Heart of Gold

by

The Field of Cloth of Gold

The English Possession of Calais,

on the coast of France

June 1520

The two knights collided in a shower of sparks, their metal-tipped lances exploding into splinters.

The snorting chargers rushed onward, carrying the men past one another, and Ambrose Macpherson glanced back over his shoulder in time to see his opponent bounce unceremoniously onto the soft earth of the lists. A roar went up from the French courtiers in the grandstands, but the Scottish warrior did not acknowledge the cheers until he saw the squires of the downed English knight hoist the angry fighter to his feet. Ignoring the glare of the King Henry’s defeated champion, Ambrose stood in his stirrups and waved his shattered spear to the noisy and colorful crowd of spectators. Trotting over to the special box where Francis I, King of France, sat beside Henry VIII, King of England, Ambrose lifted his visor and saluted the two most powerful monarchs in Europe.

“Once again, well done, Sir Ambrose,” the French king shouted. Turning to the burly king beside him, Francis clapped Henry Tudor on the shoulder and whispered confidentially, “This is the Scot you should have killed at Flodden, Henry. Not that we think you didn’t try, seeing that scar of his.” France needed more men like Ambrose as allies, Francis thought to himself. It was rare to find brains, courage, and power all in one man. “He’s making the most of his opportunities here, don’t you think?”

King Henry tried to look bored as he glanced down at this warrior-diplomat who’d been defeating his best fighters all month. Henry studied the hard lines of the man’s face. The Scot’s features were handsome enough, were it not for the deep scar crossing his brow from the top of his open helmet to his eye. The mark of a fighter, Henry thought somewhat wistfully, wondering vaguely what he himself would look like with such a scar. With a curt nod of his head, Ambrose wheeled his charger and galloped off toward the barriers.

“Aye, Francis,” King Henry conceded. “But he has yet to ride against our man Garnesche.”

“Come, Henry. With a lance, this Macpherson is the best horseman in Europe.”

“Nay, these are empty words.”

“Well, England, we have this golden ring set with a ruby the size of your eye that says he’ll defeat your Garland—”

“Garnesche. Sir Peter Garnesche.” Henry glared at his regal rival and removed a huge emerald ring from his finger. “Very well. This little trinket should hold its value against yours. Sir Peter will unhorse this Highland jester on the first course.”

This friend of France is of hardier stock than all of England’s fighters put together, Francis thought. Perhaps we should up the wager. Calais, perhaps. Nay, we’d only end up fighting to take possession of it, anyway. “We’ll just see if this champion of yours can remain in his saddle any better than the others. If he keeps his seat after five courses, Henry, the wager is yours.” Handing the ruby ring to the nobleman standing behind them, the French king smiled wryly. “Would you trust our Lord Constable to hold the bet, or would you prefer to have one of yours do the honors?”

Henry glanced over at the stern-faced Lord Constable, then back at the broad, pale face of his ambassador, Sir Thomas Boleyn, standing attentive and eager at his shoulder. With a shrug, he tossed the ring to the French official. “You trust the worthy Constable with your kingdom...we think he can be trusted with a bauble. Sir Thomas, tell Sir Peter to arm himself.”

* * *

The pale blue sky was warm, and Ambrose leaned his weary body back against the barriers, sipping water from a ladle while his squires attended to his mount. Looking across the open ground toward the grandstands, he thought to himself what a wasted opportunity this month had been for each of these two fiercely competitive monarchs. A wasted opportunity for each country. These great princes had come to the Golden Vale to discuss peace. To settle the differences that had kept their countries at odds for the past hundred years. Instead, they had spent the time trying to outdo each other in wit and shows of strength.

Thank God for their arrogance, Ambrose thought. Thank God for the incredible personal competitiveness that drove these two men. Thank God for the individual pride that had—so far, anyway—kept them from finding a way to come to an accord and forge an alliance that would seriously jeopardize Scotland’s future, as well as the future of all Europe.

Ambrose smiled grimly, thinking of how these two kings so often acted like two spoiled adolescents, each trying to surpass the deeds and wealth of the other. Indeed, once, in the middle of the month, when Henry had suggested wrestling and laid his heavy arm on the French king’s neck, only a massive diplomatic effort had stopped the two from going to war after Francis deftly tossed the English king to the ground.

And the Scottish knight had to make sure these two rivals would remain just that. For the good of all, the balance of power had to be maintained.

Ambrose scanned the fields outside the jousting lists. The rolling meadows were covered with the peaked tents and banners of the French and English nobles and their entourages. In planning this occasion, thoughts of expense had been discarded. And everything was for show. Covered with the golden tents and royal pavilions, erected to house the ten thousand lords, cardinals, knights, and ladies of each court, the sight was visually dazzling. It was intended to be. Even the fountain that stood by the great hall spewed wine instead of water. This was diplomacy at its most opulent, at its most futile.

Ambrose took in the sight with a twinge of disgust, for his eyes also took in the hungry peasants being held back by soldiers beyond the grand gate on the far side of the field. Tents of gold cloth were being used by the nobles for these few short weeks, while many of these hungry villagers and their children begged for food and slept year round in the open air. Politicians are largely blind men, Ambrose thought in disgust. And it’s true everywhere. In England, in France, and even in Scotland. Once, years back, he’d thought the best course was to distance himself from politics. But along the way, he’d learned it was the profession he was best suited for.

