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centre of the ring, where Ernaut waited. As the Saracen inched forward, Ernaut launched an attack, thrusting for the huge man’s unprotected middle. But the Saracen was quicker than he looked. He parried Ernaut’s thrust, spun away and slashed at Ernaut, who barely raised his shield in time to deflect the blow. The crowd roared as the two men separated. John looked to the glass, which was nearly a quarter empty.
    ‘Finish him!’ someone yelled. Others who had bet on a quick end to the fight took up the cry. With a roar, Ernaut raised his sword over his head and charged, bringing his blade down in a deadly arc. At the last second the Saracen sidestepped the blow and with a cry of triumph slashed at Ernaut’s unguarded side. The blow should have killed him, but instead it glanced off his armour. Ernaut spun and struck out, catching the huge Saracen in the neck. The man dropped his sword and fell to his knees, blood gurgling in his throat. Then he dropped face first and lay unmoving, his blood pouring out to stain the dusty earth red. There were cheers and curses from the crowd as men settled up their bets. Reynald grabbed Ernaut’s hand and raised it high. ‘The victor!’ he roared. ‘A skin of my best wine for Ernaut tonight!’
    Whilst the crowd cheered, John stepped forward and pickedup the dead Saracen’s sword, testing the blade with his thumb. His suspicions were confirmed; the blade had been dulled. It would not cut through hardened leather, much less chainmail. The Saracen had been given no chance.
    ‘Give that here, Saxon,’ Reynald said, and John handed the sword over. Reynald turned again to the crowd. ‘Bring the next prisoner! The skinny one!’
    The lanky Saracen was matched against Tybaut, the old bull of a man who had fought in the first crusade. Tybaut made short work of his opponent, parrying the young Saracen’s clumsy first strike and dispatching him with a quick counter-blow to the chest. The older Saracen was next, and Reynald fought the man himself. The Muslim warrior was a confident swordsman, and at first the fight seemed even as he and Reynald traded blows. But the Saracen’s limp made him a step slow. When Reynald pressed his attack, the Saracen stumbled, lowering his guard. He was standing just in front of John when Reynald finished him with a vicious blow, nearly decapitating the Saracen and spraying John with gore.
    John wiped the blood from his face and looked at his hand, smeared with red. He closed his eyes as memories surged up inside him: his brother’s shocked face; the pommel of their father’s sword, engraved with the head of a lion; John’s own face and hands wet with hot blood. He turned away from the ring and started to push his way through the crowd.
    ‘You! Saxon!’ Reynald called. ‘Where do you think you’re going? It’s your turn.’
    John stopped. Around him the men stepped back, opening a path back to the ring. John stood clenching and unclenching his fists as he struggled with his dark memories. Perhaps this was how God had decided he would pay his blood debt; here, against this Saracen. He turned and strode back to the ring.
    Rabbit’s nose twitched nervously as he presented John with his helmet. ‘Keep it,’ John said as he shed his shield. ‘And help me with my armour.’ Rabbit helped pull off the heavy coat ofchainmail. John removed his tunic too, so that now he wore only his leather breeches and boots. His bare chest was already glistening with sweat under the intense sun. John drew his sword and stepped into the ring where the battle-scarred Saracen stood waiting for him.
    Reynald stepped in front of John. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he hissed.
    ‘I’ll fight him fairly, or I won’t fight,’ John replied. Reynald looked from John to his opponent. John was lean and fit, but he was still smooth-faced, barely a man. His opponent was an experienced warrior, broad-chested and thickly muscled. Reynald shook his head and opened his mouth