by Dan Davis
“What is the meaning of this?” Thomas said, staring at Eva as she and I arrived together at the Neorian Harbour.
On the north side of the city, the harbour was the centre of trade for the Venetian, Pisan, and Genoese, all of whom hated the other with greater fervour than any had for the Saracens. They all traded in taking furs, amber, and slaves, to the east and bringing silks, spices, and jewellery back to the city, and from there into the Mediterranean. The harbour was heaving with cogs and galleys, a forest of masts sticking up toward the cerulean sky. Everywhere, men loaded and unloaded cargo and the shouted mix of Italian dialects, Greek and French was interspersed with barks of laughter and cries of warning. It stank of the salt sea, rotting fish, and the exotic mixture of spice and strange perfumes. Wealthy merchants in fine clothes stood in groups here and there, arguing with ship owners and ignoring the sweating men who toiled in the sun repairing the vessels or carrying heavy loads.
Thomas was garbed in the clean, white robe and red cross of his order, and had been engaged in a heated discussion with a member of the ship’s crew.
But he broke off the moment he clapped eyes on Eva. She was garbed much the same as I was. That is to say, in a tunic and wore a close-fitting cap with her dark hair tucked tight into it. A sword in its plain scabbard hung at her hip. With her breasts wrapped as tightly as she could stand, and her lithe, square-shouldered frame, she did not present an overly-ladylike figure and yet Thomas had spotted her at twenty paces. Then again, the Templars were supposed to be celibate so perhaps it was no wonder he had noticed.
“What is the meaning of this?” Thomas asked again.
“Thomas,” I said, pretending to be somewhat slow on the uptake, “we have come in good time for the tide, I take it?”
The knight gestured Eva. “Why is this woman here?”
“Oh, this woman?” I asked, innocently. “She is coming with me.”
Colour drained from his skin. “She is not. Absolutely not. You will leave her here. By the docks, where she belongs.”
I sighed. “You may never speak to her like that again, Thomas. Do you understand? And she is certainly coming with us. Without her, I could not possibly join in your endeavour.”
He stared at me, then at Eva and back to me. Finally, he spoke to the crewman without taking his eyes off me. “If you please, Guido, could you board the ship and ask Friar William to join me here? Soon as you can.”
The crew member stepped back, bobbed his head and hurried off.
Thomas seemed stunned, so I spoke into the silence.
“May I introduce my wife, Eva? Eva, this is Thomas, of the Templars.” The old knight stared at me in confusion. “Thomas, Eva is my wife and my squire. She squires for me in battle. She attends to my every whim, both on and off the battlefield.” I risked a glance at Eva and saw that she was irritated by my minor exaggeration where her obedience was concerned.
“You have lost your wits,” Thomas said, after a long pause. He quite rudely ignored my wife. “You cannot take a woman into the lands of Tartary. Did you take a blow to the head in that tourney? Or were you never blessed with wits in the first instance?”
“I do not—”
“A woman?” Thomas cut me off. “A woman? As a squire? A woman squire?”
“I will grant that it is somewhat of an unusual—”
He placed his hand over his forehead in anguish. “You cannot believe I would allow a woman to join us? No matter how you garb the creature, no matter if you call her your wife.”
Eva and I had known that it would be difficult to persuade Thomas to accept. In our time serving in various mercenary forces in Spain and the Holy Land in the previous decades, Eva had acted as my squire. Often, we pretended she was a young man and most of those who noticed that she was not, chose to say nothing. Indeed, it often became a shared secret within the company we served with. Sometimes, the men adopted her and protected her. They would share in jests at the expense of our superiors and delighted in assisting us in the deception. But someone important would find out. I would anger someone, generate some resentment or suspicion, and she would be turned in and no matter the good will I had built up, we would invariably be required to flee.
Fleeing from Thomas the Templar and Friar William when we were in the lands of the Tartars would not be possible. A lone man with a woman crossing the grasslands of the north, and no permission or reason to travel, would be a death sentence. And so, we had to drop any pretence from the start. By arriving to the ship as late as was possible, we hoped to give them little time to make a decision. Take us or leave us, I would say.
