by K. M. Grant
By the time the two horses reached the open ground, the crowd, deprived of any blood, had grown impatient, and when they saw Luke’s spectacles, some of the ladies in the stand sniggered. Luke’s cheeks turned crimson although he kept his eyes firmly ahead. At least the pilgrims and townsfolk applauded. An underdog is always popular. When the townsfolk began to whistle, Granada threatened to bolt. I bargained furiously. “If I see three swallows—no, three birds of any sort—if I see three purple shoes, if I hear three people say Luke’s name …” I saw no birds or shoes and heard nothing.
Only when Luke reached his place at the far end of the arena did he cram the helmet over his head. It was obvious at once that the arms of his glasses were too thick for comfort, for Sir Knight’s helmet was quite close fitting. Nevertheless, he grasped a lance. When the cuff of his gauntlet snagged on the end, the ladies laughed openly, and Luke had no choice but to allow Walter to hold Granada until the lance was safely under his arm. He was hardly prepared when the trumpet sounded for the contest to begin. Sir Jean was waiting, visor closed.
Luke pulled down his own visor, pushed it back up, then pulled it down again. Walter let go of Granada. The horse, not used to Luke, spun in reverse, then bolted forward so that Luke had to hike up his lance when already going full tilt. To underline his superiority and confidence, Sir Jean was deliberately slower off the mark and asked his horse only for an idle canter. As they approached each other, Luke was struggling to keep the lance straight, but a lucky strike had him catch Sir Jean’s shoulder and jolt the opposing lance away. There were a few splinters. The crowd booed. I could sense Luke’s relief. He had survived at least one encounter. He pulled Granada around and galloped in the vague direction of his mark.
As Walter feared, in the tin oven of his helmet, Luke’s spectacles clouded up and he became hopelessly disoriented. In the end, Walter had to run and lead Granada back to the proper place. There was general laughter now, even from the pilgrims. I couldn’t bear it.
Perhaps because of the laughter, once back at the mark Luke wrenched off the helmet and threw it away. Grasping a new lance, he raised it to show that he was ready. “You’ve forgotten your helmet,” shouted the steward. Luke raised his lance again. Sir Jean frowned. “Does a knight have to wear a helmet?” he called.
The steward consulted his superior. “It’s up to each man what he wears or doesn’t wear.” Luke shook his head at Walter, who was clearly begging him to put the helmet back on, and raised the lance a third time. Sir Jean shrugged. “So be it.”
“God in Heaven,” Master Chaucer expostulated. “He can’t really be going to joust without a helmet.” In the stand, the ladies were suddenly silent.
In seconds, both horses were galloping. This time, Sir Jean treated Luke with more respect, setting his lance early and low. In response, remembering jousts he’d seen earlier, Luke set his later and higher, leaving Sir Jean no time to alter his grip. They clashed. The heads of the lances shattered but both riders stayed in the saddle. The ladies murmured and a few began to chant Luke’s name. This made Sir Jean angry. He should have floored this scribe by now. Though he had no doubt he’d win, it was beginning to look like a proper contest, and mindful that he’d been deprived of a bloody end to the blood feud, he kicked his horse unnecessarily hard.
Allowed to gallop freely, Granada was enjoying himself, and so, indisputably, was Luke. He dumped the broken lance and raised a jubilant arm. This pleased one lady, who called out, “Well done, Helmetless Knight!” Almost at once, as sometimes happens, the name began to rumble through the whole stand and across the jousting field. Now that Luke’s spectacles were his only protection, far from being a focus of hilarity, they’d become a badge of courage. “A helmetless English scribe’s going to beat a fully armed French knight!” one of the pilgrims declared. There was cheering from the daisy-strewn bank.
At this, Sir Jean clearly decided enough was enough. For this third challenge, he set his horse on a direct collision course, hoping to terrify. Luke kept his nerve and so did Granada. Two more lances were shattered. “God and his saints!” the Master kept exclaiming, elated and horrified.
