The Long Sword
Page 17
I have strayed from my point like a courser leaving the lists. As my Frenchman described the mêlée, he and the other judges had it dead to rights, and in fact, my own description here owes a great deal to their observations. Heh, messieurs, you know that when the visors closes, you see little but the man in front of you! But they had seen it all, and every man received his due.
Even me.
I was surprised to hear the man I’d loathed in the morning mention my role, and my name kept coming up – Chevalier d’Or – and I began to grow uncomfortable as men around me looked at me. Well, I had been the first to put my sword on the Count of Luxembourg, and I had captured two horses, these things were true …
And then they were cheering!
By God, messieurs, that was one of the proudest moments of my life. I was chosen as the best man of the mêlée. Me! I suppose I should have seen it coming, and Nerio and Fiore say they knew all evening, but in truth – in truth, I felt more than a pang of guilt, my friends. I think that either Nerio or Fiore was the better man – and certes, it was Fiore who taught me how to throw men to the ground from the saddle.
I blushed so hard that my skin felt as if it was on fire. Nerio told me later I was as red as an apple from head to toe when I went and knelt before the Emperor and the judges. Men cheered and applauded, and women curtsied and looked at me under their eyes.
The Emperor was seated on a throne of wood and ivory. While the cheering went on, he said, ‘I understand that you were knighted by Hannekin Baumgarten?’
‘At Florence,’ I said, in something of a daze.
He touched my shoulder with a sword. ‘Let no man ever doubt your knighting,’ he said. His smile may have been a bit grim, but he was a good king, a good lord, and he played his role. He laid the sword he’d just used across my hands.
It was a miracle of red and gold that sword, and it had a belt and scabbard to match. It was a king’s sword – I couldn’t tear my eyes off it, and my right hand ached to grasp the hilt, but even a bumpkin like me knew that was lese majesty of the worst kind.
It was one of the finest swords I have ever owned. Eventually I’ll tell you how I came to lose it, but for the moment, I can only assure you that I would show it to you gentleman if I still had it. A Tartar has it now, I’m fairly certain.
There is probably a sermon in what came next; there I was, with a magnificent new sword across my hands, burning to look at it, to draw it, to make it sing through the air; but, by the iron-clad laws of courtoise, I could do none of these things, but instead I stood patiently, accepting the plaudits of my peers, the good-natured insults of my friends, and the downcast eyes, lingering glances, and soft fingers of the maids of court, who gathered around me like moths to a summer candle.
Did I say patiently? I lie. I had Emile’s favour pinned to my shoulder like a talisman, and I was acutely conscious that I had not spent the hour before the fight on my knees, or even considering God’s existence. Instead, I had lain – well, swum – with a bathhouse girl.
Certes, messieurs, don’t trouble yourselves on my account. It did not worry me unduly, except that I felt no urge to any of the fine ladies who surrounded me. And I was unprepared for the open friendliness of the knights. They praised me lavishly.
May I be frank? I was tempted to cry. It was so much the opposite of everything I had experienced with the Prince of Wales.
At some point, my Bohemian knight came and offered his hand and we embraced. He began a somewhat formulaic praise of my martial virtues, and my feelings must have shown on my face, because he smiled and paused.
‘You dropped me like the butcher fells the ox,’ I said. ‘Why aren’t you the best knight?’
He laughed. ‘You and your friends won the game for your king, and no mistake. But no false pride. May I say a true thing? If you fight as long as I have fought, you will be the best man in a dozen tournaments, and then they’ll never give you the prize. This one will have it because he is a king’s son, and that one will have it because they don’t like you, and a third will have it because the marshals didn’t see the brilliant blow you threw.’
I laughed. I was new to the tournament, and I could already see the justice of his remarks.
‘And then, when the judges see you as better, it is even harder to win. And men fight you differently; they do extravagant things to score on you, or they turn into hedgehogs and turtles to avoid taking blows, and they make it impossible for you to win. Yes?’
I nodded. Nerio nodded. Even Fiore nodded.
