This was also why artists’ reconstructions of the fourteenth century tended to show bleak interiors, rooms with bare walls and few furnishings—perhaps a chair, or a chest—but not much else. The very absence of contemporary imagery was taken to imply a sparseness to life at that time.
All this flashed through Kate Erickson’s mind as she entered the great hall of Castelgard. What she was about to see, no historian had ever seen before. She walked in, slipping through the crowd, following Marek. And she stared, stunned by the richness and the chaos displayed before her.
The great hall sparkled like an enormous jewel. Sunlight streamed through high windows onto walls that gleamed with tapestries laced with gold, so that reflections danced on the red-and-gold-painted ceiling. One side of the room was hung with a vast patterned cloth: silver fleurs-de-lis on a background of deep blue. On the opposite wall, a tapestry depicting a battle: knights fighting in full regalia, their armor silver, their surcoats blue and white, red and gold; their fluttering banners threaded with gold.
At the end of the room stood a huge ornate fireplace, large enough for a person to walk into without ducking, its carved mantelpiece gilded and shimmering. In front of the fire stood a huge wicker screen, also gilded. And above the mantel hung a patterned tapestry of swans flying on a field of lacy red and gold flowers.
The room was inherently elegant, richly and beautifully executed—and rather feminine, to modern eyes. Its beauty and refinement stood in marked contrast to the behavior of the people in the room, which was noisy, boisterous, crude.
In front of the fire was laid the high table, draped in white linen, with dishes of gold, all heaped high with food. Little dogs scampered across the table, helping themselves to the food as they liked—until the man in the center of the table swatted them away with a curse.
Lord Oliver de Vannes was about thirty, with small eyes set in a fleshy, dissolute face. His mouth was permanently turned down in a sneer; he tended to keep his lips tight, since he was missing several teeth. His clothes were as ornate as the room: a robe of blue and gold, with a high-necked gold collar, and a fur hat. His necklace consisted of blue stones each the size of a robin’s egg. He wore rings on several fingers, huge oval gems in heavy gold settings. He stabbed with his knife at food and ate noisily, grunting to his companions.
But despite the elegant accoutrements, the impression he conveyed was of a dangerous petulance—his red-rimmed eyes darted around the room as he ate, alert to any insult, spoiling for a fight. He was edgy and quick to strike; when one of the little dogs came back to eat again, Oliver unhesitatingly jabbed it in its rear with the point of his knife; the animal jumped off and ran yelping and bleeding from the room.
Lord Oliver laughed, wiped the dog’s blood off the tip of his blade, and continued to eat.
The men seated at his table shared the joke. From the look of them, they were all soldiers, Oliver’s contemporaries, and all were elegantly dressed—though none matched the finery of their leader. And three or four women, young, pretty and bawdy, in tight-fitting dresses and with loose, wanton hair, giggling as their hands groped beneath the table, completed the scene.
Kate stared, and a word came unbidden to her mind: warlord. This was a medieval warlord, sitting with his soldiers and their prostitutes in the castle he had captured.
A wooden staff banged on the floor, and a herald cried, “My Lord! Magister Edward de Johnes!” Turning, she saw Johnston shoved through the crowd, toward the table at the front.
Lord Oliver looked up, wiping gravy from his jowls with the back of his hand. “I bid you welcome, Magister Edwardus. Though I do not know if you are Magister or magicien.”
“Lord Oliver,” the Professor said, speaking in Occitan. He gave a slight nod of the head.
“Magister, why so cool,” Oliver said, pretending to pout. “You wound me, you do. What have I done to deserve this reserve? Are you displeased I brought you from the monastery? You shall eat as well here, I assure you. Better. Anywise, the Abbot has no need of you—and I do.”
Johnston stood erect, and did not speak.
“You have nothing to say?” Oliver said, glaring at Johnston. His face darkened. “That will change,” he growled.
Johnston remained unmoving, silent.
The moment passed. Lord Oliver seemed to collect himself. He smiled blandly. “But come, come, let us not quarrel. With all courtesy and respect, I seek your counsel,” Oliver said. “You are wise, and I have much need of wisdom—so these worthies tell me.” Guffaws at the table. “And I am told you can see the future.”
