The Ill-Made Knight

by Christian Cameron

  Richard nodded. ‘I could take service with him.’

  ‘He has a great name,’ I agreed, ‘but I doubt he’d accept Milady as a lance.’

  ‘Oh, as to that,’ he said dismissively. ‘She doesn’t need to continue that charade. I’ll provide for her.’

  That didn’t sound like what I saw every day, but on the other hand, I was more interested in a little loot, and in where my captain intended to spend the winter. The loot was because I had just two payments left on my sister’s dowry. When it was paid, I was a free lance. And spending the winter? I was determined to ride to Emile. Time spent close to Milady Janet had convinced me I needed Emile.

  A rumour had come that Sir John Hawkwood and some of the other companies had gone over the mountains to Italy after cutting a deal with the Pope. The rumour came from one of the Florentine bankers who rode with us, and when he’d told me the rumour, he handed over two letters – one from Sir John Hawkwood, requesting that I rejoin his company for the spring campaign, and one – a small, well-wrapped package – from Bertrand du Guesclin. He thanked me for the return of the borrowed armour – the fine breast and backplates he’d loaned me for the tilt at Calais – and he enclosed a note from ‘a friend’.

  Monsieur my heart,

  I hear from our mutual friends that you are alive, still brave and still in the field. My thoughts turn to you often, even while I sit at my high window and spin. In the spring I will bear my lord another child – but these are the petty concerns of a young matron, and I pray that wherever you are, you spare a thought for one who thinks of you each day.

  I enclose something that I hope you will treasure for my sake, and for your own.

  And she signed it, the little fool: ‘Emile d’Herblay’.

  I sat on my horse with an army flowing around me, and a great rage rose in me because she was pregant, again. Because I was not with her. Because, in fact, she went on with her life, doing as a wife must, and I went on with my life, doing as a mercenary must.

  We weren’t just an army of mercenaries. To understand the years of the sixties, you have to understand that we weren’t an army or a nation, but we had aspects of both. Badefol’s version of the Great Company had about 8,000 professional soldiers, but another 12,000 men, women and children – desperate people, yes, but some merely looking for a better life or tired of oppression and tyranny. We had, in one vast army, men who had been Jacques, women who had fled brutal husbands, children who fled hateful parents; men who had been Flemish burghers, men who aspired to be English knights. It was not an army of looters and rapists, although we committed those crimes with increasing frequency.

  It was also a very young army. I was about to be twenty-one, and I was older than most of the women and quite a few of the men. I had been at war for five years – some of the men-at-arms had been at war for twenty, but most were on their second or third campaign.

  At any rate, we attracted a surprising number of women. We had women who had been nobles, like Milady, and women who had been merchant’s wives, and women who had been peasants, serfs, nuns, whores – the whole morality of our moving tribe was shockingly at odds with the morality of the towns. We had very few rules.

  Of course, we lived by the sword, and we died like lemmings. Our women died of exposure, childbirth and famine; our children were thin beggars, and our men fed their horses before they fed the women and children. I’m not moved to argue that there was anything particularly noble about our army of mercenaries, except to say that, for a great many men and women, it was the closest thing to power they ever achieved. Odd, because many of our people were refugees from other bastards just like us. I’d read Aristotle and Aquinas, by then. So I would sit with my back against my saddle, some nights, and contemplate such things.

  Emile’s cursed note came with a package. It proved to be a book. It was, in fact, Sir Ramon Llull’s book of chivalry. It was a beautiful thing, with gilt capitals and four magnificent, painted miniatures – one of two knights jousting, and one of a hermit talking to a knight.

  That night, I sat with my back to my saddle and flipped through the pages of the book. And out of nowhere, my eyes filled with tears and I wept.

  Janet came. She picked up the book and laughed aloud. ‘Par dieu, this is a fine book!’ she said.

  She ignored my tears, read a passage aloud, then put the book back down and returned to the fire.

