“Perhaps we’ll see him at the lists and you can remind him.”
“At this hour? He’ll still be snoring in a Dowgate brothel,” Joan said with a giggle.
“You shouldn’t know of such things,” Brianna whispered.
“I don’t, damn it!” Joan complained, and their laughter spilled out.
In reality, they did not expect to be in the company of any young men today. Knights and those men aspiring to that heady status took their jousting seriously. They would not spare one thought for the gentler sex until the mock battles were waged and won. Tonight’s banquet would be soon enough to leave their men’s world behind.
“I’m freezing,” Joan said with a shiver. “When I saw the sunshine, I didn’t think I’d need a cloak.”
“Here, put mine on,” said Brianna, taking it from Adele.
“I’ll go back and fetch one for you,” Glynis said. “I need one myself.”
Joan ran her hand over the soft velvet. “I’ve never seen you wear this. It’s lovely!”
“It belonged to my mother,” Brianna explained. When they arrived at the stands they were ablaze with the brilliant colors the women had chosen. The contests taking place here were every bit as combative as the ones in the lists.
Queen Philippa was dazzling today in gold brocade. She was wearing the very latest fashion, a steeple headdress with a diaphanous azure scarf that fell to her brocade slippers. Young Princess Joanna was arrayed in an identical costume and sat basking in the fulsome compliments bestowed upon mother and daughter for such a clever device.
Joan whispered to Brianna, “Isabel looks as if she’s been sucking persimmons.”
“Whyever did she choose such a hideous color?” Brianna asked, blinking in disbelief at the disturbing shade of bile green.
“Because I told her it was Edmund’s favorite, of course!”
“You are so wicked,” Brianna said with glee. How could she stay angry with Joan when she was so endearing? No wonder Christian Hawksblood was attracted to her. How could he help it?
The loges had been erected so that the spectators had an unimpeded view of the lists that were a hundred feet long and fifty feet wide. Some of the chattering and laughter ceased as the heralds in their royal livery, carrying golden trumpets, paraded down the lists toward the mass of tents and pavilions, crying, “Let the jousters make ready!”
Following the heralds rode the field marshal, the lesser marshals in charge of the contests, and then the sergeants who would keep order, all wearing brilliant bliauts. Behind all, a jongleur on horseback tossed a sword high and caught it. The field marshal raised his white baton. “Bring in the jousters!”
The ladies in the loges and the spectators thronging the palisades held their collective breath, then let it out on a great cheer as the competing jousters rode onto the field, two by two. Brianna thought she had never seen such a brave display in her life. She hoped she would be able to capture the brilliant spectacle on parchment.
The colors of the knights’ silk jupons covering their armor were brilliant crimson, cobalt, peacock, jade, ocher, silver, and sable. Each sported a device such as a lion, eagle, leopard, or dragon. Their horses were draped in matching caparisons that fluttered in waves as the breeze caught the silk.
The king, in azure and gold, rode beside Prince Edward, accoutered in black. The golden dragon of Wales with its tongue of flame looked ready to consume all in its path. Behind these two rode Lionel, Duke of Clarence, in startling cobalt blue. The young giant’s fair hair fell to his shoulders and beside him rode his lieutenant, Robert de Beauchamp, his equal in size, wearing aquamarine to match his eyes.
Next came two warriors whose knighthoods had been won by fire and sword, Warrick and the queen’s own knight, Sir Walter Manny. Their colors of green and silver, respectively, complemented each other.
Christian Hawksblood rode onto the field with Joan’s brother, Edmund of Kent. Far from spending the night in a brothel, Edmund had been practicing for three days and looked fresh, young, and very eager, in rich murrey. Beside him, astride a white charger, Christian Hawksblood wore a simple white jupon with a red cross, the symbol of a Templar. Behind them rode twenty-six more pairs of riders, totaling sixty in all.
As the knights rode past the ladies, they danced and curveted their horses, amidst a shower of tossed flowers, ribbons, and gloves. Brianna saw that her buttercup-yellow sleeve floated from the tip of Robert de Beauchamps lance, but not before her glance had stolen to Christian Hawksblood to see if he carried her crimson ribbon.