“No man sees that,” Johnston said.
“Oh so? I think you do, Magister. And I pray you, see your own. I would not see a man of your distinction suffer much. Know you how your namesake, our late king, Edward the Foolish, met his end? I see by your face that you do. Yet you were not among those present in the castle. And I was.” He smiled grimly and sat back in his chair. “There was never a mark upon his body.”
Johnston nodded slowly. “His screams could be heard for miles.”
Kate looked questioningly to Marek, who whispered, “They’re talking about Edward II of England. He was imprisoned and killed. His captors didn’t want any sign of foul play, so they stuck a tube up his rectum and inserted a red-hot poker into his bowels until he died.”
Kate shivered.
“He was also gay,” Marek whispered, “so it was thought the manner of his execution demonstrated great wit.”
“Indeed, his screams were heard for miles,” Oliver was saying. “So think on it. You know many things, and I would know them, too. You are my counselor, or you are not long for this world.”
Lord Oliver was interrupted by a knight who slipped down the table and whispered in his ear. This knight was richly dressed in maroon and gray, but he had the tough, weathered face of a campaigner. A deep scar, almost a welt, ran down his face from forehead to chin and disappeared into his high collar. Oliver listened, and then said to him, “Oh? You think so, Robert?”
At this, the scarred knight whispered again, never taking his eyes off the Professor. Lord Oliver was also staring at the Professor while he listened. “Well, we shall see,” Lord Oliver said.
The stocky knight continued to whisper, and Oliver nodded.
:
Standing in the crowd, Marek turned to the courtier beside him and, speaking in Occitan, said, “Pray, what worthy now has Sir Oliver’s ear?”
“Faith, friend, that is Sir Robert de Kere.”
“De Kere?” Marek said. “I do not know of him.”
“He is new to the retinue, not yet in service a year, but he has found much favor in Sir Oliver’s eyes.”
“Oh so? Why is that?”
The man shrugged wearily, as if to say, Who knows why things happen at the high table? But he answered, “Sir Robert has a martial disposition, and he has been a trusted adviser to Lord Oliver on matters of warfare.” The man lowered his voice. “But certes, I think he cannot be pleased to see another adviser, and one so eminent, before him now.”
“Ah,” Marek said, nodding. “I understand.”
Sir Robert did indeed seem to be pressing his case, whispering urgently, until finally Oliver made a quick flicking sign with one hand, as if brushing away a mosquito. Instantly, the knight bowed and stepped back, standing behind Sir Oliver.
Oliver said, “Magister.”
“My Lord.”
“I am informed that you know the method of Greek Fire.”
Standing in the crowd, Marek snorted. He whispered to Kate, “No one knows that.” And no one did. Greek Fire was a famous historical conundrum, a devastating incendiary weapon from the sixth century, the precise nature of which was debated by historians even now. No one knew what Greek Fire really was, or how it was made.
“Yes,” Johnston said. “I know this method.”
Marek stared. What was this? Clearly the Professor had recognized a rival, but this was a dangerous game to be playing. He woul
d undoubtedly be asked to prove it.
“You can yourself make Greek Fire?” Oliver said.
“My Lord, I can.”
“Ah.” Oliver turned and shot a glance back at Sir Robert. It seemed the trusted adviser had given wrong advice. Oliver turned back to the Professor.
“It will not be difficult,” the Professor said, “if I have my assistants.”
So that’s it, Marek thought. The Professor was making promises, in an attempt to get them all together.
“Eh? Assistants? You have assistants?”
“I do, my Lord, and—”
“Well of course they can assist you, Magister. And if they do not, we shall provide you whatever help you need. Have no concern there. But what of Dew Fire—the fire of Nathos? You know it, as well?”
“I do, my Lord.”
“And by demonstration you will show it to me?”
“Whenever you wish, my Lord.”
“Very good, Magister. Very good.” Lord Oliver paused, looking intently at the Professor. “And you also know the one secret that I wish to know above all others?”