  In mid-September, Richard, too, received a letter. He and I rode to Arles with our lances, and no one troubled us on the road. We weren’t allowed in the town – towns were very wary of us – but Richard got a tailor to come out and fit him for some new clothes. We also sold an armourer a lot of cast-off stuff – mostly mail – and he fit Richard with a better coat of plates and matching arms, so that Richard looked less of a routier and more of a gentleman.

  My take as a man-at-arms about equalled the daily cost of maintaining an archer, a squire and a page. I didn’t have the money to care if my armour was brown with rust, nor could I afford to care if my straps matched, or whether my rivet heads were decorated. I just cared that it all fit, didn’t weigh too much and lasted well in the rain. By that fall, I had two different leg harnesses, two different arms, a coat of plates that had once been very beautiful but was now a uniform black with sweat and rot, and I was on my fifth war horse, a heavy animal that had once, I suspect, been a cart horse and never really been properly broken. But I made the second to last payment for my sister’s dowry.

  The bankers were still with us, so somewhere I had two suits of good clothes and a fine cloak, but really, what would I use them for?

  I digress. On to Brignais.

  We returned from Arles to find a papal officer in our camp. He was recruiting for the Pope’s army in Italy, and for the crusade that had been preached. Our rambling, unsanitary morass of a camp covered three hillsides, and it was several days before I found myself looking at him.

  He wore a simple brown wool habit, like a Franciscan, over spurred boots. By his side hung a fine sword in a red leather scabbard. He was tanned so darkly he might have been Richard Musard’s brother, and he had a long, very white scar that ran from his left temple to the corner of his mouth on the right. It showed even through his magnificent moustache which was as berry-brown as his gown, but white where the scar crossed it.

  I’d seen him before, of course. In England. And I’d helped him take a party south through the chaos of ’58. I bowed. ‘Fra Peter,’ I said. ‘What news of my sister, my lord?’

  He smiled. ‘The blessings of the Lord be with you, my son,’ he said. ‘Your sister will be a light of the church.’

  ‘And with you, father,’ I responded automatically.

  ‘Brother,’ he corrected gently. ‘I am but a brother-knight. I have taken my vows, but I am not a priest.’

  How do you make small talk with people like that?

  ‘I fear it has been some time since I confessed my sins,’ I said weakly, hoping he had a flash of humour.

  He shrugged. ‘I can’t help you, as I’m not a priest.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘And as you are excommunicate.’

  ‘I . . . what?’ I choked. Oh, I know men who take the prospect of eternal damnation lightly. I am not one of them. ‘What?’

  ‘After the events of Pont-Saint-Esprit, the Holy Father excommunicated every routier in Provence.’ My knight Hospitaller shrugged. ‘Would you like to know more of how your sister fares?’

  I must have smiled. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Yes, Fra Peter!’ he barked.

  I laughed, because I admired him so, and I’d made him bark. ‘Yes, Fra Peter,’ I answered like a dutiful schoolboy.

  ‘She thrives. She works hard, but she is devoted to Christ and to St John, and well-beloved of the sisters. It is her dearest wish to be allowed to join the order.’ He tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘I have arranged to have our Holy Father issue her an exemption from the article that requires a certain patent of nobility.’

  I had
n’t considered the patents of nobility. A lump formed in my throat. ‘I have paid her dowry,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘I hoped I would find you. I take my vow of poverty seriously – I have nothing. The order requires the full payment of the dowry for a new sister. I expect that you have some money, as you are a . . . mm . . . a professional man-at-arms.’

  I laughed. ‘You want me, a penniless mercenary, to give money to the church?’ I held my temper in check. I had been practising, since Milady put the matter to me so clearly. ‘Fra Peter, I have given almost every ducat to your order for more than a year.’

  His eyes never left mine. ‘You must do as you think best,’ he said carefully. ‘But if you can complete her dowry while I have the document for her patents . . .’ he shrugged and looked away. ‘I’m sorry, Master Gold. But not every member of my order feels as I do about your sister’s pedigree.’

  I have no idea why that set me off. I have never been proud of my birth – nor ashamed. My parents were wed, which is more than some can say, and my pater served good King Edward as a man-at-arms. That was as gentle as a man needed to be, I felt.

