I Serve (18 page)

I hoped to find the prince’s household a refreshing haven after the nightmare that had confronted me at home; I soon discovered, however, that ill fortune had attended the house in my absence. Brocas and the prince were closeted together when I came in, and his highness’s steward told me that they desired my attendance. I entered the prince’s chambers and bowed. A stiff silence pervaded the air like fog over an impassable fen. Brocas was sitting stolidly, with none of his usual banter or jests. His highness walked to and fro with a harsh stride, hands clasped behind his back.

“
Potenhale,” said the prince sharply without any words of greeting. “Have we still that vase I took at Caen?”

“
Aye,” said I, remembering the scalloped beauty inlaid with gold and blue enamel. “It is here in Wales. You bade me send it to your steward.”

“
Then bid him send it now to my cousin Joan,” said the prince, “and with it a message that I am, as I have always been, her humble servant.” With these words, the prince turned on his heel and strode abruptly out of the room leaving Sir Brocas and I alone.

“
Why, what has happened?” I asked aloud. “And why is the prince sending Lady Joan the vase? It was his favorite treasure, a keepsake of his first campaign.”

“
The pope has ruled at last,” answered Brocas.

“
Yes?” I asked in earnest expectation.

Brocas shook his head ruefully. “Salisbury’s appeal is denied, the first marriage is upheld. Joan goes to Holland’s home within the week, and with her the vase as a wedding gift.”

SEPTEMBER
,
1348 – AUGUST
, 1349

8

The plague continued to work its will in England, but the prince could not stay forever at his estate in Wales. We rejoined the royal household to celebrate Christmas, and the celebrations, though not as lavish as the season before, were gay enough to dispel the pall that the pestilence had cast upon the court. The prince’s money flowed as freely as water; he bestowed magnificent jeweled brooches on his mother and sisters and rings and clasps on all of his attendants. True, the rent rolls of his estates had suffered in the last year—for many of his tenants had perished in the plague. But the prince’s expenditures never had any proportion to the amount of his income, and he continued to live as luxuriously as the Plantagenets were wont to do.

In the spring of the following year, the queen gave birth to another child, and for that occasion the king held a great tournament at Windsor. In bygone days, the royal family and their retainers would have lodged comfortably in the castle, but now the place was as full of craftsmen as a guild fair. William of Wykeham, the king’s master architect, had begun his renovations of the castle proper, and handymen, hammers, and hoists filled the air with creaks, bangs, and shouts. The prince elected to lodge in the field, and we spread his pavilion near the plain where the tournament would be waged.

I had participated in tournaments before—there was one at Lichfield shortly after our return from France—but the Windsor tournament was the grandest I had beheld. The king presided over the tournament, dressed in a bright green robe embroidered with pheasant feathers. He sat on a dais beside Queen Philippa watching the jousts that honored the arrival of their newest progeny. King David of Scotland attended, having patched up a shamefaced peace with England after his treacherous attacks of two years ago. Most of the Garter knights were present. The field also held the Comte d’Eu and other French prisoners from Crecy. Their captive status was no hindrance to a friendly trial of arms; the English knights welcomed the chance to try their prowess against the French who—even in our land—are reckoned the most puissant chevaliers in all of Europe.

The spoils I had earned in France were long since spent, and without the prince’s aid I would never have been able to enter the lists. His highness, however, outfitted me for the tournament at his own expense and paid the herald fees so that my shield could hang beside his own. My first round of jousts was as successful as I could have wished. I challenged Sir Stephen Cosington, another knight whom the prince had recently attached to his household. We were of similar mettle and experience. On the first two passes we broke our lances upon each other, but on the third pass, I hit him squarely in the center of his helmet. My opponent slid backwards off his crupper and the heralds awarded me the victory. By right of tournament, Sir Cosington’s steed and armor were forfeit to me, but I bestowed them back on him again, for he was a courteous knight and we shared the same master.

The prince’s first joust was against Roger Mortimer, the Earl of March, but I never saw the outcome of the match. While the prince’s squires were helping him mount, I glimpsed red hair in the stands; my eyes searched frantically till they lighted upon Margery. The company she was in did not surprise me. She was still in faithful attendance on her unfortunate mistress. Margery sat in a small chair behind the Lady Joan.

The pope’s decision had been unwelcome, but the Lady Joan looked radiant as ever. Her hands rested gently upon her stomach while her violet eyes darted about taking in the spectacle and her golden complexion glowed with life and interest. Perhaps her new husband had not proved so dreadful an ogre as she had feared. The new Earl of Kent—for Thomas Holland had assumed that title by right of his wife—sat beside Joan, his large frame sprawled carelessly over the bench. He had altered not at all. The same smug smile spilled over his face while the scar across his brow bestowed a hint of savagery in his mien.

I longed to enter the stands and speak with Margery, but my desire faltered a little at the thought of encountering Holland. At our last meeting in Calais, he had bidden me look to my sword when next he saw me at tournament. I had seen him fight at Caen and Crecy, charging like a bull at the hapless Frenchmen and decrying the need for any quarter. I was not anxious to engage him in the joust.

But desire to hold speech with Margery won over in the end. While the prince broke lances with Mortimer on the field, I climbed the stairs till I came quietly behind Margery’s bench. I touched her on the shoulder. “Sir Potenhale!” she said with a sharp intake of breath, and I fancied that there was a note of excitement in her voice.

“
Aye,” said I, a little sheepishly. “It has been a long time since I have laid eyes on you.”

“
Not long since I saw
you
,” she replied, “for I watched you break lances with Sir Cosington not half an hour since.”

“
Ah, you have been watching me, lady?” I asked, pleased to know that she had been in the stands for my triumph.

