The Emperor was seated on a throne of wood and ivory. While the cheering went on, he said, ‘I understand that you were knighted by Hannekin Baumgarten?’
‘At Florence,’ I said, in something of a daze.
He touched my shoulder with a sword. ‘Let no man ever doubt your knighting,’ he said. His smile may have been a bit grim, but he was a good king, a good lord, and he played his role. He laid the sword he’d just used across my hands.
It was a miracle of red and gold that sword, and it had a belt and scabbard to match. It was a king’s sword – I couldn’t tear my eyes off it, and my right hand ached to grasp the hilt, but even a bumpkin like me knew that was lese majesty of the worst kind.
It was one of the finest swords I have ever owned. Eventually I’ll tell you how I came to lose it, but for the moment, I can only assure you that I would show it to you gentleman if I still had it. A Tartar has it now, I’m fairly certain.
There is probably a sermon in what came next; there I was, with a magnificent new sword across my hands, burning to look at it, to draw it, to make it sing through the air; but, by the iron-clad laws of courtoise, I could do none of these things, but instead I stood patiently, accepting the plaudits of my peers, the good-natured insults of my friends, and the downcast eyes, lingering glances, and soft fingers of the maids of court, who gathered around me like moths to a summer candle.
Did I say patiently? I lie. I had Emile’s favour pinned to my shoulder like a talisman, and I was acutely conscious that I had not spent the hour before the fight on my knees, or even considering God’s existence. Instead, I had lain – well, swum – with a bathhouse girl.
Certes, messieurs, don’t trouble yourselves on my account. It did not worry me unduly, except that I felt no urge to any of the fine ladies who surrounded me. And I was unprepared for the open friendliness of the knights. They praised me lavishly.
May I be frank? I was tempted to cry. It was so much the opposite of everything I had experienced with the Prince of Wales.
At some point, my Bohemian knight came and offered his hand and we embraced. He began a somewhat formulaic praise of my martial virtues, and my feelings must have shown on my face, because he smiled and paused.
‘You dropped me like the butcher fells the ox,’ I said. ‘Why aren’t you the best knight?’
He laughed. ‘You and your friends won the game for your king, and no mistake. But no false pride. May I say a true thing? If you fight as long as I have fought, you will be the best man in a dozen tournaments, and then they’ll never give you the prize. This one will have it because he is a king’s son, and that one will have it because they don’t like you, and a third will have it because the marshals didn’t see the brilliant blow you threw.’
I laughed. I was new to the tournament, and I could already see the justice of his remarks.
‘And then, when the judges see you as better, it is even harder to win. And men fight you differently; they do extravagant things to score on you, or they turn into hedgehogs and turtles to avoid taking blows, and they make it impossible for you to win. Yes?’
I nodded. Nerio nodded. Even Fiore nodded.
Sir Herman shrugged. ‘So, today, at a great tourney, you took the prize. I, who am a great knight, say you deserve it, but I also say – take it! The next time you are the best, Lady Fortuna may not be so kind.’
I sat with him at dinner. His lady was a beauty – her name was Kunka, a Bohemian name, and she had long dark hair and great beauty of manners as well as of figure, making small motions with her hands as she talked, that looked like dance. Indeed, the Bohemians were some of the most elegant men and women I’ve ever seen, easily the rivals of the Italians or the French for courtly manners and sumptuous clothes, beautiful ladies and magnificent horses – and fighting. I would not like to face an army of Bohemians in the field.