The fourth challenge saw Sir Jean at his most determined. He picked up a heavier lance. Luke turned to Walter. Walter shook his head. It was clear to us that he was trying to persuade Luke to call a truce. It was also clear that Luke was refusing. He snatched up the only lance left in Sir Knight’s armory and spurred Granada on.
Everything seemed to slow: the bounce of Luke’s hair, the thrust of Granada’s haunches, the lances veering across both horses’ withers. I could hear cataclysmic music in my head. I could smell steel and sweat. I could sense Sir Jean suddenly truly nervous of his ransom money. I knew then that this would be the last challenge. Sir Jean bent low and yelling, “Dieu, Charles de France, et mon droit!” scored a hammer blow square in the middle of Luke’s chest.
In armor the weight of a coffin, Luke hit the ground like a stone, his unprotected head and Granada’s hooves muddled together. I stuffed my knuckles into my mouth as the ladies shrieked and Granada galloped off, reins trailing. Luke didn’t get up. Before I was even aware of standing, I was racing down the bank, but by the time I got to Luke, Walter was already crouched over him.
Walter said nothing, not a word, but sometimes you don’t need words. It was how he held Luke, the tender curve of his elbow, the way he felt for a pulse, the delicacy of his forefinger as he wiped the blood from Luke’s lip, his complete disregard for where we were or who was looking. It was only then that I understood something I should have understood all along.
I dropped to my knees and removed Luke’s spectacles, miraculously unbroken. “Walter,” I whispered. I touched his arm. Two pools of misery were raised to me. It was the deepest exchange I’d ever had with anybody. At that moment, Walter’s soul was quite naked, and a naked soul is far more naked than a naked body. How could I have thought it easy being him? How could I have reckoned his life enviably uncomplicated? How could I, who prided myself on observing so much, have observed so little? Of course Walter didn’t want to kiss me. Of course he didn’t want to see Luke holding me. How could he, when he himself was in love with Luke? I knew now from where the melancholy song about the bird had sprung.
I had no idea how to react. Love like Walter’s was beyond my experience. Was it wrong? Certainly, the priests thought so and warned of hellish punishments. I wondered what my father would say—or Walter’s father for that matter, or, indeed, Luke himself. But in the middle of that jousting field, when I didn’t know whether Luke was living or dead, I had to decide for myself. I was sure about three things: first, Walter was my friend; second, I never wanted to lose him; and third, honest love, which was the only love a man like Walter could ever feel, could never be wrong. I brushed his cheek. “Love’s a surprise, isn’t it,” I said. It wasn’t profound. It didn’t solve anything. But Walter breathed out. This whole exchange had taken less than a second.
A gurgle from Luke’s throat. “Don’t speak,” I begged.
“If he dies, I’ll never forgive myself.” Walter was holding Luke as tight as he dared. “I should have fought. How I hate tournaments.” He was desolate.
“He’s not going to die,” I declared with great energy. “God wouldn’t dare. Now put his head on my lap. People are coming.”
“I don’t care,” Walter said.
“You must care,” I said.
“Belle—”
“It’s all right, Walter. It’s all right.”
When the steward and Master Chaucer arrived, I was holding Luke and Walter was busy taking off the armor. Master Chaucer was gray.
“No, he’s not dead.” Walter gave a bland smile. “But he’s hit his head hard. I don’t think he’ll ride again today, and we’ll have to hope his famous memory’s not impaired.”
When the stretcher came, it was Master Chaucer who held Luke’s hand. I think only I noticed that Walter had to turn away.
We continued on to Sir
Jean’s tent. With his ransom saved, the French knight was generosity itself. No expense was to be spared to repair his gallant opponent’s injuries. Naturally enough, as Master Chaucer and Walter disappeared with the stretcher, the summoner was watching. There was one awful cry as Luke was stripped and checked for broken bones. I clutched the tent pole. Then there was nothing to do but wait.
11
The fiery dart of love so burningly
Thrusts through my faithful heart with deadly hurt!
