The Ill-Made Knight

by Christian Cameron

  ‘I was afraid today,’ I said. She relaxed.

  ‘You’d have been some sort of a monster if you hadn’t been, I think,’ she said.

  ‘So I can be afraid, and you cannot?’ I asked.

  She began to relax against me. ‘If I just lie here,’ she said, ‘will you – not entice me to do as I would rather do?’

  ‘Depends,’ I said.

  ‘On what?’ she asked.

  ‘On whether you lie on my right knee or not,’ I said.

  Much later, she said, ‘You were an apprentice goldsmith?’

  ‘Why so shocked? I can kill your enemies and repair your jewels.’ She laughed and then burst into tears. ‘You are very much not what I expected an English knight to be.’

  I had enough experience of women to know not to explore every comment.

  She had a bad dream and gave a low scream.

  I woke her up.

  ‘They’re going to kill us all,’ she said.

  ‘Not unless they get better armour and some siege machines,’ I said. Will, the bold, bluff English squire, that was me.

  Suddenly she was kissing me.

  I’d been the most honorable of men for long, dark, pain-filled hours, and suddenly, in heartbeats, her kirtle was gone and we were . . . far beyond what might have been agreed, if such a thing could be discussed.

  She hoisted my shirt.

  ‘Sweet Emile,’ I said.

  ‘Psst,’ she said. ‘I will be dead in two days.’

  I pulled her shift over her head. ‘You will not, on my honour.’

  She laughed, the way I have learned women laugh when you utterly fail to understand them.

  And there was no sleep after that.

  She dressed, kissed me and went out just as the stars dimmed. The blonde girl in the blue wool dress came in directly and looked at me with a fiercely disapproving glare.

  My knee hurt like fire. I was in a castle out of food, under siege by a sea of enemies who intended our destruction.

  I couldn’t have been happier.

  My disapproving blonde friend sat primly, as far across the solar as she could manage.

  I chivalrously went to sleep.

  The older knights returned at first light, and I was awakened by the clatter of their hooves on the bridge.

  In the second hour after matins, Jean de Grailly came. He praised me, I praised his squire Tom, and he explained that they’d brought in very little food.

  ‘We think we’ll mount every man-at-arms in the castle and sortie,’ he said. ‘Perhaps cut our way through the canaille. The Count of Foix believes we can lift the siege. The Dauphin is just two days north of us, and the King of Navarre is a day’s march away.’ He paused. ‘The Dauphine says she would rather die than be rescued by the King of Navarre.’

  ‘My lord, I can understand that sentiment,’ I said.

  De Grailly laughed. ‘And I, too! Can you ride?’

  I tested the leg. ‘If I was helped onto my horse,’ I suggested.

  ‘Excellent. You are a man after my own heart. I might even mistake monsieur for a Gascon.’ He grinned. ‘I will send your squire to arm you in the second hour after midday.’

  ‘In that case, my lord, I’ll eat,’ I said.

  ‘I trust you slept well,’ he asked me, and I swear his eyes sparkled.

  ‘As much as I needed,’ I agreed.

  He grinned. ‘Very like a Gascon.’

  Perkin was my next visitor. ‘How was my lord’s night?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you mocking me, you rogue?’ I asked.

  ‘Mmm. On balance, yes, my lord, I think I am mocking you.’ He put a wet towel and a bowl of steaming water on a stool. ‘I believe you can wash yourself, messire? And may I mention that messire has a certain perfumed smell to him that, unless messire has been visited by angels, might have come from a certain lady?’

  ‘Perkin, did you give me cloves for my breath?’ I asked.

  ‘By our sweet saviour, m’lord, someone had to. You might have killed her, else.’ He didn’t smile. ‘I think that m’lord’s left leg harness is badly damaged and doesn’t fit worth spit anyway.’

  I had to admit he was right. I’d worn it all over France, but not in a fight – and it didn’t fit. It was two inches too short – the greaves caught on the sabatons and I had bruises on both insteps. Fine for riding – hopeless for fighting on foot.

  ‘First, I think I prefer Master Gold to M’lord.’ I met his eye.

