The Ill-Made Knight

by Christian Cameron

  Courtney muttered about being in the company of saints for a few days, and finally desisted. He made a great show of buying a whore in the inn, but this was wasted on Fra Peter.

  Then Father Pierre Thomas joined us, and there was no more blasphemy. I had scarcely seen Father Pierre Thomas since my first days in Avignon. He had drawn another escort and ridden into Burgundy, trying to raise funds for his crusade. Now he went to Savoy on the same mission. He ate with us every night, whether we stopped in inns or hostels or made camp in the woods.

  As the high ground east of Avignon rose towards Italy into the true Piedmont, we found fewer houses, and those we saw, we distrusted. The companies had been here, and they had despoiled both sides of the main market road for a league or more. Farms were burned, and towns gutted.

  But the companies were not alone at fault. There were huge Plague cemeteries. Churches collapsed from lack of care. The third night, we camped in deep woods on the flank of a great ridge, and the air had the cold bite that portended winter. I was the scout, and I found a spring on the hillside with a ruined chapel above it. We used a pavilion roof and blankets from our pack mules to roof what had been a Mary chapel, and we were snug and warm when the freezing rain struck. It seemed blasphemous to light a fire by an altar, but the church was stripped to the walls, and only the remnants of some brightly coloured frescos suggested the place had ever known human hands.

  I had been on scouting duty, which relieved me of camp chores, so I sat down with an oily linen rag and began to clean my harness.

  Fra Peter sat heavily by me. ‘Good camp,’ he said. ‘Well chosen.’

  I caught Will Grice’s eye. He smiled. But he saw me polishing away at my corselet and he laid his own out on the floor, got some ash on a piece of rag and began to hit the worst spots. ‘Easier on a nice bit of stone floor, eh?’ he asked me. He glanced at Fra Peter. ‘He treats you like a squire.’

  ‘I am a squire,’ I said. I remember that, because it settled something.

  When I had my blade oiled – a day in the rain will work through the best scabbard in Christendom – I looked at the fire and found that our living saint, the papal legate to the east, was cooking.

  I shot to my feet.

  He pointed a wooden spoon at me. ‘Leave me be,’ he said. ‘I was a peasant boy cooking with my mother before I was the Pope’s friend.’

  He made a beautiful bean soup. I have to say, he needed no cooking lessons from me.

  That night, he told us all something of his life – how he had been born to serfs, how his parish priest had sent him to be educated by the Franciscans, and how he had risen in the Order, gone to the University at Paris, and become the voice of reform in the church, although he didn’t put it that way.

  He was so easy to talk to, that Juan spoke up. ‘Father?’ he asked. ‘Is it right that the church has so much wealth?’

  Every head turned. Grice and Courtney, playing dice, ceased. Sam Bibbo put down the bowstring he was making.

  Father Pierre Thomas shrugged. ‘There is no easy answer,’ he said. ‘Our church is composed entirely of sinners – do you know that?’ He laughed. ‘Not a single sinless man amongst us since Jesus. Men are venal and greedy. Proud. In fact, men commit sins every day, and men of the church are no different. But the sins do not make the words of Christ less important.’ He rocked his head back and forth. ‘I have avoided your question – your true question – like a true man of law. Here it is, then. The church needs money, because the church must have money to face Islam, to save Constantinople, to feed the poor, to guide and protect pilgrims, and to build hospitals, schools and orphanages. It needs this money. But I do not say that the church uses the money this way.’ He looked away. ‘And that should make every Christian angry.’

  The next day, Grice dismounted to get something out of his horse’s hoof. We were on a narrow trail, going almost straight up, or so it seemed to me. I was the last man, covering the rear against bandits.

  Grice looked back at me and waved. When I came up, I expected some teasing. Instead, he said, ‘Never met one like him. The priest.’

  I nodded.

  ‘If they was like him, the world would be a better place,’ Grice continued.

  ‘He saved my life,’ I said.

  Grice nodded, as if something complex had been explained. ‘Ah!’ he said.

