The Knight's Conquest

by Juliet Landon

‘Well, we’re drawn on the same side, Owain, so that should take us both into the next round, thank goodness. But that means one of us will be against his Grace at the end unless something goes drastically wrong. It seems to me, my friend, that we could do worse than to put our heads together about his Grace’s tactics, since I shall need all the help I can get, even if you don’t. What d’ye say?’

  ‘I beat him only once, and I’ve never been sure whether that was due to my own prowess or simply a fluke. I suspect the latter. Bring us some parchment and charcoal, Michael. Two heads are better than one, and we both need all the help we can get. I have to win this one.’

  Sir Walter straddled a stool and drew the parchment towards him. ‘Look, I’ve observed him doing this so often…it’s so clever…when he turns…always on the right leg, not the left…’

  ‘And especially on the grey he takes a longer run-in…’

  Words overlapped and became muffled as the chain-mail hauberk was slipped over his head and, piece by piece, his armour strapped to his body. The handsome knight combed his hair and stood to attention, smiling at last. Without a word, Sir Owain and Sir Walter hit each other’s right hand in mid-air, grasping and supporting. Then, as if at a signal, they bowed their heads in a prayer for their mutual safety, success and, in Sir Owain’s case, a woman’s smile.

  He adjusted the mulberry-coloured fabric on his left arm, grinning at his friend as the tent-flap was held open, and the two emerged, side by side, into the bright sunshine.

  ‘He’s there,’ Jolita said. ‘Look, Ellie! With Sir Walter.’

  But Eloise had already seen the two shining figures, one of them in a surcoat of gold and black chequers with a dark red tippet bound around his arm. Then they were obscured by their great caparisoned horses and, along the front row of the stand where Eloise sat, necks were craned to untangle a kaleidoscope of colours as horses, knights and their squires wheeled about and re-formed for the parade.

  The tournament field was many times larger than the one used at Handes for Jolita’s celebrations. The ‘smooth field’ now known as Smithfield was just outside the city walls near the priory of St Bartholemew whose monks administered the nearby hospital which Eloise had passed at Aldgate. The smooth plain teemed with spectators, as it often did for the public executions held there, and with horse-traders who relied on these events for their contacts, the showy beasts parting the distant crowds with flashes of brown, black, white and cream.

  Pennants, banners and bunting fluttered gaily from post to post, scooping up the blue sky with jewel colours that echoed the bright garments upon the tiered stands. Along the front row at one side of the lists sat Queen Philippa with her ladies in a blaze of gaudiness and gold that shimmered in the sun. Well known for her extravagance, the queen spared no expense on such occasions, her wave to her daughter on the opposite side sending reflections of blue-white light across the space, drawing every eye to her splendour.

  Imitating her mother’s preference for showiness, the Princess Isabella sparked with gold, her hair bound in nets that quivered with diamonds, emeralds and sapphires, pearls and aquamarines. She had been gracious to Eloise and Jolita, insisting that they sit next to her, eager to hear of their doings and even more eager to tell them about hers. She sympathised with Eloise: her father was in a hurry to marry her off, too, but so far the princess had rejected all suggestions.

  The heralds’ fanfares split the air with piercing and discordant blasts, making the horses rear and fidget. They led the procession of eight mounted knights past the queen’s stand, saluted her, and proceeded round to the opposite stand to salute the princess. Led by the king himself, all the contestants were bare-headed, though few were smiling, wrapped in their own thoughts, meditating on tactics, summing up the opposition and showing off their own magnificence, their superior horses, armour and squires.

  ‘Here he comes, your fine knight,’ Princess Isabella said to Eloise. ‘So handsome. He must win today, Lady Eloise, mustn’t he?’

  ‘Indeed he must, your Highness,’ Eloise replied, watching Sir Owain control the glossy black Donn with one hand. ‘But his Grace the King is almost impossible to beat, so I’m told. Sir Owain will have to fight extremely hard this day, I fear.’

  The princess leaned towards her, confidentially. ‘You have changed your mind since this morning, my lady?’

