‘Sir Raoul has a fiancée?’ Gwenn asked, momentarily startled out of her feeling of unease. Alan caught her eye, and winked. She hunched a shoulder on him and tried to ignore him.
‘Oh, aye,’ Ned gave a jaw-cracking yawn, ‘a lovely, gracious lady, they’re to be married at Christmas. God, but I’m tired.’ Another yawn, and Ned slung a heavy arm over Gwenn’s waist. ‘Ask for Lady Juliana. She’s been told to expect you. She will make sure you have a good view...’
Ned’s voice trailed off, and Gwenn guessed he was already asleep. She wasn’t sure she wanted a good view. A good view of what? Another bloodbath?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A little before dawn, the sky was a speckled tapestry of pale, fragile stars. In the jousting field, the heralds were up before the birds, rubbing sleep-dazed eyes as they scurried to and fro across the arena. There was always another last-minute task to complete. It was still dark enough for them to need the torches set at intervals along the perimeter fence, and golden flames streamed from the iron stands like maidens’ favours in a gentle, gusting wind. The wind brought with it the fragrance of enough fresh-baked bread to feed an army.
Indeed an army was encamped round the field. Men had tramped there from Gascony, there were knights from the Aquitaine, knights from Toulouse, there were even a group of swarthy-complexioned young bloods come from as far afield as Navarre. There were people from Brittany. Fortune-hunters had come in their droves from every corner of Christendom. There were duchesses, ladies, women and whores. There were princes, dukes, and lords; there were beggars and pedlars, cutthroats and thieves – an ill-assorted army, whose aim was, since it was peacetime, to polish rusty war skills. And if it should chance that blood was let, then so much the better.
The Church might send its bishops to mouth the official line, which was to rail against the tournies as a terrible waste of life and limb. His Holiness the Pope might regret the loss of life, might worry that the tournament was used to settle ancient feuds, but these clerical, other-worldly, opinions were ignored. In the main, the view was that a drop of judicious blood-letting never harmed any army. On the contrary, it made eyes all the keener, and hands took more care. In England, the Church’s official line was heeded. Here in France it was disregarded. Besides, everyone knew that the Bishop of Paris had a place reserved for him on the royal stand.
The participants lived in the hope that they would be among the victors – a tournament could be a lucrative source of income for the successful knight. It was designed to be similar to a war, in that a captured knight would have his harness and his horse taken by the victor. Since for many knights their warhorse represented all their wealth, this could be disastrous; and, as if the loss of their horse was not enough, the captured knight was also expected to negotiate a ransom to free himself. For the landless knight with no revenues, a tourney offered chances of riches, and at this one, the largest to be held in a decade, the pickings would be rich indeed. But it was not easy, the risk of great losses was high. Waldin St Clair had made a dazzling career at the jousts, but not many knights had his skill or stamina.
The sun climbed. Its long, bright rays tumbled over the fences and ran across the sand that, ominously, had been sprinkled on the jousting field. One by one, the stars winked out. The torches were doused. The rest of the army woke, crawled to their tent flaps, and squinted at the sky.
Swallows soared over the fields and woods around Paris. As the shadows shortened on the river of primrose sand in the lists, the birds, unconscious that this was to be an arena of war, saw only a place where they could find food. By the time their flight carried them over the encampment, the city of tents was deserted, left to derelicts and strays foraging silently among upturned cooking pots. Tent flaps and pennons trailed listlessly in a slack breeze. Having scooped insects from the air over the encampment, the swallows flew over the sand in the lists.
The stands groaned under the largest crowd in Christendom. Those who had no place on the stands pressed up to the fence. They got in the way of the horses, were shrieked at by red-cheeked heralds trying vainly to impose some sort of order on the proceedings. Beyond the lists, the paddocks were a confusion of stamping horses, jingling bits, and harassed grooms. Within hailing distance, the combatants waited, placing wagers while they affected a patience and calm that fooled no one. The air crackled with excitement.
Gwenn had found Duchess Constance’s dais. From the outset, Lady Juliana had taken pains to welcome her. ‘Your first tournament?’ she had exclaimed. ‘You must be very excited!’
Gwenn wasn’t excited. To be honest, she didn’t want to be here, but she held her peace. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as she feared. The fighting wasn’t real, after all; it wouldn’t be like Kermaria.
