Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  ‘Betrothed?’ De Thrapston gave a low whistle. ‘You didn’t mention that! I take it you did not part on amicable terms?’

  Savage shook his head. He was not prepared to say any more on the subject.

  ‘Well take heed of Bysset’s warning and be careful today; especially of him,’ de Thrapston commented. ‘He’s one of the best jousters in Ulster, and a great horseman. Arrogant little shit, though.’

  Both men laughed.

  ‘You’ve annoyed him too,’ de Thrapston continued. ‘He is going to be Dame Alys’s husband and he’s the sort of man who will now see you as a threat, regardless of how long ago you were involved with her, or how badly your betrothal ended, or even the fact that she now evidently despises you. None of that will matter to him. He will be out to get you.’

  ‘Was it that obvious she despises me?’ Savage asked. He was finally starting to warm to de Thrapston. He seemed a genuine kind of man.

  ‘Syr Richard, if she had spat in your eye it would not have been more obvious.’ De Thrapston smiled. ‘However, the course of true love is never smooth. Anyway, enough of hearts and flowers. It’s time for combat.’

  18

  They rode out of the churchyard and into the town’s marketplace, where the crowds of people started to divide. The nobility began making their way to the tournament arena while the ordinary townsfolk headed for the countryside. Only one generation removed from the land, they instinctively made for the meadows and woods to perform the rites their forebears had executed since time immemorial.

  Beyond the town walls a huge maypole had been erected and a raised area prepared for the performance of Robin Hood plays. The northern clans of the MacArtains and Ui Cahans were starting a hurling match in the meadow near the town ramparts.

  A cheer erupted suddenly and everyone turned to see a group of mummers who seemed to appear from nowhere. Outlandish yet familiar, these strangely costumed figures were the focus of affection for everyone. As Savage watched, the bizarre leaf-clad Twig and the ominous Hobby Horse skipped around the marketplace, prodding young women and sending little children scurrying in delighted terror. Gleefully the townsfolk followed the mummers as they danced, pursued all the way by the ranting protestations of the itinerant preacher, Guilleme le Poer. The priest ran after them, shaking his fist and quoting Holy Scripture. Savage wanted to speak to him again but among the crowd it was impossible.

  A more serious mood descended on the knights who rode to the lists, the tournament arena. This had been erected beyond the town ramparts in a wide, flat meadow beside the little infirmary run by the Franciscan friars. An area one hundred yards long and roughly oval in shape had been enclosed by wooden stakes and roped off. This was where the action would take place. Around it, wooden scaffolding had been constructed to provide tiered seating for the audience. A canopied seating platform had been put up for the most important people watching. All around, heraldic banners and flags danced in the light breeze. Flowers, great bunches of whin bush and other greenery were garlanded everywhere in honour of May.

  A small village of tents was erected at one end of the arena near the infirmary. Here, knights from all over the country had taken up residence. Servants were cooking food, wine was being opened and the holiday atmosphere bubbled everywhere.

  One tent was much longer and taller than all the others. De Thrapston steered Savage towards it. As they pushed aside the flaps and went in, Savage saw that it was filled with weapons and armour.

  ‘This is the arming tent,’ de Thrapston explained. ‘Most knights will have their own armour but the earl has furnished this tent from his castle armoury so anyone competing can get any pieces of harness they might need, anything they have forgotten or replace broken weapons or armour. The tournament will be rough, after all. Take your pick. Arm yourself. This is the best equipment money can buy.’

  Savage walked around, inspecting the equipment. Coats of mail hung on racks, swords lay in bundles, sheaves of spears and lances stood upright. Helmets sat like rows of severed heads on the ground. De Thrapston noticed a puzzled expression on Savage’s face as he examined the war gear.

  The tent flap opened and MacHuylin entered.

  ‘Are you competing today?’ Savage said.

  MacHuylin laughed. ‘Fighting is my job. It’s what I get paid for. The idea of doing it for fun on my day off does not appeal to me. No, watching nobles smash the shit out of each other while I sit back and watch, sipping some excellent French wine, is more my idea of a holiday. Found anything you like?’

