by A Werner
Midonia could feel all the passion building up inside her again. “Am I supposed to believe this finding was an act of God, a miracle of some kind?”
Francis straddled the threshold where he had pinched her butt cheek earlier, his energy restored, his mind focused on the tourney field. “No, my dear, finding my surcoat is not a sign of anything. It is simply a token for my memory to hold as treasure. My seeing what was always there reminds me of just how blind I am, even when I look right at a thing. I can’t see anything in this world until He reveals it. No one can. And He won’t reveal His truths until they need to be found.”
“Your logic is so twisted Francis. You think the surcoat wanted to be found?”
“Faith is not in the finding. Faith is in the believing. Faith is the surrendering of our desires and thoughts to the timeliness of the Lord. Because I choose to live my life by faith, I could not find the surcoat when I wanted it. I found it when I needed it and I didn’t need it until we had this discussion. Whatever the future holds for us now, I am more prepared than ever for it and so are you.”
“Oh my God, that has to be the stupidest thing I ever heard you say.”
Francis examined the roof of the tent as if he were seeing a fresco painted by Michelangelo. “I feel tenacious. I can sense a change in the air, Midonia. Do you feel it? God is here. He is in this tent, in this field. The Lord is here in Germany with us. There are angels out there, moving amongst us. Today is truly special.”
“Well, I don’t feel a thing. The air is hot and I live in a tent.”
“You don’t pray enough Midonia. Maybe you should pray while I am gone. Try the spirits and seek some answers. You may learn to see beyond the heat and the tent which control you.” Francis smiled at her, tossed his surcoat over his shoulder and fled.
As he exited, Midonia made a hideous face behind his back. ‘I hope he doesn’t return. I hope he dies.’ A chill climbed up out of her bones and touched her skin. Superstition towed her eyes back and forth across her head. Perhaps there were meddling spirits in the room. ‘Francis did find the lost surcoat when he needed it. Perhaps it is best I not to talk to God, or even think about Him right now.’
Anne began to squirm in her crib. Her wee voice grew into a larger cry, a plea for nourishment. Midonia knew that frightful sound all too well and hated it, despised it. Her breasts were perking up. The baby wanted to be fed.
Midonia resisted the call. Scoffing, she placed her white laced gloves over her breasts to flatten the urge. She spoke to the ceiling but not to God. “I am not in the mood for this. You’ll just have to wait Anne. I’m tired.” Midonia walked off into the other room alone, sulking.
Anne Whitehall continued to whine, her tummy turning, her spirit learning a bit more every day that her relationship with her mother would always be contentious. This went on for years. Midonia offered her child next to nothing in the way of comfort and love, so Anne turned to her father. Francis poured his affection all over the child. Francis Whitehall became her champion, her knight in shining armor. Even the stars he admired and taught her about as they sat beside the campfires, had nothing on him in her eyes. He was the North Star, the most steadfast light in the universe. Her daddy would always be there to save her. She need only see his face to feel at peace.
Chapter 19 – Glory of Children
For six cold months the Whitehall family traipsed around Europe living in a large, three-chambered blue pavilion constructed of rugged heavy cloth. Two enormous orange griffins, tall as a man, snarled on either side of the duel flap doors. Each of the three chambers of the tent featured its own peak where a thick center pole protruded up and through the roof.
Tied to the highest peak of the towering center mast, Francis spied an orange rectangular flag flapping in the hot May wind. This particular pennon was the privileged symbol of a chief banneret, a title reserved for only the most important men, men with great authority. As things stood now, the distinction carried little stature or responsibility. The Griffin was alone. He had no labors to perform. He had no men-at-arms to command.
Francis Whitehall stared hard at one of the twelve identical orange griffins embroidered on his white surcoat. As desperate as a peddler possessing an enchanted lamp, Francis rubbed the heraldic beast with his calloused thumb half-expecting a genie to appear and grant him three wishes. “Lord, steady my hands for battle once more. Forgive my iniquities. Renew in me a right spirit and make me strong. God in heaven, give me good victory.”
