‘Those were beautiful sword bows,’ I said. ‘You put me down – such a light sword!’
‘My father says you can defeat any armour if you hit it repeatedly in the same place,’ he said. ‘Look, the judges are gathering us.’ He gave me a lopsided grin. ‘I wish I’d taken your horse. But I could not – your friends were on me as soon as I got you.’ He nodded. ‘We should fight again. I am Heřman z Hradce. In Latin, you might say Hermanni de Novadomo.’
I bowed, head throbbing. ‘William Gold,’ I said.
We rode to our respective teams – cheered, I’ll add, by the crowd. I’ll note here that I’ve seen this many times – the crowd wants to see men behave like knights, to exchange words after the blows, and behave with dignity and good cheer. Surliness is the very antithesis of chivalry.
There were five judges, and they sent us to our inns and pavilions. I managed to ride through the streets to the king’s inn without tumbling off, and I waved and smiled as best I could, but my ears were ringing and I had a sharp pain in my head. By the time we dismounted, I had a lump in my scalp where the sword blows had dented my helmet that was soft and mushy and blood oozed from it each time I touched it, which was too often. And another on my forehead where I’d fallen face-first to the ground. I’ll skip ahead in this catalogue of minor injuries and say that my neck was stiff for a week because apparently my bassinet’s beak had dug into the soft earth when I fell and twisted my neck.
Ah, the glories of the tournament!
That night we entered the presence of the Emperor himself, who received each of us and gave us gifts. If he was bad-tempered from being unhorsed, I never saw a sign of it, and his behaviour was … Imperial. He complimented Fiore, praising his skill, and he gave Nerio his hand. I received a warm smile and a beautiful golden cross, worked in enamel – this is it, here. I still wear it. I’ve pawned it a dozen times but always had it back, eh?
He said something very quietly to Nerio, who flushed and bowed and came back to us holding a beautiful gold and silver cup with a ruby in the base. Nerio whispered to Fiore and they laughed together.
‘What’s that?’ I asked. I wasn’t exactly stung – they were clearly the men of the hour – but suddenly they were whispering like old friends. I was used to arbitrating their quarrels, not to being left out of their confidences.
‘We’re both Knights of the Empire. Technically, we’re his men. He said that it was a pleasure to see that the King’s best knights were – ahem – his own.’ Nerio glanced around.
Duke Rudolf was whispering in the Emperor’s ear.
The Emperor – that’s Charles IV, of recent and glorious memory – was at the time about fifty years old, handsome, dark haired, and very strong. He was a cautious man, and he dressed elaborately and his court kept to complicated ceremonials, even at a tournament, so there was no easy approach to him, and as I have said, he was no proponent of crusade.
Rudolf bowed, the Emperor smiled, and Duke Rudolf swept down the room in his beautiful scarlet clothes. He paused near me and I bowed, knee to the floor.
‘That’s twice you’ve knocked me down, monsieur,’ he said.
‘Your Grace does me too much honour,’ I said in my best Gascon-French.
He inclined his head. ‘I’ve just done you a favour, I think,’ he said. ‘So that you will know I bear you no ill feeling. But listen, Sir Gold – take good care of your King of Jerusalem. There are those here who would do him harm.’ He looked at a cluster of men I did not know, gentlemen all, in the older French style and long boots. They were the only men there in boots.
I guessed who they were. I guessed that they were a party of knights on errantry who’d lost their horses in a town square near Nuremberg.