‘Here, take this stool,’ Lady Juliana went on, blithely unaware of Gwenn’s doubts. ‘My fiancé is to take the field at noon, and your husband’s assisting.’
‘Ned’s not taking part?’ Gwenn asked, going cold all over.
‘Taking part? A squire? Heavens, no. But he’ll have my husband’s lances to hand and–’
‘Don’t you worry?’ Gwenn blurted.
‘Worry?’ Lady Juliana put a tuck in her brow, in well-bred confusion. ‘Why should I worry?’
‘In case Sir Raoul is injured. It seems so dangerous, so pointless.’
Lady Juliana fixed Gwenn with a disdainful look. ‘Pointless? It’s vital practice they are getting, Mistress Fletcher. If you are feeling faint-hearted, I think you should leave.’
Hastily Gwenn shook her head. ‘No, I’ll stay.’ Ned was proud to be involved in a tourney, and if he wanted her to watch, then watch she would. For a moment, she was tempted to reveal to Lady Juliana that she was niece to Sir Waldin St Clair, Champion of Champions. But she hastily dismissed the thought. She had not seen Count François de Roncier at this tourney, but in this large crowd that meant nothing. He or one of his spies might well be here, and it was best the St Clair name was never mentioned. ‘It... I merely felt queasy for a moment. It has passed.’
Lady Juliana cast a knowledgeable eye over Gwenn’s slim figure. ‘You’re breeding aren’t you, my dear?’ Gwenn’s jolt of surprise gave Lady Juliana her answer, and she lowered her voice, honouring Gwenn with a confidence. ‘You and the Duchess alike, we pray. As that is the case, there is no shame if you have to leave the platform for a moment. The Duchess will understand. It is different when we women are carrying.’
Gwenn sat on her stool, knowing in her heart that the babe made no difference. She would feel distanced from all this, even if she were not carrying Ned’s child. The women filling up the Duchess’s stand were dressed in their brightest raiment and chattering like starlings. Sir Raoul, fully armoured and with his visor up, walked over to make his bow. As though someone had waved a fairy wand, the gossiping stopped. The knight drew all eyes. Gracefully acknowledging the Duchess, Sir Raoul bowed over Lady Juliana’s fingertips.
‘Bon chance, Sir Raoul,’ his fiancée said formally, without a trace of emotion.
Sir Raoul inclined his head a fraction. He looked at the tongue-tied women, white teeth flashed, and he loped towards his charger. The twittering began again.
And so it was whenever one of the combatants approached the stand. The chattering would cease, and the women would hold their breath while greetings were exchanged. Was the silence brought about because the women were wondering whether it was the last time they would see that particular combatant alive? How could they stand it? How many times had Lady Juliana had sat through similar proceedings? Either the woman had nerves of steel, or no nerves at all. Perhaps it came to the same thing. It’s all a show, Gwenn thought, but it’s a deadly show. God guard them from hurt.
A brace of swallows were diving gracefully over the field as Sir Raoul rode out. He was the first to take to the field. Ned was standing by the barrier, and if it hadn’t been for him catching her eye and gesticulating wildly, Gwenn would not have known it was Sir Raoul, for she had n
ot marked his colours, and when he was sealed in his armour, with his pot pulled down over his face there was no recognising him. Aware of Lady Juliana rigid at her elbow – so the woman did care – Gwenn was careful to maintain an expression of neutral interest. Sir Raoul’s huge, brown warhorse thundered the length of the course, sending great clods of earth and clouds of sand flying in its wake. As soon as the knights clashed mid-field, the swallows vanished.
On his second charge, Sir Raoul’s ash lance – Ned had told Gwenn it was ash – hit his challenger’s shoulder with such force that the shaft gave way with a crack. Vicious fragments shot abroad. Gwenn held her breath while Sir Raoul’s hapless opponent rocked sideways, desperately scrabbling to maintain his seat, but the blow had been too much, and slowly, almost gracefully, Sir Raoul’s rival sank into the churned-up sand. It had been decreed that there was to be no hand-to-hand fighting until later in the day, at the mêlée. Then fortunes would change hands. At the moment the knights were merely flexing their muscles and sizing up the opposition. Sir Raoul’s current foe was out of the competition, until later.