“Sir Oliver, that secret I do not know.”
“You do! And you will answer me!” he shouted, banging down a goblet. His face was bright red, the veins standing out on his forehead; his voice echoed in the hall, which had gone suddenly silent. “I will have your answer this day!” One of the small dogs on the table cringed; with the back of his hand, he smacked it, sending it yelping to the floor. When the girl beside him started to protest, he swore and slapped her hard across the face, the blow knocking her, chair and all, on her back. The girl did not make a sound, or move. She remained motionless, her feet up in the air.
“Oh, I am wrothed! I am sore wrothed!” Lord Oliver snarled, standing up. He looked around him angrily, his hand on his sword, his eyes sweeping the great hall, as if seeking some culprit.
Everyone inside the hall was silent, unmoving, staring down at their feet. It was as if the room had suddenly become a still life, in which only Lord Oliver moved. He puffed in fury, finally took out his sword, and crashed the blade down on the table. Plates and goblets jumped and clattered, the sword buried in the wood.
Oliver glared at the Professor, but he was gaining control, his fury passing. “Magister, you will do my bidding!” he cried. Then he nodded to the guards. “Take him away, and give him cause to meditate.”
Roughly, guards grabbed the Professor and hauled him back through the silent crowds. Kate and Marek stepped aside as he passed, but the Professor did not see them.
Lord Oliver glared at the silent room. “Be seated and be merry,” he snarled, “before I am in temper!”
Immediately, the musicians began to play, and the noise of the crowd filled the hall.
:
Soon after, Robert de Kere hurried out of the room, following the Professor. Marek thought that departure meant nothing good. He nudged Kate, indicating that they should follow de Kere. They were moving toward the door when the herald’s staff banged on the floor.
“My Lord! The Lady Claire d’Eltham and Squire Christopher de Hewes.”
They paused. “Hell,” Marek said.
A beautiful young woman came into the hall, with Chris Hughes walking at her side. Chris was now wearing rich, courtly clothes. He looked very distinguished—and very confused.
Standing beside Kate, Marek tapped his ear and whispered, “Chris. As long as you’re in this room, don’t speak, and don’t act. Do you understand?”
Chris nodded slightly.
“Behave as if you don’t understand anything. It shouldn’t be difficult.”
Chris and the woman passed through the crowd and walked directly to the high table, where Lord Oliver watched her approach with open annoyance. The woman saw it, dipped low, and stayed there, close to the ground, head bowed in submission.
“Come, come,” Lord Oliver said irritably, waving a drumstick. “This obsecration ill-suits you.”
“My Lord.” She rose to her feet.
Oliver snorted. “And what have you dragged in with you today? Another dazzled conquest?”
“If it please my Lord, I present you Christopher of Hewes, a squire of Eire, who saved me from villains who would have kidnapped me today, or worse.”
“Eh? Villains? Kidnapped?” Amused, Lord Oliver looked down the table at his knights. “Sir Guy? What say you?”
A dark-complected man stood angrily. Sir Guy de Malegant was dressed entirely in black—black chain mail and a black surcoat, with a black eagle embroidered on his chest. “My Lord, I fear my Lady amuses herself at our expense. She knows full well I set my men to save her, seeing that she was alone and in distress.” Sir Guy walked toward Chris, glaring at him. “It is this man, my Lord, who placed her at risk of her life. I cannot think she now defends him, except as display of her uncommon wit.”
“Eh?” Oliver said. “Wit? My Lady Claire, what wit is here?”
The woman shrugged. “Only the witless, my Lord, see wit where none is writ.”
The dark knight snorted. “Quick words, to quick conceal what lies beneath.” Malegant walked up to Chris, until they were standing face to face, inches apart. He stared intensely as he slowly, deliberately began to take off his chain-mail glove. “Squire Christopher, is it how you are called?”
Chris said nothing, only nodded.
:
Chris was terrified. Trapped in a situation he did not understand, standing in a room full of bloodthirsty soldiers, no better than a bunch of street-corner thugs, and facing this dark, angry man whose breath stank of rotting teeth, garlic and wine—it was all he could do to keep his knees from shaking.
