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 liked. 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 melee — 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 Herman 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.