He did. The bold devil! She was secretly pleased that he sported her favor rather than Joan’s sleeve. It was a secret they shared and for one moment she hoped he would become champion. Then her glance was caught by the king and the Prince of Wales and she realized the odds were against it. “Joan, Prince Edward is carrying your sleeve!”
Joan’s quick mind came to her rescue. “So many ladies offered him sleeves, he decided it was best to wear his cousin’s to avoid favoritism.”
Brianna watched Joan’s face to see if she was disappointed that Christian Hawksblood had not kept the sleeve for himself, but Joan looked happy as a lark.
Once the field was clear, Henry of Lancaster, the field marshal, returned. “Take your stations!”
An azure and gold-clad herald cried, “Let him come to joust who wishes to do battle!”
From opposite ends of the field, two trumpets answered each other. Pursuivants stepped forward to announce the contestants. It was traditional for each to boast of his own jouster’s skill and to revile the challenger. The more foul the insult, the greater the laughter from the crowds.
The inside of Prince Edward’s tent was organized chaos as the three squires removed Hawksblood’s armor, then dressed him in sable to match Edward’s. A slight altercation broke out between Paddy and John Chandos about shields.
“Prince Edward prefers the round shield, it is less cumbersome while in the saddle.”
“Prince Drakkar prefers the teardrop. Once you are on the ground, its sharp edges and point make it an offensive weapon.”
John Chandos was about to overrule the Irish squire, when Edward spoke up. “I defer to Hawksblood’s experience.”
Ali, who was in charge of their mounts, lined up two white chargers and two black, each identically accoutered with black harness, saddle, and caparisoned in sable silk, boasting the golden dragon of Wales. Inside Christian’s pavilion was a stack of forty fifteen-foot ashwood lances with lozenge-shaped heads of Castile steel. Armor and weapons sat in piles, ready to be snatched up on a moment’s notice.
In one corner, Randal sat talking softly to Gnasher, who was curled up on his shoulder. To be on the safe side, Christian had secured him on a long, silver leash.
The marshal’s list had been made up at the last possible minute to keep it current. They had shaken their heads over the number of times Prince Edward’s name appeared and alternated it as best they could. In the morning he was scheduled to ride in the third, fifth, seventh, and so on, up to and including the twenty-fifth joust. The fourth contest pitted Hawksblood against De Harcourt. This meant his changing into silver armor, then changing back to sable the moment it was over.
“We’ll have to polish off the first dozen in short order if we are to be effective throughout the afternoon,” Christian warned before the prince left the tent. The two men looked into each other’s eyes, grinned, then Edward lowered his visor and strode out to do battle.
The pursuivant had been instructed to announce him only as the Black Prince. It was a name they had chosen together, which could in truth be applied to both. “Sir John Holland challenging the Black Prince!”
A hush fell over the crowd as it waited to see if the Black Prince was indeed the Prince of Wales. When the sable-clad rider became visible, a great cheer broke from the spectators and rolled across the field like a wave upon the shore. For one moment, Joan was paralyzed by fear. Her throat closed so tightly, she could not cheer.
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Prince Edward, with single-minded determination, hit Holand’s shield dead center. The grinding shock of the splintered lance forced Holland from the saddle. He fell so hard, his squires had to rush onto the field to carry him off.
Everyone in the stands surged to their feet, crying their joy at the top of their lungs. Joan’s fear turned instantly to joy. Her glance fell upon her embroidered sleeve, which he had attached to his scabbard ring, and her heart almost burst with pride.
Glynis pushed through to her mistress carrying the peony-colored mantle that matched Joan’s underdress.
“Hurry, Glynis, you’re missing the fun.” Joan handed Brianna’s cloak to Adele and slipped on her own.
“Sir Godfrey de Harcourt challenges Christian Hawksblood de Beauchamp,” cried the pursuivant. The majority expected the fierce-looking Arabian to defeat the Frenchman. Hawksblood simply angled his shield so his opponent’s lance glanced off it. At the same moment his own lance impacted De Harcourt’s shield so solidly the Frenchman dropped like a stone. Hawksblood’s lance had not even shattered. He tossed it to his waiting squire, Ali, and fell upon his opponent with such speed, Harcourt could not gain his feet. Christian pressed his powerful thigh across the Frenchman’s throat. He rendered his challenger helpless without drawing his sword. The crowd roared its appreciation of such agile strength. Even the king tossed him a purse.