  Savage frowned. ‘This armour is brand new, in great condition, but it’s all a bit old-fashioned. It’s all chain mail and leather. Is there no plate armour? Look: the spearheads and dagger blades are long and thin. They’re designed for penetrating mail. Against modern plate armour they’ll bend instead of going through it.’

  De Thrapston and MacHuylin exchanged knowing smiles. ‘What age were you when you left Ireland, Syr Richard?’ the castle keeper asked.

  ‘Eighteen winters.’

  ‘Your training in arms would have been in the knightly skills your father taught,’ de Thrapston said. ‘I’m guessing you never fought in a real war here.’

  Savage shook his head. ‘There was peace when I was growing up.’

  ‘Well, Syr Knight,’ MacHuylin explained. ‘Modern plate armour is useless in Ireland. Same with heavy warhorses and long lances. Half this country is a bog; the rest is forest. You need to be light and manoeuvrable, or you get killed very quickly. The Irish don’t fight like you Normans. Their knights have no stirrups. They ride towards you, throw their spears and ride away again. If you chase after them on a heavy warhorse, laden down with your plate armour, you’ll soon find yourself bogged down, stuck and sinking in a marsh. Then they come back and cut your throat at their leisure. Same with the woods: no room to charge, so you need light horses and light armour.’

  With the help of de Thrapston and MacHuylin he dressed himself for the tournament. After stripping off his clothes, Savage first put on a shabby leather tunic, stained with rust, polish and oil from armour. He pulled on a pair of linen trousers, then struggled into chausses – chain mail leggings – putting one hand on MacHuylin’s shoulder to stop himself losing balance as he did so. On top of everything went the hauberk, the long chain mail shirt that reached to his knees.

  ‘Is there no plate armour at all?’ he asked again.

  ‘There might be but you’ll regret wearing it. No one else will be wearing any plate,’ de Thrapston said. ‘You’ll be lumbering around, weighed down by the weight and everyone else in the melee will be scampering around you.’

  ‘It’s what I’m used to fighting with.’ Savage was implacable. De Thrapston shrugged and began rooting around in a pile of assorted armour pieces.

  ‘What about some weapons?’ MacHuylin said. ‘You pick up lances and shields in the arena but you need a second weapon. An axe? A war hammer? No, you’ll probably want a sword.’

  Savage began looking through the swords that were stacked on a table.

  ‘Here we go!’ de Thrapston suddenly announced, dragging a rusted breastplate out of the pile he had been searching through. ‘It’s a bit worse for wear I’m afraid…’

  ‘It’ll do,’ Savage responded and de Thrapston strapped the two pieces of the breastplate onto Savage’s torso, one half protecting his chest, the other his back.

  Once it was on, Savage returned to his quest for a weapon. The swords to him all seemed quite short and axes he had found unwieldy: devastating if it hit its mark but highly likely to throw you off balance if it missed.

  Suddenly his eyes lit up. Leaning against the wall of the tent was a massive sword of war. A huge weapon that had to be used with both hands, its blade was nearly as long as he was tall. He had learned how to fight with these weapons in the Templar training yard but had never had the chance to use one in anger.

  ‘Good choice,’ MacHuylin said, as Savage lifted the weapon to inspect its long blade. ‘Tha
t one is German, but it’s modelled on the claidheamh mòr, the Scottish great sword.’

  ‘You can’t use a shield with that,’ de Thrapston warned. ‘You need both hands to swing it.’

  Savage nodded. He clenched his jaw. His eyes took a faraway look as he held the sword before him, both hands on the blade, pointing downwards, the great hilt forming a cruciform shape. At the sign of the cross de Thrapston instinctively crossed himself.

  Savage hesitated, then in a very cold, deliberate manner spat on the blade.

  There was silence. Savage turned to see MacHuylin and de Thrapston both regarding him with serious gazes.

  ‘You are shocked at such blasphemy?’ Savage said. ‘Shocked that someone would spit on the sign of the cross?’

