I Serve: A Novel of the Black Prince

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  “God grant that I do the same to Holland,” I answered, and I began to bind the red glove to the crest of my helmet.

  “What is this?” demanded Brocas; he had pitched his tent beside the prince’s and now came over to hear our conversation. “You are to joust with Holland?”

  “Indeed,” I said, with an air of false nonchalance. I could see the look of concern in their eyes. Holland was a giant of a man, and though I had increased in girth since my days as a squire, he weighed nearly four stone more than me and was reputed to be a valiant adversary.

  “I shall lace your points,” said Brocas impulsively. The prince said nothing. But he gripped me firmly on the shoulder, and I saw that like myself he wanted nothing more than for Holland to come tumbling off his horse into the dust of the tourney grounds.

  *****

  The afternoon came quickly. We ate a light repast, and then Sir Bernard Brocas made good on his promise, playing squire and arming me for the joust. He was tightening the laces of my helmet when the heralds called my name. “Whose glove do you carry, Sir Potenhale?” he asked slyly when he saw my helm, for I had not yet told anyone of my attachment to Margery.

  “Why, none other than Queen Philippa’s,” I replied roguishly.

  “Pray that the king does not recognize it!” he riposted, then laughed merrily and urged on my horse with a slap. I lifted my lance and rode into the lists to encounter the Earl of Kent.

  Thomas Holland looked even larger in the field than he had in the stands. His magnificent warhorse was caparisoned in silver, and the image of England blazed confidently on his shield. My own horse had few trappings, and my shield was as simple as my birth. When I was first knighted, I had no family crest to assume. The prince bade me make one, and I had chosen a silver chevron on a sable field. I had been knighted at Crecy, and the storm which preceded the battle had put me in mind of this crest. The shield was a sky black with clouds, and the silver chevron a bolt of lightning. Now, as we aligned our horses for the joust, the symbolism struck me as painfully one-sided. What could one lightning bolt hope to do against the whole of England? The herald ordered us to take our marks, and with one wave of the flag, we were charging at each other with lances lowered.

  I had unhorsed Sir Stephen earlier with a blow to the helmet, and I aimed now for the little flat spot, just above the bridge of Holland’s nose guard. My aim was true, but as I felt the tip of my lance connect with my opponent’s helmet, a crash of splintering wood erupted on my chest. Holland had broken his lance on me. I managed to keep my seat with difficulty; I continued on to the end of the barrier, then wheeled about to see if I had unhorsed him. His smiling face greeted me, and I saw that instead of knocking him off his horse as I had intended, I had done nothing more than knock the helmet from his head. Holland was awarded three points for the broken lance, and I returned to my side of the lists to receive a fresh lance from the hands of my volunteer squire.

  “His helmet laces must have been loose,” said Brocas with a frown. “If I were Holland, I would thrash my squire, for he does his job ill. But it was a good hit. Once more the same, and you are sure to overthrow him.”

  The second pass was uncannily similar to the first. Taking Brocas’s advice, I aimed again for the center of Holland’s helmet. Just as before he broke his lance upon me, and when I turned about, I saw that only his helmet had fallen to the ground. I gritted my teeth in anger and walked my mount slowly to where Brocas stood.

  The king’s dais was close by the field, and as I passed by I heard Chandos expostulating with His Majesty. “He does not fight fair!” said my old master. “Why is not his helmet as well buckled and laced on as young Potenhale’s? Tell the heralds that Holland must be on equal footing with his adversary.”

  “Let him alone,” replied the king. “In arms every man takes whatever advantage he can. If Sir Potenhale thinks there is any advantage in fastening his helmet in such a manner, he may do the same. Though for my part, were I in the field, I would lace my helmet as tightly as possible—for Holland takes a great risk to go exposed in such a manner, and it would serve him right if he lost his second eye to the tip of Potenhale’s lance.”

