His whole attention stayed on his opponent right up to the moment when the tip of his lance struck his opponent’s shield, brought in the way at the last possible moment so that the lance glanced off to the right, twisting Holland’s arm painfully. At the same time he felt his opponent’s lance strike him in the shoulder, the powerful buffet making him reel in the saddle, so that he would have been unhorsed had the lance not broken. A great roar went up from the watching crowd: one atteint to the knight in crimson and white.
Cursing his own over-confidence for losing him the first point, he rode to the far end of the tilting-field and wheeled his horse swiftly. His opponent had already collected a fresh lance from a waiting squire and turned, his destrier powering across the field towards him. Holland dug in his spurs once more, vanquishing all chargrin at his earlier mistake, chagrin that might cloud his judgement and lead him into another error.
The two horsemen passed again, both lances striking home and breaking with a loud, splintering snap. Reeling once again from the strength of the blow, Holland dropped his broken lance, using both hands to steady himself in the saddle. Reaching the far end of the field, he motioned for a fresh lance, but the squire shook his head, gesturing back towards the centre of the field. Holland had to turn his horse to look, and through his eye-slit he just made out his opponent’s black destrier, cantering away riderless, pursued by a couple of squires. Unfastening his helm and pulling it off, Holland saw that his opponent was lying flat on his back in the middle of the field, motionless. Holland immediately rode across to where he lay, reining in his destrier a few feet away and jumping down to offer assistance. There was no wound visible, but it was not rare for an unhorsed knight to strike his head in such a way that he might be badly stunned.
But then the other knight raised his hands to remove his helmet, his gauntleted fingers struggling with the laces that held it in place. Finally he succeeded, to reveal a face streaked with sweat and rust. Holland offered a hand to help him to his feet, but the other knight knocked it away and pushed himself up unaided.
‘Well played, Sir John,’ said Holland. He was not diplomatic by nature, least of all in the presence of unchivalrous behaviour, but on this occasion he thought it necessary to make an effort. It was the Feast of Saint George – the saint chosen by the king to be the patron saint of England – the twenty-third day of April, and the fourth day of the tournament that the king had called at his castle at Windsor. Knights had come from all over Christendom, from as far south as Castile and as far east as the kingdom of Cyprus.
The tournament was being held in the castle’s upper ward, in the shadow of the round stone keep that stood on a mound at its centre. The tourney-field had been fenced off, and around it crowded men and women of every degree, from the highest magnates in the land to the lowliest beggars, all of them claiming – most without justification – to be veterans of Crécy. Many people stood or sat on the cat-walk of the castle’s curtain wall, from where they had a splendid view of the tournament. In addition to the tournament itself there were various side-shows. Mummers performed a play about Saint George and the dragon on a wooden stage, while the younger members of the crowd were entertained by the antics of a puppet show. There were barber-surgeons drawing teeth and selling miraculous remedies, pardoners selling holy relics and pardons for sins, fortune-tellers and conjurors, jesters reciting verses, friars preaching sermons, pie-vendors and ale-sellers; and a troupe of female tumblers, a fair but wanton collection of young women who had arrived at the castle dressed as noblemen, to the scandal of the ladies and the amusement of the men. Bear-baiting and cock-fighting competed for an audience with wrestling and boxing and all comers could display their skill with the longbow at the archery butts.
A wooden grandstand had been built for courtly spectators: amongst them were prisoners such as King David of Scotland, Duke Charles de Blois of Brittany, and Holland’s own prisoner, Raoul de Brienne, Count of Eu and Constable of France, now a prisoner of the king himself. Quite at ease with these noble prisoners were the ladies of the court: Queen Philippa, Alice Montague, Countess Margaret, and others. All around the grandstand, on both sides of the tilting field, stood the bell-shaped tents of the knights who were taking part in the tournament, and their coats of arms were hung on the outside wall of the great hall. Each time a knight was defeated, his arms were removed, so that now only twenty-four arms were displayed there, after Sir John Beaumont’s had been taken down.