Brianna forced herself to breathe normally. Her breath had stopped when she saw her crimson ribbon fluttering atop Hawksblood’s helm. She blushed deeply, hoping none guessed the favor was hers.
Next came the Black Prince against John de Vere, Earl of Oxford. Edward dispatched him to the dust while Paddy rapidly removed Hawksblood’s silver hauberk and replaced it with sable.
Joan’s heart was in her mouth when she heard, “Edmund, Earl of Kent, challenged by Prince Lionel, Duke of Clarence.”
Brianna took hold of Joan’s hand. “You fear for him?”
Joan replied, “Lionel is a giant and a bully, while Edmund is so slim.”
“He will acquit himself well, Joan. He has twice Lionel’s intelligence.” Their attention was drawn to Princess Isabel. She came to her feet with an avid look upon her face. She was licking her lips over this match. When the jousters impacted, Lionel leaned his great weight into his lance and it was inevitable that the lightweight Edmund left his saddle. Kent, however, anticipated the move and aimed to the side while Lionel was off-balance. Clarence too was unhorsed.
Isabel screamed, “Kill him!”
Queen Philippa tried to hush her, thinking she rooted for her brother.
Edmund had his sword drawn by the time he gained his feet. Lionel the Ox was clumsy as his nickname. He lumbered to his feet and advanced upon the smaller man, thinking to defeat him by brute force. In a trice, Edmund caught his sword and sent it spinning away, leaving him weaponless. Lionel conceded in one second flat, wishing to God they were fighting in teams as they had the previous year.
The king and queen were both disappointed in their son’s defeat, but Isabel snatched a purse from her father and flung it down to the young Earl of Kent. He lifted his visor and touched his fingers to his lips in a gallant gesture to the princess, and the crowd burst into applause.
The few hard-bitten knights who had the temerity to challenge Warrick regretted the impulse when the warrior made mincemeat of them.
The Black Prince rode out time after time, taking up the challenges issued to him by the earls of Pembroke, Northampton, Lincoln, and Hereford. He set down his opponents one by one, either by lance or by sword. By this time all the knights had lost their fine silk jupons, as well as their favors from the ladies. Even their mount’s caparisons hung in shreds.
The entire throng was agog that their prince fought and won joust after joust. It was a feat unmatched in history. Both Christian and Edward were thankful for the coolness of the morning, knowing by afternoon the day would heat up considerably.
Pondering Hawksblood’s victory, Brianna had been struck by a disquieting thought. What if the brothers Beauchamp fought a joust? Who would she cheer on to victory? She would champion Robert, of course; it was her duty to do so, yet she silently prayed they would not joust together. She shivered and Adele wrapped her in the gray velvet cloak.
She felt as if her mother’s arms had stolen about her. The Black Prince was again upon the field. Surely he was the most gallant prince in all Christendom to meet so many challenges. Suddenly, Brianna went still. The knight in the sable armor who rode down the field so relentlessly was not Edward. It was the Arabian, Hawksblood! She could see him as clearly as if he rode without armor. She turned to Joan, expecting her to know the identity of the Black Prince, but quickly realized Joan had no idea when she said, “Edward’s strength must surely be spent. This time he will go down.”
Brianna’s glance again flew to the jouster clad in sable mail. “Nay! None will defeat him!” She watched in fascination as Christian couched his lance and spurred down the lists as deadly accurate as the Angel of Death felled his chosen victim. Hawksblood danced a violent ballet that was perfection. Brianna could not understand why it was not clear to everyone that this was the Arabian.
“Edward, Edward, Edward,” they chanted, and the king was on his feet, waving the great banner of England.
The sergeants removed a few unruly Londoners from the front ranks and everyone sat back to enjoy the next contest. Joan clasped Brianna’s hand as she heard, “William de Montecute challenges Robert de Beauchamp.”
