It would not have mattered if Aubery had been knocked off the platform or had resisted as firmly as a rock. He and his master knew each other long and loved each other well. For them, blow and response were a game that could have no effect. This stroke, however, was otherwise. If Alfonso knocked Edward down, the consequences might be dire.
The King of Castile had apparently taken Edward’s measure very well. The blow was not so light as to be a farce, nor so heavy as to produce an undignified reaction. Edward staggered but recovered himself at once to be embraced and kissed by the king. Alfonso then spoke a few words of exhortation, to which the prince responded by lifting his sword and kissing the ball of the hilt where precious relics had been placed. The crowd burst into cheers, and the jongleurs again made a joyous noise.
Edward turned and called aloud in a voice that fortunately did not break that he appointed Sir Aubery of Ilmer his champion. Aubery moved forward and went down on one knee while the prince gestured to the squire who brought Aubery’s shield and helmet to him. “Rise, Sir Aubery,” Edward ordered, “and take from my hand this shield and helmet.” As Aubery lifted the shield to his shoulder, a herald at arms came forward carrying the lance bearing the English banner. “And take this lance,” Edward continued, “with which to defend my honor.”
Having gripped the lance, Aubery moved to the side so that Alfonso could repeat the ceremony with his own champion. Aubery looked at the man curiously. It was not easy to judge the weight and musculature of a fully armed man, but Aubery felt they were well matched. Alfonso’s man was several inches shorter than Aubery but seemed to make up in breadth what he lacked in height, so that they must be about the same weight. If there were any advantage, Aubery thought, it would be on his side by having an inch or so longer reach. That would mean the tip of his lance might touch Sir Sancho a hairsbreadth sooner and disrupt his aim a trifle.
He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he was startled by the snort of a horse. He tensed, remembering that the last part of the knighting ceremony, the leap to the saddle of a destrier without touching the stirrups, had not been performed by the prince. Was Aubery supposed to do it? Then he recalled that it had been decided to leave that out altogether.
A squire hurried to his side and took lance and helmet from him. Aubery turned and mounted, catching his reins and winding them around the pommel. Draco shifted restlessly and pawed the ground, half rising on his hind legs in his eagerness. The squire shied a little, and Aubery growled an order and kneed the horse down. Poor Draco had been eating his head off in the stable and had not been exercised in three days. It was no wonder he was impatient. Aubery smiled as he reached down for his helmet and donned it, then took the lance, setting the butt on his foot. There could be few better destriers than Draco.
Both mounted, Aubery and Sir Sancho saluted the royal party with dipped lances. Then, having backed their horses to a proper distance, they saluted each other with the same courtesy. Each then retired to the side of the lists assigned him, and the trumpets and drums began another fanfare. This heralded the parade of jousters who entered in a long double column, riding down the field to the lodges.
Now the ladies seated there went wild, jumping to their feet and shrieking welcome, waving the favors they had prepared, specially embroidered sleeves and stockings, which they threw to their favorites or, if they were far enough down, reached out at great risk of toppling out of the stands to affix personally to the lances lifted toward them. Less provident—or more daring—young women tore off their own veils, pulled the ribbons and nets from their hair, or removed the stockings they were wearing for favors.
Watching, Aubery smiled. They could go pretty far. At exciting tourneys in the summer, he had seen ladies stripped of gloves, girdles, headdresses, stockings—in fact, of everything except their shifts and underdresses. Then Aubery’s smile disappeared. He had been offered favors enough, but seldom by a woman who cared for more than the thrill of having a victor carry her token. Aubery glanced quickly toward the lodges. He could not see Fenice’s face clearly, but her head was turned in his direction. He raised a hand, and she responded immediately by jumping up and waving her own favor to show she had not bestowed it upon anyone.
Fenice had slept no more than Aubery and had prayed more fervently for his doing well. The prayers, mingling with the murmur of the fire song, had brought her some comfort, and her panic subsided. No device, no matter how clever, could keep Aubery out of the joust—it was too late. It was her duty not to distract him or worry him.
