Philip wore leather gloves plated with strips of metal, his
gauntlets
. Upon his head, he first wore a leather cap, then a chainmail coif, or hood, which protected his neck, head and chin. Lastly, he wore a great helmet. Drilled holes in front of his nose and mouth allowed in fresh air, while narrow slits before his eyes allowed him to see. His vision was severely curtailed by the helmet, but the protection it afforded was immense. Atop Philip’s helmet was a stuffed, red leather rooster. It helped to identify him in a sea of armored knights. And it was intimating because it made him seem taller and fiercer in a strange medieval way.
Over the hauberk, Philip wore a light cloth, a
surcoat
. Since the crusades, surcoats had come into style. Originally, they’d been worn to help deflect the terrible Holy Land sunlight and protect the mail from sandblasting grit. Philip’s surcoat was blue-colored with a red rooster emblem in the center.
To swing a sword well, to handle skillfully a lance and even to ride a destrier while heavily armored took years of acquired skill.
Not all of a knight’s protection came from armor. A kite-shaped, leather-covered wooden shield was secured to Philip by a neck strap. Leather handles allowed him to shift the shield as needed. The shield was blue and emblazoned with a crowing red rooster.
All told, Philip’s gear weighed over sixty pounds. It was a fine reason indeed to ride a horse rather than walk.
Besides the golden spurs, one of a knight’s greatest status symbols was his knightly waist belt. It was slung down low on his hips. Attached to Philip’s belt was a blue-painted wooden scabbard. His sword with its gilt-edged hilt weighed a good seven pounds and was thirty-six inches in length. Philip cherished his sword, which bore the same name that Roland had given his sword: Durendal. Baron Hugh had called his sword Joyeuse, the same name Charlemagne had given his. For over twenty years, Durendal had faithfully served Philip. He patted the hilt, knowing that its tempered steel could never fail him, for it never had.
As armor had become more efficient, the style in swords had changed. After the year 1000, the sharp cutting swords of the Franks and Lombards had given way to the heavy blades of the Normans and Flemish. Those swords were meant to bludgeon a heavily armored opponent, to crush his limbs. Great sweeping blows rather than delicate swordsmanship was the preferred combat method. Because of Durendal’s weight and when combined with Philip’s trained strength, he could easily cut an
unprotected
man in two.
“Here you are, milord,” Philip’s groom said.
Philip accepted a long, heavy lance—the nearly perfect cavalry weapon. His was made out of carefully selected ashwood and colored blue with red barber’s swirls. On the end protruded a terrible spike of Castilian steel. A knight’s grip needed to be equally terrible when he made his strike. This lance hadn’t yet been equipped with the flaring piece of wood that would help a knight keep his hand in place. In 1263, a lance was a straight piece of wood, held in place by a knight’s grip. With the lance couched under his arm and level with his hip, he tried to smash through the enemy shield. The bearer slanted his shield to try to deflect the maiming blow.
For the maximum thrusting power, a knight needed to be welded to his saddle. The high saddle was a heavy wood-leather combination, securely tied to the horse. Both front and rear cantle rose high, from which came the name high saddle. Philip literally wedged himself into the saddle. He was also held in place by hip-hugging
acrons
that were attached to the rear cantle. Then, at the moment of contact, a knight had to clamp his knees to the horse’s body and try to make himself rock steady.
As he waited, Philip kept telling himself that younger knights were often master swordsmen, able to swing with cunning and great endurance. Older knights didn’t have the same stamina as younger knights. Older knights, with their vast fund of experience, were usually better at jousting. To aim the lance while galloping, to hold the shield at exactly the right deflecting angle and to hold your breath just so, that took year after year of practice to learn properly.
Within his helmet, Philip grinned, despite his fears. He had a plan, a foul, tricky plan. How else could he expect to win?
This is war
, he told himself.
This isn’t a foolish bit of knight errantry. Either I win and eventually become a baron, or I lose and kiss the needed friendship of Sir Guy goodbye.