It was a slim chance, but our best chance. If it failed, I would have to become a merchant, as originally planned. I did not want that. One may as well attempt to make a horse into a duck.
“She is my wife,” I said, turning to Eva.
She nodded at Thomas. “It is the truth. I am also his squire.” Eva glanced at me. “And I can fight.”
Thomas scoffed. “I think you had best take your leave,” he said, addressing me alone.
Perhaps I should have considered who Thomas was before taking such a direct approach. He was no poverty-stricken man-at-arms, signing up to fight for one lord in a local land dispute with another in Castile. Thomas was a senior knight of the Order of the Temple, a man who had taken a vow of celibacy. Perhaps taken the vow as a young man. I had the impression that Thomas was a man who tended to keep the vows that he took and so it was likely that he knew very little of women. Perhaps had never known a woman. And what we do not know, we often fear.
“Our belongings are already on board the ship,” I pointed out, as I had sent them along the day before.
“I shall see that all you own is removed from the ship and placed on the dockside,” Thomas said. “You may wait here while that is done.”
“It would be easier if Eva and I took our places on the ship,” I said. “As agreed.”
“Agreed?” Thomas said, his voice rising as he spoke. “Agreed, you say? We never agreed to you bringing this… this…”
“Squire,” I said.
Thomas took a deep breath but before he could unleash it upon me, he was interrupted by the approach of a young man in the grey robes of a brother of the Order of St Francis. The young man in front was aged about thirty years. He was a big, burly fellow, with a clean shaved, red face and light brown hair. Fat beneath his robes and with a wide face now creased in concern as he approached.
At his shoulder, half a step behind was an even younger monk with fair hair and an old one trailed behind.
“What is the meaning of this commotion, my Lord?” the fat monk called out as he approached. His French was excellent but surely this was William of Rubruck, the Flemish leader of the embassy north to the Tartars. If Thomas is a lost cause, perhaps I could persuade Friar William to accept a woman in the company?
Some monks were fair-minded, kind men. Others were lovers of reason who delighted in being convinced of this or that through clear argumentation. Others still were lecherous sinners. If William of Rubruck were any of these, it would be simple to have him take Eva and I both.
“Friar William,” Thomas said, his good manners overcoming his anger so that he could make a formal introduction. “This is Richard, the knight who—”
“Of course it is,” Friar William said, coming to a stop before me and planting his feet wide. The monk was only a little shorter than I. His barrel of a belly was close enough for me to reach out and poke. “But what is the argument regarding? Perhaps you have decided that you will not be accompanying us after all, Sir Richard?”
His disregard for formality gave me hope. “I would like very much to join you, Friar William,” I said. “We were merely discussing a practical matter regarding my squire.”
“Your squire?” William turned to Eva, who was of a height with him. She looked him square in the face. William looked her up and down and found nothing to be remarked upon. “What practical matter?” he asked me and Tho
mas.
The rest of us looked at Thomas, who cleared his throat before replying. “Friar William, his squire is a woman.”
William of Rubruck was at first confused but he looked at her again with this new knowledge and became somewhat flabbergasted.
Eva was tall, square shouldered and slender. Her face was perfectly womanish, her mouth was wide and her cheekbones high and sharp. But her hair was hidden beneath her cap and her substantial breasts were wrapped beneath her tunic, and anyway, we see what we expect to see. And she was dressed as a squire.
“A woman?” William said, utterly confused. “Is this a jest?”
“She has served dutifully as my squire for many a year,” I said. “And what is more, she is my wife.”
William struggled to comprehend. The fair-haired young monk at his shoulder grinned from ear to ear while the elderly one wore an expression of pure horror.
The friar’s powers of reason won out over his emotion. “I am sure that this sort of thing may seem… permissible in the Holy Land. But there are practical considerations. We simply cannot bring a woman. Where would she pass water, for example? How would she bathe?” He paused while he searched for other things that women do.