Thus, Fenice, who had never been to a tourney, modeled her behavior on that of the other younger ladies. She wore as fine a gown, she prepared a favor, and once in the lodges she sat forward with what seemed eager expectancy. She painted a smile on her face and assumed a gaiety of manner. Actually, she was more tense than suffering. Everyone was so excited and so happy that she was catching the feeling herself.
The procession of knights had passed the lodges now, and most of the women sank back into their seats, chattering excitedly to each other. A few, like Fenice, watched the riders continue up the field to the end and then divide as each man retired to his side of the lists. Then there were a few minutes of disorder and confusion while the heralds were besieged. Fenice did not understand, but she heard King Alfonso and Edward laughing over the fact that some contestants had no doubt failed to give the heralds their names or forgotten their order in the joust, while others wished to reconsider their challenges and were requesting a change of order or opponent.
Aubery was also watching the crowds around the heralds, but with growing impatience. He wanted to be done with this first formal passage at arms and get on to the meat of the match for a true testing of his strength and ability against complete strangers who might use new and different styles of jousting. Draco, catching his mood, pranced heavily so that the nearest pursuivants—most of them jongleurs hired for the occasion, a few permanently attached to the noblemen they would laud—eyed the horse uneasily and withdrew a trifle.
At long last—or so it seemed to Aubery—the trumpets called again, and two pursuivants assigned by Alfonso came forward to make much of each champion’s strength and heroism. There were, of course, no insults cast, those were reserved for more personal challenges. Usually Aubery paid little attention. If he could avoid doing so, he did not hire a pursuivant. They always wished to call out the high lineage of their patrons or the heroic deeds of their ancestors. Aubery had no especially high lineage, and his ancestors were a very sore point with him, both his father and grandfather having been despicable men.
Since nothing could be made of Aubery’s personal background, the pursuivant concentrated on Aubery’s own heroic deeds. This time, listening to the exaggeration of his feats of arms made Aubery uneasy. It would make both English and Gascons seem ridiculous, he thought, if the “single-handed defender of Bayonne” were flipped ignominiously over his horse’s croup by a Castilian a hand shorter than himself.
The tension honed his nerves so that when the marshal called, “In the name of God and Saint Michael, do your battle!” Aubery’s spurs raked Draco’s sides before the voice had died away. The destrier leapt forward eagerly, neighing his own challenge, which was very nearly drowned out in the roar from the lodges. As his horse plunged forward, Aubery realized he should not have tried to gain the advantage of greater momentum, but it was too late to worry about that. To hold back Draco now would be obvious and cast shame upon his opponent.
He saw Sir Sancho’s lance come down, fewtered his own, and flung himself forward into the impact—only to be flung back as if he had missed his target completely. With a bellow of rage and an insane surge of strength, Aubery lifted his shield as he bent over the high back of his saddle. For a minute he thought his back would be broken, but in the next instant Sir Sancho’s lance slid off his shield and over his shoulder. Aubery struck out again, and the shaft flew to the side as Draco pounded past Sir Sancho’s mount.
“Treachery!”
Aubery heard, and the hot rage that had filled him froze into icy fear. But in the next instant he realized it was not the prince’s voice that had cried out. It was only a man’s full throated bellow that could rise over the screaming and shouting of the shocked spectators. Even the least knowledgeable were aware that something had gone wrong, for the head had flown off Aubery’ s lance before the shaft burst virtually into splinters. Neither could be a natural result of an unrecognized fault in the type of wood used for lances.
By then Aubery had managed to pull Draco up and turn him. It was Alfonso who was on his feet screaming, and Sir Sancho was galloping back toward Aubery, calling out in broken French to know if his English opponent was hurt. Now the king had jumped over the barrier of the lodges and was coming toward him, and Edward was hard on his heels. Aubery slid hastily from his saddle.
Sir Savin had stared with unbelieving eyes as Aubery pushed aside the lance point that should have scraped across the top of his shield and cut into his shoulder, or even better, his throat. It was a nearly incredible feat of strength.
