In my hand, she was quick and light and yet strong as a branch of oak.
Somewhat jealously, I handed her to Fiore. He brought her smartly to his shoulder and cut once. There was nothing showy or spectacular about his cut, but I felt like a man who has just watched his lady give a chaste kiss to a friend. Of course it is allowed, and yet … why is she smiling so much?
‘Yes,’ Fiore said. ‘Yes!’
The next morning, my Frenchman’s squire — the courtier, not the Savoyards — was at the door of our inn. Two hours later, I sat on Jacques with my helmet laced, and Lady Kunka was there, as were a dozen of the Empress’s maids and ladies, and many of the Bohemian and Polish gentlemen, despite hard heads and the early hour. I had time to say my beads and to realise that if I had lain with one of the lilies of the court, I would be muzzy with lack of sleep and perhaps still little drunk. As it was, I was fresh.
The Frenchman said nothing to me, nor did his squire chat with Marc-Antonio. And Marc-Antonio was all but transformed by finding that I was the great man of the tourney, and I caught him, more than once, pointing me out and claiming me for his own.
You might think I anticipated a murder attempt or some such, but my Frenchman didn’t seem the type, and none of the Savoyards were to be seen. Despite which, I checked every element of my harness and my tack for damage and interference.
We were riding along the barriers, which I had never done before. It keeps the horses straight, but requires some surprisingly false manoeuvres of the lance — common enough now, but new to me in the year sixty-five.
The first encounter was almost my undoing. My man could joust. His lance swooped like a stooping hawk, the point coming down from the heavens, and had his horse not faltered by a heartbeat in its course, his lance point would have taken me in the throat or left shoulder, but luck — Fortuna — was with me, and his point at my shoulder. I felt the impact on my shoulder, and I broke my lance on his shield.
He saluted me.
That changed the tenor of the contest. As we swapped ends, I returned the salute, galloped back to my place, and set myself. The salute meant, to me, that we were behaving like gentlemen.
The second course was accounted pretty by the crowd. My lance tore his left pauldron off his shoulder, and his — a beautiful strike, by God’s grace — tore the visor off my bassinet. It did me no injury, but his point penetrated my visor almost a full inch. Yes, we were fighting a l’outrance, with weapons of war, unabated.
The heralds and marshals had to have a conference, as we had both scored.
Ser Nerio rather sportingly offered me his beautiful helm. I accepted gratefully; I didn’t own a spare, and my bassinet had just met its end. Weakened by the Bohemian the day before, it now had two gaping holes where the visor pivots ought to have been.
Nerio grinned at me. ‘That was a good course,’ he said.
‘Any advice?’ I asked.
‘Don’t flinch. And don’t miss. He’s a better jouster than you, but not by much.’ Nerio smiled wolfishly. ‘If he kills you, I’ll kill him.’
Fiore shook his head. ‘No, he is very good, but you can take him. Remember what we practiced at Avignon, the lance low?’
I looked back and forth. ‘A parry with a lance? In a joust?’ I asked.
Nerio raised an eyebrow. ‘Too professional,’ he said with a little of his old disdain for Fiore. But he softened it with a smile. ‘For me, at any rate.’
Fiore shrugged. ‘It is not against any rule.’
Nerio put a hand on Fiore’s shoulder. ‘My friend, there are rules that are not written down.’
Fiore frowned. ‘If there is not a rule against it written down, it is not a rule,’ he said.
I got the new helmet seated and the chinstrap buckled, and rode down the lists, still undecided.
Word of our tilt had spread, and other knights and squires were coming for their scheduled bouts. The ‘great’ men had had five days, and now the lesser knights, men like me and Fiore, were to be allowed three days of jousting and foot combat, and their own melee.
And all along one side of the list stood a troop of horsemen. I had never seen anything like them, and they were distracting me. They wore long coats, buttoned at the shoulder and edged in fur, even the least of them. Two of them carried hawks, and all had lances and bows.
I had never seen men with such deep lines on their faces. They looked like killers, every one of them.
I took deep breaths and took them out of my head, and then I set my thoughts on the lists and my opponent. He flicked his lance head at me. I returned the compliment, if indeed it was such.
When the marshal’s white wand dropped, I put spurs to Jacques, and he blew forward with his usual explosive grace. Before his third stride, though, I had my lance in its rest — so different from my first years with the weapon — and I let the head fall low.
Lowering your lance head is bad practice. It is terrifying. A low blow, a blow to your opponent’s horse, forfeits not just the run but your own horse and armour. It is considered cheating. With my lance across my body, under my right arm and couched against my lance rest on the right of my breast plate, but pointing to the left side of my horse’s head and across the barrier, and now aimed down, almost at the ground, it looked as if I’d lost control of my lance. This happens sometimes in the joust.
My opponent still had his lance tip high in the air. He didn’t couch until the last possible moment, just the way, let me add, that Boucicault used his lance.
We had heartbeats to impact.
His lance tip stooped towards my face and I did as Fiore had taught me and flipped my lance up, using my saddle bow as a fulcrum and my lance as a lever. It came up very fast, and our lances crossed, still in the air. But weight and the power of his lance on mine slapped them down again.
He missed his lance rest. With all the pressure my lance was putting on his lance, torqueing it, he’d have had to be Lancelot himself to maintain control.
My hit was unspectacular, just barely clipping his shield. But my lance-staff snapped cleanly with the impact, and he lost control of his lance three strides later and it fell to the earth.
The foreigners with the hawks were laughing and slapping their long whips against their thighs. One waved to me.
The judges all clustered at the centre of the lists.
Fiore slapped my back. ‘That was nicely done,’ he said, rare praise indeed. Then, ‘We need to practice your seat and how it relates to your control of the lance, but otherwise — good.’ He looked at Nerio. ‘I wish some Frenchman would challenge me.’
‘Find the man’s wife and sleep with her!’ Nerio said with a sneer.
‘Why?’ Fiore asked, genuinely puzzled.
Even Marc-Antonio laughed.
‘They are calling for you,’ Nerio said, and I rode down the lists to where my French adversary sat on his destrier. He had his helm off and looked as sweaty as I felt.
I had forgotten he was a judge. But he was smiling, not grinning, and his eyes met mine.
So, just by way of experiment, I returned his smile.
We were an arm’s length apart.
‘Is your honour served?’ he asked me.
Well. That was the question, wasn’t it?
I bowed, like one gentleman meeting another when mounted. ‘Very well, monsieur. My honour is served very well.’
He urged his horse forward one single step. ‘Sometimes, a gentleman is only doing what his liege bids him do. Eh bien?’ He gave me a casual wave, and turned his horse, and rode away, neither angry nor afraid.
The judges held that I had been the victor, but on balance, I think he gave me the lesson.