The Knight's Conquest

by Juliet Landon

  Help came from an unexpected quarter as a hand rested on her shoulder, turning her gently but firmly away from Lady Griselle’s satisfied smirk and manoeuvring her to the back of the crowd towards the low gnarled branches of an apple tree. Ankle-deep in spent blossom, she stood next to Sir Owain while the woman who had tried to provoke her craned her neck to see where she had gone. Her expression as she found Eloise and Sir Owain standing close together with his hand still on her shoulder was more than they could have hoped for. For the first time since their meeting, their shared delight at the woman’s vexation brought them briefly together and, though not a word was exchanged, Eloise’s smile of thanks appeared to be sufficient reward for her champion, the first he had received from her.

  Quickly, they were surrounded by friends as intrigued by this new accord as Sir Rolph’s wife was, but Eloise sidled away to seek out her sister and Sir Henry for her personal congratulations, the imprint of Sir Owain’s silent protection still warm on her body. Having been through no less than three betrothals in the past five years, she experienced a feeling of déjà vu in the hours that followed that came closer to Griselle’s cutting remark than even she could have known, and although Eloise tried to steer her mind away from the events in her past towards those in her sister’s future, the comparisons were difficult to evade, Jolita’s expectations being so much like her own at her betrothal to Sir Piers. Then, of course, Sir Owain had not been present as he was now, though in her mind his image had never been far away, and it was perhaps now more than ever that she recognised her own foolishness and pride in accepting the empty adulation of one in favour of her heart’s certainty for the other. Even worse was her present determination to keep him out of her life, despite the steadfastness of her heart’s message. Set once more on the wrong course, her nagging doubts kept her heart closed against him, hurting her with the effort of it.

  The lengthy feasting and speeching came to an end at last, releasing the wine-weary guests to an hour’s siesta and the fitter ones to the tiltyard at the side of the castle walls for some serious jousting practice. The evening tournament would be held in the large field beyond the houses, but here at the practice-tilts, a range of devices was intended to improve the men’s jousting techniques that stood them in good stead in times of war. By the time Eloise, Jolita and a large group of their friends arrived, the practice had begun, and though none of the men could have missed the bright colours and bursts of brittle applause from the grassy sunlit bank below the ramparts, few of them were prepared to acknowledge that they were being watched.

  Wearing no armour except their shields for protection, the men were easy to identify. Excitedly, Jolita picked out Sir Henry Lovell, who was coaching several of the young squires in the art of bringing their lances down at exactly the right moment in the run and to level the points at a tiny ring that hung from a pole, known as the quintain. The lances were very long, heavy and difficult to control and, though Sir Henry made it look easy, the young would-be knights found it difficult enough to keep their horses on course without any added complications.

  Jolita had said that he was not handsome, but that had been yesterday. Today, she whispered to Eloise, she found his features attractively weatherbeaten and well used, his dark eyes thoughtful and spun about with laugh-lines. Yesterday he had worn a beard, but today it had vanished along with ten of his thirty-five years, to Jolita’s delight. They had both suffered the teasing, and now she was eager to praise his every move. ‘Watch him, Ellie,’ she said, happily. ‘He’s so patient with them.’

  But her sister’s attention was drawn to the figure mounted on a large black stallion, his lance held vertically and resting on the top of his foot. Even from that distance Eloise could see that the presence of the women was being pointed out to him by a friend, that he made a brief reply and told the men to take his turn at the quintain. Then, as the man moved away, Sir Owain looked directly across at her, holding her eyes for so long that several heads turned to see her reaction, knowing nothing of the inner turmoil his scrutiny caused her.

  Deliberately, he rode forward to his place in the lists and lifted his lance, settling the end of the shaft beneath his arm and spurring his stallion forward. It leapt into a gallop, its mane flying, the rider leaning and lowering his lance, aiming it at the ring his friend had just missed, gathering it with apparent ease on to the point and lifting it high into the air to admiring applause. To Eloise, who had watched his every graceful move, the imagery could not have been plainer or more boldly stated, and when Jolita took her hand in silence and squeezed it, she knew that she was by no means the only one to have understood his message.