I grinned at him. “She will piss on the ground, like everyone else. How much bathing do you expect to do on the journey, Friar William? If she needs to wash, you can bloody well avert your eyes, like a decent man would. Can’t you, Friar? Are you suggesting that you would look upon a woman’s nakedness?”
“What? No, I most certainly would not. But that is—”
“Well then, there you go, Friar William, nothing to be concerned about at all, is there.”
Our small gathering was attracting some attention from the people around the dockside, with workers slowing their toiling while they threw glances our way. Other men stared at us from a distance.
Thomas lowered his voice and addressed Friar William. “Perhaps you could leave the question of whether we need additional men-at-arms to me,” he said. “While you and your brothers wait on the ship.”
William frowned. “I seem to recall that it was you who argued you needed another man.”
“That is true, however—”
“I would rather none of you accompanied me at all,” Friar William said, lifting his fat chin in the air. “There is no requirement for impoverished brothers to bring guards into Tartary. To do so may indeed risk—”
“The King himself commanded—”
“I know full well what the King commanded, Sir Thomas, as it was to me directly that he addressed himself. I do not—”
This time it was the young monk at his shoulder who interrupted. “Friar William, if I may?”
William sighed. “What is it, Stephen?”
The young man smiled, as if unconcerned with the irritation he had caused his brother monk. “It is known that the barbarian Tartar welcomes women as fellow soldiers. Indeed, they say that when the men go off to war and to raid, it is the womenfolk who defend the homestead. The women fight with bow and lance, from horse and on foot. They say that the women are quite savage. That they fight almost as well as the men do.”
William scowled. The elderly monk behind shook with indignation at the idea of it.
“Why do you tell me this thing, Stephen?” William said.
The young monk, still smiling, gestured at Eva. “Perhaps the Tartars will look favourably upon us if we have a woman who displays a similar martial inclination?”
“I have no desire to emulate their barbarian, heathen practises, Stephen.”
“Of course not. Of course. And yet, if there was a chance such a thing were to ultimately help our cause, would not such a thing have value? For the greater good of spreading the word of the Christ?”
William nodded, almost to himself. “You may be right, Stephen. I do not like it. Not one bit. But you may be right.”
The young monk grinned at me, very pleased with himself. I found his attempt at ingratiation to be profoundly irritating.
“Wonderful,” I said, forcing a smile onto my face. “Shall we board now?”
Thomas held up a hand in protest but another voice cried out from across the dock, a loud hail from a deep voice, and Thomas’ face fell even further. “Ah. Well, this should resolve the debacle. Here comes Bertrand.”
The monks all sank, their shoulders rounding and both the young and old ones gathered closer to the bulky form of William, like goslings round a goose.
Sir Bertrand strode toward us, along with two squires. Even out of his armour, Bertrand was a huge man, taller than me by half a head. Half a massive, bullock-like head. In those days long past, I was often the tallest man out of a hundred. Tallest out of a thousand, perhaps. But, of course, there were many who overtopped me. Sometimes they would be a yeoman or townsman but often such men are dragged into the profession of war and most commonly of all they would be men of good breeding. Men with the healthy blood and good food of the nobility or knightly classes.
Most men-at-arms, of all heights, would be of relatively slender build. There was rarely enough food and wine to make an active man fat, even if he be wealthy. Those of us who were strong enough to fight for half a day from horseback and with sword and shield almost never had large muscles.
But every now and then, you would get a man like Bertrand de Cardaillac.
A man who towered over every other and also had shoulders like hams and a chest like a hogshead. Big boned all over, with blocks for knuckles and a wide face and a jaw like a ploughshare. The man’s eyes were small and dark, darting about across all of us as if searching for a threat.
One of the two squires trailing him was almost as tall, though younger and not so large of stature.
