by Alisa Adams
“What say you about the tournament, Brice?” asked the prince. He was a handsome man with a serious demeanor. His whole appearance was martial and radiated a certain cleverness that would be shown to the world in full at the future Battle of Poitiers in a few years’ time that would be another crushing defeat for the French.
Brice shrugged. “I have never jousted before.”
The prince laughed. “What do you do for fun in Scotland?”
“I suppose we have the occasional brawl and we hit a rounded bone with sticks… It’s called ‘shinty’.”
The expression on the Black Prince’s face lit up with curiosity. “What are the rules?”
Brice chuckled. “There aren’t any. Ye can do whatever ye like. As long as ye get to the other side of the playing field with the ball, ye score.”
“No rules – does that mean that you can use the stick to hit your opponents?” The prince chuckled, half expecting Brice to negate that outlandish remark.
“Aye, that is about the gist of it. Ye can also punch and fight with the laddies on the opposing team. It’s a great bit of fun… and it also often ends with many broken bones.”
“It sounds truly barbaric.” The prince shook his head in wonderment. “No wonder you Scots are so tough. Such pastimes put the mettle into you.”
“Aye. As ye said, it is a game for men. My brother, Doogle, is one of the best players I ken. Like me, Murtagh and Mungo taught him. Those two even match my father in their prowess with the stick and ball.” Thinking of the two brawny clansmen and his brother and the memories they shared forced a smile on his face.
“You can’t tell me that it is more challenging in bravery and dexterity than the joust,” said the prince.
Brice chuckled. “That may be, but ye don’t hide behind sheets of armor. All there is, is ye, ye mates, and a ball and yer stick. Now, that’s pluckiness if ye ask me.”
The prince smirked. “You wouldn’t speak so loftily about the joust if you have ever partaken in one. Hundreds of people watching you from the stocks and the barely perceivable energy humming in the air before you strike your heels to the horse’s flanks – it is the epitome of tension. It takes true guts to ride down the causeway at full gallop to face your opponent who’s coming at you with the same deadly intent. I promise you that when you sit astride that horse, you will truly know the feeling of fear. The trick is not to drown in the sentiment but to embrace and harness it – that is what truly defines a man.” He scrunched his brow. “On that note, how is your training coming along? There are only a few more days until the big event. I pray you are prepared?”
He referred to the wager he and the prince had made after spending an evening drinking too much wine. The Black Prince had declared that no Highlander could best him on the field of a tournament. This had, of course, rankled Brice, who promptly refuted the statement. And so, there they were – in a few days’ time, and much to the chagrin of his father, Brice would face the prince who was reputed to be very adept in his jousting. In the meantime, a suit of armor was being made for him at breakneck speed by the king’s smithy.
“My father and the king are doing their very best to train me. It is very little they can do, especially in such a short time,” said Brice. “Also, they dinnae really ken how to compete in such a fashion.”
The prince patted Brice on the back. “I am certain you will do well.”
“Maybe if I didn’t have to face ye, I might have more of a chance.”
The prince hacked out a throaty laugh. “I will be kind to you. And besides, think of the reward.” He winked. “I did convince my father to set you free should you win.”
“But only if I win, and only my father and I will have that privilege and not the king.”
“True… you cannot win,” said the prince, evincing confidence.
“I truly thank ye for yer comforting words,” said Brice, kicking a pebble on the path before him.
His remark made the prince chuckle again, though the expression on his face became thoughtful almost simultaneously. “You do understand why my father cannot set the king free?”
Brice nodded. “That is more my youngest brother’s field. It is all about politics.”
“Right. King David is a too bigger bargaining chip… But let’s not speak of such things.” He stopped his strolling and turned to face Brice. “Do you have a woman back home?”
Brice nodded. “Aye.”
“And she is beautiful?”
“Aye, that she is,” said Brice, producing a small smile. “She’s as bonnie as the spring and as hot as the summer.”
“Describe her some more?” asked the prince, showing genuine curiosity.
Brice did not need any time to think. The words just poured out of his mouth. “Her name is Skye—”
“That is a very lovely name. I wager her eyes are blue then… It would seem appropriate with such a name.”
“Aye, but she is named after the Isle of Skye. She has blonde hair that is more lustrous than gold. As ye said, her eyes are blue like the loch close to my home. They twinkle in the sunlight or when she is amused…” The image of them appeared before him when he recollected how she looked back at him after they had kissed. In those moments, her eyes invariably turned a darker shade of blue. “Skye is more beautiful than any woman I have ever known.” He chuckled. “And her temperament is as forceful as a Norse shield maiden and as wild as a summer’s storm. Skye can fight with the sword like any man I ken, and she cannot sew for the life of her.”
The prince guffawed. As he let Skye’s description sink in, he became thoughtful. “She sounds like my woman… although without the swordplay.”
The two young men continued to walk in the direction of the castle. “Are ye to be married like me?” asked Brice.