  He frowned. ‘I’ll consider it. Do you have the ready silver to purchase leg armour?’

  I shook my head. ‘You have our purse, Perkin. What’s in it?’

  He took it off his belt and opened it. ‘A little more than forty livre tournois. Not enough to buy anything but food on the road.’

  ‘Can the armourer fix the strap on the cuisse?’ I asked.

  ‘Already fixed,’ he said. He really was the best squire and servant any knight ever had. He unrolled the bandage on my knee, sniffed the wound and then began to re-bandage it. It hurt like all the sins of all the sinners in hell, and I groaned. I might even have squeaked.

  ‘She’s married,’ he said.

  I was too busy being in pain. This cut took several heartbeats to register.

  ‘Her husband had his arm broken in the fighting. Rumour has it they detest each other, but I thought you needed to know.’ He leaned close. ‘He knows where she spent the night. She made a point of making sure he knows.’

  Par dieu, messieurs. This was my introduction to the lives of the rich and titled. It didn’t matter. I’d already given her my heart. That brave, yet terrified girl.

  Why didn’t you tell me? I thought. I was in a state of mortal sin. I was about to fight, and possibly die, in a state of mortal sin.

  Just for a moment I thought of her, and her kirtle going over her head, and I thought . . . Oh well. An eternity in hell.

  I smiled. Friends, I still do. Do you really think God sends you to hell for the disport of two willing friends? I think the priests clip us too close, and I am reckoned a pious man for a man-at-arms. But I was younger then, and the whole thing preyed on my mind.

  About midday, Tom came and, with Perkin, he began to arm me. And when I had my cursed leg harnesses on – the bases of the greaves already cutting into yesterday’s bruises – Emile slipped in the door. She looked angry. Her chin was high, she was slightly flushed.

  ‘Monsieur,’ she said, and put a cup on the table with a click.

  ‘Madame,’ I said with a slight emphasis. But I smiled at her. I confess to you, gentlemen, as I have confessed to a hundred priests, that the sight of a woman like that is usually far more to me on the edge of death than all the promises of all the Popes in history.

  Her eyes dropped. At the door, she flicked her eyes up at me. I was there, as she hoped. She paused in the door while a man might count three. She smiled and licked her fingers. And was gone.

  Lying on the table under the cup was a triangle of pinky-red linen.

  I picked it up and put it in my doublet next to my heart. Please note that I did not wear it outside my armour. There’s fools and fools.

  I did wear the Dauphine’s favour from the day before, however. I had Perkin attach it to the peak of my basinet.

  Tom had to help me down the stairs. My knee had stiffened and I couldn’t make it do its duty, so it was tiring quickly. Tom got me out to the courtyard, where Perkin had Goldie and a pair of stools. They got me up on the tallest stool, and then, with some pushing, they got my bad knee over the saddle, so I was on.

  I was the first knight mounted, but the Captal came out, approached, took my hand and then looked carefully at my knee.

  ‘You really might be a Gascon. How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  He laughed, and Tom started to arm him at the stable door. By now the captain of the castle and all the older men were arming, and a number of the younger knights. When the Captal was mounted, Tom went to help the Count of Foix,
who had two squires of his own and a dozen knights in his train. His equipment was the most magnificent I’d yet seen, and he appeared to be going to a tournament, not a mortal fight. He had a panache in his helmet of peacock and ostrich; he wore a silk coat over his magnificent brigantine which was studded with golden nails.

  You get the picture.

  When he was armed and mounted, he rode over to me and raised his visor. ‘I understand Madame the Princess gave you that yesterday,’ he said conversationally.

  I bowed in my saddle. ‘My lord is correct.’

  He nodded. ‘Do you really think you are the best man among all these worthy and noble gentlemen?’

  His intention was to be rude. He was tense and what the French call ‘disobliging’.

  I bowed again. ‘My lord, after Madame the Princess was kind enough to grant it to me, I thought it would be rude not to wear it.’

  ‘It looks like a brag, to me. But you are young, and English, and probably don’t understand such things.’ He shrugged – no easy feat in armour – and turned his horse away.