“Milord!” shouted his groom.
“I see him,” Philip said, his stomach beginning to churn.
Sir Robert rode from the enemy camp. He was the perfect knight, with a fan of ostrich feathers fluttering on his great helm.
Philip’s doubts flared anew. De Ferrers had surely survived over a hundred such jousts; he would know all the tricks, sleights and deceits.
Philip scraped a dry tongue around the insides of his mouth. Then he shucked off a gauntlet and fumbled at his helmet’s straps.
“Milord, what’s wrong?” asked his groom.
“Get me wine,” Philip said.
“There isn’t time, milord.”
“Wine, man! I want wine!”
The groom blanched and hurried to Sir Guy’s tent. The knights, squires and sergeants lined up behind Philip began to murmur.
Philip tore off his helmet, feeling the fresh air and hearing the murmurs. His men wondered at his hesitation.
Damn them. I’m the one daring to face Sir Galahad. No, not Sir Galahad, but Earl Robert of Derby. He’s young, filled with chivalrous nonsense
.
Philip grimaced. De Ferrers’ chivalrous nonsense had given him the skills to defeat hosts of knights in just such affairs as these.
Where is that wine
?
He glanced back, looking for his groom. He didn’t dare look at any of Guy’s knights or sergeants. He didn’t want them to see the fear in his eyes.
Suddenly one of the horses trotted forward. Upon it sat heavy Hob. “Sir Philip, are you well?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” said Philip. But even to himself his voice sounded hollow.
Hob reined in beside Philip and held up an old piece of the True Cross. It was a dusty piece of wood, as long as Hob’s fat hand. “Touch this, Sir Philip, and pray for victory.”
Philip didn’t dare touch a piece of the True Cross. The knot in his stomach tightened at the mere thought of doing so. He didn’t dare because he planned trickery. He planned to commit a foul blow. The Savior of Heaven wouldn’t honor that.
“What’s wrong?” asked Hob. “Why are you so pale?”
Philip looked over at de Ferrers. The elegant white knight on his huge white horse was halfway to the selected jousting spot. Philip’s guts tightened even more. He winced in pain.
“Sir Philip?” asked Hob.
Just then, the panting groom ran up, with a flagon in his hands. “Milord, your wine.”
Philip took the flagon and threw back his head, letting the red liquid slosh into his mouth and some out the sides of his mouth. He swabbed the wetness around with his tongue, gulped more and smacked his lips at the sweet taste.
A fire loosened the knot in his stomach and shot up into his head. He grinned at Hob before putting the helmet back on. He fumbled with the straps and then slipped on his gauntlets.
“Let’s go,” he said, urging his destrier toward the jousting field.
He concentrated upon de Ferrers. Beside the gallant knight strode his squire. The squire would rush unto the jousting field in case de Ferrers fell. He would help his master regain his feet, not always an easy task in armor. Philip’s groom would do likewise for him. Philip now studied de Ferrers’ lance, and his grin widened. De Ferrers had an eight-foot lance. His own was twelve feet in length. It was easier to aim a shorter lance and it was unlikely to splinter as quickly as a longer one. But a longer lance hit first.
Suddenly Philip desperately wanted to pray for victory. But whom could he pray to? Not to Jesus Christ, not with the deceit that he planned. Maybe he could pray to that little demonic idol which Aldora had held in Sir Guy’s tent.
“Help me win,” Philip prayed. For a moment, fear swept through him. Had he prayed to a demon? If so, and if he died today, surely he would go to Hell.
Just then, de Ferrers’ squire pulled out a trumpet and gave a mighty blast.
With a start, Philip realized that he was at his end of the jousting field, a level area of grass. At the other end waited de Ferrers. Lined up well behind the Earl were his horsemen. Philip knew that Sir Guy’s horsemen were lined up behind him an equal distance away.
