Well, that turncoat Baumgarten was good for something, after all. ‘I was knighted at Florence in front of a thousand men-at-arms by the Count von Baumgarten — a knight of the Emperor, I believe.’
De Mezzieres started. ‘You are Sir William Gold?’ he asked. ‘I thought I knew the name.’ He looked away and set his jaw.
I knew something was wrong. Battlefield knightings are for poor men and third sons and mercenaries.
‘And the others?’ he asked, his tone icy.
I tried to control my temper, because being on this tournament team was a gift from God. ‘Ser Nerio is the son of Ser Niccolo Acciaioulo of Florence; also a Knight of the Holy Roman Empire,’ I said.
De Mezzieres nodded, but was not looking at me.
‘Master Fiore is a donat of the Order of St John, a volunteer. His father is a knight of Cividale, but he has not yet been knighted.’ I raised my voice. ‘Have I offended, monsieur?’
De Mezzieres took a deep breath.
But whatever he might have said, the king interrupted him. ‘The thin lad’s a squire? What is your name, sir?’
Fiore knelt, as the king was addressing him directly. ‘Fiore Furlano de Cividale d’Austria,’ he said.
The king exhaled. ‘Only knights may play in this great game, Messire Fiore.’ He looked at de Mezzieres.
De Mezzieres raised an eyebrow.
‘I must have twelve, or forfeit,’ the king said. ‘And I will not forfeit, if I have to arm a serving maid!’
Fiore raised his hands together in a position of prayer — or homage. ‘Try me, your Grace. I am a very good jouster.’
The king nodded. ‘The melee is not a joust. It is a vicious game played on horseback.’
Fiore kept his head bowed. ‘Your Grace, however it is played, I will be quite good at it.’
The king looked at me. He was smiling: an open smile, not a politic one, and his face seemed to glow like the sun. ‘Well, Messire Fiore, seeing as you are so very sure of yourself …’
Mezzieres frowned. ‘You are determined to do this,’ he said.
The king nodded. ‘Am I the king, de Mezzieres?’ he asked.
‘Your Grace knows that he is indeed king.’ De Mezzieres still didn’t look my way.
‘Your sword, then.’ The king took de Mezzieres’ sword — and knighted Fiore on the spot.
Lucky bastard.
By the time we reached the field that had been staked off for the tournament, there must have been ten thousand people in the crowd. The sun was high, and the king’s squires were agitated because the judges had already cried for the juges diseurs, the judges, to come forward.
We were late. And the Emperor, according to Nerio, was trying to disqualify us.
The Empress sat on a great throne in the central stand, a tiered confection like a Venetian cake made of canvas and wood, more like a great galleys of war than a tent. She sat thirty feet above the crowd, with all her ladies about her like the lilies of the field, and there was many a pretty face there. Beside the Empress sat the King of Poland in robes of gold and ermine. He looked like a church icon come to life.
And seeing them made me realise that I had left Emile’s favour back at our inn, folded in my clothes.
I was fully armed, and the judges were circulating among us, asking after men’s lineage and the dates of their knighting. The crowd was cheering like the roars of a victorious army — the roll of the Emperor’s team was being called, and one by one, the most famous Knights of the Empire were riding on to the field.
‘Marc-Antonio!’ I called.
He came with an ill grace. He had worked hard all morning and had scarce thanks, and if you don’t think servants like thanks, perhaps you should spend more time serving, eh?
‘Marc-Antonio, I have left something very important to me at our inn.’ I leaned over, even as one of the judges approached.
‘I’ll get one of the foreign gents to loan it to you, whatever it is,’ he said.
‘I would take it as a courtesy if you would ride back to our inn, open my clothes press, and fetch me the small square of blue silk-’
‘Now?’ he asked and rolled his eyes.
I thought of a snappish reply but bit my lip. ‘Marc-Antonio,’ I said, ‘I ask you to fetch me my lady’s favour.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘The tatty blue thing?’ he asked. Then he raised his hands in mock fear. ‘And you want me to help you?’ he asked with all the sarcasm of which a fifteen-year old Italian is capable.
The judge was watching me.
‘Yes,’ I said carefully. ‘I humbly request it.’
‘Hunh,’ Marc-Antonio said.
But he turned his horse and began to push through the press — not, I’ll note, with any particular vigour.
The judge spoke good French. ‘You are one of the king’s late additions?’ he asked. His tone was offensive and his manner so superior that he should have been a doorman in Avignon — or a cardinal. ‘Sir William Gold of England?’
I bowed. ‘I am Sir William Gold,’ I said.
‘And who knighted you, Sir William?’ he asked.
‘Hannekin Baumgarten,’ I said. ‘A knight of your Emperor.’
That staggered him. But he was determined, and that gave his game away.
‘Not my Emperor, sir, I serve the King of Poland. Can you prove this — this field knighting? Anyone might make such a claim.’ He was being a prick, anyone could see it. If a king puts a man on his tournament team, no one questions his birth or his standing. Or so it is in England and France, but the Germans have a ceremony and a rule for everything.
‘Sir, I am also a volunteer of the Order of St John, with my pass at my inn,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘The Order of St John? Of no moment here.’
I struggled with anger; hot, sick anger that seemed to come out of my throat. He meant to offend. He meant to disqualify me.
He had two men-at-arms with him, and they looked sombre.
He meant to disqualify me.
That would be a whole pile of humiliations.
Very chivalrous.
But God delivered him into my hands as surely as he saved Daniel from the lions. Because at that moment, a bowshot away, the brass-lunged herald announced the next knight serving the Emperor, and it was none other than my recent enemy, Duke Rudolph von Hapsburg, last seen lying unconscious under one of his knights, a victim of my spear, about half a bowshot from the gates of Florence.
I pointed at the knight, who was in dazzling bronze-edged panoply with a scarlet surcoat that matched his beard and his caparison, wearing a link-belt of gold and looking the chivalric hero of every romance. ‘Duke Rudolph was present when I was knighted,’ I said. Unconscious at the time, of course.
The judge looked at me. He didn’t collapse, or vanish in a puff of ill-smelling smoke, but my victory was total, and he could only cover it with a display of ill breeding. ‘These battlefield knightings,’ he said. ‘Anyone can claim them.’
I bowed my head briefly. ‘I’m sure it makes your work very difficult,’ I said, emphasising work as if to imply that he was some sort of tradesman. I smiled at him. ‘I’ll try not to let it happen again.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You make light of serious matters, sir.’
I shrugged. ‘Will you be fighting, sir?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘I am a judge.’
‘Very convenient, I’m sure,’ I drawled in my best Gascon French. ‘But should monsieur at any time feel the urge to don his harness, I would be at monsieur’s pleasure.’
Nerio, at my left side, choked on his laughter, and then threw back his head and brayed like an ass.
The judge turned a dark purple.
On my right, Fiore caught my reins. ‘Ahem,’ he said.
Fiore was not the best man at social complexities, but he was, in this case, right — I was not doing my duty by the Order in provoking some French functionary of the King of Poland. So I turned my head and managed to say nothing.