The Cypriotes fell in as if they were mercenaries coming for a pay call. They seemed to gallop their horses straight into the line and de Mézzières actually turned his horse on its hindquarters, with the beast’s front feet off the ground.
We trotted into position – the last three, let me add.
The king was in the centre. We all looked at him, and he looked right, looked left.
He tossed his sword in the air – and caught it.
‘Pour lealte maintenir,’ he said. His knights cheered.
I had no way of knowing it was his motto, but I flourished my sword, and we started forward.
The Germans had pulled their wedge back together. The squires had helped the three downed knights off the field, and now their nine prepared to take on our twelve.
This time, the Cypriotes stayed together, and we had a more traditional clash. Guy le Baveux, one of King Peter’s Cypriote lords, was slammed into the dust by the German wedge, and King Peter only avoided the same fate by charging his horse breast to breast with a Bohemian knight with a black lion on his golden coat. Both horses reared, the two knights swaggered swords, and I lost it all in the dust cloud.
We were almost off the end of the German line, and Fiore, on my right, swept in to make his capture. He met his opponent – Duke Rudolph, again – sword to sword. Rudolph cut hard enough to make sparks fly, and Fiore let him have the bind, leaned forward as his horse rose, and smashed his pommel into the count’s visor, rocking the man’s head back – but the sword continued its rotation, the pommel skidded across the visor and locked across the count’s neck, and the relative motion of the two horses unseated him.
I reined in to pass behind Fiore and collected his new-won horse, but the next knight in the line, a big man on a big horse with barred black and yellow barding, grabbed at the same reins and leaned out to swing at Fiore over Von Hapsburg’s now riderless horse.
Fiore took the blow on the back of his right shoulder and momentum carried him forward and I lost him in the dust. I changed leads over to the right and came up on what would have been Fiore’s right side, and I could feel Nerio hard on my heels. Again the black and yellow knight reached across the empty saddle to cut, this time at me.
I covered, crossing my sword with his, hilt-to-hilt and close to my head. He was big and strong, and I let him press me, then I locked my free, steel-gauntleted hand on the flange of his outstretched steel elbow and used my spurs to tell Jacques to pivot on his front feet. I think I laughed aloud as I controlled his arm with my hand and my horse, dislocating his shoulder and throwing him forward over his saddle as I dropped him, dragging him over Rudolf ’s empty saddle as my horse backed. I swear to you that Jacques understood my intention all through, perhaps better than I.
I got my hand on to Duke Rudolf ’s bridle. Nerio was flank-to-flank with yet another German knight, but he had black and yellow’s reins.
I had no opponent. I had a moment – there must have been a gust of wind – and I saw that the King of Cyprus was down.
Philippe de Mézzières was locked in a steel embrace with the Emperor, and three German knights were hammering away at him while a pair of the Cypriotes I didn’t know tried to break into the circle around the king. The king’s horse was – I assume – hit with a sword or a sabaton-clad foot, because he bolted instead of standing by his master. The king was on his feet, reaching for his horse, but the animal went past his reaching hands and ran for the crowd line.
Well, I had a great desire for fame and a captured horse in my left fist. I remember crossing the two horse lengths between us, and my only fear was that someone else would get to him first.
Philippe de Mézzières twisted, the Emperor rocked back, and de Mézzières’ sword shot out and slammed into a German knight’s head, rocking him back and opening a hole.
The king saw me and took two steps towards me. He was coming right at me, and he leaped – got his right foot into the stirrup and mounted without stopping the horse. Really, it was one of the most spectacular feats of horsemanship I’d seen, then.
Nothing beside what followed.
He swung himself like a door on the stirrup leather, mounting with the horse’s stride, and then – as if he’d planned it every day of his life – he reached out his right hand and struck the Emperor in the helmet with his fist, pulled his arm back, reached under the Emperor’s arm and pulled him back. De Mézzières let go his hold and got one of the Emperor’s legs and lifted – and the mightiest monarch in Europe was down in the dust.
