‘I love your wife,’ Janet said. ‘Can you get Richard to stop staring at me?’
‘Probably not,’ I admitted. I was thinking myriad thoughts, as one does: Gian Galeazzo and his sister and Bernabò and his thousands of women and Antonio and his views on ‘family’; but also that I had missed Janet far more than I allowed; that I was delighted that she and Emile took to each other; that Geneva had now been humiliated twice and we were provoking him; that Boucicault had as much as told me that the French embassy was plotting against the wedding. And through this tapestry of conspiracy shot personal threads: Boucicault and me; Richard and Janet; even Witkin’s desire to be valued.
It made my head spin. I wanted to just get through the next twenty-four hours. But I knew, somehow, that I had to do better than that. I had to work to get through, intact, with my friends and my lords intact and un-dishonoured.
Clearly Geneva and Turenne were spreading rumours about my fight, but why?
An hour later, safe in our tower, John Hawkwood put his finger on it.
‘Geneva is like a mountebank at a fair,’ he said. ‘He wants us all to be looking the other way. The attack, if there is an attack, will come during your fight, William. And he wants us keyed up, on edge, and looking at the wrong thing.’
‘What the hell can he be planning?’ Musard asked.
Sir John raised an eyebrow. ‘We can count that it will be overcomplicated, and more guided by malice than by tactics,’ he said, as crushing a denunciation of Robert of Geneva as I’ve ever heard.
Sir John told Bibbo to keep the pressure on the French and the archbishop’s people.
That took the form of half a dozen of Camus’s men, and two French men-at-arms, being caught outside a brothel and beaten. Badly.
It’s an ugly business. Nor did I always approve, any more than Boucicault. But in this case, we felt that we had the upper hand, and that this was much like a siege. It was vital to keep the initiative, and put the pressure on our opponents all the time.
We went to Compline, the night before the wedding, and none of the archbishop’s party attended. Then we trooped home. I settled all of our people, and then made up my bed in the guardroom.
We swept the tower, causing Lady Bonne to make some awkward comments, but her complaints stopped when Musard found an infernal device – a clay pot with a smouldering fire inside, tipped to drop and smash above a doorway.
‘Score one to them,’ Hawkwood said.
‘How the hell did they get that in here?’ we all asked, and that, sadly, was not answerable.
Count Amadeus took charge, and ordered everyone to bed. ‘We have a watch. We have found their device, and in truth, mes amis, these coals would no more light this old oak afire than light my horse. This is a provocation – most effective if it keeps us all awake.’
‘The count is correct,’ Hawkwood said. ‘The attack will be tomorrow.’
The bells were ringing for Vespers and, outside the tower, a handful of monks were making their way to the chapel to say the hours. I woke up to the bells. I lay there for a few minutes, looking around the guardroom. I had a lot to worry about, and I rose, slipped into some old shoes, and padded about, checking the posts, inside and out. All of our people were alert: Savoyards, White Company, and my own people – no one was asleep. That raised my spirits a little, but I was as spiritless as I have ever been. My heart beat too hard; I seemed to start at anything. I had had poor dreams when I had managed sleep.
I came back to the guardroom, kicked off my shoes, and found my wife on my very narrow camp bed.
She put her arms around me. ‘Some one of the ancients contends that women rob men of their strength,’ she said. ‘I see it differently.’
I protested.
She leaned over me. ‘Our friends are at both doors,’ she said. ‘Give me a little of your time, soldier.’
After we disported, she lay beside me a while, and then she rose.
‘Sleep,’ she said, and it was like a spell. I slept.
I awoke late. People tiptoed around me, even the great Count of Savoy, but when Prince Lionel rose, I did too. He had comported himself with great élan – though if Chaucer tells the story himself, I’m sure we’d hear more about the Duke of Clarence, eh?
My harness was laid out in the courtyard. I borrowed l’Angars’s beautiful, Milanese-made ghiavarina, and played with it a little – lighter than my spear, and much prettier. You may laugh, but anyone who has ever fought in a public list knows that what you look like matters.
