Ian led Old Dun down the gangplank to the pier and headed eastward toward Marseille.
Five
Ian and Old Dun trudged their uneventful way from Arcachon toward Marseille at a rate of about fifteen miles per day enjoying each late spring French day. Beautiful wildflowers filled the uncultivated open fields with a rainbow of colors and the country air with the fragrance of lavender.
Ian wished he could thank Dylan and Friar McCarthy for coercing him into learning to speak and write French. The farmers he encountered when seeking food on his fifteen-day journey were pleasant for the most part. Ian would chop a cord of word or haul trash or do whatever manual labor a farmer required for a hot meal for himself, some hay for Old Dun, and a stall for them to catch a good night’s rest.
The day Ian planned to arrive in Toulon he had to sneak out of a barn in the wee hours to avoid the advances of a farmer’s flirty wife. Ian had been uncomfortable with her stares across the dinner table and her footsies under the table the previous evening. He realized he might not be able to sleep the night in the barn alone, so he rode out on Old Dun as fast as Old Dun was able when he heard her enter the barn and softly call out his name.
The sounds of conflict rudely interrupted the morning’s peaceful trek through the French countryside. Ian came upon four highwaymen on horseback threatening a knight and his squire. He held back for a moment to assess the situation. The outmanned knight and squire tried to hold the robbers at bay, but were forced backward by the attack. Ian decided to assist. He unsheathed his sword and swatted Old Dun on the hindquarter with the flat of the blade. Old Dun slow trotted toward the robbers as Ian prodded him on. There would be no turning back.
Ian sidled Old Dun up to one of the highwaymen and whacked the robber on the shoulder with the flat of his sword.
The robber turned his horse to face Ian and swung his sword, with a blood-curdling scream, “Aieee.” Ian instantly leaned backwards, nearly falling off Old Dun. His quick reflexes saved him from decapitation.
Ian had a bright recollection of one of Dylan’s teachings, if you’re going to get into a sword fight, fight to win. A serious injury’s ultimate result was the same as instant death, it just took longer. Ian regained his balance and fought the way he’d been taught. He swung his sword at the robber with such fury the robber was only able to block the first blow with the hilt of his blade. Ian hacked at the robber to the left and right, capturing the robber’s sword on a right hand swing and flinging it into the trees. With the opening in the robber’s defenses, Ian thrust his sword point first. He stabbed the robber in the chest and knocked him from his horse, dead before he hit the ground.
The second and third robbers were getting the best of the knight. The third robber struck the knight’s upper left arm, ripping off the armor and cutting his arm in the process. The knight yelled out, “Merde.”
The clashing of swords rang like clanging bells in the woods. With Ian’s first foe dead, he joined the knight in the fray with the second and third robber. Ian and the knight swung their swords in unison, both stabbing the second robber simultaneously, killing him outright. They fought as though they had been battling in concert all their lives.
The knight and Ian then took on the third robber, overwhelming him until he turned tail and fled as fast as his horse could carry him. The squire had been holding his own with the fourth robber, neither backing up nor advancing. When the third robber ran off, the fourth turned tail and followed him.
Ian, the knight, and his squire watched the two robbers flee. None felt inclined to pursue the robbers.
Ian had considered what it might be like to kill a man during his combat training with Dylan. He felt numb when he saw the dead men lying at Old Dun’s hooves, men he had killed. Being a warrior and having to kill another man, even an evil man, face to face with a sword, suddenly didn’t feel as adventurous as he had imagined. A shiver ran up his spine, but he restrained his emotions and presented a stoic countenance to the knight.
The knight closed the distance between them and held out his right hand in greeting. “Thank you, good sir. You saved us from robbery or worse from those four brigands. I’m Jacques LeFriant, son of Luc LeFriant of Toulon. This is my man Louis.”
Ian shook hands with Jacques. “I am Ian O’Donoghue, from Innisfallen, Eire, and your humble servant. I was only too glad to join in the fight,” Ian replied. “I see that your arm has been wounded, sir. May I tend to the injury?”
“It’s not mortal, good sir.”
