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steps as he restrained it. His helmet was a tournament helmet, crowned with pale blue plumes, and his small black-painted shield bore the symbol of the white rose, the rose without thorns, the flower of the Virgin Mary. Around his neck he wore a blue scarf of finest silk, a woman’s scarf, a gift from Bertille. He rode a track that twisted through the vineyard until he reached the open grassland in the valley’s shallow base, and there he turned his horse and waited for one of the six to accept his challenge.
    One man did. He was from Paris, a brutal man, quick as lightning and strong as a bull, and his armour was unpolished, his jupon a blue so dark it looked almost black. His device, embroidered on the jupon and painted on his shield, was a red crescent moon. He faced Roland de Verrec. ‘Traitor!’ he shouted.
    Roland said nothing.
    Both sides were watching. The other champions had withdrawn from the vineyard beneath the hedge and watched from behind their companion.
    ‘Traitor!’ the Parisian shouted again.
    Still Roland said nothing.
    ‘I won’t kill you!’ the Parisian called. His name was Jules Langier and his trade was fighting. He hefted his lance, sixteen feet of ash tipped with a steel head. ‘I won’t kill you! I’ll take you in chains to the king and let him kill you instead. Would you rather run away now?’
    Roland de Verrec’s only answer was to prop his lance against his right knee and close his visor. He lifted the lance again.
    ‘Jules!’ one of the other champions called. ‘Watch his lance. He likes to lift it at the last minute. Protect your head.’
    Langier nodded. ‘Hey, virgin,’ he called, ‘you can run away now! I won’t chase you!’
    Roland couched the lance. His horse took tiny skittering steps. A faint rough cart track crossed diagonally in front of him and he had noted it; he had seen where the wheels had made ruts in the soil. Not deep ruts, but enough to make a horse falter slightly. He would ride to the left of the ruts.
    He felt little emotion. Or rather he felt as though he watched himself, as if he was disembodied. The next moments were all about skill, about cold-blooded skill. He had never faced Langier in the lists, but he had watched him and he knew the Parisian liked to bend low in the saddle as he struck home. That made him a small target. Langier would bend low and use his thick shield to throw off his opponent’s lance, then turn snake-fast and use his short, heavy mace to attack from behind. It had worked many times. The mace was kept in a deep leather pocket attached to the right side of his saddle behind his knee. It could be snatched up in an eyeblink. Snatched and backswung, and all Roland would know was the sudden flare of white in his skull as the mace smashed into his helmet.
    ‘Coward!’ Langier called, trying to provoke Roland.
    Roland still said nothing. Instead he held out his left arm. He dropped his shield. He would fight without it.
    The gesture seemed to infuriate Langier who, without another word, dug in his spurs so that his destrier leaped forward. Roland responded. The two horsemen closed. They were not far enough apart for either to reach a gallop, but the horses were straining as they closed. Both horses knew their business, both knew where their riders wanted them to go. Roland steered his mount with his knees, keeping it just to the left of the rut, and he raised his lance point so that it threatened Langier’s eyes, and they were close now, their world the beat of hooves, and Langier swerved his horse slightly right and it faltered a tiny bit as a hoof hit uneven ground, and Langier was bending down, shield protecting his body as the lance was pointed plumb at the base of Roland’s breastplate, and then the lance flew up and the horse was stumbling and Langier was desperately trying to pull it right with knee pressure, but the horse was down on its knees, sliding in grass that was slicked with frothy blood and Langier saw that his opponent’s lance, instead of being aimed at his head, had pierced his horse’s chest.
    ‘This isn’t a tournament.’ Roland spoke for the first time. He had turned his horse, abandoned his lance and drawn the sword he called Durandal, and he rode back to where Langier was struggling to extricate himself from his fallen, dying horse. Langier tried to find his mace, but the horse had fallen on the weapon, and then Durandal smacked across his helm. His head was jerked violently to one side,