  Brocas was livid with anger when I returned to receive my third lance. “Now, by the holy rood,” he exclaimed, “his helm is loose on purpose. You must strike for the breastbone and unhorse him that way. God willing, he’ll play the same trick with his breastplate, and it’ll flap loose while you drive your lance through his heart.”

  I waited for the herald’s flag and then burst forward for the final joust. I thought briefly of striking at his helm again, wondering if that was the stroke he would now least expect. But at the last minute, better judgment made my lance point swerved downwards, and I caught him on the center of his breastplate. My lance shivered and splintered into a thousand shards, but I hardly noticed the shock of that impact. Right as I hit Holland’s armor, I felt my body thrown backwards from a mighty blow to the forehead. Holland had found the flat spot on my helmet; and since my basinet was firmly laced, when it fell it took my body to the ground as well. Holland had unhorsed me.

  I heard a mighty cheering erupt in the stands, but my closed visor showed me nothing but the sky above. The victorious Earl circled his horse to where I lay on the ground. “It’s a mercy that your horse is a better tilter than you,” he sneered, “for I will be adding him to my own stables.”

  I groaned and tried to rise, but my head was swimming so badly that the light soon faded into blackness.

  *****

  When I awoke, I found that it was already night. I was lying on cushions in the prince’s tent, and his highness was seated at a table some little distance away from me penning a letter.

  I sat up and rubbed my head a little ruefully.

  “Ah, you are better!” said the prince, and he bade the servants fetch me something to eat and drink.

  I remembered then how I had been defeated by Holland, and I groaned in frustration. “I am afraid that I have lost the horse your highness bestowed upon me.”

  “That is no matter. I will give you another,” replied the prince. “But you have lost more than just your horse. The heralds awarded Holland your armor as well.”

  “My armor!” I exclaimed, and my countenance fell, for attached to my helmet was something more precious to me than a horse from the purest bloodlines.

  “I did not let him take this,” said the prince quickly, and he placed a crumpled red ball in my hand. I unfolded it and saw Margery’s glove, dirtier and more wrinkled than when she had given it to me that morning, but still a keepsake that I could not bear to lose.

  “Gramercy, your highness,” I said fervently, and placing the glove to my lips, I kissed it.

  “You will thank me twice when you see what else I have to give you,” said the prince, and to my utmost surprise he dropped a second red glove upon the bed where I sat.

  “Whence comes this?” I demanded in surprise.

  “Its owner was here to see you,” replied the prince. “But you were still in your swoon so I sent her away again.”

  “What said she?” I asked.

  “She said that you bore as much watching as Sir Cosington and warned me not to send you into the melee tomorrow.”

  “She seems tender toward my safety.”

  “Mayhap,” said the prince with a smile, “or perhaps merely doubtful of your prowess.”

  “You will not heed her, highness?” I asked anxiously. “I shall enter the melee tomorrow?”

  “You have no armor.”

  “I shall beg or borrow some.”

  “You have no horse.”

  “Your highness has promised me another.”

  “You meet my objections well. But there is one more objection that I must put forward—I have promised your shield and your name to another. Allow me the loan of your lightning bolt for the day. I swear to you that the bearer shall not dishonor it.”

  The prince’s request was cryptic, but I granted it wit
hout further thought. I presumed that he meant to fight incognito on the morn. Oftentimes at tournament, his opponents in the melee were loath to engage the crown prince. They would turn to the side when they encountered him in the press or refuse to strike when he charged upon them. By wearing the coat-of-arms of a young and relatively obscure knight like me, he would be met with no such reticence. The harder he pressed upon his enemies, the harder they would press back on him; and the greater the skill he displayed, the greater would be their desire to unhorse him.