“No matter, let’s see to it. Please dismount.” Ian dismounted Old Dun and retrieved his healer supplies.
Jacques lowered himself off his mount, while favoring his left arm.
Jacques removed his helmet, his chain mail, hauberk, shirt, padded gambeson, and left arm armor, what was left of it.
Ian saw that Jacques was a young man like himself, probably less than a year older, with large dark eyes, short dark curly hair, and a solid physique nearly Ian’s height and weight.
Ian retrieved a clean, but yellowed white shirt from his saddlebag, ripped it into strips, and used one strip to wipe the blood off Jacques’ arm. The wound needed stitches. Ian retrieved a curved needle, a length of dried cat gut, and a small pot of salve from his healer bag. He threaded a short length of cat gut into the end of the needle and said, “This is going to hurt.”
Jacques appeared to be brave as he replied, “I can handle the pain,” but the uncertainty was evident in his voice.
Ian’s mother had instructed him not to show emotion when treating a patient, especially when performing a painful procedure. Concern only worried the patient and made the stitching of a shaking arm or leg more difficult. The wound wasn’t deep, but a long ragged tear from being struck by a dull sword. Ian sewed five stitches in Jacques’ muscled left arm, nipped the cat gut with his teeth, tied a knot in the end of the stitches, then smeared the salve over the stitches.
Louis watched the procedure without comment as he tied the deceased would-be robbers onto their mounts.
“What is that cream?” Jacques asked, holding back tears from the discomfort of the bruising cut, the stitches, and the sting of the salve.
“It’s a healing salve my mother made from comfrey oil and beeswax.” Ian wrapped Jacques’ arm with several of the shirt strips and tied the ends together. “Your arm should heal in a few days . . . but the cut will leave an ugly scar.”
“Thank you.” Jacques began putting his knight’s clothing back on. “What is your destination, sir?”
“I’m on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.”
“Ultimately, that’s my mission also. If you’ll allow me time to complete some personal business, perhaps we could travel together.”
Ian’s attention focused. To be able to travel with a real French knight, even one as young as Jacques, was almost too fortuitous to believe. “Of course, good knight, I would be honored to travel with you to Jerusalem. What do we do with these two dead brigands?”
“Louis will take them to the inspector in Toulon, so he can identify them and their confederates if possible. Their crimes shall not go unpunished. Please accompany me back to my father’s estate.”
Louis gathered up the horses’ reins and said, “I’m ready. Go on ahead.”
Jacques led the way, pausing on occasion to accommodate Old Dun’s slower pace. After a few miles they passed through an ornate gate at the estate’s entrance and followed a carriage path to a large stone and brick mansion.
Ian had never seen such a grand edifice before. His mother’s cottage would fit inside that great building twenty times. What would a poor Irish farmer like myself do in such an otherworldly palace? His confidence was shaken as they approached the mansion’s entrance, he wanted to turn Old Dun and run away.
They dismounted in the carriage loading area. Ian dropped Old Dun’s reins next to Jacques’ fine mount. Old Dun wouldn’t wander from the lush green ground cover surrounding the carriage area. Jacques pulled the leather saddle
bags from his mount and led the way to the mansion.
Ian followed Jacques up the flagstone path to the magnificent stone and brick portico. Looking around, he saw grape vines surrounding the mansion on both sides. There was a large barn in the left field. Ian self-consciously checked his attire, the shabby hand-me-down clothes from his father and his uncle, the ancient sword at his side, and the old chain mail with rusty links. He hadn’t bathed in several days since natural springs weren’t in such abundance in southern France as they were in Ireland, but Jacques seemed either oblivious of Ian’s pathetic sartorial state or didn’t care.
Jacques opened the massive front door embellished with dancing horses carved into the oak.
No sooner were they inside than a teenage girl ran up to Jacques in an over excited teen aged-girl manner and asked, “What happened? How did you become wounded?”
“Well, nice to see you, too, Rosemarie,” Jacques replied. “Four brigands tried to rob us on the way to Toulon, and this fine fellow came to Louis’ and my aid.”
The girl assessed Ian’s appearance, gave him a disapproving look, and asked, “And what is your name, Monsieur?”