“Francis!”
Francis recognized the voice immediately and it was not the voice of God or a genie. It was Merle Gilmore.
On a makeshift road fronting the blue-tent estate, a parade of knights and their colorful retinues were slowly moving en route to the tourney grounds. Nineteen-year-old Merle Gilmore came dodging out of this celebratory throng, his lanky arms filled beyond capacity with a vast collection of knightly items. The youngster nearly made it to his lord without incident before tripping over the last passing heel of the last passing stranger. Poor Merle fell on his face and dropped everything.
Merle Gilmore was a klutz.
“Sir,” The enthusiastic squire exclaimed, his white teeth beaming, his blue eyes sparkling, his hands scrambling left and right and left again, rescuing the shiny pieces he had dropped. “I have brought you your armor.”
Francis grinned at the clear blue sky and reluctantly asked a question for which he already knew the answer. “Did you retrieve Molly from the stables?”
Merle jumped to his feet. He was a narrow boy, skinny as a post, a clump of sandy brown hair mopped over his shoulders. “Dang. I forgot the horse again. I’m so bad at squiring. I’m trying my best, Sir. I want to do this right. I didn’t sleep nare a wink last night. I polished everything. I wanted you to shine and blind the eyes of your opponents.” He looked at the items in his hands with disappointment. “And now I’ve messed it all up.” Disheartened, Merle lowered his head, the enthusiasm and joy in his countenance gone.
Merle Gilmore’s lot in life had been difficult. He was far too old for squiring, and had never served a day as a page. He had spent his whole childhood battling a host of illnesses which severely wasted him. To his goodly credit, Merle made no excuses for his infirmity. When he had the strength, he read, he read everything. He studied various languages, British law and even learned the liturgy of the Anglican Church. He seemed destined to become a licentiate, a champion of university studies. That was until a desperate knight required a desperate squire.
Merle Gilmore disobeyed his parent’s wishes, dropped out of academia and pursued the romanticism of the open road. Many believed the boy was mad, fever-mad. He was not a healthy lad. He was just sinew and skin. What knowledge he had of surviving in the wilderness came from the books he read. He had no practical experience to guide him.
Sometimes, in frustrating moments like this, watching the awkward genius squirm about in the dirt collecting pieces of fallen armor, utterly ensnared in chains of emotional distress, Francis Whitehall thought the lad’s critics might be right. ‘Why, Merle, why?’
The heat of the midday sun was worsening as the seconds passed and the constantly shifting wind did nothing to lessen it. The breeze deviated once more, this time carrying in it a faint sound of weeping. Francis identified the sound immediately. ‘Anne.’
The Griffin sidled up to the blue tent and gently touched the outer canvas wall. An eddy of dust surrounded him and he was forced to close his eyes. It did not matter for he was going to close them anyway. Francis started praying. He prayed for his infant daughter, his wife, Lord Geoff, Merle, Emperor Barbarossa and his sons, the princes, Henry and Frederick, both who were being received into knighthood this day. And last of all, Francis respectfully asked the Lord to help him, deliver him from this vagabond existence.
He didn’t blame Midonia for expressing her dissatisfaction and disappointment. He had to keep his frustrations in check. A steward’s position would bring with it a renewed sense of p
urpose and right now, out here on the road, living like gypsies, there seemed to be very little purpose to life but survival. Francis Whitehall was deeply frustrated and couldn’t share this truth with anyone. He had to bear the weight alone.
Merle Gilmore stared in awe at his prayerful lord, a lump developing in the back of his throat. ‘Hope is my medicine,’ he told himself over and over. ‘Hope is my medicine. One day, I too will be a knight. Sir Merle.’
The churning eddy subsided just as the prayer ended. Francis Whitehall emerged as if seeing light for the first time today. He turned slowly about and met the gaze of his fantast squire. His voice was clear and strong. “And the glory of children are their fathers.[3]”
Merle looked puzzled.