I saw the Duke of Clarence dressed; he looked magnificent. I saw Marc-Antonio and Emile take my magnificent suit of clothes off to where I would dress, if I lived that long.
I knew a great deal of fear, and I spent a fair amount of time doubting myself. Nay, brothers – I tell you this to be an honest man. There was something in that hour that almost unmanned me, and I owe a great deal to my wife’s ready humour and her refusal to accept my fears. She didn’t mock me; she merely held me up, as if her hand was under my arm, crossing a stream. And, as the morning wore on, I mastered myself, and Fiore and I began to arm. Then we settled, and shared a cup of watered wine.
Before Terce, the prince and the count left the tower, with Sir John commanding an army of attendants and men-at-arms. Janet and Sister Marie were included, dressed as women, but with concealed weapons. Janet was attached to Lady Bonne, and Marie, as ever, to Emile. Let me add, for those of you who cannot imagine a woman in the life of arms, that a few armed women hidden away can be a great advantage against a hidden enemy. No one expects armed women.
Regardless, Fiore and I heard the shouts of the crowd as the bridal party and the groom’s party approached the square, and then time seemed to suddenly contract, the way it does on the eve of battle, and our contests went from immovable objects far distant on time’s great wheel to immediate monsters rearing up before us.
Before me, I should say. Fiore was so calm as to seem inhuman. He was a perfect foil for me, and as I strode around the castle yard, he came and put me in a chair.
‘Don’t waste your spirit,’ he said.
I talked too much, and he put water in my hands. ‘Drink water,’ he said.
About half an hour before we were due to go to the lists, he turned. I was chattering to cover my flurry of spirits.
‘What will you do when you enter the lists?’ he asked.
I probably looked at him like a dumb animal.
‘The wand falls. What do you do with Camus? Do not tell me that it depends on what he does. You are twice the fighter he is. What game will you play?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I want to play close and throw him,’ I said. ‘It will get the fastest end.’
Fiore nodded sharply. ‘Good,’ he said.
‘Is it the right choice?’ I asked.
‘How would I know?’ Fiore asked me. He shrugged. ‘You’ve fought him five or ten times. I haven’t. But it is the right kind of plan, and I agree that you don’t want the play to go on long. If Sir John is right, and I fear he is, you want this over as quickly as possible. Before, perhaps, they can act.’
Then we practised two close plays. My ghiavarina was a spear, a heavy spear, which could also be used for some sweeping cuts. My opponent had declared that he would use a pole-hammer with a spike – in effect, the opposite weapon, capable of heavy cuts, with a sort of back-up thrust.
Fiore modelled the pole-hammer with Witkin’s staff. I found that my best tactic, even against the master, was a domination of the initiative with rapid thrusts.
I worked up quite a sweat, but I felt better. And then I apologised to Fiore.
‘I’m costing you spirit, when you should be thinking of your own engagement,’ I said.
Fiore shrugged, dismissive. ‘No need,’ he said. ‘I know exactly what I will do.’
An hour later we were still standing
at the edge of the lists. That is, Fiore was sitting on his big half-Arab charger, and Boucicault was already up on his, forty paces away. There was already a fine crowd – the biggest I had ever seen to watch any chivalric sport. But the procession was delayed. We had messengers every ten minutes. The wedding ceremony had started late – something about the consecrated Host.
An hour later, and my hard-won calm was fraying like a rope under too much tension. My opponent wasn’t even there. I wondered if I was to be left without a fight, or whether, in fact, the fight had always been the distraction, and the attempt was coming in the procession, and here I was, useless. Against that, Fiore and I agreed, we had an army of competent friends protecting our principals. We were where we were supposed to be, and there is comfort in merely doing the task assigned. The count and Sir John had chosen us.