Nerio skimmed through the mêlée at a canter, plucked the reins out of the air, jerking the Emperor’s horse’s head savagely, provoking the great best to a lumbering gallop. The reins broke, and Nerio was left without his prize, but they were galloping along, side by side.
Headed for the Emperor’s flag. By which I mean, the wrong way.
There were two Cypriotes down, by that time, and a third so badly injured – broken arm, dislocated shoulder – that he was staying at the edge of the fight, trying to avoid capture. But six of the Emperor’s knights were out, and the other six were already breaking off, slamming their swords into the king’s brother Hugh and riding clear of the dust.
Nerio was a patient hunter. He followed the Emperor’s horse across the field, penned it into a corner of the crowd, and got its bridle.
I was riding flat out by then, because all six of the Imperial Knights had gone for Nerio. By my side were the King of Cyprus and his chancellor, and from the other edge of the field Fiore was galloping at the Germans and Swabians and Bohemians. The two Bohemian knights turned and faced us, and they were good. Better than me, I’m not ashamed to say. I locked one of them up, and he was dragging me from my saddle when the king passed his sword across the other man’s neck and pulled him off me. The other Bohemian dropped de Mézzières, which was no mean feat of arms, I can tell you.
That left four Swabians on Nerio. But it was Nerio’s moment – he cut and turned and cut, and he had his horse’s back to the crowd, which limited the ability of the Swabians to get at him for a throw.
By that time I was riding for him again, although I wanted to throw up into my helmet and I’d lost my sword. The king was by me.
The second Bohemian – the one who had put de Mézzières down – was at our heels.
They were hammering Nerio as if they were armourers and he needed to be forged. Ever seen three master bladesmiths work a blade together? That’s how they pounded him, and yet he was as light as air, dancing under them. He took blows, but he gave them, too.
I came up on a knight in red and blue, caught his sword hand from behind and beside him, and disarmed him as if he’d passed me the blade. I tried to throw it over his head, and he slammed his fist into my visor, and I bent back like a bow – he was a puissant man. I lost a moment, but in that time the king hit him, and I recovered my seat – Jacques had danced clear of the fight, may God care for that horse.
My nose was broken inside my helmet, and blood was flowing over the cloth of the padding of my aventail and down my breastplate and my coat armour. The pain was blinding. But I could see Nerio’s green and gold, and I got my horse to do the work for me. I put spurs to Jacques – he didn’t deserve that, but I was hurt and in a hurry, and Jacques exploded in outraged innocence, put his head down and crashed into one of the Swabians with a sound like an army of tinkers doing battle with an army of wooden spoons.
The Swabian reeled in his saddle, tried to regain his seat –
Fiore stripped him from the saddle as easily as a conjuror makes a scarf vanish. One moment there was a knight, and the next, there was not. Nerio still had the Emperor’s horse. He was now free, and he turned and began to gallop for our flag, a bowshot away. There wasn’t an imperial knight on the field to stop him that I could see.
Jacques followed Nerio’s horse, bursting into a canter. I was recovering, but not as fast as I would have like
d. Then something hit me like a butcher’s knife hits a carcass – from behind.
I’d lost the Bohemian knight in the press, and he was the wrong man to lose track of. His first blow to my helmet stunned me. Then he hit me three more times. I couldn’t get my sword up.
I fell. Suddenly, my knees could no longer keep the horse between them. I just couldn’t continue. The fall seemed to take a long time.
I was only out for about as long as it took me to hit the ground but that was the last time I wore that helmet. Blows to the head are everyday business in war, or in the tournament, and you need to be able to take a great many of them. In a mêlée – whether of peace or war – men hit you; your guards are never perfect, and your opponents don’t come one at a time. Many of my worst blows have come from behind or the side, and in a visor you cannot see those coming. I know men, good knights, who still prefer to fight in open-faced helms precisely because they fear the attacker they cannot see. My fancy bassinet with its long beak and light construction did not provide enough vision or enough protection.
But that was not my first thought as my eyes fluttered open.
