The episode that sealed Marcus’s fate— as Marcus would see it, later, with rueful clarity— began with Erec’s running onto the field with a new ashwood lance and another shield for his master. Michel of Harnes, the leader of the French team and possibly the greatest living tournament rider after the aging William Marshall of England, challenged Willem. Willem recognized the man’s colors; he had fallen to Harnes several times during his first year riding in tourneys. For the first time all day Willem felt serious doubt. He was exhausted and aware that Harnes had not himself been working very hard; his shield was hardly knicked. Waiting until late in the day and then taking down the reigning champion was a strategy for which Harnes was infamous. That accounted for every previous defeat Willem had suffered at his hands.
Willem grabbed the new shield and lance from Erec and spurred Atlas on, fixing the shield in front of him and couching the lance for attack. Harnes had a longer lance, and it struck Willem a fraction of a heartbeat earlier than Willem was expecting. The upper half of his shield took the force and it tilted back harshly toward his body, winding him and almost smashing into the lower part of his helmet— but Harnes’s lance snapped in half just as Willem’s own lance struck Harnes’s shield, struck with such force and so squarely that the famous knight was jolted hard— and then to a cry of amazement from the crowd, he slid backward over his horse’s rump, stuck in his high-back saddle, looking as if he were yanked from behind. Hundreds of wagging hands pointed excitedly: the jolt had been so hard that both of the saddle’s girth-straps had snapped. Harnes smashed to the earth behind his mount, saddle still clenched between his knees, and lay awkwardly prone, too stunned to do anything. Willem, his body moving faster than his mind could account for, wheeled Atlas around and chased after Harnes’s horse, which had slowed to remain near its master.
* * *
From the pavilion there was hysterical cheering. It had been many years since anyone had taken down the great Michel of Harnes, and Willem’s attack had been magnificent, and his catching the horse immediately was a flourish not even Jouglet could have dreamed up. The jongleur was thrilled, leaping about and making sure everybody knew exactly what had happened. The sun itself, Jouglet was later to report, had peeked out from behind its cooling veil of clouds, to witness the victory. Willem’s springing fully formed from Jouglet’s head could not have given the minstrel a more proprietary air of satisfaction.
Willem, on horseback, led the French knight away from the center of the field. Harnes walked heavily, panting under the burden of his mail, and kept his helmet on so that nobody could see his face in defeat. On Willem’s other flank walked Harnes’s horse, a gorgeous grey Hungarian charger. Everybody knew it was named Vairon; half a dozen ballads about Harnes had been making the rounds for the past three or four years, and a famous knight’s horse was almost as famous as the knight himself. Vairon was less winded than Atlas, and the thousands of eyes upon Willem collectively assumed that he would take his prizes to a safety section on the edge of the field and switch mounts.
But Erec realized his cousin was heading instead toward the royal viewing platform, and rushed to meet him there. He grabbed the high cantle of Atlas’s saddle and pulled himself up onto the horse’s rump, then unlaced the Senlis helmet from Willem’s metal coif so that the knight could speak directly to his emperor. Although the day was cool, the coif was almost hot to the touch.
Willem was a mess— his face was bruised and scraped all over, despite the protection of the face guard, and his brown hair was plastered to his forehead and around his face from prodigious sweating under the leather cap and chain mail coif. The few ladies present murmured nervously, thrilled and slightly repulsed at the same time. Willem ignored them. “Sire,” he said hoarsely, exhausted, still trying to catch his breath, and bowed to the throne. He blinked to keep the sweat from his eyes. Konrad nodded in acknowledgment, smiling but bemused that he was being drawn into the action. “Sire, I would be honored if you would accept this splendid charger from me as a gift to you.”
The pavilion exploded with applause, and Konrad sat back, smiling. Marcus, seeing the appraising expression on the Count of Burgundy’s face in response to this calculated gallantry, wanted to hit something.
When the noise had died down, the emperor announced, “I accept,” and the noise started up again ebulliently, as one of his guards left the platform to retrieve the horse. Konrad held up his hand. “But what about the knight himself? I want to know what ransom you’ll extract from this most important hostage.”
“Well, sire,” Willem said soberly, “I would not know how to put a price on such a knight, and so I think it would be best to simply let him go without ransom.”
Jouglet almost fainted with pride. Konrad and the helmeted prisoner both did double takes, and Konrad himself started to applaud, at which point everybody on the platform followed suit, especially Alphonse— and Marcus, for whom it was an onerous effort.
* * *
Willem set Michel of Harnes free and finally took a moment to rest in a safety area. Konrad chose that moment to have Marcus summon a clerk to the viewing dais, with parchment and ink.
You are writing my death certificate, Marcus thought, but bowed and sent a page boy into town. “May I ask what Your Majesty feels the need to compose, in the middle of a tourney?” he asked, hoping he was wrong.
“Willem of Dole is champion, and the day is not half over,” Konrad answered with satisfaction— as if that in itself were an answer. Then he added, slyly, “I think his sister should be informed of his successes, and the effect they might have upon her circumstances.”