“Are you ready, Sir Philip?” shouted the squire.
Philip dipped his twelve-foot lance, which caused a red pennon just below the wicked steel spike to flutter. De Ferrers then dipped his lance rippling a spotless white pennon.
“At my signal let the joust begin!” shouted the squire.
Philip sucked down air, clutched his lance and pulled the reins so his steed knew that battle was about to begin. The big stallion snorted and pawed the earth. This is what the stallion had been trained for.
The squire put the silver trumpet to his lips and blew a mighty peal.
Philip’s gut clenched. He spurred his mighty stallion and dropped his lance into position. The huge war-horse dug his hooves into the sward and began the straight run at the enemy. The jangle of armor, the drum of hooves, the tightness in the belly, the short draughts of air, Philip was hardly aware of them now. He stood in his stirrups, although he was still wedged in his saddle because the stirrups were hung extremely low. He peered through his eye slits at the fast approaching enemy. De Ferrers leaned forward, with his lance couched under his right arm.
Philip laughed then, enraptured with the terrible moment. To kill his enemy—ah, what sweet joy. He was unaware that within his helmet he roared a mighty battle cry.
De Ferrers closed rapidly, his lance aimed straight and unwavering at Philip. Philip shifted his huge pole and angled his shield to meet de Ferrers’ attack. The distance closed with awful speed. Philip shifted his lance again, aiming at de Ferrers’ steed, at the noble creature’s head! If he could kill the horse, he could unseat de Ferrers and then ride him down at his leisure. But to kill the horse was ignoble, a foul in the rules of jousting. It was also a difficult feat. Philip roared, de Ferrers shouted.
Philip gripped the round wood with all his strength. Then Sir Robert used the spike of his lance, deflecting Philip’s weapon just enough. It was a masterful move. Philip knew a sudden, terrible moment of fear. De Ferrers expertly turned Philip’s lance-spike with his shield. At the same moment, de Ferrers’ lance, which had dropped back into position, smashed against Philip’s shield. It was a perfect hit.
Philip felt his shoulder muscle tear and his saddle’s rear cantle snap. He lifted off the war-horse, encased in his iron. He felt horribly trapped as the ground rushed up. With a mighty crash and metallic screeching, he hit and rolled. He groaned. His entire right side was numb. He was only vaguely away of de Ferrers, who slowed his war-horse, turned it and trotted back toward him.
“Help me,” Philip prayed aloud, although with the ringing in his ears he couldn’t hear the words. Whether it was the prayer or Philip’s own sense of urgency, his head cleared and he realized that de Ferrers shouted at him from what seemed like a great height.
Almost Philip rose then. Instead, cunning filled him. He remained as he was. De Ferrers’ stallion came even closer. Philip saw the hooves through his eye slits, even though he lay face-first on the ground.
“Raise your hand if you submit!” de Ferrers shouted.
Closer
, Philip thought,
just a little closer
.
As if hearing him, the enemy stallion neared. Only then, did Philip shout and rise as quickly as he could. He saw de Ferrers sawing at the reins, trying to back up. The lance lowered as de Ferrers tried to club him with it. Philip ignored the lance, drew his sword and stabbed into the stallion’s side with all his strength. The magnificent creature screamed as the long blade slid into him. Philip kept pushing. De Ferrers shouted with rage, but both horse and knight fell. Such was the athletic grace of de Ferrers, however, that he leaped clear of the stallion, although he fell down. Philip yanked his bloody sword out of the stallion’s side, clanked around the dying beast and toward de Ferrers. De Ferrers began to rise as he drew his sword. Philip swung. With a loud, metallic clang, he gave de Ferrers a mighty buffet upon the helmet. De Ferrers fell down. Philip straddled the prone de Ferrers as enemy knights cried foul and rode onto the jousting field.
Philip pried at the dented helmet, tearing it off de Ferrers’ head. An ugly welt had arisen on de Ferrers’ forehead and his eyes were glazed.