It was the padding that saved Luke. Apart from bruising and mild concussion, he had suffered no lasting damage. Still, Sir Knight insisted on transporting him back to the town in the blue armor cart. I’d never seen Master Chaucer so thrilled. Not only was Luke a hero, but, so he whispered to me, the king’s ring could be sent with Sir Jean! Luke need have nothing to do with it anymore. “God works in mysterious ways,” he murmured as he climbed into the cart beside Luke. “So mysterious I doubt even he can follow all the twists and turns.”
I watched the cart lumber off. Walter was riding Arondel and leading Picardy. I mounted Dulcie and volunteered to lead Dobs. As good fortune had it, Sir Knight had cornered the summoner to discuss the nature of pilgrimage. Master Summoner would find it hard to escape. Walter and I rode side by side and the two led horses flanked us. That way we took up the whole road. For the first time since we’d met, Walter couldn’t look at me. I really didn’t know how to start, so I waded straight in. “Are you ashamed?”
He stared straight ahead. “Yes,” he said.
“Does your father know?”
“He knows and doesn’t know, if that makes any sense. Mostly, he blocks it out.” He paused. “It’s why my sister ran off. She guessed—I don’t know how because I swear to you, Belle, I’ve never touched anybody, man, boy, or girl, except once.” His face hardened, then softened unhappily. “But she seemed to know and one day asked me outright and I wasn’t quick enough to deny it. It was she who told my father. He’d never have guessed on his own. Whoa there, Picardy.” The horse snatched at a branch. “We lied, my father and I, about going to Canterbury to pray for my sister’s return. We’re going to Canterbury to pray for a cure for me. My father insisted on bringing Dulcie. I think she’s supposed to remind me that she’s the kind of pony people like me end up riding and also, of course, that because I’m not—well—not normal I drove my sister into the arms of our enemy.”
“How monstrous.”
Now he looked at me. “No, not monstrous,” he said. “What I feel’s a sin. It’s led to a blood feud.”
“Love’s never a sin,” I said stoutly. “What you do with love can be a sin, I suppose, but love itself can never be any such thing.”
Walter shook his head. “It makes me dishonest. I laugh and sing and flirt and eat and drink and serve and joust, but all the time it’s as if I’m a character in a story.”
I knew that feeling. It made me want to hug him. We had to part momentarily to allow a trail of pack-horses through. The peddler hailed Walter, with sidelong glances at me. “Flaming hair, flaming passion,” he chortled. “Send her my way when you’ve finished!” Walter responded as he always did, with a laugh and a posy of words. When we came together again, he was flushed. “You see,” he said. “When you’re like me, deceit becomes second nature. I even deceived you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, Belle, I did. When I saw you in the Tabard yard and learned you’d had no horse, I thought it would please my father to see a pretty girl in Dulcie’s saddle at my request. And it worked. He thought the cure had started already. He still thinks so.”
“That’s why he doesn’t mind me being a bell founder’s daughter?”
“Better a bell founder’s daughter than another knight’s son.”
“Oh, Walter.”
“Yes. You won’t want to ride with me now.”
“On the contrary,” I said, “I want to ride with you very much.”
There was silence for a little while. I broke it again, this time without a question. I began to talk about myself. I told him about my mother, how my father’s accident haunted me, about my life-in-the-head, my hopeless housekeeping, my three-figured compulsion—“Ah, the three-skip mounting bounce, the threefold I Spy,” he said—and my pumicing—“Ah, the legs,” he said. I nodded. I really felt I could tell him anything. No, more than that. I wanted to tell him everything. I drew the line only at Master Chaucer’s secret. Now wasn’t the right time.
“You must be very lonely,” he said unexpectedly when my words trickled away.
I considered. “I’ve never thought I was lonely, but I suppose I am,” I said. “You get used to it.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“But you must have lots of friends,” I said.
“Do you?”
“No.”
Dulcie and Arondel skipped simultaneously over a pile of dung.
“It’s quite odd how similar we are,” I said. “We’ve both injured our fathers and we both love Luke. We were bound to be friends.”
