And you don’t like it, I thought. De Mézzières seemed cautious and old – but he was thorough, and he had a famous name as a crusader, having been knighted at the taking of Smyrna. He’d been a friend of de Charny and he’d held Caen against us in the year fifty-nine too. He was no parchment saint: he knew the business of war.
He looked at the three of us. At that moment, we had our leg harnesses on, and I was lacing up my mail haubergeon. Fiore was ahead of me, already getting an arm laced up.
‘You are all knights?’ he asked.
‘I was dubbed on the battlefield,’ I said.
De Mézzières paused. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Sir, I mean no insult, but nothing – nothing – can be allowed to humiliate the king my master. Can this knighting be slighted or challenged?’
Well, that turncoat Baumgarten was good for something, after all. ‘I was knighted at Florence in front of a thousand men-at-arms by the Count von Baumgarten – a knight of the Emperor, I believe.’
De Mézzières started. ‘You are Sir William Gold?’ he asked. ‘I thought I knew the name.’ He looked away and set his jaw.
I knew something was wrong. Battlefield knightings are for poor men and third sons and mercenaries.
‘And the others?’ he asked, his tone icy.
I tried to control my temper, because being on this tournament team was a gift from God. ‘Ser Nerio is the son of Ser Niccolò Acciaioulo of Florence; also a Knight of the Holy Roman Empire,’ I said.
De Mézzières nodded, but was not looking at me.
‘Master Fiore is a donat of the Order of St John, a volunteer. His father is a knight of Cividale, but he has not yet been knighted.’ I raised my voice. ‘Have I offended, monsieur?’
De Mézzières took a deep breath.
But whatever he might have said, the king interrupted him. ‘The thin lad’s a squire? What is your name, sir?’
Fiore knelt, as the king was addressing him directly. ‘Fiore Furlano de Cividale d’Austria,’ he said.
The king exhaled. ‘Only knights may play in this great game, Messire Fiore.’ He looked at de Mézzières.
De Mézzières raised an eyebrow.
‘I must have twelve, or forfeit,’ the king said. ‘And I will not forfeit, if I have to arm a serving maid!’
Fiore raised his hands together in a position of prayer – or homage. ‘Try me, your Grace. I am a very good jouster.’
The king nodded. ‘The mêlée is not a joust. It is a vicious game played on horseback.’
Fiore kept his head bowed. ‘Your Grace, however it is played, I will be quite good at it.’
The king looked at me. He was smiling: an open smile, not a politic one, and his face seemed to glow like the sun. ‘Well, Messire Fiore, seeing as you are so very sure of yourself …’
Mézzières frowned. ‘You are determined to do this,’ he said.
The king nodded. ‘Am I the king, de Mézzières?’ he asked.
‘Your Grace knows that he is indeed king.’ De Mézzières still didn’t look my way.
‘Your sword, then.’ The king took de Mézzières’ sword – and knighted Fiore on the spot.