The lightest of the earl’s weapons were chosen, and it was agreed that all was now ready for the conflict to-morrow.

In the morning there was a slight bustle in the camp.

The news that a fight was to take place between an English and a Brabant page, by the permission of the Kings of England and France, that their Majesties were to be present, and that all was to be conducted on regular rules, caused a stir of excitement and novelty in the camp.

Nowhere is life duller than among a large body of men kept together for any time under canvas, and the thought of a combat of this novel kind excited general interest.

In a meadow at a short distance from the camp, a body of King Richard’s men-at-arms marked off an oval space of about an acre.  Upon one side of this a tent was pitched for the kings, and a small tent was placed at each end for the combatants.  Round the enclosure the men-at-arms formed the ring, and behind them a dense body of spectators gathered, a place being set aside for nobles, and others of gentle blood.

At the hour fixed the Kings of England and France arrived together.  King Richard was evidently in a state of high good humour, for he preferred the clash of arms and the sight of combat to any other pleasure.

The King of France, on the other hand, looked grave.  He was a far wiser and more politic king than Richard; and although he had consented to the sudden proposal, yet he felt in his heart that the contest was a foolish one, and that it might create bad feeling among the men of the two nationalities whichever way it went.  He had reserved to himself the right of throwing down the baton when the combat was to cease, and he determined to avail himself of this right, to put a stop to the conflict before either party was likely to sustain any deadly injury.

When the monarchs had taken their places the trumpeters sounded their trumpets, and the two combatants advanced on foot from their ends of the lists.  A murmur of surprise and dissatisfaction broke from the crowd.

“My Lord of Evesham,” the king said angrily to the earl, who with Count Jacquelin was standing by the royal party, “thou shouldst have said that the difference between the two was too great to allow the combat to be possible.  The Frenchman appears to be big enough to take your page under his arm and walk off with him.”

The difference was indeed very striking.  The French champion was arrayed in a full suit of knightly armour—­of course without the gold spurs which were the distinguishing mark of that rank—­and with his helmet and lofty plume of feathers he appeared to tower above Cuthbert, who, in his close-fitting steel cap and link armour, seemed a very dwarf by the side of a giant.

“It is not size, sire, but muscle and pluck will win in a combat like this.  Your Majesty need not be afraid that my page will disgrace me.  He is of my blood, though the kinship is not close.  He is of mixed Saxon and Norman strain, and will, believe me, do no discredit to either.”