‘I’d like to take the Emperor,’ he said. His eye twinkled.
On my other side, Fiore grinned. ‘That’s the most sensible thing you have ever said.’
I won’t say my fear dropped away. That would be a lie. But Fiore’s grin leaped to my face, and I laughed. ‘You two are the best companions a man could wish,’ I said, and I meant it. ‘Let’s take the Emperor!’
The judges came by, mounted now, and absolved us of our oaths. That actually mattered to Nerio. This meant that for the duration of the mêlée, Nerio did not have to feel any fealty to the Emperor. I had never seen this ceremony before – but I liked it, and I added it to the tournament at the Italian Wedding. Ah, we’ll reach that in time, messieurs. If not tonight, than another night.
And then the judges called Le Laisser. My heart pounded again. I knew all these formalities from watching tournaments in Smithfield; from hearing about them in romances and from knights, all my life, but now I was the one donning my helmet, and lacing it up.
The world closed in to be the width of the slit in my visor and the height of the air holes from my brow to my jaw. I was already sweating, and my sweat ran down the back of my arming doublet inside my mail and my backplate – right to the base of my saddle. Cold as sin.
I swished my tournament sword through the air a few times. It was very light – but stiff enough, I thought. I looked around for Marc-Antonio—
And there he was, the blessed man. Even as I spotted his cherubic face, he passed under the ribbon that held back the crowd with more grace than you’d have expected from such a portly lad, and deftly evaded a halberdier’s kick.
He ran at us.
Nerio’s horse didn’t shy. If you are a horseman, you know what I mean.
He ducked under Nerio’s horse’s head without getting bitten, and managed a bow to me. Really, he earned his right to be my squire and not some servant right there – it was a beautiful performance, and he had an audience. He handed me Emile’s favour.
I had my helmet and gauntlets on, so I couldn’t help, but he got it on my left shoulder, flashed a bow, and vanished back into the crowd before the three halberdiers could catch him.
The blank, cold stare of Nerio’s sugarloaf helm turned to regard me. ‘That was a pretty play,’ he said in Italian. ‘Now every woman in the crowd is watching you.’
And then there was nothing but the chief judge, and his white baton, held above his head.
All I could hear was my own hot breath inside my helmet. All I could see was the red lion on the Emperor’s banner, and the solid wedge of horsemen in plate armour sitting in front of it. My hands were shaking.
The baton dropped.
Sometimes, when I tell my tales – bah! – perhaps I embroider. But this … by the passion, friends, I remember that day in Poland as if it was happening today.
I just touched my spurs to Jacques, and he went forward. One of his many excellent qualities was his ability to accelerate, because he was trained to the joust, unlike almost every warhorse I’d ever had. So he went from the stand almost to the gallop in four or five paces, and that explosion off the line placed me a half-length in front of my companions.
I rode at a shallow angle to the left, where the crowd was. Fiore and Nerio followed me. We cantered, our horses throwing clods of earth – at least, I assume they did, because everyone else’s did.
Off to my right, the king was the first off the line, and he angled sharply to the right, all but riding away from the oncoming metal wave of German knights. All the Cypriotes went with their king like a flock of starlings, leaving the three of us alone on the left.