A Perfect Knight

Marguerite was already snuggling down beneath the covers, her eyes closed. Alayne slipped in beside her, closing her eyes and trying to sleep, but her thoughts were crowding in on her, making her restless. It seemed that Marguerite was as uncertain of her feelings as Alayne was herself—and that the girl knew the Baron de Froissart much better than she had imagined. If Marguerite’s brother had been de Froissart’s friend, it was likely that the families had met often…

Something was still puzzling Alayne as she finally fell asleep, but she could not quite grasp it. Besides, it did not matter now—far more important was the contest the next day, and the identity of the eventual winner.

As her eyes closed and she drifted into a pleasant dream, Alayne saw the face of the victor as she handed him his prize.

People were crowding on to the common land where the tourney was to be held that morning. Men, women and children of all ages, talking excitedly, the young ones running around like playful puppies, pulling at their mother’s skirt and begging for treats from the hot pie seller. When the Queen and her ladies arrived there was already a sea of faces assembled. Merchants and their wives, dressed in their best, labourers taking an unexpected holiday from their constant round of toil, beggars looking to steal or beg a few coins, peddlers carrying their wares on trays and entertainers of all kinds, the atmosphere one of excitement and anticipation.

‘Isn’t it thrilling?’ Marguerite whispered to her. ‘Oh, do look at that man eating fire! It must cause him pain, wouldn’t you think?’

‘I expect it is a trick,’ Alayne said. ‘My nurse told me that all such entertainers trick us in some way.’ She smiled as she saw the doubts in Marguerite’s eyes. ‘But it is exciting to watch, I do agree with that.’

However, she could not help feeling excited herself as, with a fanfare from the heralds, she was led to the place of honour on the dais, which had been erected beneath a canopy of billowing silk. The ladies of the court were chattering, watching as she was announced the Queen of the tourney, some a little jealously, some merely pleased to be a part of all the excitement of the day.

Her heart was beating nervously as she took her seat to the cheers of the people. For one day her rule was law, at least in matters of the tourney and the knights who competed for the honour of sitting with her that night at feast. As was her due, she was being enthusiastically hailed as the Queen of Youth and Beauty, taking precedence over the true Queen for the moment.

It felt strange to be seated higher than the Queen, but, when Alayne hesitated, her friend and protector smiled at her and nodded approvingly.

‘It is your right,’ she said. ‘Be wise, my lady, for remember, today your word must be obeyed.’

‘I pray that I shall be worthy of the honour, your Majesty.’

Alayne looked about her. To one side were the tents and banners of the knights taking part in the contest. Their squires had worked through the night to have everything ready for their masters, and it was a matter of honour with them that their lord should wear the best armour and ride the best prepared charger.

‘Listen, Alayne,’ the Queen said. ‘They are ready to begin.’

The heralds had begun to blow a fanfare before announcing the names of the knights who had entered the lists. Then a great cheer went up as the people shouted for their favourites. Mounted on great chargers, the heavy horses snorting, their breath making clouds on the morning air, the knights began to parade before the courtiers. Each rode along the line of ladies and gentlemen, bringing his destrier to a halt before the ladies and bowing both to the Queen of the day and Queen Eleanor. Each knight tipped his lance in salute as he paraded and confirmed his willingness for the contest.

Some of the knights were wearing favours tied to their arms, which had been given by the ladies they admired. A few of the knights looked hopefully at Alayne, but she merely smiled. She would show favour to none, even though her heart did a strange flip when Sir Ralph de Banewulf tipped his lance to her. She noticed that he wore no favours, and that his colours of black and silver were more impressive than most. He was a proud knight, his stern features giving no sign of his own feelings about this contest.

‘I shall pray for Sir Ralph to win,’ Marguerite whispered as he rode away. ‘But it is a real challenge this time, for they say that he is not battle hardened and will not last the course.’

‘I pray that he may not be hurt,’ Alayne said and discovered that the palms of her hands were warm and damp for some reason. Why should it matter to her what happened to this knight?

‘I believe he may surprise us all,’ the Queen said, her eyes bright with anticipation. The English knight had added some spice to the tourney.

‘What will happen now?’ Alayne asked, gripping her hands tightly together so that they would not tremble and reveal her inner tension.

Queen Eleanor explained that there were different forms that a tourney could take. Sometimes the knights rode into the mêlée, meeting opponents at random, unhorsing those they could, fighting on foot if they were unhorsed for as long as they could.

‘Any who are still on their feet at the end retain their honour and their armour,’ Eleanor said. ‘However, the vanquished are obliged to give it up to the victors.’