“What is the meaning of this?” Bertrand said as he arrived. His voice was louder than a docker’s mother but he spoke with the fine, haughty French of the nobility. “Is it true?” He squinted down at Eva. “Is this truly a woman? Or was your saintly little squire telling me lies, Thomas? Does not look much like a woman. Are you a woman, boy?”
I pushed myself in front of her. “How joyous it is to see you again, Sir Bertrand. I am Richard of Ashbury. Perhaps you recall our meeting on the field? Or perhaps not, you took a rather nasty blow or two, did you not? This is my squire, Eva.”
He ground his teeth, his massive jaw working while he forced himself into a contemptuous, false jollity.
“Ah, yes. The lucky little Englishman. Thomas complained ceaselessly that he needed more men.” Bertrand grinned while he puffed out his chest. “As if any other knight would be needed when you have Bertrand de Cardaillac?” He turned and grabbed his squire and pulled him in, throwing a massive arm around the younger man’s shoulders. “And my dear cousin Hugues, of course.”
It was obvious that the squire, Hughues, shared de Cardaillac’s blood. He was somewhat of a younger, shorter, slimmer version of the bigger man. His expression was just as smug, though his eyes were far from the shrewd, penetrating glare of his cousin.
“Yes, indeed, what a fine young squire you have. And let me just say, sir, it was very good of you to eventually send me your tourney forfeit by way of Thomas,” I said, fixing Bertrand with a stare.
“Ah, of course, I hold no grudges for a lucky blow from an inferior young soldier,” Bertrand said, with a tight smile. His eyes told a very different story. “It was all merely a diversion in between doing my duty for the King.”
“Indeed,” I said. “Indeed, I heard you were with King Louis in Egypt. A sad business. Very sad. I praise God that the Egyptians released him so that he could raise his own ransom. Praise God, also, that you yourself survived the Crusade. You must be a lucky little Frenchman, indeed.”
Bertrand shoved his squire away and jabbed a big meaty finger in front of my face. “And you? You are a jester, who calls a woman his squire. And I know why.” He leered at Eva.
I had told Eva to hold her tongue. Impressed upon her the need for her to avoid angering Friar William and
Thomas. She had argued that she should be allowed to speak for herself, as we would be persuading the pair that she could act just as a man would. Exasperated, I had told her for the tenth time that a true squire would know to hold his damned tongue.
Even so, I could never control her.
“Fight me,” Eva said to Bertrand.
Every man, me included, turned to stare at her.
“Quiet,” I said.
She glanced at me only briefly. “Bertrand de Cardaillac, if you doubt my abilities, you should fight me yourself. If you beat me, we will leave you be. But if I beat you, I join your journey to the Tartars with my husband, Richard. Right now. With swords. No armour. I am ready.”
We had not agreed this. Bertrand was as large as a giant and a trained knight.
But Eva was very good with the sword.
And, of course, she was an immortal vampire with inhuman speed and strength.
The men arrayed about us stared at Eva in shock, until Bertrand laughed in her face. “You are both mad. Utterly mad.”
His squire laughed like a donkey but the monks and the old Templar and his young squire were apprehensive.
“You are afraid,” Eva said, her goading shutting the man up. “You fear losing to a woman.”
He sneered. “I would never use a blade on a woman, even one as shameless as this one.”
“Go on,” I said, warming to the idea. “What are you afraid of?”
The others were in a state of surprise and confusion and struggled to give word to their outrage.
“I would slay you with a single blow,” Bertrand said, although he seemed somewhat perturbed by her confidence, or by the very notion itself.
“Practice swords then,” I said. “Blunted wasters. We have dulled, old blades and wooden cudgels with our belongings on the ship, if your squire will fetch them for us.”
“That is it,” Bertrand said, his lip curling in contempt. “You call yourself a squire. And so you can fight my squire. Yes, yes. Come on, Hughes. Fetch a pair of wasters, one for you. And one for this woman. You may then humiliate her.”
He glared at me, expecting that I would put a stop to the madness. Little did he know that the madness was only just beginning, for him and for all of us. I simply smiled pleasantly up at him.