There was a pause, and then Marcus blurted out, “If she becomes your empress, sire, then Alphonse will— “
Konrad made an angry, dismissive gesture. “Marcus, it is a tournament. Allow me one afternoon’s freedom from politics, for the love of Christ. You of all people should know how much I need that.”
“Sire, please, as a favor to me— “
Konrad gave him an incredulous glare. “Marcus,” he said pointedly. “Fetch the scribe. If you won’t obey it as a command, then do it as a favor to me, and once you have done so, then, not before, I shall entertain the possibility of doing you a favor in return.” He looked at Marcus expectantly; the steward stared back, frozen. “Marcus,” the emperor repeated sharply. “You are delaying the one moment of genuine unfettered glee I’ve had in months.”
“Sire, please, this is too important— “
“More important than your emperor choosing his bride?” Konrad demanded in a steely voice, more perplexed than angry. “Are you being insolent? Is that how you reward me for my trust in you? By aping my uncle and Paul? I asked for the scribe. Summon the scribe. You should be sharing in my delight, Marcus, not interfering with it.”
Once the scribe arrived, Marcus stood expressionless as Konrad— his attention still half on the tournament— dictated a hearty if graceless message to Willem’s sister Lienor, telling her that once he had coaxed permission from his Assembly of Lords, he would marry her.
But far worse than Konrad’s message was Alphonse’s gesturing to the scribe that he wanted to employ him when he was free. Marcus knew what that missive would be too.
Nicholas, to thank Willem for his hospitality in Dole, had brought wine and pastries to the safety area and was feeding the tired knight by hand. He turned this task over to Erec when he was summoned by Konrad— who gave him a scroll to courier to Lienor of Dole in County Burgundy. A smile passed between king and messenger; Nicholas understood what it was he was delivering.
And so, obviously, did Alphonse Count of Burgundy. Marcus was on the far side of the platform from him, and there were many dozen gaping noble onlookers between them, but he tried desperately to move between the gaggles to get to the count. The count was furtively whispering to the scribe, an old fat man who squinted a lot. As Marcus approached, he saw Alphonse use his signet ring to seal the document— he was only ten feet away when—
&n
bsp; “Marcus my friend!” Jouglet crowed gleefully, materializing inconveniently right in front of him. “Please let me honor you by making you the first audience ever for the ballad I’ve just composed about the gallantry of Willem of Dole! Come over here— ” The minstrel took his arm and pulled him to the left, toward a corner where there was little fighting and therefore not as many spectators. “This will be on a par with Ywein or the northern sagas, I’m telling you— you know I’m not arrogant about my works, but really this one is incredibly inspired. Did you see that? Wasn’t it magnificent?”
“Not now, Jouglet,” Marcus said harshly. “I’m on an errand.”
“What errand could be more important on the day of a tournament than celebrating the tournament’s great hero?” Jouglet insisted.
“Jouglet,” Marcus snapped and shoved the minstrel aside. Jouglet, undeterred, and knowing Marcus had been delayed enough now, instantly turned to an aging duke with the same hearty invitation, and this time was accepted.
The timing was so horrible that Marcus thought the heavens must be mocking him. He finally neared Alphonse just as the scribe was waddling off in the other direction with the letter— the letter which he knew full well was to inform Alphonse’s daughter, Imogen, that she would not marry Marcus, Marcus who was a nobody, merely the emperor’s steward, from a family that had been serfs three generations earlier and even now was entirely dependent on His Majesty’s beneficence for riches and honor. What was the worth of such a match when the emperor was about to have a marriageable brother-in-law who would be a legend by sundown?
He would have to find the scribe and waylay him before the message was even on its way. Then he would fly south to the castle of Oricourt and marry Imogen at once, before the confusion could be sorted out, before anybody knew the marriage was not to have happened. He would take her to bed and possess her so ardently that she would be carrying his child before her father could call for an annulment.
It was a dreadful way to do things, but any other way was even worse.
The direction in which the scribe had wandered off corresponded exactly with the direction in which the entire crowd now rushed to see Willem attack another famous knight, Odo of Ronquerolles. The two of them met on a mild slope that was turning loose and sloppy from the endless charge of half-crazed chargers, and in unison unhorsed each other violently in a joust. Staggering to their feet, they yanked frantically at the hilts of their swords, drew them, and immediately started dueling. This was a rare instance of actual sword-play, and it was impossible for Marcus to move through or even around the delighted mob.
By the time he found the scribe, on the edge of a safety area, the fat old man had already handed off the missive to a courier. “Where was that message being sent?” Marcus demanded, praying that somehow he was wrong.
The old man shrugged. “To Oricourt, his home in Burgundy, milord, to his daughter Imogen.”
“Dammit!” Marcus swore aloud.
“Curses are foul things, milord,” the cleric said.
“My life is fouler,” Marcus said angrily and walked off away from the excitement, into the middle of a part of the trampled field everyone had their backs to.
It wasn’t a disaster yet. If he had a horse— and there were some of them, riderless, wandering about the field— he could intercept the messenger and then the plan would still work. That’s what he would have to do. There were two easily within reach, both grazing in their bridles, their saddles intact— but as he chose the bay and started walking toward it, he saw Konrad waving to him from the dais, gesturing him back. He stopped. He groaned.
