The Ill-Made Knight

by Christian Cameron

  ‘I’ll have your head on a spear, Butt Boy!’ he yelled.

  ‘If your horse comes another step, my archer will drop you in the water,’ I said. ‘I have a warrant and a safe passage from the Prince of Wales, and you are in defiance of him.’

  ‘Fuck your Prince,’ he said, and forced his horse into the water. ‘We are the masters here now.’

  Sam loosed.

  The arrow went into the horse’s head just below where the mane emerged between the ears, and the horse dropped in the river as if poleaxed. An expensive horse, too.

  Men piled into the shallow ford to pull the Bourc clear of the water.

  ‘Let’s ride,’ I said. I slapped Sam Bibbo on the shoulder and he grinned.

  ‘I’ll pay you double for that,’ I said.

  ‘Putting that evil bastard in the water was my treat,’ Bibbo said.

  An hour later, we found four nuns and a priest at a crossroads.

  Richard rode up to the priest. ‘Can we be of service!’ he asked.

  One of the nuns began to scream.

  She screamed and screamed.

  Another nun began to beat at Richard with her fists. Considering she was about five feet high and he was a fully armoured knight on a war horse, you can see why this sticks in my memory. She meant him harm. She didn’t care what harm she took in return.

  Richard backed his horse away. ‘Sweet Jesu,’ he said. ‘Leave off, ma soeur. I’ve done you no harm.’

  ‘All of you,’ she shrieked. ‘All of you! I’ll kill you all, you hell-spawn!’

  The priest just shook his head. ‘Ride on,’ he said. ‘And do us no harm, I beg.’

  The nun stood in the road behind us. ‘May Satan rape you! May demons rip out your eyes! May he grind your flesh with a mill – rip you with red-hot pincers! May you take the plague!’ she shrieked. ‘Boil in oil! May worms eat your eyes, you shit-eating English!’

  We rode a little faster, as if her curses carried weight.

  Chaucer watched me. I felt his eyes on me, and I looked away from the nuns and at him. ‘What?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Hawkwood’s men, or Knolles’, or Camus’ or one of the other captain’s men raped them all. Good fun. Very chivalrous, no doubt.’ He nodded. ‘Perhaps they had it coming.’

  ‘Camus’ men are Gascons, not Englishmen,’ I said.

  Chaucer nodded. ‘That makes it different, I’m sure,’ he said.

  She was still screaming. She was too far away for her words to carry, but the shrill tone was like a witch, I thought.

  I leaned towards him and he flinched.

  ‘Richard and I saved your life,’ I said.

  Chaucer shrugged. ‘My ransom, I expect.’ He smiled his annoying, superior smile. ‘Camus wouldn’t kill me. He’d just sell me to the Prince.’

  I got control of myself and rode away. Richard rode with me.

  ‘Let me hit him, next time,’ he said. He grinned. ‘By God, William, that was a good fight.’

  It was our first one together, as brothers-in-arms, so to speak.

  The next day, we made contact with Sir James Pipe’s men, and Master Hoo gave them some sort of password, and we were taken to the Lieutenant of Normandy. Bah – perhaps he was made Lieutenant of Normandy later. I can’t remember.

  Sir James held the convent of Poissy. From the walls, we could see Paris on the horizon.

  He had fewer than 500 men, and he was waiting for Knolles and Hawkwood. He met with Master Hoo for half an hour, and Hoo emerged looking grey. I’d just seen to the horses – by then I was resigned to being a sort of military servant, and I’d admitted to myself that Hoo was the one in charge of the expedition. Richard and I got the convent’s servants to curry our horses. Given what we’d seen on the road, the convent made me . . . anxious.

  There wasn’t a nun to be seen, and all I could think of was the Bourc Camus’ assertion that nuns made good whores.

  By the blessed virgin, this courier duty was giving me heartache.

  At any rate, the horses were fed and clean for the first time in six days, and most of the men were already asleep. Chaucer was lying across a saddle, out cold.

  We were tired.

  ‘We need to ride. Immediately,’ Hoo said.

  I just looked at him. But he was not given to dramatics, and he hardly ever spoke.

