CLASH OF ARMS
Medieval heralds were endlessly ingenious. This story springs from their habit of granting arms to all sorts of individuals. Every example of heraldry cited herein is genuine. Hmm. If heraldry really is a science, does that make “Clash of Arms” science fiction?
The tournament held every other year at the castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh in Westphalia always produced splendid jousting, luring as it did great knights from all over Europe. Indeed, one tourney year the lure proved too much even for Magister Stephen de Windesore, who left his comfortable home outside London to travel to the wilds of Germany.
You must understand at once that Magister Stephen did not arrive at the castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh to break a lance himself. Far from it. He was fat and well past fifty. While that was also true of several of the knights there, no more need be said than that Magister Stephen habitually rode a mule.
His sharpest weapon was his tongue, and at the castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh or, to be more accurate, in a tavern just outside the castle he was having trouble with that. The Westphalians used a dialect even more barbarous than his own English, and his French, I fear, was more of the variety learned at Stratford-atte-Bowe than around Paris. On the other hand, he spoke very loudly.
“Me? I don’t care a fig for cart horses and arrogant swaggerers in plate,” he declared to anyone who would listen. To emphasize the point, he gestured with a mug of beer. Some slopped over the edge and splashed the table. He did not miss it; it was thin, bitter stuff next to the smooth English ale he liked.
“You don’t like jousts, why did you come?” asked an Italian merchant whose French that was hardly better than Magister Stephen’s. The Italian was chiefly interested in getting the best price for a load of pepper, cinnamon, and spikenard, but he had an amateur’s passion for deeds of dought.
Magister Stephen fixed him with a cold gray eye. “The arms, man, the arms!”
“Well, of course the arms! Arma virumque cano,” the merchant said, proving that he owned some smattering of a classical education. He made cut-and-thrust motions.
“Dear God, if You are truly all-wise, why did You make so many dullards?” Magister Stephen murmured, but in English. Returning to French, he explained, “Not weaponry. What I mean is coats of arms, heraldry, blazonry-d’ you understand me?”
The Italian smote his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Ai, the stupidity of me! Truly, I am seventeen different kinds of the hindquarters of a she-donkey! Heraldry your honor meant! And I myself an armigerous man!”
“You, sir?” Magister Stephen eyed his chance-met comrade with fresh interest. He certainly did not look as if he came from any knightly or noble line, being small, skinny, excitable, and dressed in mantle, tunic, and tights shabbier than Stephen’s own. Still, it could be. The Italians were freer with grants of arms to burgesses than were the northern countries.
“Indeed yes, sir,” the merchant replied, paying no attention to Magister Stephen’s scrutiny. “I am Niccolo dello Bosco-of the woods, you would say. When I am at home, you see, I am to be found in the forest outside Firenze. It is a truly lovely town, Firenze. Do you know it?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Magister Stephen said. He was thinking that it was not unfortunate at all. He had been to Milan once, to watch a tourney and came away with a low opinion of Italian manners and cookery. That, however, was neither here nor there. “And your arms, sir, if I may ask?”
“But of course. A proud shield, you will agree: Gules a fess or between three frogs proper.”
Magister Stephen whipped out quill and ink and a small sketchbook. Rather than carrying a variety of colors around for rough sketches, he used different hatchings to show the tinctures: vertical stripes for the red ground of the shield, with dots for the broad gold horizontal band crossing the center of the escutcheon. His frogs were lumpy-looking creatures. He glanced up at dello Bosco, who was watching him in fascination. “Why ‘three frogs proper’?” he asked. “Why not simply ‘vert’?”
“They are to be shown as spotted.”
“Ah.” Magister Stephen made the necessary correction. “Most interesting, Master dello Bosco. In England I know of but one family whose arms bear the frog or rather the toad: that of Botreaux, whose arms are Argent, three toads erect sable.”
The Italian smiled. “From batracien, no doubt. A pleasant pun, yes?”
“Hmm?” Magister Stephen owned a remorselessly literal mind. “Why, so it is.” His chuckle was a little forced.
The approaching jingle of harness and clop of heavy hooves in the street told of another party of knights on its way to the castle of Thunder-ten-tronckh. Anxious to see their arms, Magister Stephen tossed a coin down on the tabletop and waited impatiently for his change. He pocketed the sixth of a copper and hurried out of the tavern.
To his annoyance, he was familiar with all but one of the newcomers’ shields. He was just finishing his sketch of that one when dello Bosco appeared at his elbow and nudged him. “There’s something you won’t find often,” the Italian said, nodding toward one of the stalls across the road. “A trader who can’t give his stock away.”
“Oh, yes, him.” Magister Stephen had noticed the bushy-bearded merchant in a caftan the day before. He was a Greek from Thessalonike, come to the castle of Thunder-ton-tronckh with a cartload of fermented fish sauce. To northern noses, though, the stuff smelled long dead. Now the Greek was reduced to smearing it on heels of bread and offering them as free samples to people on the street, most of whom took one good whiff and fled.
“Timeo Danaos et donas ferentis,” dello Bosco laughed, watching yet another passerby beat a hasty retreat from the stall.
“You know Vergil well,” Magister Stephen said.
“Yes, very well,” dello Bosco agreed, and Magister Stephen sniffed at the ready vanity of an Italian.
Another party of knights came clattering up the road toward the castle. “It seems our day for surprises,” dello Bosco said, pointing at one horseman’s arms. “Or have you seen pantheons before?”
Magister Stephen did not answer; he was drawing furiously. He knew of the pantheon from his study of heraldic lore, but he had not seen the mythical beast actually depicted on a shield. It had the head of a doe, a body that might have come from the same creature, a fox’s tail, and cloven hooves. It was shown in its proper colors: the hooves sable, body gules powdered with golden stars.
“Quite unusual,” Magister Stephen said at last, tucking his sketchbook back inside his tunic. Then he turned to dello Bosco, who had been waiting for him to finish. “Sir, you astonish me. Not one in a thousand would have recognized a pantheon at sight.”
The merchant drew himself up stiffly; even so, the crown of his head was below the level of Magister Stephen’s chin. “I am not one in a thousand-I am myself. And being armigerous, is it not proper for me to know heraldry?”
“Oh, certainly. Only-”
Dello Bosco might have been reading his thoughts, for he divined the exact reason for the hesitation. “You think I am stupid for because I am not noble born, eh? Why do I not thrash you for this?“ He was hopping up and down in fury, his cheeks crimson beneath their Mediterranean swarthiness.
Magister Stephen cocked a massive fist. “I promise you, you would regret the attempt.”
“Do I care a fig for your promises, you larded tun?”
“Have a care with your saucy tongue, knave, or I will be the one to thrash you.”
“Not only fat but a fool. In my little finger I know more of heraldry than is in all your empty head.”
Magister Stephen’s rage ripped free.”Damn me to hell if you do, sir!” he roared loudly enough to make heads turn half a block away.