  An hour later, they left the men to continue their practice, Eloise still disturbed by the knight’s directness even though, only a few hours ago, she had almost convinced herself that his attention would be directed elsewhere. And though a part of her continued to deny any interest in him, her most vulnerable and secret heart came alive with a new anticipation.

  ‘Dearest,’ Jolita whispered to her as they strolled away, arm in arm, ‘he intends to have you. Did you not see?’

  ‘I saw,’ Eloise replied. With her sister, the nonchalance was replaced by a more genuine concern. ‘I don’t suppose that’s the first time he’s ever sent such tidings to a woman, but he’ll not be so used to having a woman refuse him. He must know by now that he’ll be wasting his time.’

  ‘That was a challenge, if ever I saw one, Ellie.’

  ‘Don’t…please, don’t!’

  ‘Why?’ Jolita stopped, holding Eloise back. ‘You’re afraid?’

  ‘That’s what I’m supposed to be asking you.’

  ‘But you are, aren’t you?’

  Eloise looked away, refusing to meet her sister’s eyes yet again. ‘I don’t know, Jollie, truly I don’t. If that was a challenge, then it’s a most unfair one.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because he knows all my objections, and he knows that I’ve decided on my future. To ignore all that is unchivalrous.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t believe you.’

  ‘Then the discovery that it’s true will be a novel experience for him.’

  ‘Beware, Ellie. He doesn’t give up easily, you know.’

  ‘He did once. He will do so again. Come on, Mother’s beckoning.’

  ‘Girls,’ Lady Francesca called, ‘what is it? Eloise, you’re blushing. You talking girls’ talk?’

  ‘No, Mother,’ Jolita chirruped. ‘Women’s talk.’

  The midsummer crowds from the surrounding villages, hungry for spectacle, poured into the great field on the edge of town for an event that came within their reach only rarely, jousting being too dangerous to be performed without the king’s special licence. This was not the way he wanted to lose his best fighting men, yet some practice was essential during the peaceful years, and the suspicion that knights would joust even without his permission was always present.

  Dressed in the green and gold de Molyns livery, Sir Crispin’s men were everywhere to be seen, with so much depending upon the host’s good organisation for the safety of his many guests, their retainers and servants, horses and equipment, none of which came cheap. Swept to one side were the usual acrobats and tumblers, the noisy itinerant musicians, the traders and pickpockets, the whores who plied for trade wherever people gathered. Hoping for a better view from the back row of the stands were those who dressed above their station and slid quietly into the guests’ seats. They were soon spotted and moved out.

  Wooden tiers of benches had been erected along opposite sides of the open space known as the lists, where the jousting would take place, the scaffolding already providing young lads with a place from which to swing like monkeys until they too were flushed out. A battlemented wooden fence painted in green and gold protected the front row of onlookers from any accident, and it was here, overlooking the heads of the trumpeters, that Eloise sat with the women of her family, Jolita’s future in-laws, their ladies, chaplains, their oldest
retainers and friends, governesses and nurses, wives and daughters of the contestants.

  As Queen of the Day, Jolita sat in the place of honour from where she diplomatically requested Lady Pace, Henry’s mother, to identify some of the lesser-known coats of arms, for by this time the contestants were emerging from the bright canvas pavilions and preparing to mount their horses. Clad in shining armour and linen surcoats to the same design as their shields, the knights were attended by liveried squires, young men who would one day be knighted but who meanwhile carried their masters’ equipment and assisted them during the jousts. Lack of attention to detail was rewarded with a mailed blow to the body, for a mistake at this point could cost a life.

  The women’s chatter dropped to an expectant murmur. Torches were lit on the tops of iron braziers. Colours, gaudy in bright sunlight, were now softened by shadows. Here and there was a flash of silver, steel and iron, the ripple of distorted pattern as the horses’ caparisons floated around their feet, caught on the evening breeze. Not only did the knights wear surcoats embroidered with their arms, but the horses too. Draped to their hooves in flowing linen in their masters’ colours, their heads were hooded, their reins hung with bells, tassels and fringes. Underneath the show were the more serious straps, cords and buckles, paddings and protections, two girths to hold the saddle against the violent shock of each impact, every piece of armour designed to deflect blows, to minimise damage. The men called their own armour ‘harness’ too.