  De Thrapston shook his head. ‘No. I know what it means: you were a Templar. That is what the Knights Templar did when preparing for battle.’

  MacHuylin looked at Savage with a new respect.

  Savage was surprised they knew the pre-battle ritual. ‘It is misunderstood,’ he said. ‘We were taught to do it to become used to doing it. It’s what the Saracens would make us do if we were captured. Others saw that as blasphemy. They used it against us when the order was suppressed.’

  De Thrapston stepped forward and laid a hand on Savage’s shoulder. ‘I always had respect for the Knights of the Temple. The suppression of the order was a travesty.’

  ‘If you were a Templar,’ MacHuylin said, ‘I’d say you’ll be useful in a fight.’

  After he had picked up a helmet, Savage was ready. They all left the arming tent to go to de Thrapston’s own tent so he could get ready too. Once inside the tent, de Thrapston was helped into his armour by his wife who fussed around him, her small frame racked with concern.

  ‘Normally a knight would have a squire to help him into his arms,’ de Thrapston said, a little sheepishly. ‘My squire is my son Hubert, however. He graduated to knighthood last year and he is away fighting for the king’s armies in Gascony.’

  ‘You will look after Henry today, won’t you?’ Edith de Thrapston begged Savage as she tightened up the straps on the back of her husband’s hauberk. ‘He is not as young as he used to be.’

  ‘I fear he’ll have to look after me,’ Savage replied. ‘I’m a bit out of practice.’

  De Thrapston chortled. ‘I don’t think that will make any difference. You’ll be a formidable opponent.’

  ‘Opponent?!’ Edith de Thrapston took a sharp, fearful intake of breath and glanced apprehensively at the heavy pack of muscles set around Savage’s broad shoulders.

  ‘Opponent?’ echoed Savage. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Standard tournament rules: Tenans and Venans,’ de Thrapston explained cheerily. In a tournament, the Tenans were the home side, the challengers who would meet all comers. The Venans were the visiting knights who would meet the Tenans’ challenge. ‘Tenans will be knights of Ulster, the Venans all visitors,’ de Thrapston continued. ‘In the melee, the local knights will joust against everyone else. Naturally, I’ll be jousting for the earldom. I know you were born here, Savage, but the earl has commanded you will be on the other team.’

  ‘You’ll go easy on him, won’t you?’ Edith entreated Savage. ‘Henry can be so rash, and he doesn’t know his limitations.’

  Savage grunted. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll probably knock me off my horse before I get near him.’

  Without further words, Edith de Thrapston pulled the brightly embroidered surcoat that bore his family coat of arms over her husband’s head, then gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. For a second the de Thrapstons stood, locked in a tender moment as they caught each other’s gaze.

  Savage stood apart, alone. He breathed a heavy sigh, trying to dispel the nervous butterflies that were dancing about in his chest.

  Now de Thrapston was armed, they went outside to pass the time until the hour for them to compete arrived. Servants of the de Thrapstons had set up three chairs outside the tent and laid refreshments on a small folding table.

  Everywhere there was an exciting buzz of activity. In the arena the seats were rapidly filling with eager spectators. Mild cheers arose from the few actually watching the single combats that had already begun. These fights were between bachelors, young knights in their first year of knighthood, and not many were interested in them. These were the warm-up for the main event, the melee.

  ‘Wine?’ asked de Thrapston, pouring himself a large goblet of the ruby liquid.

  ‘Ale, please,’ said Savage.

  ‘Want to keep a clear head, eh?’ de Thrapston said, pouring out some ale for Savage. ‘Sensible fellow. I’ll stick to my glass of strong red wine though. I find it’s always good to have something in your stomach to steady the nerves and deaden the pain.’ He grinned. Savage smirked at his black humour and Edith tutted loudly.

  ‘Don’t jest, Henry,’ she scolded. ‘It’s tempting fate.’

  ‘You can’t change your fate, my dear,’ de Thrapston said, his always-present grin fading slightly. ‘We’re all part of a tapestry that’s been woven by mightier hands. When your thread’s snipped you have to go.’