Through his earpiece, he heard Marek say, “Don’t speak—no matter what.”
Sir Guy squinted at him. “I asked of you a question, squire. Will you answer?” He was still taking off his glove, and Chris felt sure he was about to hit him with his bare fist.
Marek said, “Don’t speak.”
Chris was only too happy to follow that advice. He took a deep breath, trying to control himself. His legs were tremulous, rubbery. He felt as if he might collapse in front of this man. He did his best to steady himself. Another deep breath.
Sir Guy turned to the woman. “Madam, does he speak, your savior squire? Or merely sigh?”
“If it please Sir Guy, he is of foreign parts, and often does not comprehend our tongue.”
“Dic mihi nomen tuum, scutari.” Tell me your name.
“Nor Latin, I fear, Sir Guy.”
Malegant looked disgusted. “Commodissime. Most convenient, this dumb squire, for we cannot ask how he comes here, and for what purpose. This Irish squire is far from home. And yet he is not a pilgrim. He is not in service. What is he? Why is he here? See how he trembles. What can he fear? Nothing from us, my Lord—unless he be the creature of Arnaut, come to see how the land lies. This would make him dumb. A coward would not dare speak.”
Marek whispered, “Do not respond. . ..”
Malegant poked Chris hard on the chest. “So, cowardly squire, I call you spy and scoundrel, and not man enough to admit your true cause. I would have contempt for you, were you not beneath it.”
The knight finished removing his glove, and with a disgusted shake of his head, he dropped it on the floor. The chain-mail glove landed with a clunk on Chris’s toes. Sir Guy turned insolently away and started back to the table.
Everyone in the room was staring at Chris.
Beside him, Claire whispered, “The glove. . ..”
He glanced at her sideways.
“The glove!”
What about the glove? he wondered, as he bent over and picked it up. It was heavy in his hand. He held the glove out to Claire, but she had already turned away, saying, “Knight, the squire has accepted your challenge.”
Chris thought, What challenge?
Sir Guy said immediately, “Three lances untipped, à outrance.”
Marek said, “You poor bastard. Do you know what you jus
t did?”
:
Sir Guy turned to Lord Oliver at the high table. “My Lord, I pray you let the day’s tourney begin with our challenge combat.”
“So it shall be,” Oliver said.
Sir Daniel slipped forward through the crowd and bowed. “My Lord Oliver, my niece carries this jest too far, with unworthy result. It may amuse her to see Sir Guy, a knight of renown, provoked into combat with a mere squire, and so dishonored by the doing. But it ill-serves Sir Guy to be taken in by her ruse.”
“Is this so?” Lord Oliver said, looking at the dark knight.
Sir Guy Malegant spat on the floor. “A squire? Mark me, this is no squire. Here is a knight in hiding, a knave and a spy. His deceit shall have its reward. I will contest him this day.”
Sir Daniel said, “If it please my Lord, I think it is not meet. Sooth he is a squire only, of little training at arms, and no match for your worthy knight.”
Chris was still trying to understand what was going on, when Marek stepped forward, speaking fluently in a foreign language that sounded something like French, but not exactly. He guessed it was Occitan. Chris heard the translation in his earpiece.
“My Lord,” Marek said, bowing smoothly, “this worthy gentleman speaks truth. Squire Christopher is my companion, but he is no warrior. In fairness, I ask you to allow Christopher to name a champion in his stead, to meet this challenge.”
“Eh? Champion? What champion? I do not know you.”
Chris saw that Lady Claire was staring at Marek with unconcealed interest. He returned a brief glance before speaking to Oliver.
“Please my Lord, I am Sir André de Marek, late of Hainaut. I offer myself as his champion, and God willing, I shall give good account with this noble knight.”
Lord Oliver rubbed his chin, thinking.
Seeing his indecision, Sir Daniel pressed forward. “My Lord, to begin your tourney with unequal combat does not enhance the day, nor make it memorable in the minds of men. I think de Marek will give better sport.”