Victories? To win a victory, one must fight. Fenice uttered an automatic murmur of thanks and sank into a curtsy that hid her face. The queen smiled again and turned her head to attend to a remark made by Edmund de Lacy, and Fenice slipped away. Servants were lighting torches to be placed in the wall brackets, others with long rods bearing a tallow candle were lighting the tapers set ready in the huge chandeliers suspended from the beams. Clearly the feasting would go on for some time.
Fenice looked at the tables, at the men and women still drinking and making merry, and at the antics of fools and acrobats. Tears and terror rose in her throat. She could not bear it. She knew where the queen’s chambers were. They would be empty, except perhaps for a few maidservants. No one would notice she had not returned to her place, indeed, the couples on either side of where she had been sitting had already taken up most of the space.
Suddenly, Fenice was cold. There would be a fire in the queen’s chamber. She hurried toward peace and warmth, her feet finding the way while the queen’s words repeated themselves in her head. At first she was so frightened she could hardly make sense of them, but eventually she understood that Aubery was going to fight, and she was expected to watch him and enjoy herself.
By the time that was clear, she found she was beside the hearth with a delicate silk veil in her hands. There was a tear in it, and on a small table near her lay several fine needles and thin silk thread. She must have spoken to the maids and they appealed to her to mend the veil and she agreed. Fenice threaded the needle, made a tiny double stitch to hold the thread, and took an even more minute stitch on the other side of the rent. With the familiar activity, the drumming of her heart began to ease, and she heard the soft purring hum of the fire song she always loved. Instinctively, she turned her head to it, but she did not see the low, dancing flames. She saw instead the queen’s smile, the expectation of pleasure in her expression. Eleanor was not cruel. Could she have spoken as she did and smiled as she did if Aubery was really to be in great danger?
Fenice’s fingers moved steadily, drawing the almost invisible thread back and forth across the rent with such fine stitches that the closure seemed no more coarse than an occasional thick thread in the weaving. No, Eleanor was not cruel, Fenice knew, thus, she did not expect Aubery to be hurt, and she did expect Fenice to be present and to take pride in her husband’s achievements. Fenice closed her eyes and swallowed. Aubery would expect her to take pride in him also. He had been pleased with her in Bayonne. She had survived that fear, she would survive this also.
Actually, Aubery had not forgotten Fenice. The arrangement with the queen had been made when it was decided that Aubery as well as the great lords who had come as proxies for the king and the Earl of Cornwall would attend Edward through the preknighting ceremonies. Aubery had assumed Eleanor had already explained to Fenice that she would be staying at the castle that night. He was, as he had been at Bayonne, torn between relief and an odd disappointment that Fenice made no exclamations or passionate farewells, since she would not see him again until after the jousts. She could at least have wished him good fortune, he thought with a touch of resentment.
Then, as he entered Edward’s chamber at the tail end of the procession of notables, the prince called out to him and asked if he, too, would not bathe so that candidate and champion would be more at one in purity. Aubery agreed at once and then suggested that he also stand the vigil with Edward. This offer was enthusiastically accepted by the prince but called forth an argument by John de Warrenne, who was concerned that a sleepless night might interfere with Aubery’s fighting ability. Aubery shook his head and smiled. Edward insisted that the strength of spirit his champion would gain from the religious exercise and from the blessings of God and the saints would more than compensate for the fatigue of the vigil.
No one liked to contradict the prince’s faith, so the matter was decided. In fact, Aubery was glad of it. He felt uplifted by the ritual cleansing, the solemn ride through darkened streets, lit only by flaring torches, to the great unfinished cathedral. There was a grand mystery, a true feeling of the awesome power of God in the black nave, stretching endlessly upward, in the echoing silence of the huge building that closed in upon Edward and himself when the others withdrew. But the small, flickering light of the lamp that burned on the great altar was, to Aubery, a symbol of the other face of God, the warm kindliness that would not leave a man alone in the dark with fear. The little yellow light, warm and homely, was like a murmur of comfort all through the dark hours until dawn, an assurance that God and His saints were near and protective.
