Sword of the Crown

by Paul J Bennett

  “Did I ever tell you how your parents met?” asked Lord Robert.

  “Oh, don’t tell that story, Robert, I beg of you,” said her father.

  “You must tell me everything, Uncle. Never mind what he says.”

  Her uncle looked mischievously at his brother-in-law. “Well, you know your Uncle Edward used to be the Baron of Bodden before your father, but before your grandfather died, both brothers were just knights, and your grandfather sent them to Wincaster to season them.”

  “What were they like back then?” she asked, her curiosity peaked.

  “Well, your Uncle Edward was always the wild one, but your father had his moments too.”

  She found that hard to believe. She had never met her uncle, as he had died years before she had been born, but she always saw her father as a man who controlled himself.

  “Evelyn was, of course, my older-”

  “And better looking,” Fitz interrupted.

  “Yes, I’ll give you that, old man, she was better looking. Anyway, she was my older sister, and she was visiting the Capital with our mother. I was younger at the time, so I was likely learning to ride or slaying dragons or some such thing.” Aubrey giggled at her father's explanation of his younger self's whereabouts.

  “Anyway, your uncle decides he wants to woo this lady of the court, and so he has a few drinks to steady his nerves and then makes his way to her estate.”

  Beverly looked at her father to see him hiding his face in his hands.

  “Once he arrives at the estate, he makes his way underneath the balcony and then decides he needs a flower or something to profess his love. Now you need to know, he’s dragged your father there along with him, and both of them are drunk, remember. So he starts crawling about on his hands and knees in the garden looking for a flower to pick. Of course, he’s completely destroying the garden as he does this.”

  “Oh no,” Beverly said. “What was my father doing?”

  “Your father was embarrassed by the whole spectacle, just like he is now, and starts yelling at his brother to stop. ‘Get out of the plants, Edward’ he says, but of course, he’s also soused. They’re making so much noise that someone comes out on the balcony to see what the ruckus is all about. Edward catches a glimpse of the figure and pulls himself to his feet, professing his love to the woman and telling her that he wants to elope with her. Your father tries to stop him, but Edward won’t have any of it. He steps into the clearing, and that's when he realizes he’s talking to the girl's mother. Well, all he can think to do is say ‘run’, and they both try to escape. Of course, they’re so drunk, they don’t know which way is which, and they end up crashing through the hedge, into the neighbouring estate. Your Uncle Edward stops as he exits the other side of the hedge, but your father rushes out, straight into a fountain.”

  “Oh no, that’s terrible,” Beverly said, chuckling.

  “Wait, that’s not the best part. The other side of the hedge was our backyard, you see, and it just so happened that our family was entertaining guests at the time. As your father staggers through the hedge and hits the edge of the fountain, he desperately tries to grab something to steady himself, and manages to take hold of my sister's cloak, dragging them both into the fountain.” Robert was barely able to get this last sentence out, for he was laughing hysterically. Soon, they were all laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe. Even her father finally joined in.

  “And that,” Lord Brandon finally said, catching his breath, “is how Lord Richard Fitzwilliam met Lady Evelyn Brandon.” He rose and bowed, and everyone clapped.

  Aubrey piped up, “How did you meet Mummy, Father?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m afraid that story isn’t nearly as funny. We were introduced by your Uncle Matthew, and I’m pleased to say, I didn’t get her soaking wet the first time I met her.” He smiled at his daughter. “Now,” he continued, “it’s long past somebody's bedtime.”

  “Wait,” said Aubrey, “can cousin Beverly put me to bed?”

  Lord Robert looked to Beverly, “If it’s all right with her?”

  “I’d be happy to,” she said. “Come along you, off to bed.” She chased her cousin up the stairs.

  As she tucked her into bed, Aubrey spoke, “Do you have a story of how you met your husband, Beverly?”

  Beverly was stunned. “I don’t have a husband,” she reminded the young lady.

  “No, not yet,” the little girl persisted, “but you’ve already met him, haven’t you.”

  She smiled at Aubrey, “Never you mind, missy. Now get to sleep.”

