Christian Cameron: The Ill-Made Knight

‘I have that honour. Henri, my lord, at your service. We had word of your coming.’

Sir William’s retinue filled the courtyard. Horses moved and grunted, but the men on their backs were silent and no one made a move to dismount. The servants had moved to take the horses, but hesitated at the armed silence.

‘I pray you, be welcome here,’ the innkeeper said.

Sir William looked back over his troop, his left fist on the rump of his horse. ‘Gentlemen!’ he called out. ‘It seems we’ve fallen soft. Eat and drink your fill. This is a good house, and we’ll do nothing to change its name, eh? Am I understood, gentles?’

There was a chorus of grunts and steel-clad nods. A horse farted, and men smiled.

Sir William sighed and threw an armoured leg over his horse’s broad back. He pressed his breastplate against the red leather of his war saddle and slid neatly to the ground, his golden spurs chiming like the bell for Communion. He handed his war horse’s reins to his page and turned to his squire.

‘There are few places more like heaven on earth for a soldier,’ he said, ‘than a good inn.’

John de Blake allowed himself a nod of agreement.

‘By nightfall, one of our archers will be in Ghent, and another will be so drunk he’ll sell his bow and a third will try and force some girl and get a knife in his gizzard.’ Sir William gave his half-smile.

From the expression on his face, de Blake didn’t think he was supposed to answer that.

‘Other guests?’ Sir William asked of the master of the inn.

‘My lord? I have two gentlemen en route to the convocation in Paris. Monsieur Jean Froissart, and Monsieur Geoffrey Chaucer. On the young King’s business.’

At the name Chaucer, the half-smile appeared.

Innkeepers do not rise in their profession without the ability to read faces. ‘You know Master Chaucer, my lord?’

Sir William Gold’s dark-green eyes looked off into the middle distance. ‘Since we were boys,’ he said. ‘Does he know I am here?’

The innkeeper bowed.

‘Well, then.’ Sir William nodded. ‘Let’s get these men out of the rain, shall we, good master?’

Great lords do not, generally, sit in the common room of inns — even inns that cater to princes. Good inns have rooms and rooms and yet more rooms — they are, in effect, palaces for rent, where lords can hold court, order food and have the use of servants without bringing their own.

Vespers rang, and men went to hear Mass. There was a fine new church across the tiny square from the White Swan, and every man in Gold’s retinue attended. They stood in four disciplined rows and heard the service in English Latin, which made some of his Italians squirm.

After the service, they filled the common room and wine flowed like blood on a stricken battlefield. The near roar of their conversation rose around them to fill the place. Sir William broke with convention and took a small table with his squire and raised a cup to his retinue.

Before the lights were lit, there were dice and cards on most tables.

A voice — pitched a little too harshly, a little too loud, like the voice of a hectoring wife in a farce — came from the stairs: ‘That will be Gold’s little army. If you want to hear the latest from Italy, stop preening and come down!’

Half a smile from Sir William.

He had time to finish his wine. A pretty woman — the only serving woman in the room — appeared with a flagon.

Sir William brushed the greying red hair from his forehead and smiled at her.

Her effort to return his smile was marred by obvious fear. She curtsied. ‘This wine, my lord?’ she asked.

He put a hand on her arm. ‘Ma petite — no one here will touch you. Breathe easy. We’re not fiends from hell, only thirsty Englishmen and a handful of Italians. How many years have you?’

She curtsied again. ‘Sixteen, my lord.’ Despite the hand on her arm, or perhaps because of it, she was as tense as a hunting dog with a scent.

‘And your father asked you to wait on me?’ Sir William asked.

She curtsied a third time.

‘By St John! That is hospitable,’ Sir William said, and his eyes sparkled in a way that made the young woman blush. ‘Listen, ma petite. Serve the wine and don’t linger at table, and no one can reproach you — or grab you. Yes? I served a table or two. A hand reaches for you, you move through it and pretend nothing happened, yes?’

She nodded. ‘This is what my father says.’

‘Wise man. Just so. On your way, ma petite.’ Sir William’s odd green eyes met hers before she could look down.

Later, she told a friend it was like looking into the eyes of a wolf.

The knight got to his feet as she moved away and bowed. ‘Ah, Master Chaucer, the sele of the day to you.’ He offered a hand. ‘You are a long way from London.’

Chaucer had a narrow face and a curling beard that made him look like the statues of Arabs in the cathedrals, or like a sprite or elf, to the old wives. He took the knight’s hand and they exchanged a kiss of peace — carefully.

‘The king’s business,’ Chaucer said. His answering smile could have meant anything.

Sir William nodded. ‘Of course. As always, eh?’ He turned to the other man — a tall, blond man, almost gangly in his height, with golden hair. ‘You are a Hainaulter, unless I miss my guess, monsieur.’

Chaucer indicated his companion. ‘Monsieur de Froissart.’

Sir William offered his hand and Froissart bowed deeply. ‘One is. . deeply moved to meet so famous a knight.’

Sir William shrugged. ‘Oh, as to that,’ he said.

‘You must know he’s writing a book of all the great deeds of arms of our time,’ Chaucer said.

Froissart bowed again. ‘Master Chaucer is too kind. One makes every attempt to chronicle the valour, the prowess. The. . chivalry.’

Sir William’s green eyes strayed to Chaucer’s. ‘Not your sort of book at all,’ he said.

Chaucer’s eyes were locked on Sir William’s. ‘No,’ he said. ‘If I wrote such a chronicle, it would not be about valour. Or prowess.’

The two men looked at each other for too long. Long enough for John de Blake to move, worried there might be violence; for Aemilie, the innkeeper’s daughter, dressed in her very best clothes, to flatten herself against the plastered wall, and for Monsieur de Froissart to worry that he had said something out of place. He looked back and forth between the two men.

‘We could sit,’ Sir William said. The room had fallen quiet, but with these words, games of cards and dice sprang back into action and conversations resumed.

‘How have you kept, Geoffrey? When did we last meet? Milan?’ Sir William asked.

‘The wedding of Prince Lionel,’ Chaucer said. ‘No thanks to you.’

Sir William laughed. ‘You have me all wrong, Master Chaucer. I was not against you. The French were against us both.’

Chaucer frowned. ‘Perhaps.’ He collected himself. ‘What takes you to England?’ he asked.

Sir William smiled, eyes lidded. ‘The King’s business,’ he said.

Chaucer threw back his head and laughed. ‘Damn me, I had that coming. Very well, William. I promised Monsieur Froissart that you were the man to tell him about Italy.’

Froissart leaned forward like an eager dog. ‘My lord will understand that one collects tales of arms. Deeds of arms — battles, wars, tournaments. At the court of the young King, one hears many tales of Crecy and Poitiers and the wars in France, but one hears little of Italy. That is,’ — he hurried on — ‘that is, one hears a great deal of rumour, but one has never had the chance to bespeak a famous knight who has served-’ he paused. ‘My lord.’

Sir William was laughing softly. ‘Well, I love to talk as I love a pretty face,’ he said.