by Peter Telep
Doyle caught Christopher’s approach on the periphery and turned his head. “Where have you been?”
Christopher climbed down from his mount as Doyle left the group and joined him. “I told you I would find a knight to serve-with a little help from Orvin.”
“Who is he?” “Lord York.”
“I’ve heard of him. He serves Lord Woodward.
You’ve done well.”
“Thank you.” Christopher glanced at the target field. “Have you entered this competition?”
Doyle nodded. “I’m hoping to win at least one day’s laurels.”
“You will,” Christopher said. “But don’t let the ale sway your aim.”
Doyle smirked, then took a rebellious sip from his tankard. “I’ve asked a few, and unfortunately there is no competition for squires. But I think you will be competing in a different game today.” Doyle craned his neck southward and gestured with his head toward a tent, its flaps pulled open.
Inside the shelter, Christopher made out the form of a dark-haired girl sitting with a bowman on a short bench. He squinted, and saw it was Brenna and Innis. “He’s boastful, that one,” Doyle said.
“Can you beat him?” Christopher asked with all seriousness.
“Probably.”
Christopher grabbed Doyle by his tunic collar. “No, you have to beat him.”
Doyle smiled. “The trick is to make ·him beat him self. That I can do.”
Christopher’s heart suddenly said hello to his stom ach as he saw Brenna and Innis get up from the bench and duck out of their tent. They started toward him.
“You exchange the bitter pleasantries and leave the rest to me.” Doyle licked his lips, as if preparing his mouth for the verbal clash.
“Good day, Christopher,” Brenna said, as she and Innis stopped before them.
Christopher smiled his hello. It pained him so much to see Brenna with Innis that he knew his voice would betray his feelings. He would remain silent. His jealousy would not flatter him.
“Serving a knight today, are you?” Innis asked. Christopher nodded.
“What’s the matter, lost your voice?” Innis begged to be beaten.
“Quiet reserve is a skill many cannot master,”
Doyle said.
“You’re Doyle, aren’t you?”
“Yes, varlet. ” Doyle made sure the boy knew who outranked whom.
“I guess it was nice of your sergeant to let you compete today. I heard you lost your bow privileges. Something to do with time off to come to our castle?” Innis looked to Brenna, expecting her to enjoy the reproof as much as he did, but Brenna was not smiling; in fact, her eyes had not left Christopher since she and Innis had stepped from the tent.
Christopher had trouble meeting Brenna’s gaze, but in the flashes that he did, he sensed there was something there. He had assumed she wanted to be with Innis, and had not questioned her feelings back at Uryens’s castle. But now her expression was lit with her longing, and it renewed his passion and his pain.
“It was good of him,” Doyle agreed, “so that I could teach a few boys here. Many of you have not refined your skills.”
“We’ll see how much you know,” Innis challenged. “I can offer you this advice. Shoot hard. Shoot with anger, for that is the way of the battlefield.” “Thanks,” Innis told Doyle. “Perhaps I will.” He turned his gaze on Christopher. “Good luck to you and your knight.” Innis was polite, not sincere.
Christopher tipped his head forward as Innis pulled Brenna away, back to their bench inside the tent.
Brenna looked over her shoulder at him, and he wanted to see the pleading in her eyes so much that he wasn’t sure if it was really there. She was melan choly; there was no imagining that. He had to talk to her alone, but Innis kept her chained to his arm.
“I have to talk to Brenna,” Christopher said tersely. “You’ll get your chance,” Doyle answered. “Innis will try much too hard today. His rage will unbalance him. He will become obsessed with winning. And his mind will be fixed on that.”
“So when do I see her? I’ve a knight to serve, remember?” Christopher’s hopes tore at the seams.
“I’ll fetch you when the time is right. We’ll make it work. Where is your tent?” Doyle’s determined face consoled Christopher.
“I’m still looking for it,” he said. “An argent pen non with a sable falcon.”
“I think I know where it is. Come on.”
Christopher grabbed the reins of his rounsey and followed Doyle away from the archers’ field toward a cluster of tents on the perimeter of the north side of the practice field. As they walked, they passed a pair of jugglers who practiced their routine, anlaces tum bling in the air over each of their heads.
A short squire Christopher dimly recognized fitted a gold-and-red horse trapping over a destrier that stood behind a blue-striped tent. The animal bucked as the squire pulled the hood over the horse’s head, then settled down as its eyes and ears were centered in and through the hood’s holes. The squire gave Doyle and Christopher a passing nod, then shouted “Wait!” as they were about to move on. “You’re Christopher! “
Christopher eyed the squire once more; a name still evaded him. “Yes.”
The boy ran over to them, and Christopher could not take his gaze off the boy’s ears; they protruded from his head like the small wings of a starling in flight. “I’m Leslie. I trained with you. I trained with you both. I had heard you’d come back, Doyle. But Christopher. I thought you were dead.”
“I will be if I don’t meet my knight now,” Christopher said playfully. “I’m mad at myself for not remembering you. How could I have forgotten those ears!”
Leslie grinned, tugging on his left ear self-con sciously. “Well, good luck. Perhaps this evening we can talk?”
