Lucky bastard.
By the time we reached the field that had been staked off for the tournament, there must have been ten thousand people in the crowd. The sun was high, and the king’s squires were agitated because the judges had already cried for the juges diseurs, the judges, to come forward.
We were late. And the Emperor, according to Nerio, was trying to disqualify us.
The Empress sat on a great throne in the central stand, a tiered confection like a Venetian cake made of canvas and wood, more like a great galleys of war than a tent. She sat thirty feet above the crowd, with all her ladies about her like the lilies of the field, and there was many a pretty face there. Beside the Empress sat the King of Poland in robes of gold and ermine. He looked like a church icon come to life.
And seeing them made me realise that I had left Emile’s favour back at our inn, folded in my clothes.
I was fully armed, and the judges were circulating among us, asking after men’s lineage and the dates of their knighting. The crowd was cheering like the roars of a victorious army – the roll of the Emperor’s team was being called, and one by one, the most famous Knights of the Empire were riding on to the field.
‘Marc-Antonio!’ I called.
He came with an ill grace. He had worked hard all morning and had scarce thanks, and if you don’t think servants like thanks, perhaps you should spend more time serving, eh?
‘Marc-Antonio, I have left something very important to me at our inn.’ I leaned over, even as one of the judges approached.
‘I’ll get one of the foreign gents to loan it to you, whatever it is,’ he said.
‘I would take it as a courtesy if you would ride back to our inn, open my clothes press, and fetch me the small square of blue silk—’
‘Now?’ he asked and rolled his eyes.
I thought of a snappish reply but bit my lip. ‘Marc-Antonio,’ I said, ‘I ask you to fetch me my lady’s favour.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘The tatty blue thing?’ he asked. Then he raised his hands in mock fear. ‘And you want me to help you?’ he asked with all the sarcasm of which a fifteen-year old Italian is capable.
The judge was watching me.
‘Yes,’ I said carefully. ‘I humbly request it.’
‘Hunh,’ Marc-Antonio said.
But he turned his horse and began to push through the press – not, I’ll note, with any particular vigour.
The judge spoke good French. ‘You are one of the king’s late additions?’ he asked. His tone was offensive and his manner so superior that he should have been a doorman in Avignon – or a cardinal. ‘Sir William Gold of England?’
I bowed. ‘I am Sir William Gold,’ I said.
‘And who knighted you, Sir William?’ he asked.
‘Hannekin Baumgarten,’ I said. ‘A knight of your Emperor.’
That staggered him. But he was determined, and that gave his game away.
‘Not my Emperor, sir, I serve the King of Poland. Can you prove this – this field knighting? Anyone might make such a claim.’ He was being a prick, anyone could see it. If a king puts a man on his tournament team, no one questions his birth or his standing. Or so it is in England and France, but the Germans have a ceremony and a rule for everything.
‘Sir, I am also a volunteer of the Order of St John, with my pass at my inn,’ I said.