‘Let us pray that is all they lose,’ Alayne said in a low voice that only those closest to her could hear.

She knew that sometimes those unhorsed fell, never to rise again, dying of their wounds, and carried off by faithful squires and pages. She thought that she would find it unbearable should the English knight lose not only his armour but also his life.

This day, however, the knights were to meet in single combat. To be unhorsed meant the loser must retire from the lists. Quite often a knight would be satisfied if he remained unhorsed and did not enter again, for it was often a way of settling personal quarrels, but the victors could all ride again if they wished until the last challenger was vanquished and the victor remained. The stewards of the day were responsible for matching the first pairs and they announced the names of the knights who would ride against each other in the first contest. Alayne strained to hear as the pairings were announced.

‘Sir Renaldo de Bracey to meet Sir Jonquil de Fontainbleau,’ announced the herald. ‘Lord Malmont to meet Sir Henry…’

‘Oh, poor Sir Jonquil,’ Marguerite whispered, but Alayne was intent on the herald and hardly heard her. She listened carefully as the names were read out, her heart missing a beat when it was announced that the English knight would ride for Baron de Froissart against Sir William Renard.

‘Is Sir William skilled in the joust?’ Alayne whispered to Marguerite. Her nails had curled into the palms of her hands and she felt quite sick with apprehension. She was relieved when her friend gave a little shake of her head. Until this moment Alayne had not thought it mattered who won the contest, but now quite suddenly it was very important that Sir Ralph should be the victor.

‘I think it should be an easy contest for Sir Ralph,’ Marguerite whispered and Alayne breathed again.

All the knights had retired to wait until their contest was called. The first pair rode at each other furiously, the thud of their chargers’ heavy hooves and the noise of lances striking against shields making hearts beat faster. Then there was a gasp as one of the knights was unseated and only a ragged cheer for the victor.

‘Oh, poor Sir Jonquil,’ Marguerite cried as he went down from the first thrust of de Bracey’s lance. ‘I fear that he is better at singing his poems than jousting.’

‘I do hope he is not badly wounded.’ Alayne watched anxiously, for Sir Jonquil was a gentle knight and one of her favourites. ‘No, he is on his feet.’ She watched as the vanquished knight tottered off the field with the assistance of his squire and page to the cheers of the crowd: Sir Jonquil was popular, the man who had defeated him was not liked. ‘I fear he will be feeling mighty sore by nightfall.’

‘I dare say his vanity is as much bruised as his body,’ Marguerite said and laughed. She was clearly enjoying the contest, as were the other ladies who watched and cheered their favourites. ‘To be vanquished so soon is a humiliating experience for any knight.’

‘He should not have entered the lists.’

‘I believe he wanted to impress a lady.’

‘Poor Sir Jonquil,’ Alayne said. ‘I hope she will not scorn him for his failure.’

‘Do you not know?’ Marguerite’s brows arched. ‘Sir Jonquil is one of your most devoted admirers. His poems and songs are all for you, and the looks he sends in your direction can leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that he is devoted to you.’

‘No, no,’ Alayne denied, her cheeks heated, but she was prevented from saying more by the herald’s fanfare.

The next contest was more strongly fought, the knights riding against each other twice before one was sent flying from the saddle. He did not rise himself immediately and was carried off the field by his squire and two young pages.

‘Do you think he is badly hurt?’ Alayne asked anxiously.

‘I believe he suffered a glancing wound to his side,’ Marguerite said, ‘but he was probably winded by the fall. His armour would have protected him from the knight’s lance.’

All the knights wore a suit of chain mail beneath their tunics and surcotes, and they had a small, round, metal heaume beneath a similar covering of mail that protected their head and necks.

Five more contests took place before the one that Alayne longed and yet feared to watch. Several knights were carried from the field, but the word was that none were seriously hurt, and Alayne relaxed a little, but then it was time for Sir Ralph to ride against his opponent.

Alayne took a deep breath, her palms wet and sticky again. She wanted to close her eyes, to shut out the sight that she dreaded, yet found that she could not remove them from the English knight. She was drawn to him. His tunic was white with a black rampant lion emblazoned on the chest, his shield black and silver; it bore the same coat of arms, but with a small bear at the tip.

‘Why is the emblem on his shield different to the arms on his pennant and tunic?’ she whispered to Marguerite.

‘The bear is his own personal emblem,’ Marguerite replied and leaned forward to call encouragement to Sir Ralph. ‘It is the mark of a man who has shown great bravery in battle and granted only to a few.’

Alayne knew that the English knight was about to commence his contest, but could not call out in the way that Marguerite had, for her throat was tight with fear.