  We practised every day the weather allowed. I remember Fiore unhorsing me with one of his infernal tricks in a meadow so high that it seemed I’d fall to my death. Instead, I just hurt my hip and cursed the Friulian for two days while it healed. But I was a better lance and a better blade, and I could now hit Fiore occasionally. More than that, I could go a long time not being hit myself. We practised odd things, too – one man against two or three, on horse and foot. Cuts with sharp swords; covers and parries. Facing a lance with a sword.

  Sometimes we were merely playing. It’s something I have seen with troubadours and musicians. They will simply play an instrument, making odd sounds, slapping the sound board or thrumming the strings to see what new thing they can find. Thanks to Fiore, I saw weapons in a new way.

  De la Motte took to the whole thing immediately, grinning as Fiore hit him in the head without any apparent effort. He grunted.

  ‘Perhaps we could be a travelling sword school,’ he said. ‘I’ll be the fool who makes the crowd laugh and throw pennies.’

  Perhaps I tell this badly. It was a fine trip.

  The Green Count was holding his court at Turin. He had a fine castle there and we were expected. I had had days to consider what it would be like to see Richard Musard. Days to consider his betrayal, or simply his inaction. Days to think what he must have thought of me.

  The last night, in another ruined chapel, I knelt before Father Pierre Thomas and said my confession. When we were done, I placed my hands in his. ‘Father, I need your . . . advice,’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘I know absolutely nothing of how to use a sword.’ His delivery was perfect, and we both laughed. ‘But I am at your service, my son. What advice?’

  ‘You will, I think, remember how you found me?’ I asked.

  He smiled. ‘A sinner. About to go to hell unshriven.’

  I nodded. It was succinct and damningly accurate. ‘Yes, Father,’ I said. ‘Do you remember what led me to that place?’

  ‘A life of violence?’ he said gently.

  ‘Yes, Father. But . . .’ I began to tell him of Richard Musard.

  He raised a hand. ‘You love this man?’ he asked.

  I paused for perhaps ten beats of my heart. ‘Yes, Father. He is – was – my closest friend.’

  Father Pierre Thomas shrugged. Around us was the ancient chapel. Above Father Pierre Thomas’s head, an image of the lamb flickered in the firelight, and the Archangel Michael’s sword seemed to move. ‘Then that is all there is,’ he said. ‘What are this man’s sins to you? You see to your own. He betrayed you? Perhaps, and perhaps not, but our Lord was quite firm on what you should do: turn the other cheek.’

  I hesitated.

  Father Pierre Thomas laughed. ‘It is sometimes as if we have two religions; two versions of Christianity. One for the knights and one for the rest of us. Listen, my son. There is but one way. Jesus did not tell me to turn the other cheek and you to fight.’

  I confess I smiled, too.

  He was a good priest, but I’m not sure he would have done well commanding routiers. And yet . . . sometimes I wonder if he might not have converted them all. He was not like other men.

  We arrived at Turin. The Green Count was one of the richest nobles in Christendom, and we were escorted by his uniformed sergeants to an inn and housed like kings. The inn itself was prettier than many great houses in England, despite the mountains and the vast, grim fortress and the bad roads. We had blue ceilings, gilt stars, frescos and coats of arms everywhere.

  And baths. Par dieu, there were bath houses, with vats of piping hot water, pools of icy cold water and giggling girls in thin line
n shifts with towels. I tell you, messieurs, that the infldel promise their warriors a paradise populated by virgins, which has never seemed so attractive to me. But a paradise full of bath houses . . .

  At any rate, we were clean, and as neat as an army of loaned servants could make us. The Court of Savoy kept great ceremony, and the Count was as eager for us to appear magnificent as we were ourselves – all of us except Father Piere, who didn’t seem interested in any of it.

  Still, I went and waited on him as his own squire when he put on his bishop’s robes, and before my eyes, the son of a peasant turned into a great lord of the church. Only the slight twinkle in his eye revealed that he held some secret amusement at his rank. I was learning about irony from Cicero – still in my baggage with Ramon Llull. I think that Father Pierre viewed his own promotion to legate with irony.

  I was resplendent in my red surcoat over spotless armour. By chance, my white cross on my red surcoat was the same device the Savoyards wore. Fra Peter wore his white cross on black.