When the procession was an hour and a half late, Boucicault rode over to Fiore, and they clasped hands, and took turns curvetting and displaying their horsemanship around the ring, so that the good burghers of Milan cheered them. Finally, young Gian Galeazzo rode up, splendid in gilt armour, with twenty beautifully kitted knights at his back, all costumed as heroes of the Trojan War. He was well organised; he saluted all of us, enquired into my opponent and sent a missive to Turenne and Achaea, asking where he was. Then he donned a magnificent tabard in the Visconti arms, and four Viper flags were raised at the corners of the jousting lists. Fiore went to one end and Boucicault to the other.
The wedding party approached, led by a regiment of guild militia, trumpeters and drummers.
Prince Lionel looked like a young King Arthur. He was magnificent in red and blue and gold, his hair shone on his shoulders, and he wore the garter on his leg. But he was fully eclipsed by his Guinevere. Lady Violante, whatever hardships she had endured, smiled like the Lombard sun showering us with splendour. She wore cloth of gold, and even it was not brighter than the smile on her face.
Hundreds of children strewed rose petals in their path as they approached, and they wandered like lovers, the prince’s eyes seldom straying from the beauty of his lady.
Gian Galeazzo, if he was against the match, gave no sign, except that, as I watched him, I felt he was over-controlling the horse he was on. His emotion communicated itself to the horse’s feet, as the horse kept moving, stamping, and moving again. By contrast, Fiore’s horse was as immobile as the rider, and so was Boucicault’s.
The bridal party entered the lists, and was roundly cheered, and then took their seats in the box. Gian Galeazzo sent a herald to me. He said that, as they were running so late, he intended to start the joust before the whole procession had come up.
I thought it irregular, and I wondered where my opponent was.
Fiore looked over the crowd. ‘William,’ he said, ‘none of our people are here.’
He had a point.
I had Marc-Antonio, and Stefanos. I sent Stefanos, with a dagger in his sleeve, running for some blades. ‘Get me five archers,’ I said. ‘Anyone.’
I looked across the lists, and saw Turenne. He was smiling broadly. Boucicault said something and Turenne shook his head. Boucicault reacted angrily.
Whatever it was, I knew it was on.
‘The Lord of Pavia wishes to proceed,’ the herald said again.
‘I would like to await Count Amadeus,’ I said.
The herald rode away across the lists. Then he was back. ‘Lord Gian Galeazzo insists that we cannot wait any longer. The crowd is restless. The bride and groom need food and rest.’
You need to understand this. I held out as long as I could, but I was not then, and am not now, a great lord. The social pressure was too much – the third request came from Boucicault. I could not very well tell him that the French ambassador was plotting a murder and he was a tool; I had no evidence.
‘Jean,’ I said, ‘there is some plot, and they want to begin early.’
Boucicault nodded. ‘I fear there is something,’ he said. ‘But … my horse is tiring, and these people press so close.’
I stood on a chair, and I could not see Savoy’s banners.
Then I saw Emile and, beyond her, Janet. They were close by Violante – in fact, Emile was chatting with the new Duchess of Clarence. And spreading out to the right was William Boson and, behind him, Sam Bibbo.
‘Let’s do it,’ Fiore said. ‘I’ll take my time.’
I waved to Gian Galeazzo.
The first pass was excellent. Both men placed their lances neatly. Both struck high and inside on the other’s shield, and their lances shivered like trees struck by lightning, and both rode on, their bodies erect as if they were riding for pleasure. Boucicault’s horse got a splinter of oak in its chest, and that caused delay. I heard drums in the distance.
Turenne was demanding that Boucicault get back in the saddle. I kept looking for Geneva and not finding him.
The second pass was very different. Both men attempted more difficult targets. Boucicault went for Fiore’s helmet, and Fiore went to parry Boucicault’s lance. Only a jouster could judge the sheer complexity of what followed: Fiore’s lance crossed Boucicault’s, the French knight changed his point of aim and his seat in the last heartbeat – a magnificent feat of jousting. Fiore gave a deft wriggle …
Both lances exploded. To any unmartial watchers, it must have looked exactly like the first pass. To me, it was one of the most remarkable pieces of jousting I’d ever seen. The two men trotted past each other, reined in, and touched hands. Fiore was beaming.