‘God be with you, sir,’ she whispered, her heart catching as the two knights rode at one another. Both lances struck, but one knight remained seated while the other went flying to the ground. Alayne let out a sigh as she saw that de Banewulf was the victor of this contest. Fortunately, the other knight seemed merely winded and after a moment was helped away by his friends.

‘It seems that Sir Ralph is more skilled than was thought,’ Marguerite said a little smile of triumph on her lips. ‘Oh, well done, sir. Bravely fought, sir knight!’

Several of the ladies were cheering, though the knights who had not chosen to take part looked glum. It seemed that de Froissart’s champion would give a good accounting of himself, and thus earn more than his share of admiration from the ladies.

But what was happening? Sir Ralph was riding towards where Alayne and the ladies sat. He tipped his lance towards them, and then cried out in a loud voice, ‘I challenge all those who would wish to ride against me. I will fight all comers in the name of Baron de Froissart, the Lady Alayne and my late wife, the Lady Berenice. If unhorsed, we will fight on in hand-to-hand combat should the unhorsed knight wish to continue.’

Alayne looked at the Queen, her heart beating wildly.

‘Can he do that?’ she asked, for she had never known such a challenge to be thrown down before. It was usual for the victors of the first round to ride perhaps twice or thrice more before the eventual victor was declared.

‘That is a matter for you, your Majesty,’ Queen Eleanor said and smiled at her. ‘Such judgements are in your power. It means that some knights will be saved from riding again, because only those that wish to fight on under the new terms need do so, while the others retire with honour—and retain their armour.’

‘I see,’ Alayne said as she realised that this would save some knights from unnecessary pain and injury. Having proved their worth by surviving the first round, they could now retire with honour and make sure of keeping their costly armour. It was a brave and generous offer on the part of the English knight, and one that she approved. She got to her feet and smiled down at Sir Ralph, taking a scarf and holding it out to him. He lifted his lance so that she could tie it on. ‘With this token I make you my champion. To win this tourney all must defeat the English knight, Ralph de Banewulf.’

‘You do me honour, lady,’ he said, saluted with his lance once more and rode away.

Alayne’s heart hammered in her breast. By throwing down his challenge, Sir Ralph had saved others pain and humiliation, but what of him? He must meet each knight who chose to ride against him, and for how long could he remain undefeated? She almost wished that she had refused permission, yet somehow she knew that he had thrown down his challenge for a reason.

‘How brave and bold he is,’ Marguerite said. ‘I do not think that many will take up the challenge.’

‘I pray they will not.’

There was an excited buzz around the field, for the contest had taken a new direction. Before it had been no different from a dozen other contests held here previously, but now a new sense of purpose held the spectators in thrall. This English knight was clearly a bold warrior for all that he had not fought a tourney for some time, and only the bravest of the French knights would dare to take up the challenge he had thrown down.

Some few minutes passed before the heralds blew a fanfare and then announced that two men had taken up the challenge. One was Lord Malmont, the other Sir Renaldo de Bracey; Lord Malmont was to try his hand first.

The two knights rode fiercely at each other; Lord Malmont’s lance snapped as it hit the shield of the English knight, but he was not thrown. He wheeled his horse about, riding back to take a new lance from his squire, and then rode hard at Sir Ralph once more. This time the blow he received lifted him in the saddle and he was thrown from his charger’s back, landing on the ground and lying as if winded for some moments, before rising to his feet.

‘Will you fight on, sir?’ Sir Ralph asked, but Malmont lifted his hands and shook his head.

‘Nay, I am well defeated, my friend. I yield to you…’ he said and then, on a little sigh, he swooned and fell to the ground once more as his squire came running to assist him.

‘Your champion does well,’ Queen Eleanor said as she leaned towards Alayne, a gleam in her eyes. ‘I think we have been misled. He is a worthier warrior than we had thought.’

‘He said only that he did not wish to fight, your Grace,’ Alayne said, feeling a strange urge to protect his honour. ‘He never claimed that he was not well able to acquit himself if he so chose.’

‘You do well to speak up for your champion,’ the Queen replied, a little smile flickering on her mouth, but quickly hidden. This tourney was proving even more amusing than she had expected.

There was a few minutes’ pause before the herald announced Renaldo de Bracey’s arrival. The two knights faced each other across the space between them and the atmosphere became suddenly tense; if all the other contests had been fought in a spirit of comradeship, this would not be. There was something about de Bracey’s manner that seemed to bode ill for the brave English knight. De Bracey was not much liked by his fellow knights, and yet he was respected for his skill with the lance and the broad sword. He would not yield so easily!

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