  We filled the courtyard of the inn, seeing to last-minute buckles; William Grice’s swordbelt had broken, so there I was, my breath steaming in the cold winter air, snow falling and my fingers red, sewing like mad despite my finery and my harness. Grice was mortified – first, to be so shabby, and second, to be holding everyone up.

  The Green Count’s escort arrived.

  And, of course, it was commanded by Richard Musard.

  I knew him instantly. I’d thought it through ten times since confessing, but I didn’t do any of the things I had so carefully planned, because I had a needle in my mouth and an awl in my hand.

  I met his eye. He had a basinet on, but his visor was strapped up. He wore a beautiful harness and his surcoat had a coat of arms. He wore a fancy silver collar over the surcoat. His dark skin contrasted beautifully with his steel-silver helmet. He looked like a military saint in a painting.

  His eye went right over me – about six times. I tried to watch him while I sewed Grice’s sword belt, and I suspect I both cursed and blasphemed, but I got the belt patched and began to replace my heavy needle in my precious needle case.

  And there he was. His horse’s head was in my chest.

  I looked up and grinned. ‘Hello, Richard,’ I said.

  I’d say fifty emotions passed over his face. His eyes widened.

  He turned his horse when one of his men-at-arms called, ‘Sir Richard!’ and he rode away. He flicked a backward glance at me and I got to see that he had golden spurs.

  I breathed carefully and tested my new-found resolutions about . . . everything.

  ‘Mount up,’ I said.

  It was a difficult evening. The Green Count himself – Amadeus of Savoy – was the soul of courtesy to Father Pierre Thomas, but he ignored the rest of us as if we didn’t exist. There were fine ladies and gallant gentlemen. Fiore’s instruction had not included dancing, and I was only a squire, so I watched. I served Fra Peter at table, and was content.

  It may seem odd that a man who had commanded, who had led men in battle, could stand at the side of the hall and carve roast swan, but there it is.

  About midnight, we all trooped out of the Great Hall to hear Mass. There was snow falling and it was very cold. Fra Peter was given high precedence – after all, the Order was pre-eminent in the Christian world – and I was just a squire. I trailed along with the squires.

  I stopped at the holy water font by the door and took some, and Richard grabbed my arm.

  I bowed.

  He just looked at my face. He did so for long enough that other men clearly thought we were about to fight. A savoyard stepped between us. ‘Messieurs!’ he hissed. ‘This is a place of God!’

  Richard stuck by me.

  Mass seemed to go on for ever. There was no way we could speak. Father Pierre Thomas consecrated the host with the local chaplain. Count Amadeus refused to take the host from Father Pierre Thomas, and I knew in a moment that our embassy, whatever it had been, had failed.

  Fra Peter caught my eye and gave me a sign that said, ‘Get ready to move.’

  When Mass ended, the courtiers went for the great hall. A very pretty woman dropped me a splendid curtsey. ‘Do you dance?’ she asked.

  ‘I do not,’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘Why are all the handsome men in orders?’ she asked, and flounced away before I could disabuse her notion.

  Richard was by me, and he said, ‘You really are William Gold.’

  I grinned and tried to embrace him.

  He backed away. ‘You are alive?’ he said – three times. And his face was a study in conflict.

  ‘William!’ Fra Peter said. I turned and saw that he had Juan with him.

  I turned to Richard. ‘You are a knight,’ I said. ‘I congratulate you.’

  ‘You are alive,’ he breathed.

  ‘Richard,’ I said. ‘It is all right.’

  ‘William! Now!’ Fra Peter called. I made a sketchy bow to Richard Musard and ran for my knight.

  We gathered our men-at-arms in a hurry and got our horses. Fra Peter was tight-lipped, and Father Pierre Thomas looked as if he’d been struck.

  ‘Get some sleep,’ Fra Peter said. ‘We ride at dawn.’

  ‘Before the Green Count does something we’ll regret,’ Father Pierre Thomas said.

  We did ride at dawn, but after two hours on the road, when we reached the turning point where the alpine passes stretch away to the east and the road runs down to the west into Provence and Avignon, Father Pierre Thomas had a brief conference with Fra Peter. He smiled at me, gave each of us a blessing, which all of us needed, and rode away west with only the men-at-arms he’d brought a week before.

