At any rate, he was without a doubt our side’s most magnificent knight after the king, and the crowd – especially the Poles, who did not particularly love the Emperor – began to cheer him and the king.
The judges waved their batons, and we all raised our voices and swore the oath in unison, as if we were reciting prayers in church.
‘Raise your right hand to the Saints!’ intoned my French courtier.
‘By my Faith! And on the promise of my body and my honour, I swear that I will strike none of this company in this tourney with the point of my sword, or below the belt or line of his fauld, nor will I attack by surprise, or an unarmed man! And if it should happen that a man’s helmet comes off, I swear I shall not touch him. If I knowing do otherwise, I will be banished from the tourney, I will lose my horse and my arms, and I swear this on the faith and promise of my body, and on my honour!’
You see, I can recite that oath to you, seventeen years on. I’ve said it many times, now, but it’s serious. And for me – for Fiore – the loss of our horse and arms would have been a catastrophe.
In truth, by the time I was done with the oath – my helmet off, my gauntlets still with Nerio’s squire – I had had a good look around. There were ten thousand people, as quiet as a crowd that size can be. There were two queens, an Emperor, several kings, and a crowd of aristocrats and courtiers as big as the parade of the guilds in London.
If I hadn’t had a horse between my knees, they’d have banged together like a tinker’s pots. I stood to lose my horse and arms and professional reputation in front of a crowd of ten thousand commoners and another thousand of the most powerful people in Christendom. Any failure would be reported for the rest of my life.
Nerio leaned over. ‘You look white, my friend, not Gold.’
I just shook my head. My breastplate was too tight and I couldn’t breathe.
Nerio laughed. ‘I’m used to this public performance,’ he said. ‘I forget that you are not. Listen; forget them. They aren’t even here. It’s just us.’ He pointed at the Emperor’s men, even then riding down the field to their flag on its pole – the great red lion of Charles IV. ‘And them.’
I managed a deeper breath.
‘Or you could just look at Fiore,’ Nerio said with a wicked smile.
Fiore beamed at me. ‘I’m a knight!’ he said.
De Mézzières came by, arranging the team. Our trio went at the left of the line – the position of least trust and confidence.
To be fair, I’d have done the same.
I heard the king – our king – laugh and say to one of his knights, ‘It’s nothing, mon ami. We can take them, even nine against twelve.’
That stiffened my spine. The king thought we were worthless. No, to be fair, he thought we were a liability and he was planning around us. He’d made that clear when he told us to simply avoid capture.
I bit my lips and looked around again, still really searching the crowd for Marc-Antonio. I suspected that my lady, par amour, would forgive me some Polish girls if I wore her favour in front of the Emperor – but that really only shows how little I know about ladies.
Then I looked at Nerio.
Nerio was a popinjay, a dandy, a courtier. He wrote poetry and danced. I’d never really seen him in a fight, and yet he had my total confidence. That was based on small things – his demeanour when his purse was lifted, the way he rode, the way he handled his sword. Now, as the imperial squires handed us all the tournament swords – rounded points, light and flexible – he met my eye and winked.