The courtier bowed. He wasn’t uncivil to the king, at least in form, but the tension was palpable.
The king backed his horse and waved the sword in his hand. ‘Visors open. On me, mes amis. Come – press close!’
The judges were all conferring together, and the Emperor’s team was forming for the contest. This was the first I had seen of the Emperor. He was in a fine armour, but not an ostentatious one – Rudolph von Hapsburg was much showier. The Emperor, Charles IV, was also King of Bohemia; a famous jouster and by all accounts an excellent king and lord. I couldn’t see his face, but knew him to be quite old – almost forty or so.
Hah! Younger than I am now.
But our king leaned in. ‘They want us to be afraid. The Emperor wants us to fail or withdraw or be disqualified.’
Mézzières looked pained.
The king gave a little shake of his head. ‘Each time I win, it is that much harder for that cautious windbag to stop his knights from following me on crusade.’
Don’t imagine I had anything to say. These were matters of high diplomacy, being acted out on a tournament field. Nerio and Fiore and I were the merest participants.
The king looked around. He glanced at the Emperor.
A judge raised his baton and shouted, ‘The knights will now swear the oath!’
The king shook his head. ‘Listen, the Emperor’s men will form close about him – a wedge, I suspect. They will stay together like the expert fighters they are. I say we will fight them like Turks: we will divide at the first onset, scatter, and come at the ends of the Emperor’s formation in threes. Do not abide! For their wedge will crush us if we allow it. Swing wide, stay off their front, and pick off the men on the ends. Remember, the only thing that counts is throwing a man to the ground, seizing his mount, and returning it to our pole. You may deliver as many blows to a man’s head as you like – it is worthless.
A herald was riding in our direction.
Well, I had seen a dozen of these fights. I’d watched one in London with Nan, a thousand years ago, or so it seemed.
The king looked right at me. ‘You three know each other – and we do not know you yet. Stay together. Don’t get taken. I’ll put enough Germans down to win the contest – don’t you three lose it for me.’
His other knights nodded, as if this wasn’t a piece of cocksure bravado, but a home truth. I glanced at de Mézzières. He looked away.
He did not like me.
Before the herald reached us, we trotted forward a few yards and formed a line. You can learn a great deal about a group of horsemen by how well they form and keep a line: by what horse frets, and what rider has to curb, or walk, or turn his horse. Right there, I saw that the Cypriotes were superb horsemen. And their horses were good.
Well, thanks to the Bishop of Geneva’s best efforts, my horse was good, too. He was my favourite colour, a pale gold with darker gold mane and tail. He wasn’t the largest horse I’ve ever had, but par dieu he was beautifully trained, and his best trick was that, at a weight change, he’d turn on his front legs, like my first great horse, Jack. He was also intelligent, for a horse.
Well, I called this one Jacques. He was like Jack, only French. Ha ha!
Fiore’s horse was a rich black, the biggest of the three, an odd contrast to Fiore’s shabby harness. Nerio’s horse was a deep, dark bay with black mane and tail, which went perfectly with his family’s green and gold arms. He had a caparison – God only knows why he brought it, but most of the Cypriote knights had them, too. His was an exercise in extravagance – a horse caparison embroidered in gold, with tiny gilt leaves attached everywhere. There was a motto running around the base, a line from Dante, I was told later. As it never stopped moving, I couldn’t read it.