“Perhaps. St. George be with you today, Leslie.” Christopher and Doyle smiled, then moved on. They found York’s tent, and, upon seeing that
York had already arrived, Doyle smartly exited. “Remember, I’ll come for you.”
Before going inside the tent, Christopher paused to examine the black destrier tied to the left tent pole next to York’s. The horse was slightly smaller than the knight’s, making it a perfect match for Christopher. He patted the animal’s head and the mount whinnied softly. Then he moved along the side of the horse and scrutinized the saddle. March and Torrey were alive and well and still producing seats of marginal quality. Christopher almost laughed out loud when he saw the careless stitching and wrong-sized pommel. He tied his rounsey next to the destriers, parted one of the tent flaps, and moved out of the scorching sun to join York. “I saw you with your friends,” York said. He had stripped down to his breeches, shirt, and gambeson, and did not look up from the silver greave he was inspecting. “Perhaps you and the archer could exchange skills.”
“I’ll have him teach me, though you should not expect much.”
“Your modesty does you credit. Like your new mount?”
“Very much so.”
“She’s only borrowed-so be easy on her.” York set the greave down among the other pieces of his armor. “We’re off to the king’s tent.”
14
They found the high-backed chairs of the main tent comfortable, and Christopher and York spent most of the day sitting, eating, and watching the tournament. Christopher felt uneasy with the idea that behind him were the king, Lord Uryens, and Lord Devin. Once, he looked over his shoulder, sim ply out of curiosity, and the king’s eyes met his. Shaken, he looked away, and concentrated on the games.
The jousting matches went as follows:
Sir Woodward versus Sir Carney: Sir Carney unhorsed.
Sir Jarvis versus Sir Gauter: Sir Gauter unhorsed
Sir Ector versus Sir Bryan: both lances broken.
Sir Richard versus Sir Bors: Sir Bors unhorsed.
Sir Cardew versus Sir Allan: both unhorsed.
When the sun touched the banner that flew from the top of the keep, Yor
k and Christopher left the main tent and returned to York’s.
Christopher helped his lord into the link-mail hauberk, then fitted and buckled the knight’s breast plate around him. Next came the upper and lower vambraces that protected his arms, then the couters over his elbows. York slipped his hands into his gauntlets while Christopher finished adjusting the pauldrons that covered York’s shoulders. A steeltas set shielded the knight’s upper hips, then Christopher fetched and dressed Yark with a pair of cuisses for the lower hips. The poleyns that hid the knight’s knees gave Christopher a little trouble as the bindings were worn. He reinforced them with extra strips of leather he cut from the tie of a riding bag. The greaves went on quickly and the sabatons, recently purchased by the knight, fit over York’s riding boots perfectly.
York gave Christopher a surcoat which bore his coat of arms. The livery fit well, and Christopher felt awed to be displaying the sable falcon across his chest. York donned a similar surcoat over his breastplate.
Outside, York helped Christopher fit the trapper over the armored destrier; it too bore York’s coat of arms. The white fabric draped down to the destrier’s beige cannons.
Christopher slipped a saddle cloth over the horse, then heaved up the saddle. “If I may,” Christopher said, regarding the seat, “the workmanship here is not what you deserve.”
“Orvin told me you were a leatherdresser’s son.” “The next time you commission a saddle, take me with you.”
“I will.”
Christopher helped York onto the destrier. It took three tries, but finally the knight was able to swing his weighted leg over the horse. “I suspect I will not get up if I’m unhorsed,” he told Christopher.
“Do try, lord.”
“Ha! Of course I will.”
Christopher fetched York’s lance and leaned it against his mount. This was only an ornamental pole, used to fly York’s pennon, and would not be used in competition. The knight’s shield was a long, rectan gular heater, and it, too, bore York’s arms in paint. Christopher picked up the escutcheon, then slipped his arms under the guige, effectively suspending the shield around his back, archer style.
Stifling a groan under the weight, Christopher mounted his destrier. Knight and squire trotted slowly down the path toward the jousting field. The heads of other knights and squires preparing armor and arms outside their tents turned, and some shouted their wishes of good fortune. If there was anything good about being a knight, this was it. To be treated with high respect and to feel important, loved, and admired. To don colorful livery and look larger than life.
The ride to the jousting field was too short, for in the fleeting moments that passed, Christopher savored his duty as squire. Yes, he was on parade in front of peers who might carp at him, but all the while he found himself smiling.
They were met at the west end of the jousting field by a young herald. The herald nodded to the four trumpeters who stood centered on the north side. The men put their horns to their mouths and sounded three short notes, followed by a higher, longer fourth one.
When the trumpeting had echoed away into the hills, the herald announced: “York of Shores.” And then came the blazon, a description of York’s coat of arms for the audience. “Argent. With sable falcon.”
Another herald, some two hundred yards to the east, signaled to the trumpeters, and again, the notes resounded. The herald announced York’s competitor: “Duke Edward of Somerset.” Then the duke’s blazon: “Or. With gules phoenix.”
“See you on the other end,” York said with a wink. He untucked his great helm from under his arm, removed the bascinet from inside it, slipped the close-fitting caplike helmet on first, then topped it with the helm.