  Although I would not be participating in the melee tomorrow, it was impossible for me to sit in the stands and enjoy the event with the other spectators. If I were recognized, the masquerade would be evident immediately; the news would spread rapidly that the knight with the silver chevron was not the true Sir John Potenhale. And yet the idea of sitting quietly in the tents while the rest of the knights took the field liked me not. I fumed a little, till happily, I conceived a way to see the melee. If the prince could pass incognito tomorrow, why not I? I conferred with his highness on the matter, and we determined that the best costume for my disguise was that of a monk. Under the heavy cowl of a Benedictine, I could watch the games with the rest of the public. I might even get the chance to sit close to the lovely visitor who had bestowed her gloves so freely.

  The next order of business was to procure a monastic habit. The prince and I set off on foot for St. George’s Chapel. When the king had instituted the Order of the Garter with its twenty-six members, he had also engaged twenty-six poor knights as adjuncts of the order. These military veterans were maintained by the king’s bounty, their sole responsibility being to pray for the wellbeing of the Garter knights. All of the poor knights took this responsibility very seriously; some of them even adopted monastic rules and dress, hearkening back to the military religious orders of our grandfathers’ time. The prince jokingly called them the “Templars” and confidently assured me that we could root out a monk’s habit from among their possessions.

  The chapel, when we entered it, was not empty; but instead of the grizzled veterans we expected, we found a lady kneeling before the altar. The prince recognized her at sight. At first, he would have drawn back, but thinking better of it he advanced and addressed her by name.

  “Peace be with you, Joan.”

  She looked up a little startled. Her cheekbones colored, and her hands fell away to the side from where they had been clasped over the curve of her stomach. “And with your spirit,” she replied.

  “What do you pray for?” asked the prince.

  She hesitated, and then encountered his dark eyes with an appealing gaze. “For my child,” said she.

  “So, you are carrying a babe then?” asked the prince looking at the slight swelling beneath her full skirts.

  “Aye,” said she. “He will come with the winter.”

  “God give you joy of him,” said the prince gently.

  “I pray he is as sturdy a babe as Prince William,” said Joan, referring to the royal infant whose birth the tournament celebrated. “I did not see your mother the queen when she was churched, but I hear she could not refrain from smiling and that the infant cried lustily all through the mass.”

  “Aye, he has a hearty will for life,” said the prince, “unlike the last manchild she bore.” For the infant that Philippa was carrying at Calais had died not a fortnight after his birth.

  “Is it true that you stood godfather to him?”

  The prince laughed. “Yes, and a pretty penny it cost me. Now, I am not only bound to be his spiritual guardian but also bound to make presents to each of his nurses.”

  “But if I remember aright, you have never begrudged a show of largesse. Would you refuse to be godfather if you were asked again?”

  “That would depend on the one who asked. A mother’s request is not to be denied.”

  “What of a cousin’s?”

  “You would have me be godfather to your child?”

  “Yes,” she said, “if you are willing.”

  “And what of your husband?” asked the prince. “Does he wish me to be father to your child as well?”

  She blushed at the phrasing of his question. “My husband thinks only of preferment, and it is a great thing for one’s son to be godchild to a future king.”

  “Well then, I shall not say you nay. Send word when you are to be churched, and if I be not in France, I shall be there to hold the child and speak the vows.”

  The lady Joan took the prince’s hand and kissed it, then would have resumed her prayers; but the prince—amidst all of the cares surrounding him—had some care still for the retainer whose arms he was appropriating. “Lady,” said he, “Since I have granted your request, I have one to ask in turn. I have in my household a holy man on pilgrimage from his abbey. I have convinced him, albeit against his will, to attend the melee tomorrow. May I recommend him to you and allow him to sit in your box to behold the events?”

  “Indeed,” she said, a little puzzled. “My ladies and I would be glad to converse with a holy one such as him.”

  I had remained silent in the background throughout the prince’s conversation with his cousin, but this new arrangement seemed fraught with mishap. Both Joan and Margery were acquainted with my voice, and I had no hope of speaking with enough erudition to convince them of my saintly calling.

  “Highness,” I objected, “I am sure the holy man—in light of his vows of celibacy—would be averse to mingling so freely with women. No doubt he can find his own place in the crowd….”