I was lying on my back, and there was my lovely golden horse standing over me. He somewhat ruined the effect of his loyalty by voiding his bowels in the thoughtful way horses do, but he didn’t do it on me – he was really a very intelligent animal, for a horse.
I raised my head, and a spike of pain appeared behind my left eye. I may not have bounced to my feet like a hero in a romance, but I got up fast, got a hand in Jacque’s girth and let him pull me all the way up.
Once on my feet, I noticed that the king had his visor up and a pretty Polish maid was giving him water from a blackware jug. My Bohemian adversary was behind him, waiting patiently for the water – his visor was also up. Nerio was surrounded by people from the crowd.
The world swirled, my mouth filled with a salty taste, and then I was on the ground, throwing up inside my helmet. I don’t recommend it, but I see glancing around that you’ve all shared this glorious experience of the life of arms, so I’ll pass on.
Marc-Antonio appeared, sweating profusely, and got my helmet off me, then got a wet rag and began to wipe me down. The boy was going up and up in my estimation – apparently, he’d run along the crowd as we fought our way down the field, to be ready at hand.
Two young girls, one red and one blonde, appeared with a bucket of water. They were very young, and very determined to help, and dressed in their best clothes, covered in meticulous if not very well-rendered embroidery. But they wanted to help a knight, and I was chosen, vomit and all. And I admit they cleaned me up very nicely.
I drank a good deal of their water, and then managed to get back into my saddle. I did not vault, I promise you. There was a dent in my bassinet as deep as my thumb, and to the best of my ability to guess, my Bohemian adversary had struck the exact same place on my helmet three or four times.
I held it up to him and smiled.
He smiled back and rode over. ‘I did my best,’ he said in French, ‘but it was too late. The judges called the contest.’ He laughed. ‘Because in a moment your Italian gentleman was going to take the Emperor’s horse to the stake, and that would have been too humiliating!’ He stripped the gauntlet off his right hand and extended it.
His goodwill was evident – he was as big as me, handsome as a God, and a year or two older. We shook hands, and people began to cheer.
He reached down and patted the redhead on the cheek. ‘Oh, how I wish I had been on your team.’ He smiled. ‘Your king rides like a Turk or a Tartar. Or a Pole. The Emperor is too – cautious.’ He shrugged. ‘Or he assumed that he would be allowed to win.’
‘Those were beautiful sword bows,’ I said. ‘You put me down – such a light sword!’
‘My father says you can defeat any armour if you hit it repeatedly in the same place,’ he said. ‘Look, the judges are gathering us.’ He gave me a lopsided grin. ‘I wish I’d taken your horse. But I could not – your friends were on me as soon as I got you.’ He nodded. ‘We should fight again. I am Heřman z Hradce. In Latin, you might say Hermanni de Novadomo.’
I bowed, head throbbing. ‘William Gold,’ I said.
We rode to our respective teams – cheered, I’ll add, by the crowd. I’ll note here that I’ve seen this many times – the crowd wants to see men behave like knights, to exchange words after the blows, and behave with dignity and good cheer. Surliness is the very antithesis of chivalry.
There were five judges, and they sent us to our inns and pavilions. I managed to ride through the streets to the king’s inn without tumbling off, and I waved and smiled as best I could, but my ears were ringing and I had a sharp pain in my head. By the time we dismounted, I had a lump in my scalp where the sword blows had dented my helmet that was soft and mushy and blood oozed from it each time I touched it, which was too often. And another on my forehead where I’d fallen face-first to the ground. I’ll skip ahead in this catalogue of minor injuries and say that my neck was stiff for a week because apparently my bassinet’s beak had dug into the soft earth when I fell and twisted my neck.
Ah, the glories of the tournament!
That night we entered the presence of the Emperor himself, who received each of us and gave us gifts. If he was bad-tempered from being unhorsed, I never saw a sign of it, and his behaviour was … Imperial. He complimented Fiore, praising his skill, and he gave Nerio his hand. I received a warm smile and a beautiful golden cross, worked in enamel – this is it, here. I still wear it. I’ve pawned it a dozen times but always had it back, eh?