“Submit!” Philip roared, holding up his sword. “Submit or I’ll chop off your head!”
De Ferrers stared up at him in shock.
“Submit!” Philip roared again, the heady feel of victory filling him with strength.
“Yes,” de Ferrers whispered. “I submit.”
Because Philip had not yet returned with Sir Guy, Lady Eleanor waited longer than customary to bury her husband. In the wait, Baron Hugh’s corpse began to rot. The stench, at first a small, ordinary thing, soon became awful.
The body had been embalmed and the heart taken out. The castle butcher, under the prayerful guidance of Father Bernard, had sliced the heart into four equal parts. Each quarter had been carefully wrapped in linen and set in a small stone box. The messengers who went out to the four parish churches where Baron Hugh had been patron, each took one of the stone boxes. At each parish church, the stone box had been buried in remembrance of the Baron.
Baron Hugh had often proudly talked about his holding the patronage of
four
parish churches. Practically all the non-cathedral churches in England and France had patrons, most of them secular nobility like Hugh, although sometimes the patrons were bishops or rich abbots. As patron, Baron Hugh had received part of each parish church’s tithe, and as patron, he had usually named the new parish priest when a vacancy opened. The overseeing bishop had never declined Baron Hugh’s choices except once.
The selected person, the son of a rich tanner who lived in Pellinore Fief, had failed even the bishop’s simple test. For the bishop had no interest in making an enemy of Baron Hugh and had therefore always administered easy tests. The lad, a good-looking youth with the shoulders of a fighting man, had been able to chant several of the familiar psalms as required by the bishop. However, the lad hadn’t been able to decline a Latin noun or conjugate a simple verb. The lad’s father had quietly gone to Hugh, and together they’d gone to an abbot of noted greed. The rich tanner had paid Hugh, and Hugh had given this worldly abbot a portion of that sum. The abbot had then given the good-looking lad his priestly certificate. Baron Hugh and the lad then went back to the overseeing bishop. By custom, the bishop was supposed to honor any other prelate’s certificate. This bishop had refused, and a terrible fight ensued, with Baron Hugh going so far as to draw his sword as he backed the bishop against his own church wall. The bishop boldly dared Hugh to strike, saying that Hugh would spend eternity in Hell if he spilled innocent blood. Frightened by the threat and admiring the bishop’s courage, Baron Hugh had relented and withdrawn his candidate from consideration.
Now Baron Hugh’s corpse grew ripe in the castle’s chapel despite whatever good or bad he’d done during life. The fully armored men-at-arms who kept a faithful watch around Hugh’s corpse at last complained. Day and night, with over a dozen tall candles flickering around the black-covered corpse, the men-at-arms watched. They made certain the Devil didn’t come, take the dead body and replace it with a cat. And they watched to make certain that no dog raced over the corpse and changed it into a blood-drinking vampire.
At Lady Eleanor’s reluctantly given request, the stone coffin was readied and a waxen death mask made of Baron Hugh’s face. Those knights, priests, squires, ladies, rich burgers, and merchants who could stomach the stench paid Baron Hugh their last respects. Pots of incense, which were burned liberally at the funeral, were put into the stone coffin together with Hugh. The heavy coffin was lugged to the castle graveyard and laid in the earth.
That had happened a day ago, and now Alice wandered about the Great Hall, bored to distraction. Sir Walter and the bailiff had gone to the Tanning Village to put a stop to an ongoing feud. Lady Eleanor and Martha had gone to Pellinore Village to see a newborn baby. Because of Philip’s harsh instructions, Alice still wasn’t permitted out of the castle. She felt like screaming. The enclosed spaces, which she usually avoided by riding briskly in the nearby fields, now squeezed her spirit with their dreariness.
What would Guy’s return bring? Why was Sir Philip taking so long in bringing Guy back to Pellinore? It seemed mysterious, and that made Alice nervous that the two plotted a nefarious scheme.