On the surface, Ambrose Macpherson was a warrior without peer and the trusted emissary of the Scottish crown. He was a man of action and a man of learning. Though educated at St. Andrew’s and the university in Paris, Ambrose had mastered the arts of war fighting beside his father and brothers in the turbulent years of civil unrest that divided Scotland during his youth. Returning to the side of King James IV when war threatened with England, he had fought valiantly beside his king when Scottish blood was spilled on the fields of Flodden. That had been seven years ago, and Ambrose had received land, position, and fame for his continuing acts of valor and devotion.

But that hadn’t been all. Being a free spirit, Ambrose had sought adventure and challenge. That had led him to every court in Europe. Renowned across the continent for his diplomatic achievements and his physical prowess, Ambrose Macpherson was respected as a man of honor in a world of treachery.

The sound of the heralds’ trumpets brought Ambrose’s attention back to the lists. These would be the final jousts of the day and of the tournament. Tomorrow he’d be riding to Boulogne, and from there sailing on to Scotland. He was looking forward to being home for the christening of his new nephew.

But first he had to ride against the Englishman Garnesche—formidable opponent, Ambrose thought. He’d seen him unhorse every knight he’d jousted with. The man was strong as a horse and as lithe as a cat. Ambrose moved toward his horse. The final joust of the day.

The two knights faced each other as the sounds of the drum roll and the blasts of the trumpets filled the air. Peter Garnesche wore a cloak of cloth of gold over his full armor. Ambrose Macpherson was finely appointed in black satin and velvet. The razor sharp blade of a Highland dirk could not cut the steady heat of their gazes as each opponent studied the other.

The crowd fell silent as the jousters made their way to their respective sides of the tiltyard. As he passed by the grandstands, Ambrose let his eyes roam the glittering rows of nobility dressed in their colorful finery. He saw the waving kerchiefs of the many young women who’d been beating a steady path to his tent these warm nights. He knew the ways of bringing pleasure to those he bedded. And, thus far, he was free of the scourge of pox that was running rampant. Having that reputation had made Ambrose a most popular courtier wherever he went. But lately he’d found himself somewhat bored with the selection of willing ladies at large. They all seemed the same. Too experienced and all too willing. There was no challenge. There was not even a pretense of innocence.

Ambrose shook his head to clear his thoughts of such nonsense. Concentrate, he thought to himself. Here he was, a moment away from facing the most challenging of his opponents, and he was still thinking from the proximity of his codpiece.

About to steer his courser toward the field, Ambrose was caught by the unwavering gaze of a young woman standing at the end of the seats. There was an air of power, of assurance in her glance. So much for being bored with the selection of the available ladies, he thought. Aye, some new blood, a new spirit.

Ambrose lowered his lance, saluting the unknown maiden, and wheeled his black stallion.

Elizabeth Boleyn blushed at the champion’s sudden attention. And the heads that turned in her direction caught her quite off guard.

Since this was the French king’s challenge, the English queen held her kerchief aloft, and Ambrose and Peter Garnesche waited like two great bulls, straining at their tethers in their impatience to do battle. Once more the heralds sounded their trumpets, and as the notes faded away, a deadly stillness descended upon the yard.

The kerchief fell, and the two warriors spurred their steeds into action.

As they thundered down the stretch, Ambrose began to lower the tip of his long lance. With a motion that had grown as familiar as a wave of his hand, the Highlander pinned the end of the lance against the side of his chest with his muscular upper arm. Watching the onrushing knight lower his lance, Ambrose realized immediately why the English fighter had been so successful. Garnesche’s lance was not completely lowered; the metal tip was pointed directly at Ambrose’s visor.

Fighting the instinct to raise himself in his saddle, Ambrose kept his spear pointed directly at his foe’s heart.

With a deafening crash, the two warriors collided, the Englishman’s lance exploding on Ambrose’s shoulder, above his shield, while the Scot’s weapon splintered in the direct hit to Garnesche’s protecting shield. It took all of Ambrose’s strength to remain on his horse as they passed.

The sounds of the cheering crowd rolled across the field as the two fighters turned and rode back to their positions, replacing their spent weapons.

“He cheated, m’lord,” the young squire blurted out as he handed Ambrose the new lance. “He lowered his lance late!”

“Aye, but it just confirms the Englishman’s reputation.” Ambrose looked reassuringly at the lad. “I should have expected such tactics.”

The two warriors faced each other once again, awaiting the signal. The heralds blared, the kerchief dropped, and the men flew down the course.

Leveling his lance early, Ambrose raised himself high in his saddle as the horse galloped on furiously. The crowd gasped. Despite the enormous weight of the cumbersome armor, the Highlander held himself and his lance rock steady as the courser raced toward the charging foe. Standing in his stirrups, the Scottish champion was sure to be unhorsed by the impact, or beheaded by the lance of his opponent should his strength falter.

Garnesche sneered through his visor at the oncoming Scot. The fool was finished.

An instant before the men closed, Ambrose sat hard in his saddle. The Englishman’s lance was now aimed high, directly at his face. Leaning into the attack, Ambrose never flinched at the oncoming blow.

The impact of the lance against the center of his foe’s shield resounded clear across the tiltyard, while the tip of Garnesche’s lance whistled past Ambrose’s head.

Raising his visor as he reined in his steed, Ambrose dropped his shattered weapon and turned amid the roar of the spectators to see the English knight sprawled flat on his back.

Cursing loudly and viciously, Peter Garnesche grabbed at the hand of his squire and pulled himself abruptly to his feet, glaring all the while at the Scot.

Ambrose’s blond hair spilled freely over his shoulders as he removed his helmet. Dropping the metal armor into his squire’s hands, the young warrior turned and trotted his stallion toward the grandstands and the royal box. He smiled at the grudgingly appreciative English crowd and gave a small salute to the cheering French. The two kings each greeted the champion, though Francis was clearly in the better humor.