He said something very quietly to Nerio, who flushed and bowed and came back to us holding a beautiful gold and silver cup with a ruby in the base. Nerio whispered to Fiore and they laughed together.
‘What’s that?’ I asked. I wasn’t exactly stung – they were clearly the men of the hour – but suddenly they were whispering like old friends. I was used to arbitrating their quarrels, not to being left out of their confidences.
‘We’re both Knights of the Empire. Technically, we’re his men. He said that it was a pleasure to see that the King’s best knights were – ahem – his own.’ Nerio glanced around.
Duke Rudolf was whispering in the Emperor’s ear.
The Emperor – that’s Charles IV, of recent and glorious memory – was at the time about fifty years old, handsome, dark haired, and very strong. He was a cautious man, and he dressed elaborately and his court kept to complicated ceremonials, even at a tournament, so there was no easy approach to him, and as I have said, he was no proponent of crusade.
Rudolf bowed, the Emperor smiled, and Duke Rudolf swept down the room in his beautiful scarlet clothes. He paused near me and I bowed, knee to the floor.
‘That’s twice you’ve knocked me down, monsieur,’ he said.
‘Your Grace does me too much honour,’ I said in my best Gascon-French.
He inclined his head. ‘I’ve just done you a favour, I think,’ he said. ‘So that you will know I bear you no ill feeling. But listen, Sir Gold – take good care of your King of Jerusalem. There are those here who would do him harm.’ He looked at a cluster of men I did not know, gentlemen all, in the older French style and long boots. They were the only men there in boots.
I guessed who they were. I guessed that they were a party of knights on errantry who’d lost their horses in a town square near Nuremberg.
Nerio was close enough to hear. I did the courteous thing and introduced him, at least in part to cover my confusion, and because the blows to my head had not made me wittier. I tugged his sleeve and gestured in the direction of the cluster of Frenchmen.
Duke Rudolf exchanged bows of near equality with Ser Nerio. ‘Ah – Accaioulo the Younger? We were allies at Florence; how do you come to the company of this English Lancelot?’
Nerio smiled at me. ‘I took a fancy to his red hair. In truth, Ita
ly is better with Sir William in Poland.’
‘Oh, my lords!’ I protested, or something equally foolish. My head was not working well, and the room spun each time I drank wine, and I was thirsty.
King Peter came and we bowed again – knees to floor, hats off – and he paid us all sorts of compliments. I was still trying to work out who might do the King of Cyprus harm, or why, when the Emperor summoned the judges.
My enemy of the morning, for so I thought of him, opened a scroll and began to read, in courtly French, through a list of the achievements and encounters of the tournament and the jousts that had come before. I’ll give the judges this much: they had sharp eyes for the encounters. The King of Cyprus was adjudged the best lance, and he went forward humbly to receive his prize, a hawk with gold jesses and bells. The hawk was magnificent – a true Icelandic peregrine. The victor in the foot encounters was none other than my Bohemian friend, who was showered with applause and kisses from a great many beautiful women, and who bore away his prize, an axe inlaid in gold with verses from Luke. There were prizes for archery, which I had not seen; for riding and for courteous behaviour and even a prize for the man who had been unhorsed the most times, given by the King of Poland to a German knight who bore the good-natured laughter with a sanguine air and seemed pleased to go away with a pretty gold-clasped purse and a velvet cushion which he flourished amidst laughter.
And then the Frenchman began on the events of the mêlée, naming the participants. The room fell silent. The Emperor was referred to as the ‘Count of Luxembourg’, which was, I gathered, part of an elaborate fiction by which a great lord might fight under a lesser title so as not to discomfit his opponents – a very courteous act.
I feel I have to mention, for Monsieur Froissart’s delectation, that the King of Cyprus and the Count of Luxembourg bore the exact same arms – did you know that? What a herald’s nightmare that must have been. But for the duration of our time in Krakow, the king displayed only his arms as King of Jerusalem – white and gold – and never the arms of the house of Lusignan.
The Long Sword Page 16