Sir Savin was also awake through much of the night, but the low mutters that passed his lips were not prayers. He had pretended to drink heavily throughout the feast, and when the end of the entertainment was signaled by the rising of King Alfonso and Queen Eleanor, Savin had staggered away to his bed, casting himself down on it fully clothed. When the others who shared his quarters were settled and quiet, he had pretended to retch and had risen, mumbling drunkenly, as if he were seeking the privy.
During the two days in which Aubery had been sightseeing and enjoying the company of his wife, Sir Savin had been more seriously occupied, investigating the armory, smithy, and storage sheds of the palace. Thus, once outside, he made his way with complete sureness to the sheds where the lances prepared for the jousts were stored. There he paused, looked around, and sighed with relief. Although he had made a careful investigation on previous nights and determined that no one slept in the vicinity, there was always the chance that on the night before the tourney the armorers would be working late, but here in the palace there had been plenty of time to prepare, so all was quiet.
Savin took from his belt pouch a stub of candle and flint and tinder for lighting. Then shielding the small glow, he moved toward the racks of lances. Just where he had seen them were the two fine banner lances, those specially prepared for the English and Castilian champions to use in the first joust. Each was of strong, straight ashwood, polished smooth. Near its specially blunted head was the banner of the bearer. Sir Savin smiled and reached for the lance on which a crimson pennon was affixed. When the lance was fewtered, the pennon would hang down, showing the three golden leopards of England.
Slowly and carefully he worked the metal head loose from the shaft and removed the banner. These he laid carefully aside so that no earth or straw would sully the bright metal tip or gay pennon. He blew out the candle. It was a nuisance to have to relight it each time, but he was taking no chances that some restless soul would see the light. He made his way to a second shed. Here were stored the training lances. They, too, were straight and the same length but with no metal heads and made of more brittle, less resilient wood, not so carefully polished. Savin had spent considerable time in this second shed, examining each lance until he found one that nearly matched the ashwood shaft he had brought with him. He had moved that one to the very top of the pile and marked the butt so he could not mistake it.
As Savin expected, the shaft he had chosen lay where he left it. He felt the scratches on the butt, but nonetheless lit his candle again and compared the two. Then, having removed one at a time half a dozen shafts, he buried the good ash lance in the pile. Once more, before he returned, he killed the flame on the candle. Mumbling curses, he lit it a third time and began to polish the rough shaft. While Aubery prayed for strength enough to bring honor to his prince and England, Savin patiently smoothed the wood to match the lance that carried the colors of Castile.
When he was finished, he replaced the banner and the blunted head. He pushed it down hard on the tapered end of the shaft but did not fix it there. If the head came loose on impact, so much the better. Last of all, he worked on the head of the lance bearing the colors of Castile. He could not restore the point in full for fear someone would notice, but by the time his work was done he was sure the head would penetrate easily enough with no opposing pressure to diminish the force with which it struck.
Chapter Twenty-O
ne
The slow hours passed. Accustomed to night watches, Aubery slipped now and again into a waking doze, not so sound a sleep that he would fall off his feet or off the cushion on which he knelt when he was tired of standing, but still a form of rest. Twice he became aware that Edward was wavering and touched him gently. Each time the prince recovered at once and smiled gratefully at him. At last, the altar flame began to dim as light grayed the great windows of the cathedral.
When pink streaks began to lend warmth to the earliest gray of dawn, the sound of chanting marked the end of the vigil. The procession of canons came solemnly through the nave, enveloped in the scent of incense from the swinging golden censers. Following them were the bishops and archbishop. The mass was sung, Aubery listening as devoutly as at his own knighting. Then, to honor the English, Boniface, Archbishop of Canterbury, took the place of the Castilian prelate and gave the sermon. As usual, he urged the candidate for knighthood to be pure, honest, and faithful, to protect the Church, widows, orphans, and all who were desolate and oppressed. But his final words were a reading from the Old Testament: “Blessed be the Lord God who formeth my hands for battle and my fingers for war. He is my salvation. He is my refuge. He setteth me free.”