Sir Herman shrugged. ‘So, today, at a great tourney, you took the prize. I, who am a great knight, say you deserve it, but I also say – take it! The next time you are the best, Lady Fortuna may not be so kind.’
I sat with him at dinner. His lady was a beauty – her name was Kunka, a Bohemian name, and she had long dark hair and great beauty of manners as well as of figure, making small motions with her hands as she talked, that looked like dance. Indeed, the Bohemians were some of the most elegant men and women I’ve ever seen, easily the rivals of the Italians or the French for courtly manners and sumptuous clothes, beautiful ladies and magnificent horses – and fighting. I would not like to face an army of Bohemians in the field.
His lady leaned over to me and ran her hand over Emile’s somewhat frayed blue favour. ‘This belongs to your lady?’ she asked. She was the first woman to ask about it.
‘Yes,’ I said, or something equally short. I was not at my best; a pinnacle of knightly fame, and I was reduced to monosyllables. Especially in Latin.
She glowed with satisfaction. ‘You love her?’ she asked.
I grinned. ‘Always,’ I said.
‘But she is not anyone here?’ Kunka asked.
I shook my head. ‘No. She is very far away. She is from Savoy.’
‘Like those gentlemen who cannot take their eyes off you?’ my Bohemian gentleman asked. ‘They are all Savoyards. From Geneva.’
Well, I was dull-witted, but not so very dull-witted as that. ‘Yes, she is from Savoy. But not, I think, with any of those gentlemen.’
Kunka put a warm hand on mine. ‘And your lady … will you be faithful to her tonight? With every girl at court ready to throw herself in your lap?’
I was looking for something courtly to say, but her eyes smouldered.
‘Listen, Englishman. I am the very Queen of Love of this tourney, and I challenge you as you are a knight to remember your lady.’ So the smoulder was not lust, but anger.
I bowed at the table. ‘Lady, you are so wholly in the right that I can only swear on my honour to abide your challenge.’
She smiled, and her knight smiled.
Later in the evening, when my sword was still undrawn, and I was surrounded – indeed, I was cornered as thoroughly as a stag of fourteen tines is backed into a cliff by hounds and hunters; there I was, alone, with fifteen women about me. Their bodies were young and beautiful, their eyes open and shining. Their hair was uncovered, delicious to smell. Nerio had stood by my side all too briefly, engaged one fair maid in conversation and taken her hand, leading her away to discuss poetry, or so he claimed. Fiore was nowhere to be seen. My Savoyards were not even in the same hall, and I suspect I’d forgotten them.
Kunka appeared at my side, and all the ladies bowed – she was, after all, the Queen of Love for the tourney. Her husband unfolded a stool and she sat.
‘Come, Sir William!’ she said, and her smile was as wanton as any of the girls about me. ‘Choose one of my handmaids to sit closest to you.’
I bowed. I was right willing to choose, and chose a young woman with jet-black hair and lips so red I wanted to see if they had paint on them. I didn’t think they did. She blushed to her hair and into her gown, but she sat by me.
Kunka smiled. The wantonness was gone, replaced by a harder edge, and I thought that perhaps she was also a mother; she knew how to g
ive orders as well as take them.
‘Now, Sir William, welcome to the Court of Love.’ Kunka laughed, and squeezed her husband’s hand.
All the maids sighed. There were some poisonous looks for my raven-tressed choice. ‘Before we dance, Sir William will amuse us by telling us of his Lady. He loves a lady par amour, and wears her favour on his shoulder.’
The maids looked abashed. I confess I was abashed myself, so soon had I forgotten her challenge and my promise.
I thought of Emile, and in truth – oh, this cuts me like a Turk’s sword – I had trouble recalling her face. So many years. I could see her arrogant husband well enough in my mind’s eye, but her face swam in a haze of associations.
But Kunka had every right to ask, as Queen of Love. And she was setting me a penance as well as recognising me as the knight who had won the prize, and I was being challenged. Chivalry is more than hitting men with a sword. Chivalry is there in every dealing with a woman, from the bath girl to the Queen of Love.
