In the years to come, when asked about the moment he challenged the Shroud to single combat, Sir Edward would only ever be able to tell of the sheer terror he felt at facing a man whose hands were the size of hams and whose arms were as thick around as his own thighs. There was more going on though, more than the simple fear of the gargantuan opponent he had just challenged, more than the fear that Bohemund might throw a shoe, or that they were about to tilt without a barrier between them. There was even more than the adrenaline that pumped through his veins and roared in his ears as his left hand rested on his reins and his right gripped the comfortable weight of his lance.

Something in the keep called to the young knight, it was hard to explain exactly what, it would be wrong to even call it a voice, just an overwhelming urge. From the moment they had broken cover to view the stone and mortar of the moldering fortress, the overwhelming desire had engulfed his mind, almost to the level of lust. So it was that he faced the giant with trepidation, but a curiously steady hand. Ser Guillaume had declared he’d act as the marshal of the “list” despite the list being no more than a short patch of cleared ground before the walls. He sat his riding horse between the two men and raised his hand as he looked first to Edward for an acknowledgement of readiness and then to the Shroud as Edward saluted.

The veteran knight chopped his hand down to signal the start of the contest and immediately began backing his riding horse out of the way. The Shroud’s elephantine dun stallion reared as he put spurs to the beast and leaped forward, meanwhile Bohemund hit his gallop in three strides with only a light press of Sir Edward’s heels to his flanks. Lances stooped like swooping hawks as the two men came together at the speed of a galloping horse. Possessed of his accustomed calm eye when faced with a mounted opponent Edward had to note that his opponent was more skilled than he had at first thought. The giant may have been an arrogant, temperamental fool, but there was an authority and strength in the way he held his lance steady and brought it in line with Edward’s body as they galloped towards their inevitable collision.

Jousting without a barrier required minute adjustments at the point of impact, as smart as most horses are, they will inevitably move in the direction that their rider’s shoulders face with an almost unerring accuracy. In a joust this is usually corrected by a barrier, without that aid a knight uses his knees to guide his steed away from a head on collision, at least if he is skilled and not an utter fool. Sir Edward, after years of training and twelve months as a professional warrior, was both skilled and decidedly not an utter fool. Bohemund stepped to the Shroud’s left as they passed and Edward’s lance took the man’s shield dead centre, the shaft of the heavy weapon shivered to a stump and spewed splinters in every direction.

The return blow fell on Edward’s own shield like a hammer. His lower back would be bruised for a week as he was slammed into the high back of his saddle and bent awkwardly over the crupper. Bohemund was already turning as Edward heaved on the reins, his lance hand hurling the broken stump of the weapon at his opponent’s horse, making the large beast shy and stumble as he reached for his sword and drew.

Sword in hand Edward let go his reins and trusted to Bohemund, taking the grip in two hands he rose in the stirrups and drove the blade down in a powerful descending blow at his opponent’s head, all the while Andreas tried to right his steed and draw his own sword. The steep peak of the brigand’s bascinet turned the blow, but it still landed with a satisfying clatter, like a fishwife banging a pot and pan together to signal the evening meal. Sir Edward immediately followed the blow with another rising cut that slammed into the man’s vambrace, leaving a satisfying crease in the steel to mark the blow’s passing. A third blow descended on the same line as the first and rocked the Shroud’s head to the side.

That was the last blow the young knight would land unchallenged, as the bandit lord finally cleared his sword from the scabbard and caught the fourth blow over his shoulder. Like Edward he let go his reins, but unlike the knight, he didn’t take his sword with the second hand at first, he simply lashed out with one gauntleted fist and caught Edward in the faceplate, the power of the blow driving the young man back in his saddle just as the strike from the lance had. A blow from the sword landed on Edward’s shoulder, protected by both maille and steel the blow still felt like the kick of a particularly angry mule.

Once Edward regained his balance he rose in his stirrups once more and brought his blade to bare. There was no finesse or skill in their exchange, it resembled closer to a pair of master armourers bashing an obstinate sheet of steel into shame, every blow falling like a comet onto the arms, shoulder, head, or blade of the opponent. Most blows skidded off the vambrace or rearbrace on the arms, even the shoulders glanced away somewhat, but the blows to the head were telling. Each rattled or rocked them inside the limited protection of their helm, and after what felt like an hour but was in reality less than two minutes of constant blows, the Shroud, breathing like a bull changed the rules of the fight in one motion.

As they had fought, so to had their brave steeds. Bohemund lunged and struck like a viper, his teeth tearing ragged strips of flesh from his foe, while the dun stallion did the same, leaving a bloody tear along the great destrier’s neck. Andreas’ fist caught the horse in the side of his noble head and ripped away the plain steel chamfron that had protected it. Bohemund reared in shock and threw himself away from the foe and the unexpected strike from above. Edward flew from his saddle, caught by surprise, to crash hard into the loam and dirt of the forest floor. Only hours of training in the tiltyard saved the young knight from a fight ending fall, he had fallen from a tall horse many times in practice and that same practice proved his saviour as the impact was taken in a roll across the ground that brought him back to his knees, even as his head swam, and his muscles and joints cried out in agony.