  I was too young to answer the bastard as he deserved. I just sat there, my knee hurting, thinking about what I’d do to him if I ever had the chance.

  Fast, dashing talk is hard. You have to practice. You have to read – the romances are full of bon mots to shoot at your opponents. I vowed to read more. I sat on Goldie, stared at his back and stewed.

  It was as hot as the hell I was destined to visit with my soul steeped in the mortal sin of adultery. Sweat soaked my cap and my helmet liner, and trickled down my back under my arming coat and shirt. Knights came one and two at a time into the yard and armed, and the appearance of each was a little event – ladies cheered; men shook hands.

  It was my first chance to see the French – from inside, so to speak. They were, and are, great knights, but there is an element of performance to everything. Each knight had to be seen and admired; had to arm publicly and hear the plaudits of the ladies. Meanwhile I sat and sweated as my knee burned like sin.

  Until Emile entered the courtyard. I was watching the French knights, trying to imagine which one was her husband. There was a murmur – I turned my head and there she was, dressed in her gown, with my blood on it. She paused by one French knight’s horse and curtsied, back straight, eyes down. Then she danced among the horses, crossed the yard – the English and Gascons were all together, and the French were all together, and a few feet separated us like a wall – and paused under Goldie’s nose. She curtsied.

  What could I do? Spurn her? I grinned. ‘Madame,’ I said.

  ‘I . . . we . . . put all our faith in you,’ she said distinctly.

  There was a murmur of outrage from the French.

  I drew my sword and saluted her. ‘I will try to be . . .’ I began, and then I thought of a line from the Alexander Romance. My mother used to read it to me when I was little – the monks had a copy which I’d used to learn French. I waved my sword. ‘Only death, madame, will prevent my return. Victorious.’

  She flushed and smiled. A French lady at the edge of the yard clapped her hands together.

  The Captal grunted. ‘Excellent, my big English mastiff. When we’ve killed all the Jacques, we can fight the French.’ But he grinned wolfishly at me. ‘Never mind them, stay close to me, or the Sire de Bourbon will have you off your horse in the mêlée.’ He shot a glace at one of the French knights. ‘Her husband’s brother. Eh?’

  We were not a band of brothers. Somewhat shamefacedly, I put my sword away, and emotion made me shove it home in the scabbard a little too hard.

  The captain of the castle arranged us in ranks, and we shuffled about the yard, forming a dense column. The enemy was already formed on the far bank, their flanks anchored on stone buildings either side of the bridge entrance, and they had crossbowmen in the houses.

  De Grailly had half a dozen professional archers, and Sam was with them in the bridge-gate tower. That was all the support we were going to have.

  Let me add that the Jacques were fools to come out and fight at all. Much less to pack in like lemmings at the entrance to the main bridge.

  The main gate opened.

  I was in the third rank, behind the Captal’s shoulder, with Tom – the last man mounted – at my right hand. The Count of Foix was in the front rank, with the captain of the castle and the Duke de Bourbon. They were there from social precedence, although, to be fair, they also had the very best and latest armour.

  The Captal was far and away the most famous knight – and the best, I think. As a mere Gascon, however, he was in the second rank.

  The French. Well might you all shake your heads.

  We walked out the gate. As soon as we were on the bridge, the head of the column began to move faster – it was a tricky manoeuvre, getting the column to a charge on the bridge without crashing into the enemy in dribs and drabs.

  Just as I passed into the brilliant sunshine beyond the bridge gate, the first flight of English arrows hit the Jacques and men fell.

  The Duke de Bourbon put his spurs to his horse. The captain’s horse shied, and the Captal pressed past him – I stayed with him, and we galloped down the narrow path, barely three horses wide. I was struggling to get my lance into its rest when I felt a change, and my left rein hung slack. One of the French knights had cut it as I rode past.

  By St Thomas, gentleman, try riding with a lance and no control of your horse on a bridge just five ells wide! I was saved by the closeness of the press – Goldie had nowhere to go but forward, and I grabbed the curving cantle of my war saddle with my left hand, jamming my shield against my left thigh and losing the reassuring cover of its shadow against the crossbows. I put my head down, and rose slightly in my stirrups as Bertrand du Guesclin had taught me.