Gwenn watched the vanquished knight’s squire catch the fleeing warhorse. The knight was hauled to his feet and surrounded by commiserating friends. He limped off to the tents, where refreshments awaited him.
The trumpets sounded.
The sand was raked.
A different squire ran onto the field, dragging another rack of bright-tipped lances up to the fence. Sir Raoul wheeled his charger about, lance in rest. A second challenger lined up, gonfanon aflutter. His mount was champing at the bit. This knight had Sir Raoul unhorsed on the third charge. He was bruised, but not badly hurt, and he followed the path of the other downed knight, towards the consolations offered in the King’s refreshment pavilion.
And so it went on. Charge, miss. Charge, hit. Charge, crash, fall. Rake sand. Trumpets. Charge, crash. Charge...
Stifling a yawn, Gwenn longed for the evening to come and to bring with it a cooling wind. The bold August sun smote them all through the light white silk which shaded the Duchess of Brittany’s stand. Gwenn glanced up at the fringe of the canopy. The ermine dots on the pennons undulated in a frustrating dream of a breeze, which was enough to make the flags sway, but not enough to cool her. Gwenn was sticky. She was uncomfortable. The dais smelt unpleasantly of sweat. She wanted to go and lie down in the quiet of Alan’s tent.
A glance at the Duchess showed her a lady enthroned in a high-backed cushioned chair which had sides like an abbot’s stall. Duchess Constance’s face showed polite interest, and it never wavered.
How did she do it? Gwenn had a cramp in her thigh. She longed to get up and stretch her legs. At least Duchess Constance can rest her back, Gwenn thought, with a rush of frustration. And the Duchess no doubt knows everyone here. It was difficult to feel involved when she did not know any of the combatants. Not that Gwenn wanted to feel involved, but it might have driven away the feeling that she wanted to get up and run and run till she had put as much distance between her and this stupid tournament as she possibly could. If her feelings had been engaged, she would no longer have been so horribly aware that, of all the crowd, she was an oddity, for she wanted it to be over and done with as quickly as possible.
A murmur of excitement ran through the ladies on the Duchess’s dais, dragging Gwenn from her abstractions. Wearily, she looked at the field.
At the far end of the lists, the King had climbed onto a grey charger that was richly caparisoned in azure and gold. A wooden replica of his shield had been set up on the central dividing barrier. After a token pass at his friend, Duke Geoffrey of Brittany, King Philip was to give the signal for the single combat to finish, and the day’s mêlée would begin. Penned in like cattle behind the gates, the chivalry of Christendom waited for this charge to be done. When the King’s baton fell, their turn would come. Dreaming of glittering prizes, and held back by a flimsy wooden bar, the knights were a mass of shifting helms.
Casually, smiling, King Philip of France tossed a jewel-encrusted gauntlet into the sand. The princes were to use spears. Confronting the King, at the near end of the field, was Duke Geoffrey. The Duke was astride a fearsome charger, black as sin. Decked in the Duke’s fluttering white and black colours, the Duke’s warhorse looked brash and bold enough to terrify his Royal opponent into submission. He twitched his flowing tail and tossed his plaited mane. The beast’s nostrils were flared and he was foaming at the bit. The sight unlocked a recollection of Waldin swearing to Ned that horses loved tournies as much as men. The black charger was as eager as the knights held in check behind the fence. Gwenn’s heart sat heavy in her breast.
Alan was at his Duke’s side. She saw him lift the Duke’s helm from his squire and hand it to him. She saw the Duke smile, address Alan, and then Alan stood aside while the Duke prepared to gallop at the King of France. A shield bearing the arms of Brittany was set up at his end of the lists. Everyone fell quiet, waiting for the trumpets to blare.
A huge white bird chose that moment to pass overhead and the flapping of the snowy wings came loudly through the expectant hush. The bird’s bill was wicked as a knife, its tail a pointed diamond. Oblivious of its audience, the bird beat upwards through a cloudless sky and circled in the heights. As the crowd turned their attention back to the princes in the arena, the bird began to lose height.
The princes’ charge was more of a show than the previous ones. A bond of friendship tied Brittany and France, and it was a mark of their trust for one another that they consented to take to the field. Not a drop of royal blood was to be shed, and to this end they must hold a spear, not a lance, and aim for their opponent’s shield on the fence.