Francis Whitehall stepped up to Merle Gilmore who was already two inches taller than him, placed a firm hand on the lanky boy’s left shoulder and pointed to the ground behind him. “Son, you missed a spur.”
Terrified by his own incompetence, Merle spun around as if chasing his tail and scanned the earth in panic. Francis laughed aloud and shoved the squire headlong into the highway of knights parading out towards the tournament field. “Come on, son, I was just kidding. Let’s go get Molly. We have a melee to contest.”
“You mean I got everything?” Merle replied, still unsure.
“Yes, you got everything.”
“Oh, what a relief, I thought I had forgotten something.”
“You did boy – the horse.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot the horse.”
Chapter 20 – Alliance
Molly was a big brown warhorse. Few knights could boast owning such a handsome beast. While Francis Whitehall stood off to the side of the stables making small talk with several men his age who were retired from the games, Merle Gilmore performed his duty as squire. He outfitted the mare with protective plates, a chanfron hood, and a crinet for her neck. Beneath the leather saddle, Molly wore a blue blanket embellished with gold filigree. Enormous scowling griffins hung on either side of her flanks.
Francis Whitehall launched himself unassisted into the saddle. The air always felt different up here.
Slow and without fanfare, the two-man delegation representing the great and mighty clan of Whitehall, exited the stables and promenaded into the flat field of clovers where the melee would soon be contested.
Before the romantic pageantry of the medieval tournament became fashionable and the scored joust was confined to the lists, the major event at competitions was a grand melee. A grand melee consisted of two heavily armed militias squaring off in violent combat across open pasturage. The melee was literally an imitation of war itself. Knights could be maimed and injured, some even died. Trumpeters stood at the far ends of the field in relative safety and beckoned horsemen to their mark. A freestyle charge would ensue followed by foot-stomping combat. The weak and unfortunate were captured and forced to pay a ransom for their freedom.
This was the grand arena where Francis Whitehall earned his living. The tournament was his high ground, his zenith. The Griffin was the zealous knight others feared to face. He was still passionate about the games and had desperation motivating him. He knew he could not slip up, not even once. If he were maimed or captured, the result would be disastrous, ruinous. Every contest was set to make or break him and he knew it. By faith, Francis had to remain in the field. There were no other options. He had to win and keep on winning. He had to be the best.
Nearly 70,000 knights from all over Europe came to Mainz, Germany to parade into the grasslands near the Rhine River. They were glamorous and gaudy, decorated as kings and princes though most were surely not. Most had musicians and singers, dancers waving banners displaying family crests, armies of squires flaunting the various shields and lances they carried. It was a spectacle of spectacles.
Francis Whitehall was hardly noticeable in the midst of all this pageantry. Walking proudly but anonymously beside his mounted lord, Merle Gilmore carried in his arms a battle lance, orange and white lines snaked all around it. Upon his narrow shoulders he bore his lord’s black kite-shaped shield with the image of a temperamental orange griffin.
As Francis and Merle finally caught sight of their destination in the distance, an impatient knight seated on a beautiful black Andalusian suddenly charged up from their backside in an aggressive and threatening manner.
“Caballero!” The rider hollered. “Show me your coat of arms!” He had a sharp Spanish accent.
Francis nodded his approval and Merle flashed the nervous young Spaniard a glimpse of the orange griffin.
“Iya basta, that is not it.”
Francis recognized many of the knights participating on the tournament circuit but he was unfamiliar with this one. There was a gentle darkness to his clean shaven face. His skin was wind-burned and darker than it should be. His wavy black hair tumbled down rebelliously over his shoulders almost to the center of his back. His piercing blue eyes were fierce and serious. Francis then took note of the crest on the Spaniards black breastplate, a hot-scarlet star with a brilliant tail of blue and silver.
“What is your name, young knight?” Francis asked.
Frustrated by something more consuming than this simple question, the rider responded to Francis quickly and severely. “I am Pero de Alava, a caballero of Penafiel. And you are signore?”