Savin had a momentary qualm of uncertainty. Could Aubery have grown too strong for him in the four years that had passed since their previous encounter? Then, seeing that his enemy had suffered no harm at all and that he himself would not be able to replace Aubery as champion, rage pushed out fear. Strong or not, Savin told himself, Aubery would be too tired to fight well by the time he was challenged at the end of the melee. At least I will have my revenge, Savin thought.
As the prince and King Alfonso reached him, Aubery lifted off his tilting helm. “I have come to no hurt,” he assured them calmly in answer to their excited questions.
“When I discover who did this thing,” Alfonso snarled, “it will take him twenty years to die.”
Aubery nodded, but before he could speak, Edward pointed to his shield, where the tough leather had been deeply scored.
“Who wants you dead, Sir Aubery?” the prince asked.
Aubery said, “What?” Holding the shield, he could not see the mark at which Edward had pointed.
From behind the prince, Sir Sancho gasped, “Madre de Dios!” and then broke into a spate of Spanish directed at King Alfonso.
“He says,” the king translated, “that he tried to pull his lance away when yours shattered, but he could not. He believes the edge had caught in the outer leather of your shield. You are a strong man, Sir Aubery, and that saved your life. If the blow had bent your arm in toward your body, the lance would surely have pierced you.” Alfonso frowned. “Someone not only substituted a bad shaft for your weapon, Sir Aubery, but honed the dulled head of Sir Sancho’s. Prince Edward is right. This was not an attempt to make you—or the English—look foolish. You were meant to die. Do you have an enemy in Castile?”
“I do not even know anyone in Castile,” Aubery answered. He had forgotten Sir Savin in the stress of the moment, and Edward’s next remark drove the man completely out of his mind.
“But there is someone who may have friends or agents in Castile and who has good reason to hate the defender of Bayonne,” the prince remarked. “Gaston de Béarn.”
There was a moment of silence. Alfonso’s jaw set hard, and he stared at Edward briefly. Gaston de Béarn had been Henry’s vassal but had abjured his fealty to the English king when Alfonso claimed Gascony and had sworn to the King of Castile. One of the more thorny aspects of the marriage contract—or, rather, of the treaties and agreements accompanying the contract—was whether Alfonso would withdraw his protection from Gaston and leave him to Henry’s tender mercies.
Then, without remarking on what Edward had said, Alfonso turned back to Aubery and asked, “Do you desire that Prince Edward or I appoint a new champion? Or—”
“No, my lords,” Aubery interrupted with more haste than politeness. “Let us continue as planned. There can be no meddling with the remainder of the lances, for there is no way to know which one will be used by any man.”
“You have high courage,” Alfonso said.
Aubery grinned. “Forgive me for contradicting you, my lord, but it is only common sense. And it would be better for everyone if it seemed that we believed what happened to be an accident.”
Fortunately, Fenice did not hear any mention of an attempt on her husband’s life. She had been frightened into mute paralysis when she saw Aubery driven back by Sir Sancho’s lance and had nearly fainted when Alfonso leapt to his feet bellowing about treachery. However, it was plain that Aubery had not been hurt, and she recovered. When she understood that he was about to run again, she caught at the queen to plead with her, but before she could force words from her terror-tightened throat, it was all over. Aubery and Sir Sancho had both slatted off sound lances and passed each other to a roar of approval. A third pass resulted in two broken lances and even louder roars. Both champions rode by the royal booth with hands raised in salute, and Aubery was safe.
Aubery rode again, several times, but Fenice grew less terrified with each passage at arms, for he overthrew every opponent except one against whom he jousted to a draw. She saw other men hurt, but was convinced by Aubery’s continued success and the admiring comments of those around her that his skill and strength were superior and that he was in little danger. Thus, the day passed for her in pleasure and increasing pride, which was crowned when Aubery presented the prize he had won to the princess.