Ian hesitated to answer, daunted by this forward girl. “Ian.”
“Where is Father?” Jacques asked.
“In the study. Father will want to hear your tale, brother,” she replied, then addressing Ian said, “and to meet you.” She led the two young men through one magnificent room after another. Finally, she opened the door of a library with bookshelves around three sides, two tables, leather covered chairs on one side of the room, a comfortable sofa at the other end, and a large mahogany desk against the far wall where a dignified looking gentleman was reading a leather bound manuscript.
“Father, Jacques has a new friend he’d like to introduce.”
The gentleman looked up and upon seeing Jacques rose to his feet, stepped around to the front of the desk, and opened his arms. “Jacques, my son, what happened to you?”
“I’m fine, Father. This young man saved my life and Louis’ life and our bank deposits from robbers.”
Jacques’ father hugged Jacques, then clasped Ian’s shoulders with both hands, looked him in the eyes, and said, “Thank you.” He turned back to Jacques, “I’m so glad you’ve returned safe. Tell me all the details, I insist.”
“We will tell you all, Father,” Jacques replied.
Ian felt refreshed after taking a warm bath prepared by a house servant, and putting on the clothes placed on a chair by the tub. The clothing consisted of a plain white tunic and dark pants, undergarments, socks and soft leather shoes, apparently from Jacques wardrobe. Jacques’ garments fit well, since Jacques and Ian were both nearly six feet tall and approximately fourteen stone in weight, but Ian was starving and could easily gain weight with a few good meals.
Ian followed Jacques and the delicious smells of cooked food into the dining room. Feeling conspicuous in Jacques’ clothes, he surveyed the family members seated around the large oak table. Although he’d been introduced all around earlier, he barely remembered each of their names, much less knew anything about them. A servant pulled back two chairs, one to Jacques’ father’s left and one to Jacques’ father’s right, and nodded for Ian to sit in the one on the left. The servant then filled their wine glasses. Ian felt self-conscious as he sat in the presence of this noble family.
Jacques whispered to Ian behind his father’s chair, “Taste Father’s wine. It’s his pride and joy.”
Ian sipped the wine and smiled.
Jacques’ father held up his Bordeaux glass with its tall stem and medium sized bowl and asked Ian, “How do you like our Cabernet?”
Ian raised his glass again, nosed the fragrance, and sipped again enthusiastically. “It’s delicious, with a slight hint of black currant.”
Obviously pleased with Ian’s assessment, Jacques’ father replied, “Please call me Luc. I see you have a discriminating sense of smell. Who taught you to do that?”
“My mother. She said she noticed my ability to discern the scents of berries, flowers, and so forth at a young age. She encouraged me to develop my ability. She said it would be useful to me if I chose to become a healer like her.”
“She sounds like a wise woman, indeed.”
“She was.” Ian stared at his glass, feeling awkward with the direction the conversation had gone.
The conversation stopped until Jacques held up his glass and commented, “Our Mourvèdre grapes make great red and rosé wines. Our warm climate and longer growing season allows the skins of the grapes to infuse the pulp with flavor longer, thereby improving the flavor of our grapes and consequently our wine.”
Addressing the family, Luc said, “Jacques likes to pretend he’s fascinated with grape growing and wine-making to please me, but he longs to be a knight errant performing noble exploits, rescuing princesses, slaying dragons, and other derring-do.” Turning to Ian, he said, “Wait until you try our rosés with dessert.” Luc raised his fingers to his lips and made a kissing noise to express his delight in his own wine.
Ian dug into his food, trying to use his silver eating utensils as befitting one invited to the LeFriant table. He was not sure why he had two forks. The food was Frankish and was as delicious to the taste as Dylan had said Frankish food would be.
Ian noticed a portrait on the sidewall of a knight in full regalia, and another portrait on the far wall of the Baron, dressed in a red jacket with gold braid. He studied the knight portrait and realized it was also of Luc, although much younger. He wanted to ask Luc about the portraits, even though all present ate in silence unless called upon by Luc.