  Some poor bastard in the front rank took my lance in the chest and died instantly. My lance tore a great hole in him, then snapped, and I bounced back against the rear of my saddle and snapped forward again as the lance broke. Goldie, maddened by the blood, the gallop and the waiting, crashed into the press, kicking and biting, and I had no control over the damned horse, who was going like a demon from hell. I reached for my sword as Goldie did a curvet that almost unseated me, but I got my right hand on my hilt and pulled – the sword stuck fast.

  Good Christ, that was a terrible moment. A crossbow bolt struck my visor and tore it off its hinge, so it hung from the right, bouncing against my head and face. What was worse, the forcible removal of my visor showed me that Goldie had carried me past the Jacques and I was all by myself, with men all around me, reaching for my harness – a bill slammed into my right foot, and the sabaton held, but the weight of the blow hurt my ankle.

  I fell back against my cantle, and Goldie caught the change in weight, bless him, reared and kicked.

  I got my right hand back on my sword hilt and pulled.

  The belt moved on my hips and the sword stayed scabbarded.

  Not that I stopped to make choices, but I couldn’t dismount – I was surrounded by foes – and I couldn’t control my horse, either.

  And I had no weapon.

  My right knee throbbed like some devil’s torment. And some of the knights on my own side were trying to kill me.

  I got Goldie to rear again and kick. As he came down on his forefeet, I pinned my scabbard with my left hand, shield and all, and pulled at the hilt with my right, with all the power of desperation.

  A spear point caught me from behind and threw me forward over my horse’s neck, which of course made Goldie bolt forward.

  Finally the sword came loose in my hand. I sat back, hard, to try and slow my mount. Now I was deep in the ranks of the Jacques – I cut, more from habit than from a feeling of combat, and they scattered.

  Another bolt struck the top of my left shoulder and it felt as if a giant had punched me. But if you must be hit by a heavy missile, the top of the shoulder is the place – overlapping metal plates lie over chain, and under the base of the helmet’s aventail, ther
e are three or more layers of steel. It’s the very best armoured part of the body.

  I had a bruise for two weeks, and I still almost lost my seat. I rocked back and forth, trying to find an opponent, every sway in the saddle forcing me to grip with my knees.

  Behind me, there was a roar, a panicked shriek, and suddenly the whole mob of Jacques was in flight.

  I attribute it to divine intervention. I didn’t break them, and neither did the Captal, or Tom, who, it proved, was close behind me. We shattered their ranks, but they were ten to one against us, and they had crossbowmen on the roofs. Sooner or later, they could have killed every one of us, but they didn’t. Instead, they succumbed to fear and broke.

  And the dashing French knights hunted them through the streets.

  I took my time gaining control of Goldie, who was mad with battle-rage. I had one rein, and that was not enough, so we rode deeper and deeper into the town, and eventually, without intending to, I emerged at the land gate on the south side, with Tom at my shoulder. There was no guard at the gate.

  ‘If we hold the gate,’ I called. I remember how tired I was. ‘If we hold the gate, they can’t escape.’

  He dismounted, caught Goldie’s bridle, and I got off – and fell to the ground. My right knee didn’t want to take my weight.

  Tom dragged me clear of the gate and some fugitives ran past us.

  ‘Tom, run for it,’ I said. It was clear I couldn’t fight, and he wasn’t going to live long, trying to hold two horses and cover me, too.

  He shook his head. ‘If I repair your bridle, can you fight?’ he asked.

  ‘Just prop me up and go,’ I said.

  So I spent the rest of the fight leaning on a water barrel in the gateway, with Goldie’s bridle in my hand, helping to hold me up. Tom rode for the Captal, who came soon enough. I don’t remember much after that, except that I watched the French knights hunt the Jacques through the town and through the countryside. I didn’t see anything like it again until Cremona – that’s another story – but I knelt there on one knee and wondered how men who called themselves knights could hate their own peasants with such ferocity.

  I wanted to be a knight, but I was beginning to think that in the process, I might have to change what knighthood was.