For a space Sir Yves regarded the crowds of spectators with a curious sneering expression, then turning towards Arnaud de Convers he whispered something that brought a grim smile to their faces.
Raising his warder, the Tyrant gave the signal for the tourney to commence, and amid a prolonged fanfare of trumpets the contesting knights, twelve in number, rode slowly down the lists. With closed visors, shields on their left arms and lances raised, the steel-clad warriors made a brave show, taking no apparent heed of the outburst of vociferous cheering and the shouts of acclamation as their respective partisans recognized the devices of their favourite knights.
Opposite the daïs each knight reined in his steed and saluted the Lord of Malevereux by lowering the point of his lance, while one of the marshals of the list read out the name and style of the respective champions.
While this ceremony was in progress Geoffrey, seated on a crowded bench within three spears' length of the daïs, was taking careful stock of his surroundings, while at the same time his mind was actively dwelling on the conversation between the two men that related to one who could be none other than his father, Sir Oliver. There could be no possible doubt that the Tyrant meant to cause the death of the English knight, since a man ill-fed and weakened by close confinement could hardly be expected to do otherwise than fall an easy victim to the powerful and well-armed Sir Denis.
Geoffrey's reverie was interrupted by a stirring trumpet-call, and, in spite of his fears and anxieties, his martial instinct was aroused by the sight that met his gaze.
From end to end of the lists the field was empty, save for the presence of two knights armed cap-à-pied, who, motionless as statues, sat upon their steeds. To the right of each horseman was the stout oaken barrier that ran athwart the field, so that at the moment of impact it would prevent the chargers from coming into actual contact.
At the terminations of the barrier fences were erected enclosing spaces reserved for the other champions and their attendants, while booths had been set up for the armourers and shoeing-smiths; also, with a great significance, for the accommodation of those who sustained injuries in the tourney, priests and chirurgeons being in attendance.
A tense silence fell upon the multitude, broken by the hoarse shout of "Laissez aller!" by Sir Yves.
Instantly the steel-clad statues were transformed into the personification of warlike activity. The merest touch of the sharp rowelled spurs sufficed to set their horses into a furious gallop, while with bodies crouched, shields pointed, and lances in rest, the rival knights prepared to meet the shock.
With the turf flying in pellets from the horses' hoofs, the sharp points of their lances scarce swerving a hair's breadth with the motion of their chargers, the champions closed. For a brief instant both seemed to sway in the saddle, then recovering themselves they passed each other and reined up at their respective ends of the lists ere the fragments of their shattered weapons fell to earth.