They were shepherded through clusters of men who growled resentfully for their having received instant service. They crossed down through the narrow room to a door in the far wall and out into a narrow yard, delineated by the length of the neighboring building on one side, the high town wall to the other, and a hedgelike structure at the far end, on the other side of which— to judge by sounds and smells— lived swine and poultry. A dozen makeshift canvas structures in two long lines took up most of the space, each no bigger than a soldier’s sleeping tent and each being used, but not for sleeping; at the end near the hedge, farthest from the house wall, was a small willow lean-to with a hole in the roof that anemically hiccuped smoke into the evening air. They were still adjusting their eyes, and Erec was trying not to giggle about the sound effects from the tents, when three cheerful voices called out from the darkness, “Jouglet! Hello duck! Jouglet, over here!”
In response to Erec’s startled expression, the minstrel made a gesture of exaggerated modesty and ushered the two young Burgundians toward the voices. Clustered halfway down the right line of tents, three tired women in colorless loose tunics, red armbands, and loosed hair immediately rose to their bare feet.
“My favorite meretrices! Ladies,” the jongleur announced. “Be good to my friends this evening. This is Erec, he’s young and fresh, he’ll probably take some energy. This is Willem, and he’s such a good man I don’t know what to say about him, but I’m sure he’ll be a handful. Probably two handfuls, no doubt with fingers spread. He’s supposed to be holding vigil for the tourney tomorrow, but he’s practically bursting out of his breeches.” A dramatic pause. “And then there’s me, of course, my ducklings.”
“I’m for you, Jouglet,” said the tallest of the three immediately, elbowing her companions back. She had a trace of a French accent. Her tunic needed mending, and her pretty heart-shaped face could have done with a wash, but she had a lovely smile despite her obvious exhaustion, and she smiled at the cousins long enough to wring a look of acute appreciation from them. Then she brushed past them to put a teasing hand on Jouglet’s arm. “It’s my turn for the hut,” she said in a low voice. “Come with me, my little stallion.”
“The fair Jeannette. Marthe and Constance are also delectable,” Jouglet assured Erec, gently triumphant. “These are the three resident whores of Sudaustat, I’ll have you know; all the rest are just vagabonds here for the tournament. We are getting genuine local craftmanship.” The paired couple stepped around the second row of tents toward the stick lean-to, arm in arm. Jouglet’s attention was entirely on Jeannette as they walked, smoothing her tousled hair with familiar affection, then stealing a kiss on her neck; she gave a sleepy-sounding, comfortable chuckle of pleasure. “Tell me, duckling,” the cousins heard Jouglet begin, “what have you been about since His Majesty’s summer retreat?”
Erec and Willem exchanged astonished looks.
“Don’t tell Lienor,” muttered Willem.
“Great gifts come in small parcels,” said Marthe, the dark-haired one, knowingly. Then, with a wink at Willem, she added at once, “But myself, I like big parcels even more.” She ran a finger along the cragged length of his nose, which sent a violent shiver down his spine. She gestured to the tiny, damp tent before them. “Join me in here.”
* * *
When Jouglet and Jeannette were inside, and the canvas flap pulled down, she gave the minstrel a friendly kiss on the cheek and flopped down onto the hard rush mat. “Thank God you’re here,” she said. “It’s been a hell of a week, all these crazed fellows in town for the tournament. My fruit can’t stand much more plucking.”
Jouglet squatted on the earth by the small fire pit, reaching toward the weak flames to soak up the warmth. “This smells like new wood.”
Jeannette nodded and poked at the lean-to wall, yawning. “It is. The cardinal made his rounds as the crowds were coming in, and tore us down again. Those canvas things in the yard? They can fold up in less time than it takes to walk through the hall. Clever, that.”
“I’ll get Konrad to trim Paul’s claws. What shall it be, now to dawn?”
“The whole night!” Jeannette’s face lit up. “Can you afford that, duck?”
A jeweled bracelet magically appeared in Jouglet’s hand and quickly passed over the fire pit. Jeannette cooed with appreciation.
“The rest of the night,” Jeannette said, as if it were treasure. “I can actually sleep! Will I have been ravished ferociously or made tender, expert love to?”