  ‘It is . . .’ he shrugged. ‘I can’t say. But we must go. Now.’

  As I say, I’d realized he was the true commander of our enterprise, so I hauled our tired horses out of the stables, kicked the men awake – I didn’t kick John Hughes or Sam Bibbo, by the by. That would have been foolish.

  Richard shook his head. ‘What the fuck?’ he asked.

  Chaucer got to his feet. ‘You curried my horse!’ he said to Richard.

  Richard shrugged. ‘William curried your horse, you ingrate.’

  Chaucer looked at me as if waiting for the trick. He probably was.

  Richard raised an eyebrow. ‘Why don’t you repay him by finding out why the hell your master needs us to ride right now?’

  Chaucer nodded. ‘I’ll try,’ he said.

  Of course, while he tried, I had to saddle his mare. I looked at Goldie and shook my head. I’d been on him for two solid days and he needed rest, so I saddled my riding horse.

  We were out the gate with three hours of late autumn light left.

  ‘Paris?’ I asked Master Hoo.

  He nodded.

  ‘Messire, may I ask how dangerous this is?’ We were moving briskly.

  Hoo shrugged. ‘In truth, lad, I have no idea. Everything just went to hell.’ He looked at me. ‘You and your friend have done a fine job of keeping us alive so far. You are luck’s own child. Let’s pray you haven’t burned it all.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘I have good credit with the Prince. I swear to you that if you get me to Paris, I’ll see you well.’

  ‘Can I ask what all this is about?’ I tried.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ I muttered, or something equally blasphemous.

  We reached St Cloud by the simple expedient of riding all night and not giving way to the temptation to hide. There was fire all around us, but very few people, and the roads were clear. I have seen this many times – if you move fast on a good road it’s very hard for an enemy to ambush you, and in many cases, no one will lay an ambush on a highway.

  Luck? Good strategy? Whichever way you take it, we entered St Cloud as the sun rose, in heavy winter rain. There were guards on the gate, in hoods of crimson and royal blue – the colours of Paris. Their weapons were ill-kept and they had the indefinable air of incompetence that marks the militiaman.

  Master Hoo spat. ‘Fuck me,’ he said bitterly. He glanced at me. ‘Be very, very calm, messire. This is not—’

  He had no more time to speak, because we were surrounded by the militia at the gate.

  They read Master Hoo’s sauvegarde over and over, until I became convinced that none of them could read. My hands were numb, the gloves of my steel gauntlets were soaked through and bitter cold, and rain was running down the middle of my back between my shoulder blades, having soaked through my best three-quarter cloak about two in the morning.

  The ‘captain’ of the gate was younger than I was and very full of his own importance.

  Master Hoo looked bored.

  I began to grow angry. I was cold and wet, and I at least wanted into the warmth of the guard room, but none of the Paris militiamen seemed inclined to offer us so much as a cup of small beer.

  ‘May we come in and get warm?’ I asked.

  The man nearest me snarled. He had a partisan – a spear with heavy side lugs. He raised it and made to place it against my throat.

  I caught it in my left hand. I was still mounted, and without thinking I gave my riding horse the command to back, and he backed, dragging the Frenchman off his feet. He let go his weapon.

  Quite a few crossbows were suddenly levelled at me.

  ‘Your English friend
s are burning their way across France,’ the captain said. ‘We hesitate a little to let you into our city? Eh?’ he asked.

  ‘Your man tried to poke me with a spear,’ I said. I extended the spear to the captain. ‘Then he seems to have dropped it.’

  ‘Fucking aristo,’ spat the man whose weapon I’d taken. ‘Let’s just kill them all.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ the captain suddenly asked John Hughes.

  The Cumbrian looked blankly at him.

  Now, I happen to know that John had been in France ten years, and spoke good, if Gascon, French. But he glared sullenly at the French captain, and the captain went from man to man. ‘Why are you here?’ he finally asked me.

  I shrugged. ‘To escort that man,’ I said. I waved at Hoo. Let him fight his own battles.

  ‘Your sauvegarde is signed by the King of France,’ the captain said. ‘The King is a prisoner in England and no longer the head of our state. Your safe conduct is worthless.’