“I am Francis Whitehall, a knight of Warwick.”
“Francis, Francis,” Pero murmured twice. “You are English, Francis, and you ride from the east?”
“Yes, I ride from the east.”
Still restless and uncomfortable, Pero continued to fidget in his saddle; one eye trained on Francis, the other checking his rear. “I ride from the east as well.” There was a brief silence before he continued speaking. “It is hot and the wind is providing no relief. The melee could prove to be quite arduous. It is highly possible one of us might encounter enfado, unforeseen trouble, and have need of assistance.” Pero brought both his eyes squarely on Francis. He was dead serious, almost scared serious. “Would I be asking too much of a fair-minded Englishman, such as you appear to be, to form an alliance of sorts?”
This was an odd request to say the least and Francis guessed at once that Pero de Alava was not at Whitsuntide for gain or glory. An unforeseen difficulty was troubling his soul. The young man was in desperate need of a friend.
Faultless in regards to his duty as a knight, Francis Whitehall smiled and assured the handsome Spaniard they did indeed have an alliance.
Pero blinked. He was young and eager and astonished by Francis’ quick decision. His scoffing tone opposed his reply. “Well, that is good to hear.” Pero did not even try to smile when he said it. The promise seemed to mean less than nothing to him and he looked as friendless as he did before. “The melee is about to commence and my time is short. I fear this day may come to an end before it even begins.” He raised his hand to salute the man he had just made an alliance with. “I know He is not with me, so may God be with you, Francis Whitehall of England.” Pero spurred his big black Andalusian and sped on ahead, his long black mane trailing out behind him.
Merle did not wait until Pero was out of sight to question Francis. “Do you know him, my Lord?”
“No,” Francis replied. “I have never seen Pero of Penafiel before today.”
Chapter 21 – Fool On A Mule
The only thing that bothered Francis Whitehall more than a lackadaisical knight was the barbaric tongue of a mercenary. Today, he was beset by both. In better days, these worthless types were few and far between. The whole class of knighthood had been filled with an aura of wonder. When the homeless and needy cast their hopeful gaze upon a knight, they saw the sun, living embodiments of integrity they could invest their faith in. But now the ranks were contaminated. These recalcitrant parasites spat on honor, disobeyed hallowed oaths and prostituted their military training and talents. They were philistines and gold was their god. Like vultures, they fed on the vulnerable. The common man learned he must tremble i
n their presence and the common woman learned she must fear for her virtue. Knights took the law into their own hands and acted outside the will of God. They protected no one but their own selfish interests.
Francis stood alone in the shade of the eastern tree line and watched as prime examples of this up and coming generation behaved atrociously. Hung-over and privileged, they mistreated their squires, kicked their valets and protested incessantly about the heat and churning wind. There seemed to be no end to their complaints. Francis could only wonder how these men might have fared in the sands of the Outremer, in the desert wastelands of Palestine. It seemed that none of them were truly battle-tested. They were spoiled children with shiny toys, deceived by the greatness they achieved playing in these tourney games.
For Francis Whitehall, these tournaments were not games. Every waking moment had become a question of life and death. He had to be aware of everything, never drunk or rash. His family was dependent on his success.
Francis got back up in the saddle, both feet snugly settled in the stirrups. He rapped Molly on the crinet, glanced down at Merle and demanded he be handed his lance.
Merle obeyed. He lifted the orange and white lance from off the ground and presented it to him.
“After the initial wave,” Francis instructed Merle, “meet me about fifty yards south of first contact. Have my mace at the ready.”
A screeching blow of trumpets shook the air and called the field to attention. An anxious line of mounted knights who had drawn lots assigning them to the first wave due north of Francis’ position began to yell and cheer. When their cheering ceased and the trumpeting finished, the jousters galloped fearlessly into the virgin field as similarly designated knights charged towards them from the west, their lances couched and extended out before them. The collision was quick, filled with glory and disaster.