I thought of Father Pierre’s strictures about the farm girl, and it made me blush, and the maids giggled.
‘The lady I love must remain locked in my heart,’ I said. ‘But I will say that she is beautiful as – as …’ Once started, I could not be seen to stop, and yet no fresh image leaped to my head. A summer’s day? A pox on that one. A flower? A rose?
I still had my longsword in both hands. I raised it so that it formed a cross. ‘As beautiful as this sword – as beautiful to see, and yet as beautiful in her soul, strong as the steel and—’
‘Your lady is as beautiful as a sword?’ Kunka asked.
They were laughing at me.
I looked at the Bohemian knight, who shook his head and left me to my fate. ‘Perhaps I must beg you to understand how beautiful I find this sword,’ I said, hoping to win a smile, but the women all rolled their eyes and prodded one another with their elbows.
‘Is she red and gold, this lady?’ Kunka asked.
‘No, blue and white like snow and the sky,’ I answered, too quickly. Emile’s arms were blue and white. I thought of her that way – I had been too open.
Kunka smiled, though. ‘Now that was prettier, Sir Knight, and I think it possible that you are more than a boor. No more swords. Tell us what it is about her that won your heart, so that we poor women may strive to emulate that and rise in your opinion.’
‘Courage,’ I said.
‘Ma foi,’ Kunka said ‘That is a fine thing for a knight to love in a lady. And far better than comparing her beauty to a sword. Let me tell you, monsieur, when you compare me to a sword, all I hear is that I am sharp and pointy.’ She laughed, and all the maids laughed with her. ‘But when you offer me courage as a woman’s virtue, then I feel hope that a knight might see me as more than a leman and a mother. Can you tell us of her courage?’
I thought of her coming to my room in Normandy, during the siege, dealing with her husband …
I thought hard, wanting to avoid revealing anything, and yet caught up in the game that was courtly love. And the girls were watching me differently, now, and in the distance, I heard the music begin.
‘It is not that she fears nothing. It is that, when fearing, she acts despite her fears. Ask any man-at-arms where courage lies. It is not the fearless knight who wins our respect, but the one who, full of fear, carries on.’ I shrugged, to end my little sermon.
Sir Herman gave me a small nod of appreciation.
Kunka put her hand on mine. ‘As Queen of Love, I say to all that you are a true knight and worthy of your lady. Now I love her courage too.’ She rose, and I kissed her hand, and she made a motion to the maids to attend her. ‘It is my express command that none of you may dance with Sir William more than once. Or any other thing. Does anyone doubt my word?’
She swept away from me with a smile, having made sure that I would sleep alone.
But, like many of my other teachers, Fiore and Father Pierre and Sir Peter and Arnaud and more, she showed me something about myself.
Why is it that there is always so much to learn?
By our Lady! I danced three times, once with the Lady Kunka, and then, at last, I walked out under the stars, out the great gilded doors of the King of Poland’s great hall, and into the cool of a Polish August night. I thought I was alone, but Fiore was at my shoulder.
He grinned like a boy. ‘The sword?’ he asked.
He was as eager as I.
We walked off into a garden, the two of us like secret lovers, and stumbled in the dark until we found what we sought: a little light from a lantern, probably left by real lovers earlier in the evening. And then I drew the sword from her red leather-and-wood scabbard, and her blade shimmered like Arabian silk in the candlelight.
She was broader than any blade I’d ever owned, as broad as a lady’s wrist, and even broader. She had a different taper from most swords, and a flatter cross-section than the other longswords I’d owned, flatter and shorter. Had I seen her in a bladesmith’s stall, I would not even have asked her down to put her hilt in my hand.
Listen: once I took a lady – we were both the worse for wine – who was, let us say, less than beautiful. Dumpy, short, a little overweight, I thought in my pride and lust. But when I undressed her, I found her body as beautiful as Venus herself. As that lady, so with the sword.