Aubery liked the intent expression on Edward’s face as he listened. It was thoughtful rather than exalted. The prince was young and somewhat spoiled, Aubery knew, but he hoped that time and experience would wear that away. By nature Edward seemed essentially serious and practical, not given to wild enthusiasms and bitter reactions like his father. It would be a relief to have a king with a steady purpose, and then, horrified by his thoughts, which implied Henry’s eventual death, he concentrated on the blessing being given.
Both sermon and blessing were brisk. That was Archbishop Boniface’s manner, but it suited Aubery’s mood also. It was somehow an appropriate bridge between the immense, slow, spiritual thoughts of the night and the lively business of the coming day.
In Edward’s chambers they broke their fast substantially and on a large variety of delicious dishes, most of them unfamiliar to Aubery. Then the prince’s squires helped Aubery to arm. There was none of the usual fumbling as inexperienced boys tried to seem assured in the handling of new armor. Edward’s squires were all older, nearly ripe for knighthood themselves, all young men of the proudest families in England, who had transferred from the king’s household to his son’s.
These young noblemen were not accustomed to demeaning themselves with the arming of a simple knight, but as the prince’s champion, Aubery was temporarily worthy. Also, although none would admit it, they were all impressed by Aubery. The king’s squires were well taught but had seen little actual combat. Thus, Aubery’s well-used arming tunic, which, though it had been washed clean as possible, showed dark stains of old blood and patches where blades had torn it, and his battle-scarred body awed them. The cuirie, too, bore marks of combat, and the stiff leather had been worn so often, so often soaked with sweat and dried on Aubery’s body, that it seated itself around him, molded by usage. His hauberk had been polished to a high shine, but close examination showed its rings had been broken and reworked many times.
On any other occasion, the wealthy young squires might have turned up their noses, associating stains and patches with poverty, but they knew that Aubery had been offered all new armor of the same quality given to Edward, and he had refused to wear it. He had told Alfonso himself quite simply that he would be grateful for the gift but would fight better in his old, accustomed gear. Of course, his shield was new, but he had carried that from Bayonne, carefully covered so that the colors of England freshly painted on it would not be dulled or scratched, and he was now used to the weight and feel of it.
Edward hovered around, watching eagerly, his eyes envious, and Aubery shook his head at him and laughed. “Do not expect great acts of heroism,” he warned. “It would ill befit this joyous occasion if I should put down the champion of Castile or he me. Our first passes will be no more than formal.”
“Is that what you think?” Edward asked, bristling.
“It is what I have been told,” Aubery responded.
“But is it the truth?” the prince insisted. “We would look fools, indeed, if the champion of England were overthrown in the first exchange.”
“Do you have some reason to believe King Alfonso so lacking in honor?” Aubery asked very quietly.
Edward shrugged. “He challenged our right to Gascony. He supported Gaston de Béarn, who had returned my father’s kindness with insult and rebellion. I do not say it is so, only that you should be wary.”
“That is very wise,” Aubery agreed.
He spoke quickly, hoping to end a conversation he felt to be unwise in the circumstances. The prince had not spoken loudly, and those closest to them were Edward’s own squires. But there were Castilian servants in the room. Aubery did not think Alfonso would wish to infuriate his proud young brother-by-marriage and dishonor himself by tricking the English champion into a fall, but he was certain the servants were ordered to listen and report. There was little chance they would hear anything of grave importance in the fifteen-year-old prince’s rooms, but even small tidbits might be useful.
Despite Aubery’s quick agreement, Edward seemed disposed to continue the discussion, but at that point de Warrenne, de Lacy, and Archbishop Boniface entered. They looked with approval at Aubery and Edward and indicated that all was ready below for the act of dubbing Edward knight. As two of Edward’s squires gathered up the prince’s arms and armor and others took Aubery’s shield, now displaying the prince’s colors and his tilting helm, garnished with Edward’s crest, Aubery realized that not one of the nobles of long, high lineage was capable of fighting. Everyone with the party was either too old, too young, not physically fit enough, or in holy orders.