  They carried it effortlessly, even the older men whose skills had not faded as quickly as their stamina. The women watched like hawks, each one seeking out her own man. Some of the knights already wore women’s flowing scarves tied around their arms or flowers stuck into the great helms that squires held lovingly in their arms. Lord Pace and Sir Crispin cantered up together to request, publicly, tokens from their ladies, laughing like schoolboys as the scarves tangled with the wind. Eloise had given her token to no one, nor did she expect to.

  As the two men cantered away, another knight passed them with black and gold chequers fluttering through black legs and hooves, a handsome rider with black hair lifting in the breeze, grim-faced and confident.

  ‘He’s coming here, Ellie,’ Jolita murmured, not looking at her sister.

  ‘No, not to me.’ Eloise glanced along the row to see who else was there, but all faces were turned in her direction. Her heart skipped, drunkenly. No. He had warned her, but he would not court her favour.

  Pulled to a sudden halt, his great horse wheeled about uncertainly but was brought back to face the stand where Eloise sat biting her lip, her eyes troubled, her mind willing him to move away. It would not do for her to bestow her favour upon a jouster on the anniversary of her husband’s death, especially to Sir Owain, of all men. But the decision demanded courtesy, for Sir Owain slowly lowered his lance and rested its point accurately on the ledge before her, and there was no mistaking its request.

  Like a thunderclap, his deep voice fell into the silence. ‘Your favour, Lady Eloise, if you please, to wear on my arm in the jousts.’

  Meeting his eyes with the greatest reluctance, Eloise hesitated, surprised, troubled, and partly defiant. He had no right to ask this of her, nor was this the best way for her to score a point. Only by a refusal could she do that, and that would come at a price.

  ‘Ellie!’ Jolita whispered, frowning. ‘Ellie, you must. You cannot be so discourteous. Please!’

  On Jolita’s other side, Lady Pace leaned forward, smiling. ‘Your tippet, Lady Eloise? Does it remove?’

  As if in a dream, Lady Eloise slid the long pink silken tippet down her arm from elbow to wrist and leaned forward to tie it around the point of his lance, bestowing her favour upon the one who was not likely to do anything to deserve it.

  I shall take all I came for, and probably more, he had told her, and now he was well on the way to making that prediction a certainty, with her help. Damn the man.

  Acknowledging her capitulation, he nodded, curtly, lifting his lance and wheeling his horse away to canter across the field with the pink pennant fluttering above him victoriously. To her embarrassed astonishment, the crowd erupted into laughing applause, even those alongside her, and it was only then that she realised the full significance of what he was parading before the spectators, even more explicit than his feat earlier that afternoon when he had pierced the ring.

  To hide her face in shame would have been childish. To maintain a stony mask would have been unnecessarily prudish and, even worse, to laugh would have shown her approval. Instead, she chose a middle way by begging Jolita silently to pretend some kind of distracting conversation. In this way, they kept up a meaningless sisterly chatter until the hubbub had died down but, even with the comfort of Jolita’s warm hand over hers, her own were trembling with anger and humiliation at the man’s disgraceful tactics.

  At the trumpeters’ fanfare, the mounted heralds entered the lists preceded by a drummer whose beat echoed that of Eloise’s heart. There was no time for more discussion. With one hand raised, the heralds droned out the rules: the winner of each contest to be the one who performed best out of three jousts either by breaking his opponent’s lance, unhorsing him, or by bringing down both horse and rider, which would be an outright win. A draw would be decided on grounds of style, a decision the women approved of, for often a contest would continue with swords and axes until one of the men was disabled. Last, they were reminded that all draws had been made and that silence was to be maintained during each joust so as not to distract the contestants.