  ‘My mind is the same as it has always been, your Highness. Sir Owain has always known it.’ She could say no more with so many ears listening, eyes lip-reading. She sent Sir Owain a smile and knew he had received it.

  ‘Then he will not fail you. My father is not invincible, you know, and today I have the power to bestow the victor’s crown where I wish if the contestants should be too evenly matched for an outright win. So…’ she patted Eloise’s knee with a jewel-laden hand ‘…you’d rather take Sir Owain than my father, would you?’

  Astounded by this outspokenness, Eloise stared, barely able to believe that this seemingly innocent young woman of nineteen should understand more about her father’s doings than she herself did about hers. In an instant, it emphasised the absurdity of the situation in which she was now unwillingly involved, of the times she had sworn never to be associated with another jouster as long as she lived. The contestants had passed; the princess’s question remained unanswered, and Eloise’s father, who sat behind with Sir Henry Lovell, would no doubt accept the outcome with his usual equanimity.

  The heralds began their proclamation. To begin, there would be four contests of three jousts each, the four winners going on to the next contest, then the final two. All contestants had agreed to abide by the rules and by the judges’ decisions. All lances would be blunted by coronels at their tips. Swords also would be blunt.

  ‘Swords?’ Eloise whispered to Jolita. ‘Not swords, too?’

  ‘Shh…listen!’

  The contest would be awarded to the knight who broke two of his opponent’s three lances, or scored a hit on his opponent’s helm, unseated him, or brought down both horse and rider. In the event of an equal score after three lances, the joust would continue with swords on horseback and then, if there was still no score, on foot.

  The heralds sounded the fanfare again as the first two contestants rode to the far ends of the fenced space they called the lists, donned their helms, took lances from their waiting squires and weighed them, tucked the long grip beneath the right arm and waited for the call. ‘Laisser allez!’

  The squires let go of the bridles. The jousting had begun.

  Telling herself that these men enjoyed it, were taught from the cradle how to fight and defend themselves, that they were honoured to be there, did nothing to add to Eloise’s enjoyment of the next few hours. It had been reasonably safe to predict that the king, Sir Owain and Sir Walter would win their first contests and that the king and Sir Owain would win the second, though all the men were better matched than they had been at Handes and the afternoon sun was fiercely unrelenting.

  But the final contest was by no means as predictable, both men appearing to be invincible and equally determined. Eloise felt sick with fear, not for herself alone but for the man she loved more than she dared to admit. She gripped Jolita’s hand to curb an unladylike display of agitation within the royal presence. But the crowd had no such inhibitions; they were wild for Sir Owain’s success.

  The first three jousts were ferocious in their speed and accuracy, each broken lance being thrown aside and replaced by the next, each with the same shattering result. Buckles were tightened, horses changed, helms removed and replaced, swords drawn. The two men rushed at each other, each man eager to strike the first crippling blow and to anticipate the other’s, Sir Owain fending off the king’s heavy battering with his shield and by the skilful handling of his horse, placing a mighty blow of his own across the king’s right arm in a back-hander that his Grace clearly had not expected. The clash of steel upon steel could be heard above the crowd’s roar as each man redoubled his efforts, dodging, swerving, pulling
the restive horses closer into the combat. The heralds consulted and rode between them, calling them to stop and dismount. They must continue on foot.

  Squires ran forward to assist their masters, to remove the horses, to exchange the long swords for shorter ones, the official pause before starting merely a courtesy before facing each other again.

  Eloise offered a silent prayer. Courage, my love. Beat him!

  They circled each other while waiting for an opening, beginning with the formalised thrust-and-parry manoeuvres they had been taught as youths as if sharing some private jest. The crowd yelled, recognising it. But Sir Owain was prepared for the ploy to turn with typical lightning speed into a savage attack with swing after swing of the broad sword seemingly from every direction which, for a man who could see his target only through a narrow slit in his jousting-helm, was anything but easy to achieve. Although he took some blows to the body, Sir Owain soon rallied, changing his defence into an assault that pressed the king ever backwards, time and again, giving him no chance to regain his balance before the next onslaught. The noise from the crowd was deafening.