  There was a moment’s silence. The noise and bustle seemed to be getting more intense. In the arena a particularly exciting single combat was proceeding to the jubilant cries of onlookers. Several wrestling matches had started behind the stands between members of the merchant class of the town. These were as avidly supported (and speculated on) as the chivalric combat going on in the arena itself. Everywhere music was played, accompanied by raucous singing and the various different instruments, voices and tunes mingled to create a glorious cacophony. Monks were gathering in the herb garden of the infirmary, pretending to work but all the while trying to catch a glimpse of the sports they were forbidden to watch.

  Suddenly a hand bell rang.

  A groan of horrified disgust ran through the throng in the tent village. Savage and the de Thrapstons turned to see two figures approaching, swathed in ragged clothes and wrapped in grubby bandages that extended over their hands and heads so that not an inch of their skin was visible. Both rang hand bells to attract attention to themselves as they passed by. All the people in their way leapt aside in terror, clasping handkerchiefs or sleeves to their mouths and noses, afraid to even breathe the same air.

  ‘Lepers?’ Savage asked, taken aback. ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes,’ de Thrapston confirmed, his face twisting into a grimace of disgust. He pointed across the field to a cluster of buildings that huddled together outside the town walls. ‘That’s the Franciscan friary,’ explained the keeper of the castle. ‘They run an infirmary that has a small leper hospital attached to it.’

  ‘Are there many there?’ Savage asked. He had seen the ravages of the terrible disease during his time in the east and had a good idea what horrors lurked beneath the bandages on the two unfortunates. Leprosy was a dreaded disease, believed to be spread by just touching the infected person, or breathing the same air as them.

  ‘A few. I don’t really know. I don’t make a habit of visiting it myself,’ de Thrapston told him. ‘They shouldn’t be out though! Contagious creatures like that. I blame the Hospitallers for bringing it back over here from the east.’

  ‘Is someone taking our name in vain?’ The voice of Hugo Montmorency made them turn around. The Hospitaller, along with John Bysset, Alys de Logan and another man were approaching. All the men were armed for the tournament.

  ‘Get out of here!’ Bysset yelled in an arrogant roar. ‘You shouldn’t be here among decent people! Clear off, you damned infectious beasts!’

  If this show of bravado was meant to impress Alys, she looked nonplussed.

  The lepers stumbled off through the tents and disappeared. Bysset clapped an unwelcome hand on Savage’s shoulder.

  ‘Well, Syr Henry?’ he addressed de Thrapston. ‘What sort of opponent do you think Savage here is going to make? He’ll not worry us, will he?’

  ‘I’d say he’ll give us some bother,’ t
he keeper of the castle replied.

  ‘The fat, lazy life at court is hardly the best preparation for combat against real fighting men,’ Montmorency sneered.

  ‘I’m sorry – where are my manners?!’ de Thrapston interjected. ‘Allow me to introduce Syr John Talbot,’ he said, gesturing towards the third newcomer whom Richard had not met before. ‘He’s on our team.’

  Savage saluted him and Talbot returned the gesture. He was in his thirties, had a long scar running down his left cheek and was very tall, with rather long arms. In close combat he would have a long reach. Savage took a mental note of the blue and green colours of Talbot’s heraldic surcoat, so he would know to beware of that reach if he met him in the arena.

  ‘I’m honoured to meet you,’ Talbot said. ‘I hear you are from the Court of King Edward.’ Savage nodded and Talbot continued: ‘In that case I am sorry, syr, that the first time we meet is as opponents.’

  ‘In whose favour will you be fighting today, Syr Richard?’ Bysset demanded.

  ‘I’ll be fighting for no one’s honour but my own,’ Savage answered.

  ‘My dress has two sleeves,’ Edith de Thrapston announced, unfastening both of the said articles and taking them off. A lady’s sleeve showed her favour for a particular knight.

  ‘Today I shall have two champions.’ Edith smiled. ‘My husband and Syr Richard.’

  ‘I hope I will not dishonour your favour, madam,’ Savage said, slightly abashed at having to accept the charity of the older woman, but appreciative of her well-meant gesture.