  Perhaps it was because I had so much admiration for Fra Peter, but his words, ill-chosen or not – perhaps I was just touchy – seemed to cut me.

  ‘My sister’s pedigree is as good as any woman’s in England,’ I spat.

  His eyes met mine and I regretted my outburst. So, like any young man, I threw oil on the fire.

  ‘And anyway, aren’t you supposed to be recruiting us for the Pope’s war in Italy?’ I asked with all the heavy sarcasm a twenty-year-old can muster.

  He stepped closer to me. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Are you interested?’

  ‘Do I have to donate my time?’ I asked.

  He looked at me. His eyes didn’t express hurt or disappointment. More . . . amusement. ‘Do you still seek to be a knight?’ he asked. ‘Or do you imagine that you have reached that estate already?’

  That was the closest he had come to an insult, and as cuts go, it was deep and true.

  Once again I was looking at the toes of my boots. ‘No,’ I confessed.

  ‘No,’ he agreed.

  That night, Richard came and announced that he was taking Milady and riding away to join the Green Count. Well, he’d never hidden it, and I knew what he planned.

  I must say, he looked very fine in green and sable – the Black Squire, in all truth. His armour looked good, his horse gleamed and his clothing was clean and neat. He had new shirts and new braes that almost shone white.

  I was very sad that he was leaving me. I think that just then, I hated Milady for coming between us, but her conquest of him had been so sudden and so complete that I knew the cause was hopeless.

  Let me be clear. I don’t think she meant to conquer him. She was simply, singly, and fully herself.

  We had a fine night. We sat by a fire and drank, and we talked. If I have time, I might tell you half the things we said. Some were antic, and come were deadly serious. Milady sat with us, and John Hughes, Ned, Amory and Jack. Men I knew came by to say goodbye to Richard – all the remaining English and Scots knights who hadn’t gone to Italy, and there were a few: Walter Leslie and Bill Feldon were there, and a dozen more who made their names that summer or the next, or died trying.

  But as conversations will go around a fire, a moment came when Milady had me all to herself. She was expert at arranging things like that. She was sitting with her back to John Hughes, and she suddenly leaned over to me. ‘Come with us,’ she said.

  I was damned sure that was not what Richard had in mind. ‘Perhaps when I get a good ransom,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘You will.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘What do you want it for? This ransom?’ she asked.

  I looked into her mad eyes. They were still too wide and they still sparkled too much. ‘I love a lady,’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘That is as it should be.’

  ‘Winning her will require . . . some money,’ I said.

  Janet laughed and sat back. ‘My father said . . .’ she began, and the old shadow fell across her face.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said.

  Janet shook her head, hard – too hard – and leaned forward. ‘He said, “Never count the money and never count the odds.”’ Her eyes met mine.

  And I thought, Why is she going with Richard?

  ‘What do you want, Janet?’ I asked. We were close enough to kiss. I didn’t want Milady, but there is something – when you can feel the warmth of another person’s face – something beyond intimacy.

  She pursed her lips. ‘I want to be a knight,’ she said. ‘It is all I’ve ever wanted. My father had no son.’

  So. And so.

  Sometime after the North Star began to go down, the Hospitaller came. We made him welcome – anyone could see he was a great knight.

  ‘Wine, brother?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘I never say no to wine,’ he said, and he drank a fair amount. He hindered our conversation for a little while, but he was so mild a man that after a time we went back to our own ways. And in truth, Milady had mended our manners with nothing but gentle derision.

  Eventually, I raised a cup of Burgundy to Richard. ‘I will miss you. My best friend.’

  Richard was drunk. He came and put his arms around me and rested his forehead against mine. ‘I want to be a knight, he said. ‘Not a fucking killer for hire.’ He took a deep and somewhat drunken breath. ‘You should, too. You’re too good for this shit.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I wasn’t worthy. But at least I knew it.

  As I left his embrace, I saw the Hospitaller watching me.