I have to escape. I have to return to Gareth and take control of my ancestral castle and fief.
She couldn’t just throw a rope over the castle wall at night and slither down. To reach the safety of Gareth’s walls she needed a horse. Even that might not be enough. Parties of armed men roamed the Marches; entire armies, both big and small, roamed the Marches! With Earl Simon de Montfort having sealed off the Western Marches, all those who sided with the King were in peril. She was one of those. Therefore if she were captured…
Better the enemies she knew than those she didn’t.
She sighed, then she bolted upright as a heavy thump and then a loud yell floated down the stairs from the living quarters above.
Idle hounds, the girls sweeping up the old dry rushes and a tottering old man polishing the hunting weapons on the walls stopped what they were doing and stared upward. Finally, the old man mumbled something about poor Squire Richard. The girls, a few years younger than Richard, began talking about him.
Alice kept an eye on the girls, having agreed to supervise them until Martha returned. Their conversation turned her thoughts to the squire.
Surely, he’s even more bored than I am. He could use cheering up.
Suiting thought to action, Alice headed up the stairs. The girls could clean up the Great Hall without her watching them. Martha always hovered above them like a kestrel, pestering them with little quips and old religious rhymes about the punishments meted out to the lazy. Alice’s mother had never been like that, trusting the servants instead to do a good job and rewarding them if they did.
Alice heard another loud groan from above. So she lifted the pleats of her long white skirt and hurried up the stairs.
The living quarters were gloomy. No candles burned and all the shutters were closed. The only light came from the stained glass window, which in the morning when the sunlight shone through it radiated with colorful reds, blues and yellows. The sun had moved on, however, and the outside of the stained glass window was now in the shade.
Alice searched through the gloom, finally spotting movement. As he sat on his rear, Richard dragged himself backward across the stone floor, his splinted legs trailing.
“Richard?”
The burly squire grimaced, then clenched his teeth and dragged himself farther. A suppressed groan slid out of him.
“Richard!” she said, rushing beside him.
He stared at her with glassy eyes, his long, sweaty hair plastered to his head.
“My….” He licked his lips. “My legs hurt. Not enough so they trouble me. But I thought a flagon of wine would help me rest better.”
He’s lying
, she realized.
Richard never complains about pain. One of his secret joys is that no one can make him yell.
Alice realized what awful pain he must be in. She glanced around. No one else was here. She touched his forehead. It burned and was sweaty. Then she noticed the rancid odor surrounding him.
Maybe the others had left because of him. Therefore, no one had been here to bring him wine.
“Let me help you back into bed,” she said.
“And then you’ll bring me wine?”
“Of course.”
The struggle wearied her. Richard was heavy. Helping him up into the bed was even worse, and it left sweat stains on her dress.
He clenched his teeth as he trembled.
“Wine,” he whispered. “Bring me wine.”
She hurried across the room. Then she wondered if wine was the best remedy. She’d treated fevers before and knew that drunkenness didn’t help. He needed water, lots of water. And he needed to sleep.
This hall is too depressing
, she decided.
Alice went to each of the shutters and threw them open. Sunlight filled the hall along with the trilling of nearby robins and larks. A fresh breeze swept away the rancid odor. She found a water jug and brought it to him.
He drank greedily. When he set aside the jug, he muttered, “This isn’t wine. I need wine. Don’t you understand?”
She picked up a cloth and wet it, and began to sponge his face. He soon lay back and closed his eyes, and sighed. Later, she helped him take off his sweat-soaked shirt. Then she began to sponge his chest.
“That feels good,” he whispered.
She smiled, but was appalled at how hot he felt. “I should check your legs,” she said.
“No! Don’t touch them!”
“When did the barber last check your wounds?” she asked, now more worried than ever.
He shook his head.
“Your wounds need to be checked,” she said.
“No! They’re fine.”
“Richard!”