In my hand, she was quick and light and yet strong as a branch of oak.
Somewhat jealously, I handed her to Fiore. He brought her smartly to his shoulder and cut once. There was nothing showy or spectacular about his cut, but I felt like a man who has just watched his lady give a chaste kiss to a friend. Of course it is allowed, and yet … why is she smiling so much?
‘Yes,’ Fiore said. ‘Yes!’
The next morning, my Frenchman’s squire – the courtier, not the Savoyards – was at the door of our inn. Two hours later, I sat on Jacques with my helmet laced, and Lady Kunka was there, as were a dozen of the Empress’s maids and ladies, and many of the Bohemian and Polish gentlemen, despite hard heads and the early hour. I had time to say my beads and to realise that if I had lain with one of the lilies of the court, I would be muzzy with lack of sleep and perhaps still little drunk. As it was, I was fresh.
The Frenchman said nothing to me, nor did his squire chat with Marc-Antonio. And Marc-Antonio was all but transformed by finding that I was the great man of the tourney, and I caught him, more than once, pointing me out and claiming me for his own.
You might think I anticipated a murder attempt or some such, but my Frenchman didn’t seem the type, and none of the Savoyards were to be seen. Despite which, I checked every element of my harness and my tack for damage and interference.
We were riding along the barriers, which I had never done before. It keeps the horses straight, but requires some surprisingly false manoeuvres of the lance – common enough now, but new to me in the year sixty-five.
The first encounter was almost my undoing. My man could joust. His lance swooped like a stooping hawk, the point coming down from the heavens, and had his horse not faltered by a heartbeat in its course, his lance point would have taken me in the throat or left shoulder, but luck – Fortuna – was with me, and his point at my shoulder. I felt the impact on my shoulder, and I broke my lance on his shield.
He saluted me.
That changed the tenor of the contest. As we swapped ends, I returned the salute, galloped back to my place, and set myself. The salute meant, to me, that we were behaving like gentlemen.
The second course was accounted pretty by the crowd. My lance tore his left pauldron off his shoulder, and his – a beautiful strike, by God’s grace – tore the visor off my bassinet. It did me no injury, but his point penetrated my visor almost a full inch. Yes, we were fighting a l’outrance, with weapons of war, unabated.
The heralds and marshals had to have a conference, as we had both scored.
Nerio grinned at me. ‘That was a good course,’ he said.
‘Any advice?’ I asked.
‘Don’t flinch. And don’t miss. He’s a better jouster than you, but not by much.’ Nerio smiled wolfishly. ‘If he kills you, I’ll kill him.’
Fiore shook his head. ‘No, he is very good, but you can take him. Remember what we practiced at Avignon, the lance low?’
I looked back and forth. ‘A parry with a lance? In a joust?’ I asked.
Nerio raised an eyebrow. ‘Too professional,’ he said with a little of his old disdain for Fiore. But he softened it with a smile. ‘For me, at any rate.’
Fiore shrugged. ‘It is not against any rule.’
Nerio put a hand on Fiore’s shoulder. ‘My friend, there are rules that are not written down.’
Fiore frowned. ‘If there is not a rule against it written down, it is not a rule,’ he said.
I got the new helmet seated and the chinstrap buckled, and rode down the lists, still undecided.
Word of our tilt had spread, and other knights and squires were coming for their scheduled bouts. The ‘great’ men had had five days, and now the lesser knights, men like me and Fiore, were to be allowed three days of jousting and foot combat, and their own mêlée.
And all along one side of the list stood a troop of horsemen. I had never seen anything like them, and they were distracting me. They wore long coats, buttoned at the shoulder and edged in fur, even the least of them. Two of them carried hawks, and all had lances and bows.
I had never seen men with such deep lines on their faces. They looked like killers, every one of them.
I took deep breaths and took them out of my head, and then I set my thoughts on the lists and my opponent. He flicked his lance head at me. I returned the compliment, if indeed it was such.