  Well used to brutal entertainments in the form of bear-baiting and cock-fighting, to punishments that were almost invariably public shows, the standing crowds wasted no sympathy on the noblemen and the shattering violence of their favourite sport. To the townsfolk, it was an added attraction that, for once, the aristocracy were getting their deserts, even though they inflicted it upon themselves. Each mighty clash of lance upon shield, helm or breast-plate, every crack of lance upon lance, every staggering lurch of the horses as they were stopped dead in their tracks at full gallop was greeted with roars of approval that took no heed of the heralds’ commands for silence. Lances were broken and thrown aside, each knight galloping back to his end of the lists to grab another one from his squire before turning again for the next charge, having barely enough time to position himself correctly before the next encounter.

  The jousting helms, mostly of iron, allowed the wearers to see through a narrow slit only what was immediately in front of them, making it difficult to keep a horse to the right of the opponent and the lance across the horse’s neck to make an assault from the left side.

  ‘They should have a barrier between them,’ said Lady Francesca de Molyns. ‘Your father’s horse seems to know where it’s supposed to go, but it doesn’t look as if his opponent’s does. Who did the herald say he was, dear?’ she asked Eloise.

  ‘I don’t know, Mother. I don’t suppose he knows himself, at this moment.’

  Sir Crispin had drawn against a young knight whose borrowed horse had a mind of its own, jousting not being one of its favourite pastimes. A barrier between the contestants would have helped to keep it from swerving across Sir Crispin’s path at the critical moment, but this practice had not yet been adopted in England as it had on the continent. As a result, its unfortunate rider was prised out of the high-backed saddle by Sir Crispin’s lance, landing him like a fish on the straw-covered ground with a heavy thud while the relieved horse headed for the open field.

  To avoid fatal injuries, jousting lances had their points replaced by coronels, crown-shaped devices with three blunt prongs. Even so, the force of a blow delivered at speed was enough to stop a horse and rider and to splinter an eleven-foot lance against the opponent’s shield. Sir Crispin would go on to the next round, but his had been an easy victory. There were others who were better matched.

  Still simmering with mortification, Eloise’s hurt pride was not about to be eased by the announcement that the
next jousts would be between her half-brother, Sir Rolph de Molyns, and Sir Owain of Whitecliffe. Ideally, she would have preferred them both to lose but, as one of them had to win, she laid her weak hopes on Sir Rolph while trying to disregard the pale pink silk now fluttering from Sir Owain’s upper arm.

  ‘Well, of course,’ said the Lady Griselle, loudly, ‘we all know how much time and money Sir Owain spends on his jousting, don’t we? My husband is a family man. His estates are—’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ whispered Lady Francesca, patting her arm. ‘But not now. The heralds have called for silence.’

  Lady Griselle pouted, sneaking a glance at Eloise’s stony profile and then down at her own fruitful bump. She tucked her hands beneath it, lifting its weight off her thighs. Surprisingly, her husband looked more imposing in armour than he did without it, his gold and green chevrons zig-zagging across every surface and, on his helm, a large papier-máché water-mill sat firmly upon a mound of blue painted water. At that moment, she was quite proud of him.

  Sir Owain took his plumed helm from his squire and placed it firmly over his head, completely obscuring his implacable expression. Without looking, he reached out a metal-plated hand for his lance, tossed it in the air and caught it below the vamplate, the conical guard above the grip. Then he waited for the command.

  The fanfare of trumpets sounded. ‘Laissez aller!’ called the herald, cutting the air with one hand.

  At the prick of spurs, the two horses leapt forward from each end of the lists, increasing their speed with each stride, heads down, necks level, their trappings billowing like colourful sails. The lances, tucked tightly underarm, were lowered to aim immediately before impact, giving the opponent little warning of where it would strike, only that it would, somewhere.

  The shock set both stallions back hard upon their haunches, their front hooves pawing the air to keep their balance, the riders flung back into their saddles by the force of the collision. Both lances snapped off halfway, splintering dangerously and denting both shields before the riders could recover, turn, and head quickly back for the next lance.