Suddenly he trembled again, and all over his torso and face droplets of sweat oozed out of his skin. He clenched his teeth, but couldn’t control the groan that slid out.
“I have to look at your legs,” Alice told him. “I’m
going
to look at your legs. Right now, in fact.”
He made a feeble gesture.
Slowly, carefully, she unwrapped the bandage around his right leg. The burn, from the white-hot brand that had sealed the wound, had scabbed properly. Around the burn, the skin was a bruised purple color. Otherwise, everything seemed fine. She re-wrapped the bandage and checked the left leg, and almost threw up. Pus oozed from the infected wound. The stench sickened her.
“Wait here,” she said. She ran down the stairs and returned a short time later with the thin castle barber. He had rotting teeth and an odd way of hunching his shoulders.
He peered at the wound, rubbed his short hands in his dry, rasping way and said, “I need my leeches.”
Alice fetched him his stone jar of leeches. He’d gathered them from the scummy castle moat, she knew. She loathed them. As a young girl, she’d tried to swim in her father’s moat. She’d run screaming to her mother after climbing out and seeing the slimy bloodsuckers attached to her legs. Her mother had peeled them off, chuckling at her hysteria. From that time, Alice had a mortal dread of any outdoor water. Her older cousin, back then, had told her that bloodsuckers were the Devil’s creatures. That if they sucked up enough blood, they would steal your soul. Alice knew better now, or so she thought. Deep within her, though, was still the little girl’s fear and loathing of bloodsuckers.
She had to look away as the barber carefully dropped the leeches onto the festering wound.
“Ah, look at them swell,” the barber soon said in approval. “Good. They’re drinking the poisoned blood, making room for healthy blood.”
Feeling faint, Alice moved near an open window, drinking in the fresh air. Far below, circling the castle, ran Cord the dog boy. He ran easily, as much a part of the pack as any of the bear-hounds. There was such elemental strength to Cord, and tenderness, too. How else could he tame such savage beasts?
Why I am thinking like this
?
Cord can’t help me. He’s only a dog boy, although he is strong and brave.
Then a new thought struck her. Cord had as much reason to fear Philip as she did Guy.
So why doesn’t Cord run away
?
Why don’t
I
run away? To stay at Pellinore is madness.
She shivered, and remembered anew Guy’s weird eyes; the way as a squire, he’d tracked her every move. She’d only been seven then. He’d always tried to touch her, tried to get her alone, away from others.
Why will he be any different now
?
Alice folded her arms across her chest as she watched Cord. She needed allies. She needed people to help her get back home. She could do much worse than asking the brave dog boy, the slayer of Old Sloat, to help her. Maybe he’d even come along. The idea of that secretly delighted her, although she refused to admit it to herself.
The barber tapped her shoulder. When she turned, he told her to close all the windows.
“Will Richard be all right?” she asked.
The barber frowned and hunched his shoulders more than before. “He needs sleep,” the barber said. “Lots of sleep.”
“Should I give him wine then?”
“No! No more wine. Just water and sleep.”
“How can I get him to sleep when he’s in pain?”
“Distract him,” the barber said. “Speak to him, play draughts with him. Anything to take his mind off the pain.”
“I understand.”
The barber smiled, exposing his black teeth. “But first of all close all these windows. Ill humors blow in and will poison the wound.”
Alice nodded, closing the nearest shutters. After the barber packed his tools and hefted his stone jar of leeches and left, Alice reopened all the shutters. Too much gloom hurt the spirit, and if Richard were supposed to be diverted from his pain, then cheerful bird songs and sunlight would surely help him more than anything else would.
“Are you feeling better?” she asked as she sat down beside him.
Richard was propped up in the big baronial bed, his splinted legs stretched out.
“I’m still hot,” he said, wiping his forehead. “But I’m thinking better.” He gave her a pasty smile. “I’d still like some wine, though, or a jack of ale.”
“Do your wounds hurt?”
His pasty smile widened.