  She turned to leave, but Aubrey called out, “Wait, you have to tell me a bedtime story.”

  “Really, at this hour?”

  “Please,” she pleaded, “it helps me sleep.”

  “All right, what story do you want to hear.”

  “Tell me the story of how you met Aldwin.” Beverly’s eyes opened wide, and Aubrey just smiled.

  Seventeen

  Investiture

  Summer 952 MC

  On the morning of her investiture, Beverly started the day very early to ensure she was at the Palace long before the ceremony commenced. There were six initiates, including herself, who had arrived shortly before sun up. Each one had a sponsor to help them prepare, and she was glad her father was there to lend her a hand and keep her company.

  “Are you nervous?” asked her father.

  “Only restless, Father,” she said.

  “I remember my investiture; I found it all quite overwhelming. Let’s go over it one more time, to make sure you’re ready.”

  “Very well,” Beverly sighed. They had been going over this for days, and she was sure she remembered everything. She was starting to wonder if this was more for his benefit than hers, but she decided to humour him this one last time. “We go into the Palace Chapel to receive a small blessing. Then we go to the great hall where we will be served a simple breakfast. The Holy Father will give another blessing, then we move to the courtyard. You’ll be there with Lightning, and so I will go and stand by you. The Knight Commander will order us to mount, and then I leap into the saddle.”

  “You know you don’t actually have to leap, you just climb up.”

  “Quiet, Father, you’re interrupting my chain of thought. Once we’re mounted, we follow the Knight Commander. He leads us out of the Palace and down the Royal Promenade. There’ll be lots of people lining the street, and we’re allowed to wave if we want to.”

  “What happens when you reach the Cathedral?” he prompted.

  “We dismount, and I pass the reins to you because you and the others have been following along behind. We follow the Knight Commander inside where we are told to stand at the front. Then, each initiate will be struck by the Knight Commander to demonstrate we can take a blow. He will then turn and say we are worthy. The Holy Father says a long boring speech, then the king comes forward, and we all kneel. He smacks us on the shoulders with a sword, and we swear fealty. Then he says we’re knights and the celebration begins.”

  Her father gave her a stern look. “More or less correct, though I don’t think the king will be ‘smacking’ you on the shoulder.” He took out a handkerchief and rubbed away an imaginary smudge on her armour. “We’re all very proud of you, my dear. Your mother, were she here, would be proud of you, too.”

  “Thank you, Father, that means a lot to me.”

  A thin man, a royal courtier, stepped into the room, announcing it was time to begin and the other initiates lined up in front of her. Taking the lead was Sir Balton, the oldest. She had learned that he had been wounded in the battle that had seen him knighted, and it had taken more than a year for him to heal. Second in line was Sir Malcolm, with his finely styled blond hair. He was dressed immaculately, and Beverly wondered just how many coins his armour had cost, for it was inlaid with what appeared to be gold. Following Sir Malcolm was Sir Graham, who was the tallest of the bunch, but what he had in height he looked to lack in wit. She wondered how well h
e could fight, for had to be constantly reminded of where he was supposed to go. Sir Preston came next, and he appeared to be an ordinary type, a little rough around the edges, but carried himself well. When he was a captain in Mattingly, he had helped repel a Norland raid. Beverly wondered if the man ever shaved, for during all their practise runs, his face was perpetually in need of a shave, and today was no exception. Lastly, in front of Beverly, was Sir Neville, the son of the Earl of Eastwood. He had tried to insist during practise that he be given the lead position, but was told the order was based on the dates they were originally knighted; Beverly, being the most recent, came last.

  The group made their way to the chapel where the Holy Father, a small bald man in a robe, sprinkled water over them while he intoned a blessing. Beverly bent her head, as did the others, but spent her time thinking about the ceremony, not thanking Saxnor. She was sure he would not care one way or the other; he was a God that valued deeds not words. Blessing complete, the next stop on the ceremony tour was the great hall where the traditional meal was ready for them; bread that they might be sustained and red wine that symbolized their blood that would be spilt in service to the crown.