The prince thought of the woman that many claimed was the most beautiful in the entire realm of England, and also the most loving. “She is already married,” he said.
Brice chuckled. “You are a scallywag, Your Royal Highness. Are there not enough women in all of the Kingdom of England that you must choose another man’s wife?” He shrugged. “Although ye are the prince and the future King of England, thus ye can do as ye please. But I am sure your father could annul that union and give her to ye as yer bride.”
“I doubt he would approve of such an act,” said the prince, furrowing his brow. “But I do love her. You can never control where your heart’s eye wanders. One moment you are content, and the very next your heart burns with yearning – love is such a wonderful and painful experience at the same time.”
Brice nodded. “I ken what ye mean. Being parted from my lassie is like having a limb sawn off.” He turned his head to look at the prince. “What is her name?”
“Joan… Joan of Kent,” said the prince, looking thoughtful.
“And she is beautiful?”
“Yes, she is the loveliest lady in all of the kingdom.”
“Then I wish that ye will conquer her heart one day,” said Brice, meaning it.
The prince patted Brice on the back. “That I have already done. All that remains is for her to divorce her husband.” He laughed. “Or maybe I might send him up to Scotland in the hope that he will play a game of ‘shinty.’ A well-placed stick to the head might hasten the process.”
The two men laughed as they walked up to the main portico, leading into the royal residence. They entered and walked in the direction of the main banqueting hall. It was where their fathers and the King of Scotland would most probably be. Their passage took them down a wide hallway that had ornate tapestries on the walls. At the end of it was a thick wooden door where two guards stood vigil. They promptly opened them at the prince’s approach.
“Ah, my son. You are just in time for supper,” announced the king in a deep voice. “We have all of your favorites, my boy.”
Approaching two servants, Brice and the prince dipped their hands into silver and golden ewers boasting the king’s coat of arms that they held ou
t to them. They contained rose water. When they had washed their hands, the servants promptly handed them crisp white napkins.
A minstrel played a merry tune on a harp in the background. After the prince and Brice had sat down at the long table with a white silk tablecloth, more servants entered the hall carrying their bounty of food. There was potage, which was highly seasoned and deeply colored with saffron. Various roasted meat joints transported on silver spits soon followed. The procession of this Lucullan offering was endless and far too much for the few people that sat at the table. The servants had been slaving away since the morning to make all of the necessary preparations. In the center of the table, silver candlesticks of artistic design adorned the surface. As it was the late afternoon, and the winter season brought on the twilight earlier than in the summer, attendants already carried about splinters and flambeaux.
The platters carried by the staff were a variation of pewter and silver. These were sometimes square in shape, and the ones with the bread were round. The display of plate was extensive and indicated that the English king’s wealth had grown in size since his plundering of Northern France. Silver dishes, cups, and saltcellars, wrought in curios devices, glistened upon the board of the banqueting table.
The taste displayed in the manufacture of these articles of plate was both chaste and elegant, proving that the ingenuity and skill of the medieval artisans were far from being exhausted. King Edward the Third prided himself upon his gold and silver vessels, many of which had once graced the castles in Brittany and Normandy. For example, the large saltcellar, as the chief ornament and placed next to the King of England, had a distinct shape in the form of his favorite dog. It would later become the point of conversation when he regaled his guests with tails of his hunting prowess.
“Let us begin,” said the king, looking pleased with what was on offer.
Brice groaned. Ever since arriving at Windsor Castle a few weeks ago, he had to face a feast of this prodigious proportion on a daily basis. Usually, there were many more people of the court present, but this day, the king had opted to only eat with his son and his Scottish guests.
Watching the king attack his plate that a servant had filled with beef, pork, and vegetables, he wondered how he remained so slim. Back home, his father would only host repasts of this size on special occasions. However, he had to admit that he enjoyed it and also the king and his son were very agreeable company.
“So, Brice… your father has been telling me that you are also Lord Leighton – that is an English title. Will you take it up?” asked the King of England.
Brice was surprised that his father would mention that. “I… Well, my mother is his daughter, and as he has no male heirs, the title would fall to me.”
The king nodded. “And isn’t that a good thing?”
“I am also heir to the lairdship of the Clan Macleod. I cannot give up that birthright,” said Brice, accepting a plate offered to him by a servant.
“You have two brothers who could take up that role.” A smile split the king’s face. “And besides, it would be very useful to have an Anglo-Scot as a peer of the Kingdom of England. We might understand each other a little better.”
What he said made sense, but Brice had lived at Diabaig all of his life. He could never leave his home and more importantly, relinquish the lairdship. Another thing plagued him. Skye would never countenance the notion of becoming an English lady. Like most Highlanders, she despised the English.
“It is something that my son will have to think about,” said Alastair.
“Aye, becoming an Englishman is a curse for any Scot,” said King David. His remark invited some mirth from the others.
All except Brice – he did not like the idea.
“All I suggest is that you visit your grandfather’s lands and then make your decision,” said King Edward.