After her prepared speech of thanks and acceptance—prepared because Eleanor would have had the prize no matter who won—the little princess gravely detached from the set a beautiful armlet and handed it to Fenice. “It is not fair,” the princess said, “that your fine husband should labor so hard and you receive nothing of his prize. Take this to remember the pleasure Sir Aubery has given me this day.”
Fenice rose and curtsied to the ground, and Aubery bowed his thanks. The royal party all smiled, and Edward took the princess’s hand and kissed it, calling her a lovely and gracious lady, which made his mother glow with pride and little Eleanor blush with joy. The girl had acted impulsively out of the generosity and sweetness of disposition that were natural to her, but she knew she had finally made an impression on her future husband.
Not that Edward had objected to the match and showed his displeasure by ignoring her or being unkind, but his attentions had been perfunctory because she was only a little girl. At fifteen, Edward had been looking forward eagerly to the consummation of his marriage when the subject was first broached, and had been disappointed when he learned he would have to wait several years. Although too young to be wise or temperate, the prince was already a political animal and extended automatic courtesy to his intended wife. He had accepted the marriage willingly, largely because it meant a household of his own and a certain amount of independence. However, the more he saw of Princess Eleanor, the better pleased with her he became despite her youth.
Now her gesture toward Fenice sparked in Edward a desire to be equally generous to Aubery, but at the moment he had nothing to give. Then he remembered the attempt on Aubery, which might make it dangerous for him to be exposed, and he said, “You have had a day’s hard labor, Sir Aubery, and you stood vigil with me last night. This night you shall sleep soft, and your lady with you.” He turned to Edmund de Lacy just behind him. “My lord, will you for this night yield your chamber to Sir Aubery and come into mine?”
Aubery took breath to protest, but de Lacy agreed to the prince’s proposal with so warm a smile that Aubery’s slight anxiety about ousting a nobleman from his bed disappeared. Actually, he was very glad of the prince’s consideration. He was, by now, very tired and sleepy, but there would be a feast that night, which would mean that Fenice and he would not be free until late. Then they would have had to ride into the town in the dark and rise before dawn in order to be back at the castle in time for the next day’s melee. This way, he would have time to snatch an hour’s sleep before the feast was ready, and he could sleep later in the morning, too.
Aubery thanked both the p
rince and de Lacy with heartfelt sincerity, and they went in company to the nobleman’s room so that de Lacy could inform his servants to transfer what he would need to the prince’s apartment. Then, thoughtfully, de Lacy left Fenice and Aubery alone.
“You are not hurt, my lord?” she asked eagerly.
“Not at all,” he replied smiling, “just dropping with the need for sleep.”
“I will unarm you as quickly as I can,” she assured him and began to do so promptly and without speaking again.
But this time Aubery did not want silence. Despite his fatigue, he was keyed up by the events of the day, and he wanted to talk. Accustomed now to telling Fenice anything of importance to him, he related the events surrounding the shattering of the first lance he had carried, while she removed his hauberk and cuirass. Because she was behind him, he did not see that her face had gone white during his tale, and when he felt her grip him with all the strength she had, he thought she was expressing affection and joy in his safety, so he twisted and bent his head to kiss her hair and draw her around to face him.
“You must not fight again,” she cried. “Oh, you must not! If Gaston de Béarn’s agents—”
“But I do not see how what the prince said could be true,” Aubery pointed out, ignoring the silly remark about not fighting. “I have been thinking about it now and again through the day. No one cried my name aloud. How would Béarn know me? I am no great noble. Moreover, this ‘defender of Bayonne’ nonsense is just nonsense. The militia defended Bayonne.”
“He could know,” Fenice said, thinking that if she could convince Aubery of his danger he would agree to abandon his leadership of one of the parties in the melee the next day. “You and I both know that Béarn had partisans in Bayonne. They would have reported how you urged the militia to fight and how you spoke against yielding to him in council. Also, do you think he has no one near King Henry to report what is said and done? Would his people not tell him that the king had taken you to his bosom and done you great honor?”
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