  She bit into the bread and finding it stale, reached for the wine while glancing up at Sir Graham, who had decided to gulp his down. His eyes bulged, and he spat it out. “Saxnor give me strength, that’s horrid stuff,” the knight exclaimed through a coughing fit.

  Beverly, thankful for Sir Graham's well-timed warning, re-thought her actions and took a small sip. The wine was coarse and burned her throat; definitely not a superior vintage! Perchance someone was being mischievous, she thought, but choose not to voice her opinion. Poor Sir Graham, his cup was refilled, and he was told he had to drink it all. Beverly decided that sipping her own wine little by little would alleviate the chances of her having to imbibe a second glass. Looking around, she noticed Sir Neville had finished his in one large gulp and merely made a face. Sir Preston seemed to enjoy his, and he drank it heartily, then asked for more. She wondered if they all had the same wine and was about to break her silence when the doors were opened, and they were ushered out of the room.

  The Holy Father, who had been mumbling something during the meal, now led them to the courtyard where the horses were waiting. Beverly took her place by her father. The Knight Commander strode to the beginning of the line, and looking toward the first candidate, yelled in a clear voice, “Who sponsors this knight?”

  The elderly man beside Sir Balton replied in a thin, but steady voice, “I, Sir Albert, do sponsor this knight.”

  The ritual was repeated down the line until it was Beverly's turn.

  “Who sponsors this knight?” the Knight Commander called out for the final time today.

  “I, Lord Richard Fitzwilliam, Baron of Bodden do sponsor this gallant knight,” her father pronounced.

  The Knight Commander took a step back and in a clear voice commanded, “Knights, mount.”

  Beverly put her foot in the stirrup and leaped into the saddle in one smooth motion. Sir Preston, who had been looking around as he was preparing to mount, was surprised by the swiftness of her actions, and misplacing his foot, completely missed his stirrup. It threw him off balance, and he fell to the ground with a loud groan escaping. Laughter burst from the assembled audience while he stood up, red-faced, and tried again. This time he succeeded, and finally, all the initiates were ready to proceed.

  The Knight Commander, now mounted, lined up in front of the initiates and gave the order to advance. The knights fell in behind him, forming two lines, three deep. Sir Preston appeared uncomfortable on his horse and was slow to respond, so Sir Neville, eager to show off, took his place in the line. Beverly brought up the rear, with Sir Preston forced to ride by her side.

  Their path took them through the archway to the promenade and then south through the city. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of spectators lined the streets, cheering. Merchants were dashing back and forth selling all manner of items. Children would watch the knights pass and then run ahead to watch them again. The pace of the march was agonizingly slow, and she found it difficult to rein Lightning in at times, his long legs were unused to the slow gait, but she managed to maintain control over her steed.

  The noise of the crowd was overwhelming, and she turned to Sir Preston to comment on this, only to notice the uncomfortable position he was in. “Shift your bottom forward, Sir Preston,” she leaned in to suggest, “you’re too far back in the saddle.”

  Moving up slightly, he nodded his thanks.

  “And stop gripping so tightly with your legs; you’re making your horse nervous.”

  Sir Preston was pale, and sweat trickled down the sides of his face. He looks terrified, Beverly thought to herself. Suddenly, his problem dawned on her; he couldn’t ride. How could an accomplished knight be such an abysmal horseman?

  Turning back to the front, she witnessed Sir Malcolm in all his glory. He was smiling at the crowd, waving, flashing his bright white teeth at all the ladies. One woman ran from the side of the street and threw him a rose. He caught it with a flourish, smelled it and then tucked in into his sword belt. The crowd cheered, and he continued in his display of theatrics, obviously relishing the attention, but this slowed their pace down even more, something she had not thought was possible.