“He will have to beat me in the joust first before he can do that. Currently, he is still a prisoner of the crown and the rules are that he must beat me before he can leave.” Prince Edward winked at Brice.
“I dinnae about ye, but being a prisoner here is bleedin’ marvelous,” said Brice, tucking into the prodigious amount of food on his plate.” I dinnae ken how ye English do it, but if I were to eat like this on a daily basis, I would be as fat as a sow in gestation.”
Everyone at the table laughed.
Soon, Alastair recomposed himself. He worried whether his son would take up the English title. He had seen the brief show of interest play on his face when the king had mentioned it. Brice was perfect as his successor. He feared Doogle would not match up to the task should he become his heir. Only time would tell, and today there would be no answers.
15
The Tournament
* * *
Windsor Castle, England, February, 1347
* * *
“Welcome to the final day of the joust held in honor of King Edward the Third and his victories in both France and England…” cried the master of ceremonies from his position close to the royal enclosure.
A huge cheer erupted from the thousands of spectators who had come from far and wide to attend these festivities. They had grown far larger than the king had originally intended. Instead of only a few knights and noblemen, one hundred and fifty-four lords and seven-hundred and six knights were present. With them had come eighteen thousand horses for the ten days of jousting and the other amusements held at the king’s expense.
Skye looked about nervously. She tried to find Brice and his father. They were nowhere to be seen.
“Can ye see Brice and the laird?” she asked Mary. “We have been here for days, and there still is not a sight of them.” Despite their attempts, they had not managed to gain an audience with the king. Fortunately, they had found lodging in the town that burst at the seams with people.
“No… I supposed they would be with the king, but they are not there,” said Mary, shaking her head and looking at the English royal enclosure that was an elaborate affair of colorful cloth and ornate seats.
“I doubt they have been allowed out of their chambers,” said Elizabeth.
“What makes ye say that?” asked Skye.
Elizabeth shrugged. “They are prisoners, are they not?”
“Yes, but the word is out that King Edward hosts them like friends at Windsor.” Skye scanned the vast field located close to the castle that stood proudly and impregnable. There were tents in various flaming colors dotting the turf; it all resembled something out of an Arthurian fairy tale. The weather was cold, more so than usual. White vapor hovered above the spectators as they breathed. Clouds bedecked the sky and almost looked as if they were about to disgorge themselves of a hefty bounty of snow.
“I only pray that the rumors are not true that Brice will compete this day,” said Mary, looking concerned.
“Trust him to commit himself to something so foolish,” said Skye, looking cross. She knew her lover’s pride well. The notion of him partaking in the joust was, to her mind, not an outlandish concept. It would be just like him to want to prove his mettle in such an event.
“We will discover their whereabouts soon enough,” said Elizabeth.
“Behold, the King of England is about to address the crowd,” said Sir Percival. The brave knight never left Elizabeth’s side. He was like a shadow on a sunny day.
Mary had often wondered whether her sister and the knight were lovers. Occasional fond glances and ones of lesser sympathy when he had praised Skye’s pleasing appearance in the tavern gave away their affection for one another. In a sense, Mary wished such a thing for Elizabeth. Love is good no matter how it transpires, she thought.
The king’s deep baritone halted her ruminations. Mary focused her attention on the royal enclosure where the monarch stood.
“Today is the final day of the events, and we shall witness an even greater display of chivalry and knightly bravery.” The king fell silent, milking his crowd of their every shred of patience. The king resembled a resplenden
t jewel in his vestment made of cigaston with a dark blue background woven with a pattern of lozenges and birds in gold. The seamlessly tailored suit made of the most expensive silk clung to his body perfectly, enhancing his strong physique and good looks.
Next to him, stood his wife, Philippa. She was neither too short nor too tall. The lady, who had gained much sympathy among her subjects for her kindness and compassion, had not uncomely hair, something between blue-black and brown. Her head was clean-shaped; her forehead high and broad, and standing somewhat forward. Her face narrowed between the eyes that were a blackish-brown and deep, matching the color of her hair. Her nose was fairly smooth and even, save that it was somewhat broad at the tip and also flattened, and yet it was no snub-nose. All in all, one could claim that she was an attractive lady to behold. Together, king and queen made a handsome couple.
On the final day of the festivities, Philippa wore two interwoven ghitas made of brocaded silk longcloth. One of the corset-like dresses was of a dark color that was nearly black and the other green. The garment in green was embroidered in gold in a design, which included rose arbors among which appeared both wild animals and wild men. The darker of the two garments had a repeating pattern of circles, each enclosing a recumbent lion lying on golden leaves. Covering Queen Joan’s clothing were small ornaments cut or stamped out of thin gold and silver. She was truly the Queen of England.
“This tournament is a display of dexterity and chivalry – you have already witnessed the finest and bravest knights in the realm parading their skill for you.” The king’s voice carried over the thousands of people like a hurricane. The spectator stands that were a series of wooden levels erupted into applause when their sovereign paused.
