impossible to decipher their meaning. The magnificent blue sapphire, set into a thick ring of silver at the pommel, flashed as it caught the light on that bright spring day. It was a sword fit for a king, an Emperor even, and I wondered where he had obtained it. No doubt from some nobleman that he had slaughtered. I wanted it. I lusted after that sword; I desired it so much it was an ache in my heart.
But there was no time then for these covetous thoughts. At the crook of a finger from Prince John, who was seated in a high-backed chair in the middle of the northern side of the square and surrounded by his closest knights, Rix and Wulfstan came and stood before him, the blond Saxon eyeing his opponent with just a hint of trepidation. He was right to fear him, I thought. Standing in the eastern side of the square, I could see both men in profile, and I saw that Rix was a full head taller than his adversary, although with Rix’s slimness I would have guessed that Wulfstan weighed a shade more. Both men made a solemn declaration that they had not eaten that day and that they had no hidden witch’s enchantments or magical gewgaws about their bodies that would give them an unfair advantage in battle. Wulfstan then declared loudly that he was fighting to preserve his land, the land that had belonged to his father and his father’s father before that, and he called on God Almighty, Jesus Christ, and all the saints to aid him in this matter and prove for once and all time that his cause was right.
Then they began.
Wulfstan wasted no time. He charged at Rix with a wild yell and began to batter at the taller man with a welter of hard blows, wildly swinging with his strong right arm, and battering his opponent with powerful cuts at his head and shoulders. Rix fended off the attack with ease, blocking with his sword and letting the blows slide off his shield, slowly retreating before the fury of his foe. Wulfstan, I could see, was not unused to the sword: someone had instilled the rudiments in him and he would have made a decent if not particularly skilful manat-arms. I had trained worse men than him for Robin, and he had a passion, too, a rage in him that gave force to his sword cuts – he was fighting for his honour, for his family lands, and he knew in his heart that his cause was just.
But he was no match for Rix.
In the middle of a storm of blows from Wulfstan, the tall man’s long blade lanced out over the top of Wulfstan’s shield and plunged deep into the top of his opponent’s left shoulder. It was like the strike of an adder: fast, precise, deadly. Blood spurted red from the wound and Wulfstan fell back with a cry of rage and pain. His shield sagged, his torn shoulder muscles unable to support its weight. Then Rix struck again, once more on his opponent’s left side, the shield side, his sword flickering out almost delicately to carve a bloody furrow in Wulfstan’s cheekbone.
The blond farmer charged once more, red droplets flying from his face into the clear air; a howling surge of fury and desperation and blurring, hacking sword, but Rix merely blocked, dodged, ducked a blow, stepped forward and back-swung gracefully, chopping into the meat of his opponent’s bare right forearm. Wulfstan screamed and staggered back. He could barely hold up his shield with his left, and his sword arm now had a chunk of purple flesh flapping from it. He could no longer either attack his foe or properly defend himself and it was only a matter of time before blood loss pulled him down. He was a dead man – and he knew it. Every man watching knew it too.
A more merciful opponent would have finished him then, but Rix seemed to have no compassion in his lanky black soul. The next few minutes were excruciating, as Rix circled Wulfstan inflicting minor cut after minor cut. He slashed at his calves and drew a spray of blood, sliced into his side, into his right thigh, and carved a furrow on the right side of his face to match the one on the left side, this time taking the eye along with it. He was slowly cutting his opponent apart. Very slowly chopping