  Eloise and Jolita sprung to their feet, yelling like country-bred wenches, ‘Yes…yes!’ and, to their delight, Princess Isabella did the same. ‘Come on!’ she called. ‘Come on, man!’ Then, catching her mother’s eye, she sat down again, blushing.

  But it was as if Sir Owain had heard their cheers, for no one could have withstood the punishment he was dealing out to the one man who could take from him what he had set his heart on. The king held his ground, but only with great effort, his blows now weaker and less accurate. His shield was not raised soon enough to block a devastating blow to his shoulder, and his arm dropped, powerless, allowing the shield to slither to the straw-covered ground. He staggered, lowered his sword and swayed on straddled legs from exhaustion, too dazed to think.

  Sir Owain, however, had already begun to savour this moment when the heralds and squires would rush in to support the king and lay him carefully on the straw while they removed his helm and dashed water on to his face. Half-blinded by sweat and gasping for breath, the victor looked towards the stand where Eloise, laughing and crying, was again on her feet, though it was not until his helm was lifted away that he was able to see her tears of joy, and she was able to see his blood.

  Chapter Eight

  Unwilling to tempt Fate, Eloise had given little thought to what could happen afterwards, win or lose, so the inevitable delay to any sort of privacy had to be borne with no sign of impatience on her part. Sir Owain had been less long-suffering, though his obvious eagerness to take his hard-won prize home and enjoy it in peace caused merriment as well as envy, and not a little perverse obstruction. And if anyone at the evening feast at the house on the Strand had thoughts about the reputations of either Sir Owain or Lady Eloise, they were far too happy, relieved and circumspect to say them out loud until after the two had made their exit from the scene. By which time, they were on their way to Cold Harbour.

  ‘Where?’ Eloise asked, running to keep up with him and dragging Saskia behind her.

  His hand pulled her along to where their horses were being held by yawning grooms and a retinue of men to protect them along the shortest route past the Savoy Palace, past the tolling bells of St Clement Danes, along the Fleet Street with only moments to spare before the Ludgate was locked against them.

  Sir Owain’s dwelling was a substantial part of a vast stone-built property owned by the mayor of London on Upper Thames Street, set back behind the church of All Hallows-the-Less, its impressive gateway alongside the steeple. It was known as Cold Harbour, but by now it was almost dark and Eloise could see no obvious connection to either cold or harbour as the party poured into the wide inner courtyard where the sound of the city curfew bells was muffled by stone walls, windows, doors, the calling of grooms and liveried servants, the gleeful whooping of welcome for the victor and his lady.

  Sir Owain eased her out of the saddle and scooped her into his arms, kissing her before them all, laughing at their applause and sharing with her the heady euphoria of success.

  ‘There are chambers prepared for you and Mistress Saskia,’ he whispered.

  ‘They knew I’d be coming with you?’

  ‘They never doubted it, sweetheart, any more than I did.’

  Whilst not exactly doubting, there had been moments after the contest when her concern for Sir Owain’s wounds made her wonder how he had carried on as long as he had, for the king had not spared him and the day had taken its toll. His nose had bled profusely, causing her to ask Father Janos, ‘Does this usually happen?’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ the physician said. ‘He’s strong, but this is a weakness. His nose was damaged with his eye and jaw a year ago, and now it’s a recurring problem. The helm is a very cruel head-protector, and the heat doesn’t help.’

  ‘Powdered nettle leaves,’ Eloise told him. ‘Inhaled. Usually works.’

  ‘Alas,’ Father Janos said, searching his medicine chest.

  ‘Then I’ll send Saskia for some fresh yarrow leaves. Turn his head to one side.’

  Between them, they had stopped it by carefully inserting plugs of yarrow leaves into each nostril, but the evening celebration that followed had been an extra ordeal Eloise would have preferred him to be spared. She was aware that he had other injuries, but Father Janos had tended him and neither he nor Sir Owain would elaborate.

  Hardly able to contain her excitement, Saskia knew that it would not be long before Sir Owain came to join her mistress. ‘Shall I leave your hair?’ she said, scattering a handful of fresh rose-petals between the linen sheets on the large bed.