  I lay under a cloak, looking at the stars, and listened to Richard and Milady make love. Or rather, I listened to him make love. It’s a common enough set of camp sounds, and I wager I’ve made them as much as any man, and yet, almost painful to listen to, especially when you lie alone with only the darkest of thoughts. I thought of us all – me, Richard, Milady and Fra Peter. Three of us wanted to be knights. Half the men in our camp wanted to be knights.

  I knew the words. I knew Sir Ramon’s book almost by heart.

  When Janet left Richard’s blankets, I heard her movement and I got up. It was early autumn, and I found Milady sitting by the fire. She smiled at me and relieved me from some shadowy apprehensions. I’m not sure what I feared – for him or for her – but her smile seemed relaxed.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be a good wife,’ she said. ‘Don’t sell my armour, eh, mon amie?’

  ‘Of course you will be,’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘Promise!’

  I nodded, built up the fire and went back to my cloak.

  The next morning, with a hangover of epic proportions, I watched them ride away. His squire, the welsh boy – now a man – went with him. Her squire, Amory, and her archer – my friend John Hughes – stayed with me.

  ‘I’m not welcome,’ Hughes said.

  I sat down with him as he stared at the fire.

  ‘He wants her to be a wife,’ Hughes said. ‘It won’t work. But Master Musard said if I went with them, I’d put her in mind of her harness and her horse.’

  I forced a smile. ‘John, I promise that if I go to get married, I’ll take you along.’

  He looked up. ‘You’d better,’ he said. ‘She made us better men. Can we stick to what she taught?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and I meant it.

  I left John Hughes to watch my kit, and I went to the Genoese. I extracted my small balance, and I had him write me a letter of credit. I sold him all my nice clothes, and every other item I owned, everything Emile had bought me, except the armour I wore every day, and her favour, and Llull’s book, which I left with him – my sole deposit.

  Then I took my money to the Hospitaller. He was praying, and I had to wait for him. Eventually his mild eyes crossed mine, and he rose smoothly to his feet and tucked his prayer beads into his sword belt.

  ‘William?’ he said.
I swear he knew exactly what I’d done.

  ‘One hundred and seventy florins,’ I said. ‘Every copper I possess. I kept five florins back to pay for fodder for my horses.’

  I handed him the letter of credit. He read it and fingered his beard. ‘I share your views of Mother Church,’ he said. ‘Many men do.’ He rolled the letter and tucked it into his purse. ‘My order is very rich. We also spend a great deal on the poor, on arms against the infidel, on nursing and on food. But none of that matters. What matters to you is that you have taken this money by force, and now it will go to benefit your sister.’ Again, his eyes locked on mine. ‘You are better than this life around you,’ he said.

  I was looking at the tips of my toes. ‘No, brother,’ I said. ‘I’m not.’

  He put his hand on my head and blessed me. ‘My God thinks you are better,’ he said. ‘He made you in his image, not to rob and murder, but to protect the weak and defend the defenceless.’

  Rudely, I shrugged off his benison with all the desperate cynicism of a twenty-one-year-old. ‘You have all my money, ‘I said. ‘You can keep the blessings. Besides,’ I said, with a dark joy. ‘I’m an excommunicate, remember?’

  I walked away.

  Youth is truly wasted on the young.

  Later that morning, I took my riding horse and rode out into the country. I was looking for a fight.

  Instead, just outside of camp, I found a small crowd of peasants. They were mostly women, and they were looting a corpse.

  I knew one of the women; she had sewed for me and her name was Alison. She was bent over the corpse, her breasts showing under her kirtle, her hands bloody. She was taking the rings off the man’s fingers.

  She grinned at me. It was a scary grin, but I think she meant it to be comely. I dismounted, dropped my reins – my former cart horse didn’t have the spirit to walk away – and knelt. The women scattered, except Alison – women gave men-at-arms a wide compass, unless they were drunk or liquorish. And for good reason.

  He was one of ours, a Gascon. In fact, he was one of the Bascon de Moulet’s men, a corporal. He had good wool hose and clean linen braes – not so clean now that he’d voided his bowels into them.