  Fra Peter watched him go, a rare look of indecision on his face.

  ‘What happened?’ I made bold to ask.

  ‘The last hope for the crusade just behaved like an arrogant child,’ Fra Peter said. hen he took a deep breath. ‘William, please forget I said that. Father Pierre Thomas has to go straight to the Pope. I am going to John Hawkwood.’

  We arrived at Romagnano in late October – probably as late as we could come before the high passes closed.

  It was like coming home. Yet a different kind of home – new men, new whores, new children. The whole town was ours – that is, it was the property of the English Company. I rode through the streets, suddenly conscious of how I looked. I had been on the road for four weeks, and I was cleaner and neater than most of the men-at-arms I passed.

  I saw more and more men I knew as I passed into the heart of the town, where the taverns were. I saw Andrew Belmont – he hadn’t been at Brignais, but he had been at Poitiers. I saw John Thornbury, and he shocked me by running along the cobbled street and throwing his arms around me.

  He pounded my back, despite my armour. ‘Will Gold!’ he said. ‘By the good God, Will Gold! We heard you was dead!’

  He bowed to Fra Peter. ‘My lord. Pardon we poor Englishmen.’

  Fra Peter extended a hand. ‘I, too, am a poor Englishman. Poorer than you, I’ll wager.’

  Thornbury cast an eye over our ten lances. He grinned at Sam Bibbo, and reached to clasp hands with Bill Grice.

  ‘Tell me these men are for us,’ he said.

  I probably had a grin as big as my face. ‘Sir John said bring ten lances,’ I said.

  There was a whoop of epic proportions from a second-floor window, and John Hughes jumped from a narrow balcony into the streets. Alpine towns are high and narrow and clean, a perfect contract of white plaster and blackened beams. Town houses have high, narrow windows, but John Hughes got through the window, onto the balcony and down to the street faster than you can tell it. He pulled Sam Bibbo down from his horse.

  Sam was grinning like a fool, but he said, ‘Now, John, I ain’t your girl. Put me down, you gowp.’

  I was still mounted, but I looked down to find a neat young man, only a little shorter than my horse, holding my bridle. It took me a breath or two to realize this was Perkin.
Master Smallwood, as I understood everyone called him now. He was dressed soberly, in black, and he looked . . . like a man.

  I dismounted and we embraced.

  ‘I . . .’ He hung his head. ‘I heard you was alive, but until a month ago we all thought you was dead.’

  And then there were all my old mates: Robert Grandice, not seen in a year; Belier, looking like a man-at-arms; even the two wild Irishmen, Seamus and Kenneth, who I hadn’t seen in three years. They no longer looked Irish, except for their facial hair. They had doublets and hose like civilized men.

  I almost had my ribs crushed by Kenneth, who was bigger than me – few men are –and kept saying, ‘Been too long!’

  Then, while I was introducing men to Fra Peter, Sir John came down from his commanderie. He looked wealthy – his clothes were the best in the street, and that said something. He had gold on – a gold belt of plaques, a gold earring and gold on the mount of his dagger scabbard – and he carried a short staff, like a great noble.

  He and Fra Peter exchanged bows.

  ‘From the Pope?’ he asked straightway.

  Fra Peter nodded.

  Sir John nodded. ‘None too soon,’ he said. He looked at me and smiled. ‘William the cook, as I live and breathe.’ His smile broke wider. ‘These are your ten lances?’

  My forty men – or Fra Peter’s, as the case may be – filled the street. Streets in Alpine towns wind like snakes, and climb and drop like – never mind. They can be steep and the houses press close. It’s like Cumbria, friends, except twice as steep, and on a cold day your iron-shod horse-hooves ring like an anvil against the cobbles as your horse climbs a street. My little column closed the town’s main street to all traffic.

  So I turned. I remember my chest being tight with pride at it. ‘Yes, Sir John.’

  ‘Well, we’re full up at the moment.’ He grinned. ‘And I’ll have to speak to the captain about you.’