Ian’s curiosity overcame his reticence, so Ian said, “Monsieur LeFriant, you have a lovely estate, Jacques told me you’re a Baron.”
Luc put down his larger fork and replied, “Why yes, I am a Baron, earned by my service to kings.”
Ian felt awkward and hesitated to keep the conversation going. He blurted out, “I understand that you were a knight also, sir.”
“I still am, young man,” Luc replied, seeming indignant and puffing out his chest. “I am a noblesse militaire. I served as a knight for Phillip I. My father was a knight for King Henry I and fought in the Battle of Val-ès-Dunes. If Jacques runs off to be a knight before he settles down and takes over my estate, he’ll continue our line of service and also become a noblesse militaire.”
“You must be proud, sir. A toast.” Ian raised his glass, and everyone at the table, including Rosemarie, raised their glass in a toast, “To a grand family.”
“Here, here,” Luc said and took another sip of his wine. The rest of the table followed suit.
As they finished the meal, Luc raised his glass one more time and cleared his throat, “Ahem, I expect everyone to be on their best behavior until tomorrow evening. We’re going to host a dance to celebrate Jacques’ safe return. Madam would like that, would you not?”
Madame Gabrielle smiled, and replied, “You know I’d like that, Mon Coeur, and so would Rosemarie, wouldn’t you, darling?”
“Of course, Mama,” Rosemarie replied with a demure smile.
Ian detected a false coyness in Rosemarie’s demeanor.
Ian was amazed at the size of Jacques’ room in the mansion. It was nearly twice the size of his mother’s cottage. In fact, Jacques’ wardrobe was as big as the living area of the cottage. The wardrobe was overfull of pants, shirts, jackets, and shoes. When Ian arrived he had only the clothes on his back and one spare patched pair of pants. He had used his raggedy spare shirt as a bandage for Jacques’ arm. He had no idea of what was appropriate to wear to a dance since he’d never been to one.
Jacques said, “I insist you wear something fashionable to the dance this evening.” He fingered the many tunics and surcoats hanging in his closet and the drawers and leggings stacked neatly on the shelves. “It’s fortunate we are about the same size.”
“Not for long, if your parents keep feeding me the way they did last evening, I’ll gain a
nother stone in short order.”
“That won’t happen. If I see you getting fat, I’ll work you harder. Obviously, I have a few things I need to teach you about being a knight.”
“I yield. What would you have me wear?”
“How about this shirt?” Jacques held out a purple shirt with pleated sleeves. “It’s the latest fashion from Italy.”
“Now don’t make me look foolish in women’s wear.”
“How can I improve on the way you make a fool of yourself?” Jacques gave Ian a shove. Ian shoved back and they were immediately trying to choke and pin each other on the floor. Ian attempted to wrap the purple ruffled shirt around Jacques’ neck while trying to avoid reinjuring Jacques’ cut arm. Jacques seemed oblivious to his wound and gave no quarter. Jacques’ bedroom door opened abruptly.
Rosemarie entered the room, and inquired, “What are you two idiots doing? You’re supposed to be getting ready for the dance.” She bent down, looked at Jacques’ arm, and shouted, “Jacques, your wound is bleeding again!”
Ian had Jacques pinned, but Jacques had a firm grip around Ian’s neck, and Ian’s face was turning red.
Jacques stammered, “I’m tr . . . rying to get this country bumpkin ready for the dance.”
Ian gasped and whispered, “We . . . we’re selecting clothes for me to wear to the dance.”
Rosemarie picked a pillow off the bed and smacked Ian in the back of the head and Jacques in the face. “Stop this foolishness and get up. Now!”
Each young man lessened his grip on the other with caution and stood, wary of the other’s potential new attack.
Ian said, “I’m going to have to bandage your cut again, you big buffoon.”
Jacques glanced at his sleeve and shrugged.
They circled each other like wolves assessing their prey.
Rosemarie stepped between the two with a set of clothes in her hands. “I’ll settle this boorishness. Ian, wear this white tunic and blue sash with these striped leggings, and a pair of Jacques’ black Italian boots and stockings will do.” She laid the apparel on the four poster bed and started to leave.
The Honorable Knight Page 5
