The Master of Verona

Moments before, Pietro was frantically trying to get his horse under control. It ran willy-nilly, carrying the bone-jolted teen along for the ride. Worse, he could see where it was blindly charging — straight into a tight band of Paduans bristling with spears and halberds and swords. Anywhere but there! "Come on, boy!" he cried as he yanked on the reins again. Perhaps if he'd worn spurs he could have made the beast veer, but reins alone were no good. The most he achieved were slight variations in the horse's angle.

Looking up into that fearsome band of men by the bridge Pietro saw a dark-haired young knight on horseback adjust behind the front line of Paduans. Then Pietro caught sight of the wooden cross and a long curved piece of metal at its head. A crossbow! The comely Paduan brought it up level with his target, squinting along the bolt for the center of the Scaliger's chest.

Pietro had no breath left to shout a warning. Instead, he steered his horse directly into the path of the arrow's flight. He saw the bolt release, a faded grey line tracing through the air at him. Fearful of the impending missile but unable to veer off, he closed his eyes. Dear Christ, please..!

Bows had long been prohibited by the law of men and the rule of the Church, called cowardly by knights and unholy by priests. The closest to a compromise that fighting men had made was employing the crossbow in the place of the bow of yew. Slower to load and heavier, the crossbow still had the power to take a fully armoured knight out of his saddle and leave his body seemingly hanging in midair as his life spilt out of him.

The bolt did not carry Pietro out of his seat. The moment passed. He felt the horse beneath him, the air around him, but nothing else.

I'm alive. Oh, dear God, I'm..

.

As the horse's hooves met the earth, Pietro dragged air into his lungs and screamed. His eyes opened wide, tears at the corners. He looked down and saw a bolt sticking out of his right thigh just above the knee, continuing on through the meat and out the other side. The power of the bolt at this close range had carried the metal head straight through the leather beneath him and into the metal covering the horse's ribs, pinning Pietro to the massive warhorse.

The horse plowed on, every hoof-fall shooting lightning through Pietro's leg. Each step moved the powerful horseflesh, in turn tugging and jerking Pietro's leg. The youth slipped right in the saddle to alleviate the pull, but it did no good. Blood seeped from both sides of the wound as Pietro's life force mixed with his mount's.

Through a blurred veil of sweat and pain, he saw the Paduan reloading. "No." Ducking low and hanging on, his thoughts were incoherent. All he knew was that he had to keep riding.

In the ring of resisting soldiers Il Grande glanced at his nephew. "If they break, ride like hell." He glanced at the lone rider bearing down on them. "He's brave."

Marsilio had no comment about the rider's bravery, busy looking for a clear shot. The coward had ducked behind the horse's armoured head. It was no longer about stopping the horse. The rider had cost him his chance at Cangrande, and Carrara was determined to kill the bastard before they were forced to turn and flee. "Come on, show your face!"

The destrier clambered up over the barricade of dead horses and men, its hooves tearing a purchase through the flesh, plunging forward into a wall of spears. One of those spears penetrated the heavy armour, but it was not nearly enough to check the beast's charge. It lowered its head, the single unicorn spike goring the first two men in the wall.

The lowered head exposed the rider. "At last!" crowed Marsilio. He pulled the trigger.

Pietro was barely able to see inside his helmet, but he felt the impact of something bouncing hard off it. The blow snapped his head back and canted him right in the saddle, towards his bad leg. Entirely limp again, Pietro wasn't able to put his weight on his right stirrup, and so began to fall. Through the narrow slit of the helmet, everything was confusion. He thought he saw a sword's blade coming at him, but already he was past it as his steed barreled on. There was a cracking of wood, something ripped in his leg, and he screamed. All he knew for sure was that he was falling. Releasing his sword, he threw his arms wide to find something to catch onto. Cries were all around him, but as his fingers gripped something metal there was a startled shout. For a moment he was suspended in the air, hanging between his saddle and whatever he'd grabbed hold of. Then he toppled to the earth, the bulk of what he had hold of falling with him to land heavily beside him.