  Open-mouthed, Eloise watched the ritual with amused astonishment. ‘Saskie! What on earth are you up to? We’re not married! We’re not even betrothed, yet.’

  Saskia went on scattering. ‘No, love. But two people of your temperament are hardly going to spend the night in chaste beds after all that, are they? Why d’ye think he’s brought us here? Everyone here knows why and everyone at Sir Henry’s inn knows why, too. Why pretend?’ Briskly, she cleared away the remnants of the disrobing and snuffed all but one of the candles, closing the window against what she called ‘river smells’ and ignoring her mistress’s pained expression. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’ They kissed. ‘I’ll go and tell his man.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Eloise said, tying her robe at the waist.

  But the door was already closing.

  Whether Saskia carried out her intention or not, Eloise had just enough time to open the window again before Sir Owain entered, closing the door without a sound as before, but this time wearing a silken gown that reached his ankles, which she knew was to cover his bruises more than anything else. He leaned against the door and held out his arms to her, and she went into them as a bird finds its nest, snuggling into the warmth of him.

  His kisses were urgent, which she had expected, though she sensed in them a desperate tiredness that he would never have admitted and, even now, was determined to overcome. ‘This is what I fought for,’ he whispered with his hands in her hair. ‘I would have killed him…anyone…for this.’ He held her away, studying her eyes in the dim light of the single candle, searching them for a sign. ‘You knew?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes. I knew. Father told me.’

  His eyes closed, briefly. ‘Oh, God. He should not have.’

  ‘I’m glad he did. There has already been too much secrecy. I need to know.’ Her fingers were undoing the leather thongs of his gown, her eyes already preparing themselves to be shocked. It slid to the floor, revealing a magnificent nakedness marred by red and purple injuries which, in spite of chain-mail, padding and plating, were the result of the continuous assault of three contestants, the last of whom had taken longer to beat than the other two combined. ‘You said I must pay,’ she whispered, ‘and I will. Will you accept any coinage?’ Her fingers smoothed tenderly over him, feeling him flinch beneath their touch. ‘I think you should,’ she said.
Even as she spoke, her robe was being parted, eased off her shoulders.

  For some time he made no reply while his gaze roamed over her as if in a dream, his hands touching, verifying what he saw. Then he sighed. ‘I had something in mind,’ he said with an unsteady voice, ‘of a more specific nature.’

  Smiling, she slid her hands to his buttocks. ‘I know. And so have I. But I can make it even better, if you will allow it. To please me?’

  ‘To please you, lady.’

  She led him like a child to the bed and lay him upon Saskia’s rose-petals, and there she fed him with the tenderest kisses for each and every one of the many hurts he had suffered to reach her. Twice, when she touched a vulnerable spot, he fought off the heavy waves of exhaustion to respond greedily like a man reminded of his starvation, but she eased him back again, cradling his head and lying half over him with her breast against his mouth, watching sleep reclaim him.

  Then, as her tears were released, she wiped them softly away from his brow and gave herself up to the pains of her heart that warned her against loving too much, against commitment, against everything she had found and would have to forfeit, one way or another, by autumn. No longer responding to the nagging question of why he had gone to such lengths to win her, men having a hundred different reasons for wanting things, she set her mind towards the immediate future, which was the only future worth considering.

  The candle flame had long since died when she half-woke to find that their positions had been reversed and that his lips were now exploring her as expertly as he had been. Gasping at the sweetness of his touch, she held his head and opened herself to the quest of his hands. ‘Payment?’ she whispered. ‘Is it payment time, then? So soon?’

  ‘The balance,’ he said. ‘Every last jot. With interest.’

  For what was left of the night, Eloise gave herself to him without reserve, merging rewards, payments and gifts into a boundless exchange of pleasure that ebbed and flowed on an endless tide. He called her name during the most intense peaks of bliss, dispelling the last vestiges of her doubts, if any remained, that whatever his past truancies had meant, they did not signify indifference. And with that, she responded to his needs, tapping into the loving she had hoarded especially for his use, discovering a new joy in her learning which, in its own way, was as great a craving as his.