Sir Edward was hurt, he knew it as he rose to his feet and felt his hips protest the movement, but pain was just pain. Andreas bore down on him from his saddle, sword raised high to come crashing down, with all the power the giant could bring to bear, assisted by gravity itself. Edward took his blade at the half sword and tilted it over his head so that the blow ran off the length like rain off a steep roof, and even so he was still driven back to his knees by the force of the blow.

The second and third descending cuts were the same, he rose to meet them and was in turn driven back to his knees every time. It was on the fourth that Edward dove forward, now certain of his opponent’s timing, the young knight went under his foe’s horse, the point of his blade tearing through the soft belly of the beast and opening its guts on the forest floor with savage practicality. The mortal wound was enough to end the fight for the great horse and in a haunting shiver it threw its rider to the ground, and still gave Edward a kick that sent the knight sprawling.

Men had cheered their captain when they had seen the bandit thrown from the saddle, but the same cheers died in their throats when they saw him kicked away by the infuriated and dying horse. Horses scream when hurt and this one was no exception, its anguished cries the only sound in the forest as both combatants staggered to their feet. Edward groaned internally as he caught sight of his foe rising, the fall clearly having not been as damaging for Andreas as Edward’s own had been.

A quick glance saw Ser Guillaume had Bohemund in hand, and an unspoken offer of assistance was turned away by Edward as he brought the point of his sword in line with the oncoming Andreas. The bandit lord was breathing like a bellows as he came on, the exertion of fighting in harness for this long was the only thing that seemed to be troubling the man, whereas Edward was afflicted not just by the exhaustion but also by his wounds, and they were wounds he had to admit now as he felt every ache. The young knight stumbled forward, his right hip struggling to bear his weight. Their blades met at the cross as soon as they came within range. Edward surged forward with the last of his strength to go for the grapple, rolling his hilt under his opponent’s blade to drive for the faceplate with his pommel. On a smaller opponent it likely would have worked, but Andreas brought his monstrous strength to the fore and threw Edward back, the knight landing hard on his back.

Andreas rushed forward and stabbed downwards with two hands at Edward’s face, but the steel held, the point going between the eye slit only a finger width. It was enough to score a bloody furrow over Edward’s left eyebrow and give him a stark and terrifying reminder of his mortality, but in testament to Master Piotr’s armouring skills, it was not the killing blow that the Shroud had desired.

Edward rolled and slashed behind himself with his longsword one handed, the blow ringing off the giant’s thigh with a barely noticeable blow, as he rose to his knees for what felt like the hundredth time in the fight. Men in the trees cheered, the relief evident in their voices, for to them they had just seen their lord stabbed in the face and he hadn’t died by some miracle of the Worthies. As before however, their cheer turned to a groan, as the two combatants met once more and their swords crossed, the unthinkable happened.

Perhaps it was a fault in the blade, or just the simple repeated stress on the steel from months of training and combat and the falls in this fight, but the reason didn’t really matter to Edward in that moment, all that mattered was that his sword had snapped, leaving him holding a useless hilt with an inch of jagged blade attached. If he had had the breath to spare the young man would have cursed, but he was still dragging tortured breaths in through his face plate and blinking blood from his left eye.

As he had when they had first clashed with lances, Sir Edward threw the broken sword at his opponent’s face and pushed off his knees to tackle his foe around the waist. No matter how strong Andreas was, the sheer weight of a six-foot tall knight in full white harness hitting him in the midsection at a run was enough to drive him back and onto his back, even as he cut the thrown hilt from the air with his sword.

For the first time in the entire confrontation, Edward found himself in the position of strength. He straddled his foe and drove his fist into the man’s faceplate again and again. His knee pinned the Shroud’s sword arm while his spare hand scrabbled for his dagger. Andreas bucked and roared as he tried to shake the knight free, even as he felt the steel clad fist drive into his helm, the visor had begun to buckle, the pins that held it to the helm warping against the force. Then it was over. Edward drew his dagger, the bar of steel sliding free of its scabbard with a sinister hiss, and unlike the broad blade of the Shroud’s sword, the spike of a rondel dagger was made for these confrontations and slid effortlessly through the visor’s eye slit and into the bandit lord’s brain.

The forest was silent but for the heaving breaths of Sir Edward, his opponent still and growing cold beneath him, the dagger still buried in Andreas’ skull. No one dared move, or risk breaking the spell of the titanic struggle they had just witnessed, no one except for Ser Guillaume. The knight rushed to his Captain’s side and prised the young man’s hand from the hilt of the dagger, leaving the weapon where it was buried for a time.

“My lord, let’s get you to a doctor,” the knight said to his captain with no thought to the men who watched from the gatehouse and walls of the keep. Edward’s bloodshot eyes met his mentor’s from the darkness of his own helm and glanced once at the keep, and he shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he croaked through a parched throat that was scratched and sore from his constant panting breaths, “but the gate is open…take them,” he gasped. The knight nodded and gave his lord a grim smile.

“Your command.” He answered and Sir Guillaume raised his blade to the sky, circling it once and pointing directly at the gate that still hung open, “I want them alive!” he roared.