Leander didn’t hesitate: his brain a seething fury, he thrust in his spurs and his horse leapt forward; Perceval, too, sent his mount surging, and they charged at one another with all the speed they could summon from their steeds. And as they clashed, I promise you, they drove their honed steel lance-heads clean through their shields: the wounds they dealt would take some treating as they tore through the mail right by their ribs – it was a cruel exchange indeed; and the lance-heads stuck in the backs of their saddles and flew into pieces with thunderous cracks; their strong, fleet horses ran dead straight and met head to head, nearly smashing each other senseless; and the knights collided so mightily that they, too, were all but stunned, and reeled, thinking they’d been struck by thunder, seeing stars. The horses staggered and pitched forward on their hocks, and both knights would have been flung to the ground had they not thrown their arms around their horses’ necks. Those fine steeds struggled to right themselves again, but were too dazed and shaken now to stand. So the brave knights clambered down. They had no lance or spear – they’d been shattered in the joust – but they drew their swords from their scabbards and advanced upon each other, shields braced, ready for defence, without uttering a word, as if they’d taken a vow of silence.

Gerbert's Continuation of Perceval