  “Nay,” said the prince, “I have it on good authority that our holy brother is quite accustomed to having speech with the daughters of Eve. Indeed, he is aptly suited to the task of elucidating doctrine to devout young females. It fits him…like a glove.

  “However”—the prince continued, taking pity on my panicked face—“tomorrow will be a special exception to his verbosity. The good man has taken a vow of silence as part of his pilgrimage, and he may not speak till he reaches Canterbury and kisses the flagstones where the martyr’s blood was spilled. When he sits with you, you must content yourself only with his presence, cousin, and do not try to ply him with conversation.”

  Lady Joan looked perplexed at this peculiar request, but she assured the prince that she and her maidens would respect the holy man’s vow of silence. The prince kissed her hand in return, and we left the beautiful lady to her prayers. The monk’s habit, as the prince had conjectured, was easily obtained from one of the poor knights at the chapel, and we retired to our tents to recover from the day’s exhaustion.

  *****

  I awoke with the morning light but found that the prince—and my shield—had already vanished from the pavilion. I struggled into the monk’s robe, pulling the hood close about my face. The cloth was coarse and stiff. It rubbed roughly against my skin, and I frowned to find it so unlike the soft linen clothes I was accustomed to wear beneath my armor. The hempen strand I tied about my waist felt curiously light; I missed the weight of the sword belt and the familiar tap of the scabbard against my leg. I said a short prayer of thanks to the Holy Virgin that my father, when he was in his right mind, had trained me to be a knight and not a clergyman.

  As usual, I could not remember my father without a cloud of despair overtaking me. In the nine months since I had visited his forlorn croft, I had thought about his words often. His fierce denunciations of all that I valued had cut me to the quick, and the only way to remove his lunatic laughter from my mind was to distract it with pleasanter daydreams. My sweet mistress Margery was one such opiate. I mused awhile on her comely face and form, no doubt indecent thoughts for the wearer of a monastic habit. Then, tucking Margery’s crimson gloves into my breast, I set out to watch the melee à cheval.

  Yesterday’s event had been the joust à plaisance, and for that the herald’s work is relatively simple. He arranges the competitors in pairs. Each match consists of three jousts, with points being awarded for breaking the lance tip, breaking the
lance, or especially unhorsing one’s opponent. The victorious knights are paired with other victors, and the number of competitors is whittled down in successive rounds of elimination. Holland eliminated me from the tournament, but it was not long before he also met his match; he was unhorsed in the first joust by the very man he had brought to England as a prisoner. The Comte d’Eu displayed all the finesse that your French knights are renowned for, and in the end he was crowned as victor of the event.

  For today’s event, the melee à cheval, the herald’s work is not so simple. First, the wooden stakes must be set around a field large enough to contain the charging horses of the mock battle; then, the body of competitors must be divided into two companies of roughly equal numbers and strength. The judging of the melee is the most difficult part of the event. The herald and his companions must keep sharp watch on all corners of the battlefield, so that they may disqualify any knight who has been struck three times with an opponent’s weapon. In olden days, our English knights fought with sharp points in the melee, and many were the deaths that occurred at tourney. But ever since the days of Edward I, only blunt weapons have been permitted. Knights who receive three blunt-bladed blows must yield up their horse to the one who vanquished them. Then the squires of victorious knights descend upon the battlefield like carrion crows to seize their masters’ spoils and ride them to safety. Complete mastery of the field or the waning light of evening precipitates the end of the melee, and the heralds award a crown to the most puissant member of the winning team.

  When I reached the tourney field, the heralds had already posted the names of those assigned to each team. I scanned through the list, happily noting that Sir John Potenhale was in opposition to Sir Thomas Holland, the Earl of Kent. My shield was in better hands than my own, and I smiled to think what a hard time Sir Thomas would have of it, should he attempt to encounter me in the field. The prince’s name was in the same column as my own, and I wondered if he would inform the heralds of his withdrawal or leave them to wonder at his absence in the melee.