“You will,” Christopher said. He lifted a fresh lance from the pole arms rack, checked it for cracks, then handed it to York. As his lord steadied the lance, resting the butt of the pole on the hook attached to his right breastplate, Christopher kicked his destrier into a trot toward the east end of the field. Duke Edward’s squire came toward him, and Christopher was surprised to see Leslie.
“Well this is fate,” Leslie said. “At least we’re not at each other’s throats like most of the others.”
The two boys passed, and Christopher shouted over his shoulder, “I still wish your lord luck.”
“And luck to yours!” Leslie returned.
Christopher neared the duke of Somerset. He would take up his position behind the duke, standing ready with a fresh lance for York.
The duke’s helm concealed his face. If Christopher were able to see Edward, he might be able to find some flaw there, some sign of weakness on the duke’s face that would ease the tension in him and make him more confident in York’s abilities. As it was, he knew York was a great fighter, but the duke appeared equally adept. Christopher noted the small movements Edward made, the way he rolled his lance, checking it himself for cracks and finding the perfect grip on the pole. As he passed the duke, he saw the man crane his helmeted head up to regard him. The duke’s head jerked back for a second, and his destrier shook its head and neighed as Edward had accidentally tugged left on his reins.
Christopher knew he couldn’t have startled the man, but for some reason the duke had acted so. “Sorry to disrupt you, lord.”
The duke looked over his shoulder at Christopher, but did not answer. Edward’s gaze then switched to the tourney ground ahead.
Two abbots came from the side of the field, each one blessing a jouster. Christopher could tell by the way Edward’s abbot fired off his Latin that the man had been doing it all day, and there was something missing in the words: emotion.
As the abbots left the field, York raised his lance to signal he was ready. The duke did the same, then all eyes fell upon King Arthur,-who rose from his seat in the center of the main tent and walked to the edge of the dais. He thrust his fist in the air. Christopher swal lowed. The fist came down. Both knights kicked their mounts, and the horses galloped toward each other.
There was no dividing wall on this field, which made the competition all the more dangerous. A col- lision of horses would prove deadly. ·
But Yark and Edward were expert riders, and tilted toward each other unwaveringly. The sharp ened tips of their lances flashed a moment in the sun light before the knights connected.
Klang!
From his angle, Christopher could not see where York’s lance had struck the duke’s body, but he could see that the duke’s lance first touched York’s shield, then slid over it to stab York in his pauldron covered shoulder. York fell back off his destrier and hit the ground, ·head and shoulder first. A cheer erupted from the audience as the still-mounted duke circled around his fallen opponent.
Christopher heeled his steed into a gallop. As he drew closer to York, he saw that his lord lay flat on his back, unmoving. Everything that was Christopher trembled as he jumped down from his destrier and fell on his knees before York. Gently, he lifted his lord’s head and pulled off the helm.
York’s face was ashen, his eyes closed. Christopher put his ear to his lord’s mouth, but someone pulled him away by the shoulders.
Lord Woodward assumed Christopher’s position over York. “Not you. Not you, York.” Woodward’s voice was weighted with anguish, his clean-shaven face wan and creased with grief.
Christopher stood, his eyes stinging with tears. It must be my fault. Maybe I’m cursed. Hasdale, Garrett, and now York. God, help me to understand this.
Christopher saw Duke Edward at the herald’s tent, making sure his victory was properly recorded and his next match scheduled. Then Edward rode off toward the first row of tents with Leslie in tow. Leslie turned sympathetic eyes on Christopher and mouthed the words, “I’m sorry,” before,disappearing with his master.
The tournament was halted for the day. It was late anyway, some argued, but even if it were early, Christopher thought it should have stopped-out of respect for York.
Stiff with sorrow, Christopher rode slowly back tow
ard Orvin’s stable. He could not think of any thing; his mind was folded in darkness. He carried York’s lance, the pennon fluttering in the wind. For a moment, he looked up at it, at the falcon.
15
For the next four days, Duke Edward of Somerset took the laurels, defeating a grand total of thirty-nine opponents. There were many injuries along the way, but the only fatality was York. York’s death seemed more than an accident to Christopher, and he fell grew more somber as the tourney progressed. It didn’t help matters that the man who defeated York kept winning.
“You’re not a curse, young patron saint,” Orvin told him as they sat in the grandstand and watched the opening joust of the sixth and final day of the games. “You accuse me of running away from my son’s death. But look who runs now. Doyle has come for you twice, and yet you refuse to see him. He tells me he’s trying to bring you and Brenna together. But here you sit, wallowing, blaming yourself for things you could not have changed.”
“But isn’t that the point,” Christopher said, staring at his sandals. “Why can’t we change them?”
“What is life without death? What is good without evil? There must be something to oppose the other; otherwise, I believe, neither exists.”
Christopher shrugged. “So what does your sky say about me now?” He tilted his head back and eyed the passing puffs of white with cynicism.
Orvin was about to speak, but the charging of horses on the jousting field thieved the old man’s attention.
Duke Edward and Sir Jarvis tilted at each other, and when their lances crashed into each other’s shields, both men were unhorsed.