The huge white bird dropped out of the sky and landed on the central fence, on Brittany’s shield. On the Duchess’s dais, a waiting-woman gasped. ‘It’s a raven, my lady! On your lord’s shield! Christ save him!’ Ravens were associated with death.
The Duchess looked on, impassively. ‘It’s a white raven,’ she said, sedately, ‘only black ones are evil.’
The trumpets sounded. Spurs flashed. Hoofs ripped through the sand.
The Duchess of Brittany’s waiting-woman gulped. ‘If you say so, my lady.’
‘I do.’ With inflexible calm, the Duchess shifted her eyes to where her husband was thundering full tilt across the lists.
The warhorses were closing on each other. It would have been all too easy for one of the princes to break their word and aim for the heart, but as they had arranged, they turned their spears aside at the last moment and hurled them into the wooden shields marked with their arms. Brittany’s spear hung, quivering in France’s colours. The crowd shrieked their appreciation. France’s spear thudded into the sand, the great white raven impaled on its point. Blood and feathers were everywhere. A wing flapped, once. There was a second’s silence before the crowd went wild. Gwenn felt sick.
The trumpets let out a clarion blast and one of the King’s heralds ran onto the field with the baton. The King threw it down. The gates opened at either end of the field and, pennons flying, the army of knights roared onto the sand.
The mêlée had begun.
Swirls of dust and sand lifted into the hot air, it was like looking into a sandstorm. There were so many twisting, fighting men, so many screaming, biting horses, that it was impossible to tell one combatant from another. Slowly the knights spread over the field. Some were down, and as the field began to clear, Gwenn was able to distinguish individuals.
There was Sir Raoul, she knew his colours now. Not content with losing one horse to his opponent at the jousting earlier, he was trying his arm in the mêlée. Gwenn did not think that his luck had changed, for his elaborate green and white caparison had been slashed to tatters and hung raggedly from his steed’s back. Sir Raoul kicked his mount into the press, and Gwenn lost sight of him. The King of France had judiciously left the field, no doubt holding the view that an army’s commander should never be put at risk. A dark flash caught Gwenn’s eyes.
She saw the ermine, and a warhorse’s wide flaring nostrils, and an ebony tail streaming like a banner. Duke Geoffrey was in the thick of it – not for him the strategic withdrawal. She watched as he unhorsed a man and crimson blood mingled with the sand. The ducal sword waved in triumph and, with either supreme arrogance or supreme folly, Duke Geoffrey lifted his helmet in the air and grinned at his Duchess seated primly on her dais. The Duchess inclined her head. The Duke jammed his helm back on, dug his spurs in his mount’s flanks, and was off again.
Ned had gone from his place on the sidelines, but Gwenn picked out Alan. He was stationed by the palisade where the Duke’s arms were laid out. As the two cousins were not of the knightly class they were forbidden to venture onto the field of combat. Alan was watching intently, dark brows frowning with concentration, and knowing that he had to stay on the boundary, Gwenn was surprised when she saw him take a step forward as though he would enter the fray. Where was Ned?
Suddenly, gripped by a hideous premonition, Gwenn forgot about the heat. She forgot about the cramp in her thigh and stood up. Alan’s face was paler than the field of the Duke’s shield. He was tugging his sword out. He was shouting. He ran between two horsemen fighting it out centre field and was swallowed up by thrashing limbs. Where was Ned?
‘Sit down, Mistress Fletcher!’ Lady Juliana hissed. ‘You mar the view.’
But Gwenn couldn’t sit down. She stood, with her heart in her mouth, staring at the spot where Alan had been. ‘No, no,’ she muttered, in a daze. ‘Something...something dreadful is happening.’
‘Mistress Fletcher,’ the Lady Juliana spoke sharply, ‘if you’re ailing, you may withdraw.’
‘I’m not ailing. It’s...’ Gwenn gasped. Alan was in the middle of the action. He had sheathed his sword and was crouching, dragging the body of a man by the belt. The man’s flaxen hair was uncovered, and mired with sand and dust. There was blood on his chest. As Alan neared the northern gate, the gate nearest Gwenn, he bellowed. A marshal raced to assist him.
The Stone Rose Page 48
