Sterling's presence made Ancelotis' grip with thighs and calves less certain than normal, sending the animal mixed signals and causing it to fret and sweat down its neck and flank. Cutha's horse, not nearly as massive as Ancelotis', had also broken from the starting stall at a canter, sweeping down the long stretch of straightway less than a sword-length's distance from Ancelotis. Neither man so much as looked at the other, which was intensely irritating to Stirling, who wanted to learn as much detail of the Saxon's equipage as he possibly could before coming to blows with any of it.
They rounded the great curve at the far end of the central spine, cantering around and down the homestretch, past cheering Britons, a handful of sneering Saxons, and the royal pavilion where Morgana and the flower of Briton royalty sat, the former, at least, as still and white as an ancient marble masterpiece. Her fear, Stirling realized, was as much for Ancelotis, her brother-in-law, as it was for a necessary show of strength before the Saxons. They flashed past the terminus of the central spine and Ancelotis reined around to face the far curve once more, moving his dancing charger sideways until the animal stood more or less in place at the right-hand side of the low spine. Cutha had reined around as well, heading at a gallop for the far curve, where he took up a similar position.
It was to be a joust in fine medieval style, but with critical differences. Both men readied lances, shafts of seasoned ash a full five feet long with wicked iron points that added another seven inches to the weapon's length. But unlike medieval lances of later centuries, these featured no hand guards, no bell-like flare to help brace one's grip. Ancelotis tucked the butt end under one arm, securing it as snugly as possible while using hand and wrist to point the tip toward Cutha—no easy feat, given the weight of the weapon. Neither he nor Cutha wore armor that would even begin to deflect such a lance's point, driven at full power by a charging war-horse. It was abruptly all too clear why men had died at this sport, even when protected by the heavy plate armor of "classical" tournaments of knights. In a.d. 500, the very concept of "knights" had yet to be invented.
The Scots king lifted his shield to protect his torso, draping the reins loosely across the front of his saddle. With a skill that bespoke years of practice, he guided the massive war-horse with knees, legs, and feet alone. They were in position now, weapons at the ready. Stirling tensed, waiting for the signal. The bruised sky flickered with lighting, like bubbling pots and cauldrons in the sky. Wind blasted through the arena and hurled cold droplets against his face, the first spatter of what promised to be a deluge very soon.
Trumpets screamed at Stirling's back.
Ancelotis and Cutha kicked their horses into a thundering gallop. The central spine whipped past, a blurred red snake in Stirling's peripheral vision. They crouched low behind shields, lances held like battering rams. Closer... closer still...
The shock of concussion nearly unseated Stirling.
He came several inches out of the saddle, both arms almost numb. Without stirrups, he'd have landed flat on the ground. Cutha's lance had struck his shield a glancing blow, failing to bite solidly into the wood. His own spear had smashed into Cutha's shield with such force the collision slammed the young Saxon nearly a foot backwards. Lacking stirrups, Cutha toppled right off his horse's backside, dragging Ancelotis' spear with him. With its point deeply embedded in Cutha's shield, the long shaft dragged at his arm, hindering him as Cutha staggered to his feet on the arena floor.
Stirling's surge of confidence was short-lived, however. Even as the Briton crowd roared approval, delighted at the Saxon's early downfall, Cutha tossed the encumbered shield aside, scrambled to recapture his horse, and vaulted back into the saddle. The man detailed to assist him raced forward with a second shield, then put booted foot on the other one and yanked out Ancelotis' spear, handing it up to Cutha. Ancelotis snarled under his breath, but his own man, Gilroy, had already reached his side, handing up two Roman-style pila to add to the one he still carried. The javelinlike weapon was not as useful for cavalry work as the long, heavy lance, but Stirling was quite happy to postpone hand-to-hand fighting as long as possible, given the state of sixth-century medical care.
They made a second thunderous charge.
Ancelotis leaned low over his horse's flying mane, one pilum in his right hand, the other two resting in the socket on the saddle that had held the lance now in Cutha's grip. They were still several meters apart when Ancelotis hurled the first pilum. Stirling was about to shout you bloody idiot!—and other, less civilized epithets—when Cutha's shield jerked abruptly down. The pilum's long, soft-iron neck had bent downward, dragging at the shield just as heavily as the lance had. Distracted, Cutha's lance point wobbled slightly off course—and completely prevented him from seeing Ancelotis' next move.
Using knees and thighs, the Scots king urged his charger slightly to the right, in a shallow swing out of range of the unsteady lance point, which passed harmlessly by Ancelotis' shoulder. The clean miss upset Cutha's balance, braced as he was for the shock of collision. The lance was considerably longer than the pilum, which meant that Cutha's missed blow, due to arrive at Ancelotis' shield at least a full horse's length before the two horses drew even, left plenty of time for the Scots king to hurl both his second and third pila into the Saxon's shield, dragging Cutha even further off balance.
The Saxon prince sprawled in the dust a second time.
His lance shaft snapped under the impact.
The Britons in the stands went wild.
With both lances—Cutha's own and Ancelotis'—shattered and two shields damaged, Cutha was left on foot with one remaining shield, his sword, and a fighting axe. Ancelotis turned his mount and thundered down the track in a long, outward swing toward the stands while Cutha was still on the ground, staggering and trying to reach his horse. Ancelotis then swept across in a sharp one-eighty-degree turn and urged his massive war-horse to jump the central spine. The stallion's quarters bunched, then they were airborne, momentum and the animal's powerful muscles driving them straight across the sandstone barrier and—not coincidentally—straight into Cutha's still riderless mount.
The Saxon horse screamed in alarm and shied violently to one side, thus preventing collision by a matter of centimeters. Cutha, in the act of vaulting into the saddle from the other side, went down with a smashing blow from his own horse's shoulder. He rolled frantically out from under thrashing hooves, blistering the air with Saxon curses. The Scots king brought his charger around in a spinning turn worthy of an American cowhand, drawing his sword in the same instant. They plunged toward Cutha's already-shaken mount. Ancelotis shouted a blood-curdling string of Briton curses and swung his sword in a circle around his head. Cutha's poor horse gave another scream and kicked at his infuriated owner in sheer terror, then bolted and ran, leaving the enraged Saxon prince on foot and spitting curses of his own. The glare he turned on Ancelotis made Stirling's blood freeze.
The Saxon drew sword and war axe, gripping the latter in his shield hand. Cutha's assistant was frantically dragging iron points out of Cutha's shield, lunging and tossing the shield to the Saxon prince like a frisbee. Cutha clutched his axe in his teeth and caught the shield in a movement that would've broken Stirling's wrist, if he'd tried it. Lightning split the sky as Cutha thrust his axe into his belt and banged the flat of his sword against his shield, an invitation to mayhem. Thunder rolled across the arena, slapping up against the sandstone walls and reverberating back into Stirling's face, an avalanche of sound, with him buried at the bottom.