“I think we must go for the ravishment this time,” Jouglet said, poking at the smoking embers with a stick that lay nearby. “I stuck my foot in it tonight.”
Jeannette, sprawled comfortably on the mat, and already half-asleep, asked, “What did you do?”
There was a long pause.
“Jouglet, tell me what you did or I will never fall asleep.”
“The bigger of the two fellows I brought in with me,” Jouglet finally began, still staring into the wan fire and sounding aggravated.
“Oh, he’s a looker!” Jeannette grinned. “And he looks like an actual gentleman. When I’m not so exhausted I hope he comes back.”
“I don’t think whoring is a common hobby for him.”
“A pity. What about him?”
Another pause. “There was a confused moment between us that…made him wary.” The tenor voice was peevish.
Jeannette burst into laughter. “Oh, a confused moment! How did you survive?” But then she turned serious, and said with sympathy, “Jouglet, you idiot. How did you cover?”
“I brought him here!” Jouglet retorted, with a broad gesture toward the canvas door flap.
“Oh, duck, that’s no solution,” Jeannette said from the mat. “That only distracts him for the nonce— “
“I know that!” Jouglet snapped, scowling at the smoking flames.
“And you’ve got Paul at court now. He must be breathing down your neck.” Jeannette’s attitude was less compassionate than perversely entertained. “What are you going to do?”
An exasperated sigh. “I don’t know.”
“Well let me know when you do,” Jeannette said. “I can’t afford to lose my favorite customer to other…inclinations.”
“Take a nap and leave me alone,” Jouglet said in a surly tone.
“I will. Have fun ravishing me.” Jeannette smiled. “If you had let me know you were coming I could have tried to round up someone more to your taste.”
Jouglet scowled at her, looking almost alarmed. “You are no help to me with that kind of humor, woman. I’m on very thin ice these days— Nicholas actually propositioned me— “
“Nicholas is very attractive!” Jeannette giggled, punchy from exhaustion and amusement. “You’ve said so yourself.”
“That’s not the point! Paul and Konrad saw us— and that is not funny, Jeannette, don’t laugh! Don’t you know Nicholas was a fledgling courtier until Konrad made him a messenger to keep him away, to hide his lack of discretion? If that’s what he did to a prince’s son, what do you think he’d do to a vagabond minstrel?”
“Poor Jouglet, condemned to be purer than a monk.” Jeannette laughed, not without sympathy, and half a breath later was asleep.
8
Panegyric
[a poem in praise of great deeds]
11 July
The next morning, Willem and Erec woke before dawn and went down to the taper-lit mass, surrounded by hordes of fellow knights and squires. This church, recently completed, had two grand towers and a magnificently high groin-arched ceiling. It smelled, reassuringly, of religion— even the omnipresent odor of the weekly fish market, which took place directly outside the high double-arched doors four days a week, could not cut through the sharp warmth of the frankincense.
Most unexpectedly, Paul officiated. He was there to preach hotly against the tournament, threatening all of the participants, down to the squires and heralds, with excommunication and worse. Willem was almost ill over this— unti
l Erec returned from gossiping with other squires, and brought the assurance that Paul did this whenever he found himself within twenty miles of a tournament. No knight had actually ever been punished for it. “The consensus is that one of the best things about being in the tourney is a whole day spent away from the cardinal,” Erec concluded, almost shouting it into his cousin’s ear to be heard over the echoing drone of the church’s organistrum.
Willem took time after the service for private reflection, at the back of the church, and begged blessings from the quartet of military saints he liked to imagine watching over him: George, Theodore, Mercurius, and Martin.
Once back in the straw-banked courtyard of the inn, Erec and the page boys reverently strapped Willem into his padding and chain mail. When he was finally mounted, Willem led the way out the gate, his squires on foot to either side of Atlas. Erec had the honor of carrying Willem’s lance and shield. The streets were already so crowded that Konrad’s castle guards came down into town and— to the townspeople’s annoyance— closed the gates to all but the tourney parties. Not to be deprived of the thrill of a parade, all the merchants and artisans with houses giving onto the wider streets and market squares threw open their doors to anyone who wanted a view, and all the windows and roofs were crowded with cheering spectators, hurling flowers and streamers of tied-together colored rags, and banging makeshift percussive inventions that would have made less-seasoned mounts throw their riders.