  ‘Let’s kill them all,’ said my friend, who had his spear back.

  ‘Shut up, Guillaume,’ said the captain. I saw this as a positive sign.

  Master Hoo shrugged. ‘I have . . .’ he paused. Getting words out of Master Hoo was like pulling the teeth of a healthy man, and I think he was guessing what he should say. ‘I have certain information – for the consideration of the government.’

  ‘What information?’ asked the captain. ‘What part of the government? Don’t ask me to believe that King Edward of England will treat with the Provost of Paris.’

  ‘Is the Provost of Paris now the head of government?’ Master Hoo asked.

  I looked at Chaucer.

  There were about twenty Paris militiamen on the gate. The more I looked at them, the more I thought we could take them. But we’d need to have a little surprise.

  So I stopped looking to Chaucer for information and started catching Richard’s eye.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the captain.

  Master Hoo reached into his pouch. ‘I have a letter for Master Etienne Marcel,’ he said.

  The captain reached for it.

  Hoo held it out of his reach – we were all still mounted, remember.

  ‘For Master Marcel himself,’ he said.

  The captain rolled his eyes. ‘Very well – why didn’t you say? I’ll send an escort – the Bois de Boulogne is full of Navarrese renegades and Englishmen. And fucking Gascons.’ He smiled grimly.

  An hour later, we were escorted over the Seine on the St Cloud bridge.

  The Paris militiamen weren’t very good, and they didn’t ride particularly well, but they were enthusiastic, and from them, in an hour, we learned that the Dauphin was a virtual prisoner who signed whatever the Provost and the Bishop of Laon, Robert Le Coq, told him to sign.

  I saw Master Hoo take note, and I was ready when he caught my eye.

  ‘Eh, messire!’ I called. ‘Your girth is slipping.’

  All the Parisians were happy for a break, for all that we were deep in the woods of the Bois de Boulogne and supposedly surrounded by broken men. In fact, it was pouring sheets of cold rain from a lead-roof sky and I assumed we were safe – no self-respecting Gascon criminal would go abroad on such a day.

  Men dismounted, and I went to Master’s Hoo’s horse and played with his saddle.

  ‘Can you take our escort?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Do it,’ he said.

  I went straight to Richard. ‘Hoo says we have to kill the escort. Right now.’

  Richard looked around.

  Someone in the escort understood English. Or, just possibly, they’d been told to kill us in the woods.

  Their leader was a journeyman butcher, a big brute with a huge falchion – a sword like a meat axe.

  He shouted, ‘Paris! St Denis!’ and killed Master Hoo with one contemptuous swing of his enormous weapon.

  Hoo never even called out. He slumped and fell, blood from his almost-severed neck pumping onto the muddy woods road.

  Richard had his sword in his hand immediately and cut down the Parisian nearest him.

  I was a horse length from the butcher, who was obviously the most dangerous man in the party. I drew and touched Goldie’s sides to send my sword into his back.

  But, of course, I wasn’t on my war horse.

  I was on my riding horse, who shied.

  The big bastard was on me in one turn of his horse.

  I didn’t, honestly, think I could parry that meat-cleaver with my longsword, but a few moments later I was still alive, and his sword had passed harmlessly down the length of mine, like water running off a roof. He was open. I cut at him.

  He had a kettle hat on, and my blow caught the brim and slammed it down into his mouth. He couldn’t see and it must have hurt.

  He swung wildly and killed my horse.

  Par dieu! I was in armour, or I wouldn’t be here to tell this, because another of the militiamen put his spear into the middle of my back, but my backplates and mail held. My poor palfrey fell forward onto its front feet and slumped to the ground, and I managed to get my feet under me.

  I thought the butcher was huge before, now he was eight feet above me, and his weapon crashed down. I got a piece of it on my sword, but the rest blew through my guard and, thanks to God, slipped down my pointed helmet, slamming into the top of my shoulder. It bit through my pauldron, stopped on my mail, and left me a bruise that lasted weeks, but I wasn’t dead. That’s what armour’s for.