The tournament was à plaisance rather than à outrance – for amusement rather than to the death – and the jousters used arms of courtesy, weapons not intended to inflict serious damage, their lances tipped with coronels: heart-shaped iron heads with several blunt points rather than one that was sharp.
‘My arms and steed are yours,’ Beaumont acknowledged; even he had to admit that it was no great dishonour to be vanquished by Sir Thomas Holland, a knight whose prowess was growing in renown seemingly with each passing day. The two of them walked away from the tilting field, Holland leading his destrier. ‘You recall the day we met?’ Beaumont continued.
Holland was puzzled. ‘We have met before?’
‘Aye – I served in your company,’ growled Beaumont.
Suddenly Holland was able to put a name to the coat of arms emblazoned on Beaumont’s surcoat. ‘Sir John Beaumont, of Stone Gate Manor,’ he said, and realised that this was the very man whose lordship Kemp was trying to escape. Then he remembered the day they first met, and his overwhelming contempt for any man who would wage a private war against a mere villein. Beaumont had tried to murder Kemp in the confusion of the skirmish at the ford of Blanchetaque, and would have succeeded had Holland not stepped in, initially thinking that the blow aimed at Kemp was a genuine error.
The scowl appeared to clear from Beaumont’s face when Holland recalled not only his name but the name of his manor. ‘Aye, Sir Thomas. I am glad we meet now, even under circumstances such as these.’
‘I also,’ agreed Holland. ‘I have no need for a second suit of jousting armour, but I dare say that nag of yours will fetch a pretty price at Smithfield horse fair.’
Beaumont visibly suppressed a snarl of anger. ‘You recall there was a villein from my manor serving in one of your platoons of archers? A boy named Martin Kemp?’
‘Kemp, Kemp…’ Holland shook his head, as if trying to recollect. ‘So many villeins have served under my command, it is difficult to put names to their unwashed faces… wait a moment, now I remember. Was it not Kemp you wanted to see hanged, the day you joined my company?’
Beaumont ground his teeth. ‘Aye.’
‘I understand he was accused of the rape and murder of Kathryn Seagrave?’
‘He was convicted and duly sentenced to death,’ asserted Beaumont.
‘Although according to one rumour I heard, he was falsely convicted by a justice of the peace who had the jurors bribed, because he was becoming over-familiar with a certain knight’s daughter.’
Beaumont’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword and he pulled it from his scabbard, quite forgetting that both he and Holland carried arms of courtesy. The blade he now levelled at Holland was made of whalebone rather than steel; hard enough to deliver a powerful knock, but of limited use in delivering a fatal blow against a man in armour.
Holland had not forgotten, however, and his hand did not even flinch in the direction of his sword-hilt. He smiled. ‘It is as well your blade is not dangerous. I might have been forced to interpret your actions as a threat and then I should have to slay you.’
‘Kemp is my villein and his place is on my manor. If you have any idea where he may be found I suggest you tell me.’
‘If you have mislaid one of your villeins, it is no concern of mine,’ Holland replied. ‘Do you think I keep track of every man who passes under my command? Good day to you, Sir John. You may send your squire to me with your arms, armour and horse as soon as it pleases you.’ Without another word, Holland strode into his tent, leaving Beaumont fu
ming.
Dressed in his master’s azure and white livery, Preston waited for Holland inside. He rose to his feet. ‘Sir Thomas, can I have a word with you?’
Holland nodded. ‘Leave us,’ he told his squire. The lad nodded nervously, ducking out of the tent.
‘That was Sir John Beaumont,’ said Preston, when they were alone. ‘The lord of the manor that Kemp hails from.’
‘You remember him?’
‘I remember you asking Kemp to leave his manor and come and work for you, if you’ll pardon me saying so.’
Holland made a dismissive gesture. ‘He certainly remembers Kemp,’ he observed.
‘Kemp’s here,’ said Preston.
‘At Windsor?’
‘Aye. At the tournament.
Holland’s face registered surprise. ‘I had thought he would be working for Master Chaucer by now.’