There was Camus. He was in armour, and he appeared, suddenly, both broader and taller than I remembered, and he was wearing his argent instead of Achaea’s colours. His visor was odd, lacking the perforations most visors had, the ‘breaths’. And it was down.
That made no sense. On a hot day in a city square on stone, it was an impossible choice.
I turned to Marc-Antonio. Bibbo was there, and Ewan.
‘Where is the count?’ I asked.
‘Half a mile away. There was an accident,’ Bibbo said, with disgust. ‘Stefanos came, and Sir John sent us.’
‘Look at Camus,’ I said.
Marc-Antonio nodded. ‘No one could have their visor down,’ he said.
Bibbo said, ‘It’s not Camus.’
That hadn’t even occurred to me.
‘Where is Geneva?’ I asked.
Bibbo shook his head.
I prayed. That’s all I could think of. I had clues, but not enough to form a pattern.
‘Can we put someone over there to watch them?’ I asked.
Stefanos, having returned sweating from his run, jumped up. He was just twelve years old, and his brother had been killed by poison. ‘Let me go,’ he said.
Ewan went into the crowd and bought some Milanese boy’s long gown, clerical black. He bought it right off the boy, and came back. ‘Ye owe me two florins,’ he growled. ‘Here, lad. Don’t be killed, now.’
‘I have a dagger,’ the Greek boy said with magnificent courage, as if his tiny dagger would stop Turenne’s men-at-arms.
The jousters were ready. The archers turned outward, and watched the crowd.
Fiore waggled his spear-point at Boucicault. They were friends now – united by their contest.
They flew at each other. Fiore’s horse seemed to leap on its first step. Boucicault’s went back on its haunches and then launched. Both men, I thought later, tried to lean into their blows. Both gathered their horses perfectly at contact.
One more time, both lances seemed to detonate like the bombs of the German handgonners, and this time, both men rocked in their saddles. Rocked back, sat up, and continued down the lists through the wall of sound of a crowd of twenty thousand or more.
My heart was pounding.
It was my turn.
While the crowd roared on and on, a dozen Visconti guardsmen appeared and began to move the ba
rriers. They left only the little walled enclosure that marked the inner lists. The royal couple’s viewing box was directly above my corner.
I walked to it. Marc-Antonio followed me, carrying my helmet and my spear and my gauntlets. A bench was brought. It was damned hot and I was almost oily with sweat under my harness. I wondered how much the other bastard was suffering.
He walked across the sand from where Turenne and the French were gathered. He was attended by two boys in Turenne’s livery. One carried a heavy pole-hammer with a massive head and a spike above it, like a heavy spearhead. The other carried a sword belt with a longsword.
Gian Galeazzo rode up behind me. ‘Together now,’ he said. His voice betrayed his emotion. ‘Bow to my sister.’
I made a full reverentia to the couple. Prince Lionel saluted us, and Violante waved.
‘I’d like to see who I’m fighting,’ I said, loudly enough to carry. I turned to look at the man. He was half a head taller than Camus: my height, to the width of an eyelash.
Gian Galeazzo smiled, a little too broadly. ‘The Bourc Camus, I understand?’ he said.
I shook my head. ‘That’s not Camus,’ I said.
Turenne had mounted one of the stools and had begun to address the crowd. I could hear him, claiming that I had killed my wife’s husband, that I had betrayed the King of Cyprus, that I was a false knight.
The two boys passed behind the strange knight, and I wondered at the sheer size of the head of the pole-hammer – a massive weapon.
‘Not the Bourc Camus?’ Gian Galeazzo asked. He was absolutely genuine. His puzzlement was real.
‘Ask him to open his visor,’ I shouted.
I was growing very angry, because Turenne was standing forty feet away, repeating every slur ever spoken against my wife, not just me. Every whiff of scandal, every possible lover.
‘Shut him up,’ I spat at Gian Galeazzo.
‘I give the orders here,’ he said. He was terrified, and yet smug.
But then he turned to the strange knight. ‘Show us your face and declare your style,’ he said.
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