my lord,” William replied, his chest heaving, his fist still