‘He is. Master Chaucer is here too, with his family.’
‘Then someone had better warn the lad, before Beaumont sees him first. Which reminds me, Wat; I shall not be needing your services again today.’
Preston grinned. ‘Aye, Sir Thomas.’ He ducked out of the tent and hurried off in search of Kemp.
* * *
Kemp had already seen Beaumont. On the whole he now found jousting boring: it was too regulated, too far removed from the reality of battle for his liking. Yet he could not resist making a point of watching first Sir John Chandos defeat Sir Walter Mauny – two of the finest knights in Christendom, a spectacle that any man would count himself lucky to witness – and then Holland’s turn. He had immediately recognised Beaumont’s coat of arms, and raised the cowl of his cloak to hide his face. Chaucer turned to regard him with bemusement.
‘Expecting rain, Martin?’
‘Someone I know,’ replied Kemp. ‘Sir John Beaumont, the man whose manor I should have returned to.’
‘We can leave, if you think…’ offered Chaucer, to the horror of the rest of his family, who were having a splendid day out.
Kemp shook his head. ‘He will not see me amongst these crowds, if I keep my face hidden.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, I want to see him knocked off his horse.’
Three minutes later his wish was fulfilled.
Kemp had been in Chaucer’s service for nearly six months now. The time had flown by; it was amazing to think that in a little over another six months he would be a freeman. So far they had been happy months, too. Chaucer’s servants had been right about there being no need to protect their master from assassins. The only time Kemp had suffered any injury in a fight had been when Chaucer got into a tavern brawl with a Flemish merchant who insulted the king, and Kemp had to try to break it up. He received a black eye on that occasion – meting out several more to the Fleming and his compatriots – and when the two of them returned to the house that night, Mistress Agnes ministered to his swollen face as tenderly as his own mother might have done, chastising her husband for putting his bodyguard in the way of such blows.
In that short space of time, the Chaucers had become almost as much of a family to Kemp as the one he had left behind in Knighton, and he suspected that in years to come he would remember these days as among the happiest of his life. Unlike his own family, the Chaucers were wealthy and, as long as he lived with them, he never lacked for anything.
Except perhaps for two things: Beatrice Beaumont and, strangely, the war against the French.
At times the war had seemed nightmarish and the most painful memories refused to die, so that he would wake up in a cold sweat in the small hours of the morning. But he missed it. He missed the companionship. The Chaucers might treat him as one of their own, but he knew he was not of their class, did not fit in, and never would. He knew now that fate had not intended him for a life of peace. It was insane, he knew, but he missed the tight feeling of fear and excitement in the pit of his stomach before a battle. He missed the time that had been ended by the Truce of Calais, a time when even the thorniest problem could be solved with a sword or burning brand, and the application of a little lateral thinking, perhaps. He missed the danger, he missed the lifestyle, he missed the challenge.
‘Martin?’ Chaucer was speaking. ‘We’re off to the archery butts. Are you coming?’ Chaucer was a competent archer with the longbow and after mass on Sunday mornings he would often join Kemp at the butts at Smithfield.
Before Kemp could reply, Chaucer’s step-son Jankin tugged at his step-father’s sleeve. ‘Wait a moment, Father. What’s this?’
They all turned their attention in the direction in which the youth pointed, where a knight was marching across the tilting field towards a small but sturdy wooden bridge, built across the ditch at the foot of the mound on which the circular keep stood. He was clad in ‘all-white’ armour, without jupon, surcoat or crest bearing a coat of arms which might give away his identity, except for a silken azure ribbon tied about his left leg, just below the knee; some lady’s favour, perhaps. He stood at the end of the bridge facing across the ward with his legs apart, drew a whalebone broadsword from his scabbard and planted its tip in the soil at his feet, resting his gauntleted hands on the curved crossguard.
‘The unknown declares a passage-at-arms, challenging all who may to try to pass him if they dare,’ a herald announced loudly, in a manner not unlike that of a fairground barker, to Kemp’s mind. ‘Is there any knight bold enough to face him?’