  I backed off the road into the trees, dragging my two opponents after me. I had no idea what was happening – rain on a helmet drowns most of the clues your ears give as to where anyone is – and there were horses and men moving everywhere.

  In London, when we practised two and three on one, I had learned that the best way is to take the easy boy first, and then take your time with the tougher boy. The bastard with the spear was terrified – doing his duty, but scared spitless, and he was just prodding at me.

  He prodded with the spear while the butcher was getting control of his horse, and I got the shaft in my left hand and cut along it with the sword, so that thumbs and fingers sprayed. He was out of the fight.

  I had taken too long, though – I could feel the butcher coming at me in the rain, and I let myself fall to the ground in a clanking pile, as his blade parted the air over my head. I took too long getting up, and he had his horse turned.

  He came at me, his horse giving a little half-rear. But it wasn’t a war horse, and when I shouted, it shied – he cut too early, and I let the blow go and slammed my sword into him.

  He rode by and turned his horse.

  Armour. It goes both ways. He was in chain from his knee to the crown of his head, with leather pieces buckled over and a heavy coat of plates.

  There’s something terrible about giving your best blow and having it fail. I had hit him hard – twice.

  He came at me again.

  I spiked his horse in the muzzle with my point and stepped out of the way.

  His horse screamed and reared.

  Lightning crashed, and a levin bolt blew across the sky so brightly that, for a moment, I couldn’t see anything.

  I stumbled back and crashed into a tree just as a second tree came down, apparently struck by the lightning.

  I looked left and right. Despite the cold rain and winter wind, I was sweating like a horse and choking for breath – and I’d lost my opponent. I flung my visor up and turned through a circle.

  The rain was crashing down now, and I couldn’t see the next tree. There was thunder all around me, and I couldn’t tell, through my helmet, what was fighting and what was nature.

  I bent forward and breathed, water running down my nose and over my face.

  Something gave him away. I raised my sword before I even raised my head and his blow fell on my outstretched blade, near my hands, and skittered along the blade – sparks flew as his edge bit at mine.

  As soon as his blade was clear of my
body, I used the force of his blow to turn my sword, as I had on horseback, but since he kept throwing the same overhand blow, I was getting practice at turning it back against him, and my counter strike – this time I ignored his head and armoured torso. I cut into his arms just above his heavy leather gauntlets, below the cuffs of his chain shirt. He had some protection, but whatever it was, it didn’t stop me from breaking both of his arms. He screamed and stumbled back, and I reversed my weapon, holding it as I had at Poitiers, like a two-handed pick, and I drove it into his face.

  Three or four times.

  Later in life, I learned to be a competent swordsman, praise God. But in the Bois de Boulogne, in the pouring rain, I learned that the point, not the edge, is what rules in a fight between armoured men.

  When I was sure he was dead, I stumbled out onto the road.

  All of our men were gathered around Master Hoo.

  He was still dead.

  Chaucer was shaking his head.

  The rain poured down.

  ‘What a fucking waste,’ Chaucer said. His voice broke. Perhaps he wept – who could tell?

  Richard looked as tired as I felt. ‘You put that big fuck down?’ he asked.

  I smiled. ‘No thanks to you.’

  ‘I was a little busy,’ he said.

  I was proud. Du Guesclin had fallen over a brook, and it took ten of us to bring down de Charny, but the Paris Butcher, while no knight, was all mine. I’m a different man now than I was then, but that was a fair fight, and more than fair.

  He banged his helmet against mine. ‘Well struck!’ he said. ‘I got two,’ he added.

  Chaucer turned to me. ‘While you two crow over your murders,’ he said, ‘my master is dead.’

  Sam was holding his cloak over his head. Like most veterans, now that the fighting was over, he was just trying to stay dry. He never mentioned how many men he’d put down, if any, but he looked at Hoo and shook his head. He pointed north and east. ‘St Denis is that way,’ he said. ‘If we leave the road, we might get clear.’

  Chaucer slapped my breastplate to get my attention. ‘Are you abandoning the enterprise, messire?’ he asked.

  ‘What enterprise?’ I asked. ‘Only Master Hoo knew what the hell we were doing here. If he knew himself.’

  The rain poured down.