For the first time Aubery associated that fact with his knowledge that the marriage was not popular in England, where it was felt that the heir to the throne should have been used for a far more important alliance. Few people in England, high or low, cared whether Gascony remained under English domination, and some would have actively preferred to be rid of a province so far distant and seemingly always in a state of revolt that demanded expensive armed expeditions. Now it occurred to Aubery that there might be Castilians who felt England was a poor choice as an ally, or simply those who wished to embarrass or weaken Alfonso.
At this point Aubery shook his head slightly. Neither Alfonso nor any enemy of his could gain anything by enraging the English. The fall of the prince’s champion might produce a momentary embarrassment, but it could have no serious or permanent effect on Alfonso’s relationship with England or his hold on his country. As for Alfonso’s good faith, when Aubery reconsidered, he found he was sure of it. All the tourney arrangements were devised specifically to prevent friction between the English and Castilians.
If a flicker of uneasiness remained in Aubery as they came out of the castle and walked toward the lists, it was dissipated in the pleasure he felt at the sight of the tourney grounds. He had been on many, and surely this was the most lavish. As they entered the grounds, every jongleur who could make music struck or blew his instrument, producing a mighty crash of sound—if not of music. The lodges were already full of brilliantly dressed gentlefolk, who burst into cheers as Edward and his proxy sponsors appeared. Both “music” and cheering accompanied them as they made their way toward the dais upon which King Alfonso waited.
Aubery fell back a little. He had no part in the actual adubment, so he took the opportunity to examine the scene more particularly, and his initial impression was confirmed. The canopies that protected the lodges from sun and wind were of real silk, which, over the central area where the two royal parties would sit, had been specially woven or painted with the royal colors of both houses. There were cushioned chairs for Eleanor and Edward and for Alfonso, his wife, and the little princess. To shield their feet from the rough boards, precious carpet from the East had been laid down. F
ur-lined rugs lay over the backs or arms of the chairs to provide warmth if anyone should be chilled.
As they drew nearer, Aubery looked with interest at the young Eleanor whom he had not before seen. She was only ten, sitting with stiff dignity in a chair too large for her; but when she saw Edward, she smiled with singular sweetness. The pleasure the child felt on seeing her future husband immediately brought Fenice to Aubery’s mind, and he searched the area around Queen Eleanor for his wife’s face. Accustomed to seeing her on the periphery where the least important were placed, it took him a moment to find her just behind the queen.
There was flash of pleasure in knowing that Fenice’s position was owing to the honor bestowed on him rather than to her bond with the queen. There was another when he realized her eyes were fixed on him rather than upon Edward, who was now approaching the platform upon which Alfonso, in the finest armor Aubery had ever seen, awaited him. He could not help smiling at her but returned his eyes hastily to the ceremony taking place when she pressed her fingers to her lips and threw him a kiss—that was not the kind of thing she should be doing in the middle of an event of high seriousness.
The Earl of Warrenne, proxy for King Henry, who was first sponsor for his son, was just rising to his feet after having knelt to affix Edward’s golden spurs to his heels. Next, Edmund de Lacy, proxy for Richard of Cornwall, second sponsor, slid over his head the gorgeous hauberk that had been displayed the preceding day and set the helm on his head. Last, one of the chief noblemen of Castile girded on Edward’s sword. King Alfonso stepped forward and lifted a clenched fist, ordering, “Bow thy head.”
Aubery caught his breath. When Hereford had knighted him, the blow had been a playful, if painful, contest between them, Hereford trying to strike hard enough to send Aubery reeling and Aubery bracing every muscle to withstand the impact without so much as the flicker of an eyelash. Neither had won the contest. Aubery had not been moved from his position, but he had swayed dizzily on his feet and might have staggered a step if Hereford had not quickly embraced him and given him a hearty kiss of peace, also giving him a chance to recover.
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