Chaucer nudged Kemp. ‘Go on, Martin! Here’s a chance to make a name for yourself. Why don’t you see if Sir Thomas Holland will let you borrow his suit of armour? One unknown against another!’ He chuckled at the idea.
Kemp smiled thinly. The unknown was a tall, well-built man, and he moved in his armour with the practised ease of one used to fighting in it. ‘I think not.’
‘I wonder who it can be?’ mused little Geoffrey.
‘Someone famous, I’ll be bound,’ said Mistress Agnes. ‘Why else would he keep his face hidden behind that visor?’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t want to get a sword-thrust into his eyes,’ Kemp said cynically.
‘Fie, Martin!’ protested Mistress Agnes. ‘What chivalrous knight would deal such a blow?’
‘One who was fighting for his life, dear, rather than playing games at a tournament,’ chuckled Chaucer.
‘That’ll be the king,’ sniffed a familiar voice with a Lancastrian accent, and Kemp turned to see Preston standing there, smiling.
‘Good day, serjeant.’
‘I’m here as a friend now, lad, not your serjeant,’ said Preston. ‘You can call me Wat.’
‘Aye, serjeant… Wat.’
‘Sir John Beaumont is here. Sir Thomas thought you might like to be warned.’
Kemp nodded. ‘I saw him fighting Sir Thomas earlier. But thank you.’
They stood watching as the twenty-four knights and noblemen present stood in a huddle on the far side of the tilting field, doubtless arguing which of them should be the first to have the honour of facing the unknown.
‘What makes you think it’s the king?’ asked Kemp.
‘I can’t see him anywhere else, and this is exactly the kind of thing he loves to do. His head’s full of the tales of the Knights of the Round Table; something the two of you have in common, Lancelot,’ Preston added with a chuckle. ‘But he knows how to beat the French, I’ll say that much for him, and what more can a man ask of his king? You’ll see, Kemp: if he seems to beat every man who dares to fight him, you’ll know it’s the king.’
One of the twenty-four knights and noblemen strode across the ward, to the end of the bridge where the unknown stood. Kemp recognised the arms of Sir John Chandos. ‘Does he know he’s going to fight his own king?’ wondered Kemp.
‘Chandos is no fool,’ said Preston. ‘He’ll have guessed.’
‘The challenge has been taken up by Sir John Chandos!’ announced a herald, and the crowd cheered.
Chandos halted a few feet from the unknown and the two of them bowed to one another courteously. Then they unslung the shie
lds they wore across their backs and held them in their left hands, gripping their whalebone blades in their right hands as they circled one another, each seeking an opening. Chandos lunged forward suddenly but the unknown caught the thrust on his shield, riposting with a stroke aimed at Chandos’ head that the knight only just managed to duck.
The two men fought on, backwards and forwards, exchanging blow for blow. Kemp could see that it was all expert stuff, nobleman’s fighting, with none of the low blows and dirty tricks they would use in war if they wanted to stay alive. Finally the unknown gained the upper hand, driving Chandos to his knees, and the knight yielded, acknowledging the unknown as the victor.
While the remaining twenty-three knights discussed who should be next, a page crossed the ward and handed the unknown a cup of watered-down wine. He accepted it, raising his visor just enough to drink without revealing his face. Kemp thought he caught a glimpse of a golden-brown beard.
The Earl of Warwick was the next up and, although he fought just as well as Chandos, he too was eventually defeated. Next Sir Thomas Holland volunteered. Kemp and Preston exchanged glances.
Holland and the unknown fenced up and down before the bridge. The unknown was showing signs of wearying by now, and Holland was rested after his joust with Beaumont. Kemp realised that Holland had not guessed who his opponent was: his blows were too hard-struck, the blows of a man intent on winning, oblivious to the fact that no matter how honourable his victory might be, it would not be appreciated by a king who only enjoyed a good jest if he were not the butt of it. If Holland were foolish enough to humiliate the king – albeit without knowing what he was doing – it would end any hopes he might have of advancement, either at court or in the field.
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