And then he walked back toward his emperor, because he could not do otherwise.
* * *
Konrad had summoned Marcus back to the dais because he wanted tripe and pork pastries brought to him as he continued to watch. He marveled that Willem and the other knights seemed able to continue without so much as a break for defecation. “Remember when we were doing that, Marcus?” he said nostalgically, as if it were a long time ago; it had only been a few years. “Look at that, Willem and Odo are still at it. They should just call a draw and go smash up other people.” Marcus looked over. Most of Willem’s red and blue surcoat had long been torn off; his chain armor was ripped through in places; his latest shield was splintered into pieces, he wasn’t even using it…and everyone was adoring him. How had the shy, bumbling country boy from two short weeks earlier turned into that? How could he, Marcus, have let it happen?
“I will see that a late dinner is summoned for you from the stores at Orschwiller, sire. May I be excused to the castle after that?”
“Don’t you want to watch the rest of the tournament?” Konrad asked.
“I wish I could, sire, but I have already seen Willem’s abilities.” Marcus hesitated— he had never actually lied to Konrad before. “And there is bookkeeping to be done.” It could still be accomplished— he would grab a loose horse as soon as he was out of Konrad’s sight.
Konrad shrugged. “As you please. I’ll see you this evening, then. Oh, Marcus,” he added as an afterthought. He signaled a pretty dark-haired woman, her elaborate dress revealing she was of royal favor if uncertain pedigree. “Escort Cecilia back up, if you are going anyhow.”
So he would have to delay his escape until he had, in fact, gone to the castle.
* * *
But back at the castle, Marcus still could not escape. Before he had even dismounted, every conceivable headache presented itself at his elbow; there were emergencies that only a cruel God would have sent in confluence against him right now. Brother Paul, already upset by the very fact of the tournament, had sent guards out to round up the town’s visiting male prostitutes, and Marcus had to stand as deputy for their arraignment. Domestic officers from all over the Empire were using any pretext of imperial business they could come up with as an excuse to spend most of the day at the tournament. They would take a brief, vigorous detour up the side of the mountain to plague Marcus with absurdities that should have been handled by the seneschals or castellans of the households they had come from: the hayward from Konrad’s Bavarian estate, for example, was there to wail that the harvest was so full this summer he did not have the manpower, with all the reapers and boon-tenants available, to clean and gather the corn, and so sought permission to demand longer work hours of the serfs; the Bavarian bailiff had come as well, in a fit of pique, and wanted to go over the whole years’ records with Marcus to counter that the serfs were already far overused for this time of year, and if it continued they would be dead from overwork before they could help to bring in the harvest— and that would make the harvest much more difficult. The provost of Hagenau appeared to report a shortage of wood and wanted advice on what to do about it. The chief waggoner of the Saxony royal stables wanted to complain that his overseer had miscalculated what he should be expected to do in a week, and he could not possibly bring up the amount of supplies he had been ordered to. He, as the others, tried to ease Marcus’s judgment with a silver mark wrapped in a handkerchief; Marcus rebuffed it angrily. Once when a new face appeared in the door he caught himself praying it was news that the Count of Burgundy’s courier had been found dead on the road somewhere. He wanted to shout at everyone who entered that his room was not a corridor; he could never remember so many people traipsing through here, most of them bringing problems that should not have been his to start with.
He imagined the sun sliding slowly across the sky and knew his possible salvation was slipping away. He wondered with pained tenderness what Imogen was doing at this moment, wondered with worry how many days and hours she had left before she would learn her world was shattered.
* * *
At the tourney field, Jouglet had improvised a competent but very earnest song describing Willem’s gallantry, and was singing it loudly, bowing the fiddle, for everyone who had not been near the moment of Michel of Harnes’s defeat. Willem’s conduct was so extraordinary that the story spread fast around the field until eve
ry knight, squire, nobleman, servant, townsman, and villager knew about it. Willem, oblivious, continued to fight, and in the course of the afternoon, although slowing down from weariness, and aware that his team overall was weaker than the French, he collected six more horses and four more prisoners, who were sent back to be held for ransom at the inn.
When the final knight he took hostage— a fellow from Ghent he’d never seen before— told him, quite flustered, that he was honored to be prisoner to the great Willem of Dole, he finally thought of Jouglet and realized, with a mixture of appreciation and resentment, the minstrel probably had as much to do with his instant fame as his own prowess.
He thanked the man warmly. A month ago he would have insisted he did not deserve that kind of credit. Now he accepted it, and even let himself enjoy it. That too, he realized, was a result of Jouglet’s influence.
* * *
The sun was far from setting, but shadows were starting to grow long; the air was cooling to the golden moment of a summer evening. It had been a perfect day for the riders. The trumpets were sounded to announce the end of the tournament, silver cups were awarded to Willem and other knights who’d been outstanding, and victors took their prisoners home, to inns, to camps outside the fighting arena, in some cases to the castle. Konrad summoned Willem to the platform and invited him up to Koenigsbourg for a supper feast in his honor, once he had gone back to the inn to clean up and recuperate.
Revenge of the Rose Page 16
