Page 74 of The Bear's Heart
Maia came into the Hall carrying little Amhar in her arms, wrapped in a woven shawl. Inspiration seizing me, I caught her by the elbow and pulled her forward.
“Look,” I said to Arthur, desperation driving me. “Look at your son’s face. You don’t need to put yourself in danger. Deny Melwas trial by combat. Execute him for his crimes. You’ve not recovered from your twisted knee. Please.”
I should have known better than to suggest he might be weakened by his knee.
However, he paused and looked down at the baby’s sleeping face, at the fluff of dark hair and the perfect little hand that had escaped the shawl to half cradle the baby’s soft cheek as though he were deep in thought. Then Arthur’s face hardened, and he turned away from us. “I’m ready,” he said and marched toward the open doors.
We followed him outside into the harsh daylight. The sun had disappeared behind a rack of clouds as though it had turned its face away from the coming fight. Unwillingly, I moved toward my seat beside Arthur’s empty throne.
Maia followed me outside and stood just behind the throne, gently jiggling the baby in her arms to keep him quiet. I sat down. I could do nothing else because my legs felt suddenly weak and unable to support me. My heart hammered in overtime in my aching chest.
Melwas, armed like Arthur in mail shirt and helmet, a sword at his side, a dagger in his belt, came striding up the hill from the lock up, looking as though he thoughthewere the lord of Din Cadan instead of Arthur. The crowd, which had swung apart to let him pass, now filled up the space like water into a hole in the ground. Behind Melwas marched his half-dozen guards, their swords drawn now their prisoner was armed.
The guards stopped on the far side of the circle delineated by the crowd, ranging themselves around Melwas, who stood, head held high, bristly chin jutting. He was a powerfully built man at the best of times, but now, in his armor, he looked formidable. I guessed he had a good two inches and thirty pounds on Arthur, who possessed the long slim build of a true horseman.
Arthur walked down into the circle, fastening the strap on his helmet. Only the very slightest remnant of his limp remained. He looked what he was– young, upright, noble, every inch a king.
I gripped the arms of my seat to still my shaking hands.
Someone had placed two blank white shields in the center. Arthur halted beside them. After a moment’s dramatic pause, Melwas stepped up to the shields as well, and stood facing Arthur over them. Silence fell. The watching crowds seemed to be collectively holding their breath.
Cei, standing back half a dozen paces, gave the command. “Take up your shields.”
They bent to pick them up. As Arthur straightened, Melwas thrust his own shield up hard, hitting Arthur on the chin and sending him spinning backward to the ground.
I let out an involuntary scream of terror and clapped my hand to my mouth to silence it.
Melwas’s hand went to his sword as Arthur rolled away, still hanging onto his own shield. The sword came out with a swish and Melwas lunged at Arthur. The blade swung through the air, but Arthur had rolled again. He sprang to his feet, his shield between his body and Melwas, blood running from his chin. Melwas’s sword thudded into the shield, and Arthur struck back, the blades clashing together before the two men sprang apart.
A gasp of relief hissed through the onlookers, and Cei hurried to get out of the way.
Ignoring Cei’s dodging figure, the two warriors circled one another like a pair of wary dogs, their booted feet scuffing up the dirt.
“I’m going to enjoy your wife tonight,” Melwas said. “Before I take her back to Dinas Brent.”
I couldn’t see Arthur’s face, but I could guess his reaction. My hands gripped the carved arms of my seat, my knuckles whitened, as tension coursed through my body. For a terrible moment the world about me spun, the figures of the two angry men blurring out of focus, and I thought I might faint, something I’d never done before in my life. Just as quickly, everything sharpened again with startling clarity, and my attention was on my husband once more.
Arthur sprang at Melwas. Their swords clashed. Sparks flew in a flurry of blows. Then they sprang apart again, circling, both of them breathing hard. The audience, who’d staggered backward out of their way, surged forward a few feet again, diminishing the size of the arena, all eyes fixed on their king.
“After I’ve killed you, I’ll stick your head on a spike at my gates,” Arthur spat back, loud enough for all to hear.
Melwas laughed in contempt. “You can but dream of it.”
They came together again, raining blows. The air filled with the sounds of metal on metal, rhythmic, like the frantic beat of a heart. My heart.
I forced myself to watch, although every instinct I had was to cover my eyes in fear.
They were well matched. Despite Melwas’s advantages of height and weight, Arthur was a good fifteen years his junior, and pushing forty is old for a warrior. Added to that, Arthur’s lighter bodyweight and youth made him faster on his feet. First, Arthur drove Melwas back against the crowd, who shrank away from their swords, and then it was Melwas who had the upper hand, using his superior body weight, and Arthur who faltered.
My eyes went unbidden to my husband’s damaged knee, and every time he seemed to weaken, my heart was in my mouth. Surely his warriors wouldn’t stand by and let Melwas kill him? But I couldn’t be sure; chivalric code is a strange thing. Then, fear for myself reared its ugly head. Would Merlin let Melwas take me if Arthur fell? I looked sideways to where Merlin stood near Maia, just behind the empty throne, his hands gripping the top, knuckles as white as mine, his face drawn with concern.
The plain white shields were now crisscrossed with dark lines indented in the white paint. Each blow clearly marked the history of the fight. Time dragged on. Neither man, after that cheating start to the fight, seemed able to gain the advantage. They were too well matched. The weak autumn sun climbed behind the clouds and still they went on hammering at each other. Their breath came fast and hard. Sweat ran down their faces beneath their helmets. And as the time wore on, Arthur’s limp became more and more pronounced.
In Maia’s arms baby Amhar began to cry. I glanced over my shoulder, knowing he needed feeding but unable to drag myself away from the fight going on before my eyes. A horrible fascination held me transfixed. Maia gave him her little finger to suck to keep him quiet.
The fighting slowed. Their swords had to be getting heavier by the moment, their muscles aching with the effort. Age was not on Melwas’s side. Now, when their swords clashed, the rhythm was slower, the beat of the heart less frantic. Their feet dragged in the dirt and their labored breathing sounded loud in the quiet of the day.
The crowd had fallen totally silent. Gone were the gasps of fear or triumph. Instead a dumb appreciation of the determination of the two men to best each other had taken their place. That neither of them would admit defeat was obvious. This fight was going to the bitter end.