“
No, I was watching Sir Cosington,” she replied, “for methinks that the man needs more watching than you—he is so apt to fall and hurt himself.”

“
Methinks my lance may have had somewhat to do with his fall,” I said smilingly. I took her hand in mine.

“
Why, how now, sir!” she said. “You are very bold.” She drew her hand away, but not as quickly as she might have had my touch been unpleasant.

“
If you will not give me your hand,” said I, “then give me something else that I may wear into the lists.”

“
Why should I?” she said.

I determined to speak my heart. “Because I would have all men know that I hold Margery Bradeshaw to be the fairest of all women and the queen of love and virtue.”

“
Does not your conscience misgive you to tell so many lies?”

I winced a little, remembering the words I had spoken in Lady Joan’s garden at Calais when I had denied being Margery’s lover. “The only lie, lady, is to say that I do not love you, for—upon my soul—you have captured the castle of my heart.”

She stared at me in silence, and I think that her scorn melted a little. “Well, Sir Potenhale, I will grant you
a
favor. You shall have my glove. But I do not say that I shall grant you
my
favor, for that you must earn with more than words.” Saying this, she unfastened her glove of crimson and placed it in my hands. “Do not lose it, and may it bring you luck and victory.”

I thanked her and turned to go, but the movement of my rising caught the eye of the Earl of Kent. “Potenhale!” said Holland, demanding my attention as one would that of a servant or a dog.

“
Sir Thomas,” I said, acknowledging him and bowing stiffly.

“
I see you have been fortunate at the tournament thus far.”

“
Aye,” I replied, contriving to keep the red glove clenched tightly behind my back and out of his view.

“
Then you will have no fear to meet me in the lists,” he said, and his left eye flickered open with its missing pupil. “I think I promised you a merry joust when next we met in England. I arm for the games this afternoon, and I have contrived with the heralds so that my first bout will be against you. Will you be ready?”

“
I will be at your service,” I answered steadily, though inside my heart had begun to pound with unaccustomed ferocity. I would not—I must not!—falter in front of Margery. Holland dismissed me with a wave, and I departed without a backward glance.

By the time I descended from the stands I saw that the prince had finished his three jousts with Mortimer. “Did you win, highness?” I asked.

“
Aye, I unhorsed him,” he said with a tone of surprise, for he assumed that I had been watching the trial.

“
God grant that I do the same to Holland,” I answered, and I began to bind the red glove to the crest of my helmet.

“
What is this?” demanded Brocas; he had pitched his tent beside the prince’s and now came over to hear our conversation. “You are to joust with Holland?”

“
Indeed,” I said, with an air of false nonchalance. I could see the look of concern in their eyes. Holland was a giant of a man, and though I had increased in girth since my days as a squire, he weighed nearly four stone more than me and was reputed to be a valiant adversary.

“
I shall lace your points,” said Brocas impulsively. The prince said nothing. But he gripped me firmly on the shoulder, and I saw that like myself he wanted nothing more than for Holland to come tumbling off his horse into the dust of the tourney grounds.

*****

The afternoon came quickly. We ate a light repast, and then Sir Bernard Brocas made good on his promise, playing squire and arming me for the joust. He was tightening the laces of my helmet when the heralds called my name. “Whose glove do you carry, Sir Potenhale?” he asked slyly when he saw my helm, for I had not yet told anyone of my attachment to Margery.

“
Why, none other than Queen Philippa’s,” I replied roguishly.

“
Pray that the king does not recognize it!” he riposted, then laughed merrily and urged on my horse with a slap. I lifted my lance and rode into the lists to encounter the Earl of Kent.

Thomas Holland looked even larger in the field than he had in the stands. His magnificent warhorse was caparisoned in silver, and the image of England blazed confidently on his shield. My own horse had few trappings, and my shield was as simple as my birth. When I was first knighted, I had no family crest to assume. The prince bade me make one, and I had chosen a silver chevron on a sable field. I had been knighted at Crecy, and the storm which preceded the battle had put me in mind of this crest. The shield was a sky black with clouds, and the silver chevron a bolt of lightning. Now, as we aligned our horses for the joust, the symbolism struck me as painfully one-sided. What could one lightning bolt hope to do against the whole of England? The herald ordered us to take our marks, and with one wave of the flag, we were charging at each other with lances lowered.

I had unhorsed Sir Stephen earlier with a blow to the helmet, and I aimed now for the little flat spot, just above the bridge of Holland’s nose guard. My aim was true, but as I felt the tip of my lance connect with my opponent’s helmet, a crash of splintering wood erupted on my chest. Holland had broken his lance on me. I managed to keep my seat with difficulty; I continued on to the end of the barrier, then wheeled about to see if I had unhorsed him. His smiling face greeted me, and I saw that instead of knocking him off his horse as I had intended, I had done nothing more than knock the helmet from his head. Holland was awarded three points for the broken lance, and I returned to my side of the lists to receive a fresh lance from the hands of my volunteer squire.

“
His helmet laces must have been loose,” said Brocas with a frown. “If I were Holland, I would thrash my squire, for he does his job ill. But it was a good hit. Once more the same, and you are sure to overthrow him.”

The second pass was uncannily similar to the first. Taking Brocas’s advice, I aimed again for the center of Holland’s helmet. Just as before he broke his lance upon me, and when I turned about, I saw that only his helmet had fallen to the ground. I gritted my teeth in anger and walked my mount slowly to where Brocas stood.

The king’s dais was close by the field, and as I passed by I heard Chandos expostulating with His Majesty. “He does not fight fair!” said my old master. “Why is not his helmet as well buckled and laced on as young Potenhale’s? Tell the heralds that Holland must be on equal footing with his adversary.”