“Or enemies,” Walter said.
“Dear Walter,” I said warmly, “you could no more be my enemy than … than … Poppet.”
He steered Picardy past a trio of drunken masons. “I wish I could do something to make my father proud, or do something to make me proud of myself.”
“Weren’t you with him in France?”
“Yes, but we never fought a real battle. Remember the bloodstain in his book?”
I nodded.
“It’s from his thumb. He cut it on a meat knife when we were sitting comfortably at our own table. It’s true we’ve been to France, and, two years ago, we did go on campaign to Scotland. But the only blood we saw was when villagers tried to stop us from taking food without paying. They were barely even armed. Perhaps if I fought in a real battle, I’d be different. I don’t know because I never have.”
I sat very still. Perhaps now was the right time after all. “Well,” I said tentatively, because I had no idea what he might think, “I can’t offer you a battle with swords and blood, but I can offer you this.” Before I could have second thoughts, I told him about Master Chaucer, the king, the ring, and the summoner. He listened intently. “You see we’re all deceitful in our ways,” I said nervously when I’d finished.
“Except for Luke,” he answered at once.
“Except for Luke,” I said. “Turns out an alchemist is the most honest of us all.”
He gave the ghost of a smile. Then the full import of what I had told him sank in. “Where’s the king’s ring at this moment?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and the sense of relief at not carrying all this stuff alone made me a little light-headed. “I don’t even know if the Master still has it. He might have given it to Sir Jean when they took Luke into the tent.”
“If he didn’t, we can’t let Luke be sent on some errand for King Richard. Not when it could condemn him to death.” He was horrified, but also glad to think about something else. “We’ll find the ring. If Sir Jean does have it, he won’t be leaving for home at least until the morning, and he’ll be in the town tonight.”
“To inquire after Luke?”
“No, because there’s always a feast after a tournament, and if Sir Jean’s got anything to do with it, this tournament will be no exception.”
“Have you met him?” I asked.
“Who?”
“The king.”
“I have,” said Walter shortly. There was another pause. “We were together quite a bit when he was a boy. He only arrived in England when he was four, you know, and my father’s lands lay next to those of the royal manor at Berkhamsted, where Richard lived with his mother. We shared a tutor. Not the two of us alone,” he added hastily, “there were others. We all had special places in the coronation procession. Some are still his friends.”
“Do you think he deserves to be king?” I asked.
“Deserves? That’s not the right word. Nobody deserves to
be king. He certainly wasn’t meant to be king. His brother Edward was, but he died, so Richard just is king, and if people go pitching kings off their thrones, I’m not sure where we’ll end up. But to ask for help from the king of France! It’s not—it’s not—”
“Not kingly,” I said, and was relieved when Walter laughed.
“Absolutely right, Belle. It’s not what a properly kingly king would do.”
“What shall we do?”
He became very serious again. “Are you sure you want to do anything with me?”
“Very much,” I said.
“I’m not the kind of friend your father would want you to have.”
I wanted to say that Walter was exactly the kind of friend my father would want me to have, but I couldn’t. In truth, I had no idea what my father would make of Walter. “I choose my own friends,” I said in the end.
Walter gave a half smile. He understood perfectly. We explored various harebrained plans, from kidnapping Sir Jean, or Luke, or the summoner, or all three. Then suddenly Walter struck his saddle. “I know just what to do.”
“What?”
“We’ll find the ring and simply return it to the king.”
“Just like that?”
“No, not just like that. When we return it, we’ll make him see that if he asks the king of France for help, he’ll lose his throne, not keep it.”
“He thinks he’s going to lose it anyway.”
“And he might,” said Walter, “but if he asks for foreign help, no Englishman would ever forgive him, so he’ll never be safe. He must understand that.”
I was thoroughly skeptical. “Even assuming we find the ring, why on earth should the king see us, let alone listen to anything we have to say?”
There was a long pause. “He’ll see us,” said Walter, and looked away.