Robert looked enormous as he charged down the field. The Countess of Salisbury screamed as her son was flung from his saddle. De Beauchamp withdrew his sword and beat down his opponent without dismounting, as was his right, but Brianna could not dispel the thought that it was unchivalrous.
The excited crowd applauded the win, however, and she joined them. Joan whispered, “Montecute is always so full of himself, I’m glad Robert defeated him.”
The final joust of the morning was announced and who else would it be but the Black Prince? Brianna watched intently. This time, however, she knew it was Prince Edward beneath the sable armor. How strange it was to be able to tell them apart as if they were day and night. Suddenly the sun blazed forth and she slipped the warm cloak from her shoulders. The moment the mantle fell away, her clear perception disappeared. Had her imagination played a trick on her? She glanced down at the gray velvet and wondered. Her mother had the gift of second sight. When Brianna had been wearing her cloak, she too had seen things other people seemed unaware of.
The royal stewards made their way into the loges with refreshments for the queen and her ladies. The king departed for his own pavilion. He was on the afternoon program and eager to join the lists.
Paddy and John Chandos ate heartily, sharing their food with Randal and the Gnasher. Christian and Edward, however, did not eat. So they would not become dehydrated, they drank water brewed with rosemary and agrimony to keep them alert. Ali massaged the muscles of both men with almond oil and myrrh. The prince was most impressed by the Arabian squire’s talents.
“Would you consider becoming my personal leech?” Edward asked.
Ali shook his head. “Alas, Your Highness, I was there when Drakkar was born and I shall be there when he dies, Allah be willing.”
Edward and Christian exchanged an amused glance, yet beneath the surface, both men were moved at such selfless devotion.
An infirmary tent had been set up with Master John Bray, the king’s physician, in charge. It was rapidly filling with casualties suffering cracked ribs, broken collarbones, dislocated shoulders, and concussions. Minor wounds, cuts, and abrasions were attended by squires in the jousters’ own tents.
Prince Edward began to pace in anticipation of the afternoon’s challenges. Christian stretched himself on the pavilion floor and appeared to doze. “How is he able to do that?” Edward asked Ali.
“Long years of discipline. First you must separate the three states of being: the mental, the physica
l, and the emotional, then it is simply a matter of deep breathing.”
But the moment the heralds sounded their trumpets, Hawksblood was on his feet ready to have Paddy don his hauberk. This time, both wore silver, for Edward was jousting as Hawksblood, riding against Warrick, then Christian and Robert de Beauchamp would do battle.
Brianna clasped her hands tightly as Warrick’s name and that of Hawksblood were announced. Don’t let either of them get hurt, she prayed.
Prince Edward knew he would have to unseat Warrick with his lance if he hoped to win, for if the seasoned warrior had him on the ground, then came at him with his powerful sword arm, he doubted the outcome.
Brianna surged to her feet as the pair collided with an ear-splitting crash that splintered both lances and sent the combatants flying from their saddles. Fortunately for Edward, he had not landed as heavily as Warrick and he was able to gain his feet first. Warrick, however, was able to swing his great broadsword from a kneeling position. When it struck Edward’s shield, however, the protective guard flew from the tip of the sword and Warrick stopped fighting immediately. It was a thing that happened often, usually resulting in a bloody accident, but Warrick was well discipined in swordplay. When Prince Edward saw Warrick put up his sword, he did likewise and the contest was considered a draw. Christian couldn’t have been more pleased with the outcome.
In the next joust, Prince Lionel challenged Lord Stanley, Earl of Cheshire. They were easy to tell apart, for Cheshire’s lance boasted a blue and white banner with three stags’ heads. Lionel missed his opponent’s shield by a mile and embedded his lance point in Stanley’s dappled gray charger. As the horse went down, the crowd gasped then groaned as they watched it thrash in agony. Stanley, concerned only for his mount, went down in defeat to Lionel, who totally ignored the frenzied animal. The crowd began to boo.
King Edward threw off his leg guards and sprinted onto the field. Without concern for his own safety, he quickly assessed the horse at close range. He withdrew his dagger and severed the horse’s main neck artery. It gave only one more kick, heaved a shuddering sigh, then lay in red ruin.