Even with only tournament traffic the narrow streets were jammed. Willem and Erec moved slowly north to the green market, drawn by the relentless noise of pipe and tabor emanating from the square. They were surprised to find the emperor’s enormous riding party waiting directly opposite them in the marketplace. This was utterly gratuitous of Konrad, who could have more easily and more safely reached the tourney field without going through town at all. He was surrounded by anxious bodyguards, who eyed the gawking, adoring townsfolk as if they might be insurrectionists. The royal heralds held aloft only pennants of the family crest, gold with a black lion rampant; Willem wondered where the imperial pennant was.
Konrad hailed Willem. Surprised, Willem raised his hand to return the greeting from a distance, but Konrad shook his head and beckoned broadly, demonstratively, for him to join them. Little oooo‘s of intrigue and respect went up from all the surrounding windows and rooftops. Willem had never felt so absurdly on display.
“Come to me,” Konrad said, with an outstretched arm draped in vermillion and gold. As other riders and their footservants scrambled to get out of the way, the two men rode toward each other and met near the central well, where two dozen village urchins had perched precariously to watch the terrifying knights parading past. Willem, bowing his neck, brought Atlas directly up alongside Konrad’s horse, head to tail; Konrad dropped his reins and threw both arms around the knight, embracing him. A number of horses around the square, responding to their highborn riders’ tensing with envy, whinnied, fidgeted, even bit one another. But the commoners were all delighted and applauded, anticipating some great honor. Willem looked flushed. “You will use this today,” Konrad said, and gestured to Boidon. Boidon handed something made of thick fabric up to Konrad, who unfolded it and held it up for all the gawkers to see.
It was a golden banner emblazoned with a black eagle.
Willem gasped in astonishment and realized he could not possibly decline the honor of bearing the imperial standard, however staggering it was, in front of so many of His Majesty’s subjects.
“Sire,” he said hoarsely, receiving it, “I shall strive to be worthy of it.”
Konrad turned his horse about and they all rode together out of the northern gate, Willem’s small party subsumed into the emperor’s large one. Jouglet was riding behind Marcus, wearing a new extravagant mantle from Konrad (this one nearly rainbow-colored), and deftly avoided greeting Willem. Willem had not spoken a word to either of his companions when they returned from the whores last night, and he had not invited Jouglet back to the inn; the minstrel was keeping a respectful distance but did exchange hearty good mornings with Erec. Otherwise, Jouglet seemed content to jabber on to Nicholas.
Marcus tried to hide his dismay at Alphonse’s behavior: the count did not take his eyes off Willem once. He nearly rode into a linden branch as they left the town walls for the tourney field. It was as if he were trying to ensnare the young knight with his eyes.
Over the past week, Willem had examined the tourney field in detail, though field was hardly the word for this broad swath of land between the town, the foot of the castle-mount, and the fief of Orschwiller. Most of it lay wide open, long fallow; parts were wooded, especially up on the slope. At an elevated spot in the center rose the open-sided royal pavilion, built to hold several dozen spectators. Three or four smaller platforms lined the edges of the fighting area, and one far boundary was the town wall itself, atop and below which hundreds of townspeople, villagers, and serfs had gathered to watch.
The day continued overcast and cool. Summer saw few tournaments because of the heat, but Konrad insisted annually on sponsoring royal games. He liked anything that threatened the power of his higher aristocracy, and promoting the lower aristocracy— the knights— did that stylishly, and much to the delight of the rabble.
Most of Konrad’s knights would fight under Willem. A leader in a tourney had to be able not only to fight one-on-one, but also to plan attacks for many riders altogether, making the most of opportunities to take down opponents. This was a contest for gain, for ransom and booty— despite his general idealism about the honor of knighthood, Willem had always been clear that the purpose of a tourney was to get a lot of money or its equivalent.
The tourney was a huge one— Marcus estimated there would be five hundred knights here. It took a very long time, but by late morning the logistical sorting out had been taken care of, knights had hailed and greeted one another, shown off their newest lances and shields and battle scars and lovers’ kerchiefs, expressed amazement at how friends’ squires had shot up. Those not yet in arms finished preparation. The countryside resembled a military encampment, save for the incongruously cheerful atmosphere. The breezy morning wore on cool and fresh, the sun just hidden behind a gauze of clouds.
