Christian Cameron: The Ill-Made Knight

Kenneth MacDonald got to his feet. He, too, had an axe, and he raised it.

Heinrich rotated fully to face me. I’d cut away a finger and he bellowed like a bull, while MacDonald’s axe slammed into his chest. It didn’t cut through the heavy iron plates of his coat, but it must have broken ribs, and he sat down, falling back across his Prince.

A trumpet was sounding the recall.

I was breathing so hard I could hardly keep my point in line.

Heinrich bounced to his feet again, blood pouring from his left gauntlet.

I cut up from the boar’s tooth again, and took off the giant’s thumb. MacDonald passed behind me and cut at yet another man, probably saving my life, but that’s a melee. I was utterly focused on my giant.

He had killed Perkin.

He leaped forward off Rudolph von Hapsburg and I cut down, into his exposed thigh. He pushed through it and kept his feet a heartbeat, but the leg wouldn’t hold him, and I was reversing my sword, holding it with one hand on the hilt and the other at the point, as if it was a very short spear, or a shovel for digging.

As he tried to get his balance, I slammed it into his faceplate. The visor held.

The man fell back.

The Germans were retreating, but they were also just realizing that their lord was lying on the ground at my feet. Heinrich had fallen across him as he tried to rise, crushing him to the ground. He fell with his arms spread — he’d lost fingers on both hands, and there was blood coming from under his helmet.

I stepped on his right hand, pinning the axe hand to the ground. I could see his eyes. Not mad, or filled with hate.

Just blue.

I put the tip of my war sword against his throat, where the skin showed. He’d fallen with his head back, so his aventail didn’t quite cover his chin.

I won’t say the battle stopped, just that I could hear men screaming in Italian and German, but very few men moving and everyone watching me.

I put the slightest pressure on the pommel of my sword.

So he’d know that I was the better man.

‘Yield!’ I said. Like a knight.

‘ Ja! ’ he said.

They let us go from the barriers. For one terrifying moment, they thought I was going to kill their Prince, and when I accepted Heinrich’s surrender, Rudolph ‘graciously’ allowed us to retire.

That’s what knights do.

When they’re badly beaten.

I had to have help to get over the barricades. With 15,000 people watching me from the walls and from our lines, I could barely walk without limping, because my left leg-harness had slipped a fraction and every step hurt.

I forced myself to walk like a gentleman, with all the time in the world. I had to get my visor up to spit blood — my mouth was full of it and my white coat was covered.

Baumgarten’s knights were cheering like heroes. They’d covered the barricade behind us, and many of them had fought, so no discredit to them. They walked back with us, slapping us on our backplates and calling things, which Fiore, who was all but glowing, refused to translate.

‘That was. .’ he said. He said it twice.

Baumgarten himself came forward, which seemed odd, since we were retreating. We’d made our point. In fact, we’d scared the piss out of Florence. Juan, Milady and Grice were apparently able to touch the gate before we retired.

The archers were yelling, ‘George and England.’

Baumgarten headed straight for me. His armour sparkled, and he wore the gold belt of a Knight of the Empire. He looked like a king.

He opened his visor.

A few paces from me, he stopped and handed his squire the baton he carried.

‘William Gold!’ he roared, so that they could hear him in the squares of Florence.

I stopped in front of him, so utterly exhausted that I had lost the power of speech.

Sir John came up — he was all but running — and men-at-arms crowded in.

‘William Gold,’ Buamgarten said again. ‘Kneel!’

Kneel?

Sweet saviour of man, I might never get up.

But I knelt.

Edward appeared from the crowd and began to fumble with my aventail. ‘Oh my God!’ he said. ‘My God, sir!’

He got it over my head. There was a lot of blood in it from my mouth wound.

Baumgarten turned to Sir John. ‘Do you wish to do this?’ he said.

Sir John shook his head. ‘If you do it here, in bowshot of the walls, no one will ever be able to question the making.’

Sir Hannekin Baumgarten drew his sword. ‘William Gold — birth enobles, but nothing enobles like a life of arms. A deed such as I just witnessed-’

‘Guildsmen coming. Winding their crossbows,’ muttered a squire.

Sam Bibbo, I’m told, loosed a shaft then and there. I didn’t see it, but men who did say it flew 300 paces and frightened the wits out of a trio of Florentine guildsmen. Or killed all three, if you believe some.

The sword smacked down on my right shoulder, a little too damned hard. ‘I dub thee knight,’ Baumgarten said.

‘By St Nicholas! What was it all for?’ cursed my lady Janet as we rode south.

The days after my knighting were not pleasant. I had a fever from my mouth wound, and it wouldn’t heal. I got it stitched twice.

If I were telling you a set of stories, monsieur, I’d tell you some pleasant fiction: that Florence sent out emissaries to Sir John, and he drove a hard bargain and settled an honourable peace.

That sounds well, does it not?

But what Florence actually did while I lay in my tent and moaned, was to pay a number of men, including the Imperial Knight who’s buffet had just enobled me in front of 20,000 onlookers. Florence paid them enormous bribes, and our army, victorious in the field, vanished like alpine mist under a Tuscan sun. The Germans left first, but the money went far — even into the White Company.

In a week, those of us who didn’t sell out were retreating across the Florentine contada . Hawkwood was sanguine. I still don’t know if he received money, or not. You must know he has a sovereign price — a fine reputation — but he loved money.

Any road, we retreated on Pisa. And Pisa, who had nearly bankrupted themselves to buy us, was none too happy. Neither were we happy. The men who’d been bought had ridden south — Andrew Belmont, who was angry over my elevation; Sterz himself, probably smarting that Pisa had chosen Hawkwood instead of him, and a dozen other officers. Belmont’s little company actually changed sides to serve Florence.

Just north of Pisa, we made a camp — a walled camp covered by the Arno River. Hawkwood stayed in command, and began to buy a new army.

Across the river, Florentine agents competed with ours to buy every available lance. And Sir Walter Leslie, from France, no less, arrived to compete as well. He was bidding for the pope, or so I understood. For a crusade.

On our second night in the new camp, we threw a party. We had horse races and a military dance — a hundred of us danced in armour, in full sight of our adversaries. To show we were still the White Company. To thumb our noses at the men who had taken money to change sides.

I came back from the dancing tired, but feeling better than I had in a week, to find Fra Peter was having a cup of wine with my lady. She smiled at me — truly smiled. She was alight with happiness.

Fra Peter was wearing his scarlet surcoat, the uniform of his order. He stood up as I approached.

‘William?’ he said.

I grinned. ‘Sir William, to you,’ I said.

He threw his arms around me and crushed me. I thought he might collapse my breastplate. Then he held me at arms length. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘It sounds like a marvellous feat of arms.’ He looked at me. ‘You don’t seem surprised to see me.’

I shrugged and grinned like a fool. Praise from Fra Peter was praise indeed. ‘Leslie’s recruiting for a crusade,’ I said. ‘Or so I hear. So I expected you.’