  Turning towards the west gate, they sped up for some unknown reason. Beverly was grateful but wondered why, until she spotted a grand procession ahead of them. It must have been waiting, for when they arrived, trumpets blared, then unexpectedly, there was an army of soldiers, Holy Fathers, and courtiers ahead of them. The new procession moved forward to the tempo of the trumpets, and their small group matched the cadence. It was a marvellous feeling, and Beverly couldn’t help but smile. Caught up in the pageantry herself, she waved to the crowd and saw faces smiling back at her. Little girls were waving wooden swords, and it struck her; she had become a symbol for them. Turning to share her observations with Sir Preston, who was facing the other side of the street and trying to wave, she watched as he lost his balance. Beverly grabbed his cape and held on, preventing him from sliding off his horse. The hapless knight leaned heavily in the opposite direction due to his overbalance, and she tugged harder, pulling him back into his saddle. He smiled his thanks and kept both hands on the reins for the rest of the trip.

  The Cathedral finally came into view as they made their last turn. It was a magnificent building, with pure white stone and a large dome on the top. The roadway leading to the building had been cleared of spectators, leaving room for the knights in front of them to dismount and form a guard. Once reaching the rendezvous point, each of the six initiates dismounted in turn, passing the reins to their sponsors. The other knights formed a line to either side of them, creating a path that led into the Cathedral. Once again, Sir Neville took advantage of someone's tardiness and was now the third person in line. He had snatched Sir Graham’s spot and said knight stared daggers at Sir Neville, stepping forward as if to strike the arrogant man, but Beverly grabbed his arm. “Not here, Sir Graham,” she said in a pleasant voice, “your family is watching.”

  The angry man looked at her before nodding his thanks, finally falling back in line behind the usurper. They proceeded into the Cathedral and walked through the atrium then halted. Individually, they would walk down the nave, each waiting until the one before them had completed the long walk. Sir Bertram went first, and Beverly watched as he proudly strode along, his footsteps echoing in the high ceilinged structure. He was only one-third of the way toward the Holy Father at the far end when a chorus of young voices began to sing. The assembled guests, who filled the seats on either side of the nave, stood as the choir began, watching Sir Bertram as he strode by. The sound echoed through the majestic structure as if the Gods themselves had unleashed their blessings.

  Once Sir Bertram reached the end, he was directed by a Holy Father to take up a position near the altar. Sir Malcolm went next, repeating the process, forming up beside Sir
Bertram. Sir Neville tried to push forward, to be the third in line, but a rough hand grabbed his arm. He turned with a snarl to complain and saw Marshal-General Valmar holding him. The man shook his head and pointed to his correct position. Sir Neville sulkily moved in front of Beverly, looked around and gave her a look of disgust. And so it went on, each initiate having their moment of glory, each standing in line before the altar.

  Finally, it was Beverly’s turn, and she strode forward with confidence. She kept her eyes looking straight ahead, but could make out the distinctive blue of her aunt's dress out of the corner of her eye, and then she heard Aubrey’s distinct voice, “There she is, Mama!”

  Murmurs came from the crowd; a woman had not been knighted in the cathedral in living history, and some people thought it was most improper. Others were cheering her on, with a number of female voices drowning out the men who were complaining. She kept her eyes on the altar and took up her position alongside Sir Neville.

  Now a hush fell over the crowd as the Knight Commander entered the Cathedral; everyone knew what was about to happen. He quickly strode down the nave to stand in front of the knights, facing the altar, waiting. The Holy Father blessed the assemblage, and then the Knight Commander turned, calling forward Sir Bertram.

  Sir Bertram walked over and stood to face the man. Beverly knew what was coming next, but the suddenness of the blow startled her; the Knight Commander had struck him forcibly on the left arm. Sir Bertram swayed with the power of the blow but made no noise. The Knight Commander turned back to the Holy Father and announced the knight was worthy. Sir Bertram returned to his previous position, and Sir Malcolm was called forth. When he was struck he staggered back a step, and the assembled crowd uttered a collective gasp. This pattern was repeated with each knight being struck, and then pronounced worthy. Beverly, the last one called, stood in front of the Knight Commander and waited. The man hesitated, and then suddenly struck her a heavier blow than she had previously witnessed this day. She was ready; she leaned into it slightly as he swung and she noticed him wince when his hand struck her armour. Serves him right, she thought, for being tougher on me because I’m a woman.