The steward, as Konrad’s representative, had established teams. To begin with, he adhered to tradition and honored preexisting loyalties, so Willem had his men from his own county and many from Konrad’s court, for a total of fifty riders. He was partnered with a dozen other knights leading groups from Swabia, Hainaut, and Lorraine. His was one of three teams, grouped by geography: the Empire (which Willem found himself heading), Flanders to the northwest of the Empire, and France. Marcus directed them to stations around the field, and there ensued a protracted period of hurrying about to place everybody’s squires and servants in the correct safe areas. During this shuffle, the town gate reopened, and commoners of all shapes and sizes, serfs to wealthy burghers, hurried to climb trees and outbuildings, crowding into the few spaces left open to them. A mass of people two paces deep surrounded Konrad’s viewing pavilion, shrewdly assuming the fighting would come near, but not too near, the emperor.
Konrad’s senior herald blew a trumpet and another flashed a flag at His Majesty’s wave. For a fraction of a breath nothing happened, then the three groups, hooves thudding in a canter, advanced on the center of the broad, green space. All of them slowed. The lord of Mauléon cried out a challenge to Richard of Mainz; the two seasoned champions ran at each other, ashwood lances couched against their shields, and five hundred voices screamed with bloodthirsty exuberance at once. The tournament had begun.
A contingent of knights from Artois and Valecourt challenged Willem’s immediate party, and Willem headed toward them over the field grass. Their leader was a man he didn’t recognize— a large fellow with an ominous surcoat of black and red. Willem tucked his lance tighter under his right arm and with his left hand reined his horse toward the armored stranger. He felt Atlas pick up speed und
er him, anticipating the joust.
* * *
“Look at Willem, sire!” Jouglet said at the emperor’s elbow. “He’s taking down his first man!”
“Technically, he’s merely fighting his first man,” Marcus said from the other side of the throne. A pause. Marcus grimaced, tried to make it seem like a grin. “Ah. Now he has taken down his first man.” This, he was certain, was the beginning of the end for him.
* * *
Unhorsing was easy, dismounting was not, but Willem insisted the felled soldier was his to take alone, and over the din of warfare, he signaled his fellow knights not to assist. He landed on his feet heavily in sixty pounds of chain mail and, grunting, drew his sword and grasped it two-handed, breathing hard. His unhorsed opponent was struggling like an upended insect, trying to get to his feet; Willem was on him in a moment and rested the tip of his sword in the one place the armor left the man most vulnerable— directly at his crotch.
* * *
Jouglet watched as Willem helped the vanquished man to rise. Then Willem beckoned Erec and one of his pages out onto the field. Erec took custody of the knight; the younger boy took the horse, a Castilian, and led him after Erec. Jouglet slipped off the dais and skirted skirmishes to reach the retreating boy. “Where are you going with the booty?” the minstrel asked.
Erec gestured to his bruised and limping captive. “Willem wants this fellow to pay ransom directly to the innkeeper, since we’re staying there on credit.”
Jouglet chuckled approvingly. “And the horse is for his supplier from Montbéliard, isn’t it?”
Erec nodded, smiling, and continued toward the edge of the field.
* * *
Marcus wanted to freeze time, he wanted to stop everything that was happening, because he felt so foolishly impotent to prevent it. Between sext and nones, Willem fought eight jousts and won seven of them (one for each deadly sin, Marcus thought wretchedly); the eighth was a draw. He had captured men from Perche, Champagne, Amiens, Blois, and Poitou. Marcus realized what the knight was doing: he had challenged or accepted challenges only when he was on the outskirt of the field near the audience pavilion, where the joust could easily be seen by Konrad, without becoming part of the general melee. Jouglet had no doubt coached him to that, Marcus thought bitterly. Willem was bruised, bloodied, clearly exhausted, and his shield was literally falling apart, but he had sent seven horses to the inn for safekeeping— a small Welsh-Arab mix, four Danish stallions, a Hungarian, and the Castilian— and even made a wedding gift of one to the lance merchant, which Jouglet made sure the emperor and everyone within a half-league of the pavilion heard about.
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