Christian Cameron: The Ill-Made Knight

Malle —Easy to confuse with maille, malle is a word found in Chaucer and other sources for a leather bag worn across the back of a horse’s saddle — possibly like a round-ended portmanteau, as we see these for hundreds of years in English art. Any person travelling, be he or she pilgrim or soldier or monk, needed a way to carry clothing and other necessities. Like a piece of luggage, for horse travel.

Partisan— A spear or light glaive, for thrusting but with the ability to cut.

Pater Noster —A set of beads, often with a tassle at one end and a cross at the other — much like a modern rosary, but straight rather than in a circle.

Pauldron or Spaulder— Shoulder armour.

Prickers— Outriders and scouts.

Rondel Dagger— A dagger designed with flat, round plates of iron or brass (rondels) as the guard and the pommel, so that, when used by a man wearing a gauntlet, the rondels close the space around the fingers and make the hand invulnerable. By the late 14 thcentury, it was not just a murderous weapon for prying a knight out of plate armour, it was a status symbol — perhaps because it is such a very useless knife for anything like cutting string or eating …

Sabatons —The ‘steel shoes’ worn by a man-at-arms in full harness, or full armour. They were articulated, something like a lobster tail, and allowed a full range of foot movement. They are also very light, as no fighter would expect a heavy, aimed blow at his feet. They also helped a knight avoid foot injury in a close press of mounted melee — merely from other horses and other mounted men crushing against him.

Shift— A woman’s innermost layer, like a tight-fitting linen shirt at least down to the knees, worn under the kirtle. Women had support garments, like bras, as well.

Tow— The second stage of turning flax into linen, tow is a fibrous, dry mass that can be used in most of the ways we now use paper towels, rags and toilet paper. Biodegradable, as well.

Yeoman —A prosperous countryman. Yeoman families had the wealth to make their sons knights or squires in some cases, but most yeoman’s sons served as archers, and their prosperity and leisure time to practice gave rise to the dreaded English archery. Only a modestly well-to-do family could afford a six-foot yew bow, forty or so cloth yard shafts with steel heads, as well as a haubergeon, a sword, helmet and perhaps even a couple of horses; all required for military service.

Calais, June, 1381

The sound of iron-shod hooves rang on the cobbles of the gatehouse road like the sound of weapons hitting armour. As the cavalcade passed into the gatehouse with the arms of England in painted and gilded stone, the soldiers on the gate stood still, and the gate captain bowed deeply as the lord passed at the head of his retinue. He was dressed entirely in red and black; his badge, a spur rowel, repeated endlessly on his velvet gown, his swordbelt, his cloak and his horse’s magnificent red, black and gold barding, all of which was cloth covered, though it could not conceal the small fortune in plate armour he wore. By his side rode his squire, equally resplendent in red, black and gold, carrying his knight’s helmet and lance. Behind them rode a dozen professional men-at-arms, in full harness, their new Italian steel armour gleaming despite a cold, rainy day on the outskirts of Bruges. Behind the men-at-arms rode another dozen English archers who wore almost as much armour as the men-at-arms, and behind them rode another dozen pages. Then came four wagons, and behind the wagons rode servants, also armed. Every man in the column wore the red and black; every man had a gold spur rowel badge on his cloak.

The knight of the spur rowels returned the salute of the gate captain, raising a small wooden baton to his forehead and bowing slightly in the saddle. He smiled, which in return coaxed a smile from the scarred face of the gate captain.

He reined in. ‘John,’ he said. ‘The captain will want to see our letters of passage and our passes.’

His squire handed the helmet and lance to a page and reached into his belt pouch.

The gate captain bowed. ‘My lord. All of us know the arms of Sir William Gold.’ He accepted the papers. ‘The Duke of Burgundy informed us you were en route.’

Sir William Gold made an odd facial movement — half a smile, with only the left side of his mouth moving. ‘How kind of him,’ he said. ‘I’d be wary of forty armed men on my roads, too.’ He leaned down from the saddle. ‘You’re English.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ the man said.

‘I know you. Giles something. Something Giles.’ Sir William took the hood hat from his head and shook the rain off it.

The man’s smile became broader. ‘Anselm Saint-Gilles, my lord.’

‘You were with — damn it, I’m an old man, Saint-Gilles — Brignais. You were at Brignais, with-’

‘Nay, my lord, but I wish I had been. I was Sir Robert Knolly’s man.’ He was obviously pleased to have been recognized. ‘I was an archer, then.’

‘And now a man-at-arms — well done, Saint-Gilles.’ Sir William reached down and offered his hand to clasp, and the gate captain took it.

‘Tell an old war-horse where the best wine is? I don’t know Calais, and I’ve a four-day wait for a ship to England.’ Sir William’s eyes seemed to twinkle.

‘My lord, the White Swan is not the largest inn, but it has the most courteous keeper, the best wine, and it is’ — the man raised his eyebrows expressively — ‘convenient to the baths.’ He bowed again and handed up the leather roll that contained their passports and letters from a dozen kings and independent lords and communes . The Count of Savoy, the Duke of Milan, the Republic of Florence and the Duke of Burgundy were all represented. ‘Please enjoy Calais, my lord,’ he ventured.

‘White Swan — that’s a badge I’ll know. Come and drink a cup of wine with me, Master Saint-Gilles.’ Sir William saluted again with his baton and, without any outward sign, his horse stepped off into the great city.

Behind him, the disciplined men who’d waited silently in the rain while he chatted wiped the rain from their helmets and pressed their mounts into motion.

When they were clear of the gate, the squire leaned forward. ‘My lord?’

‘Speak, John.’

‘We have a letter from the Duke of Lancaster sending us to the White Swan, my lord.’ His tone said, you already knew where we were going. John de Blake was a well-born Englishman of seventeen — an age at which he tried to know everything but understood all too little.

‘It never hurts to ask,’ Sir William said with his odd half-smile. ‘Sometimes, you learn something, John.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ John said.

Forty men do not just dismount and hand over their horses at an inn. Even an inn that is six tall buildings of whitewashed stone surrounding a courtyard that wouldn’t disgrace a great lord’s palace. The courtyard featured a horse fountain and a small garden behind a low wall, with a wrought-iron gate that was gilded and painted. The inn’s doors — twelve of them — were painted a beautiful heraldic blue, and the windows on the courtyard had their frames whitewashed so carefully they seemed to sparkle in the rain, while their glass — very expensive glass too — gave the impression of well-set jewels.

The master of the inn came out into the yard as soon as his gate opened. He bowed, and a swarm of servants fell on his troop like an ambush of friendship.

‘My lord,’ he said in Flemish-English.

Sir William bowed courteously in his saddle. ‘You are the master of the White Swan?’