B. Alexander Howerton (11 page)

The day of the Mayday tournament had arrived.  D’Arenson
rode into the jousting field of Carcassonne, head held high in his iron helmet,
the banners and sashes displaying his colors of red and yellow flowing in the
breeze behind him.  He held his lance high as his charger pranced,
demonstrating his prowess and valor.  His shield was emblazoned with his
family’s crest, the family he intended to honor in today’s jousting.  He was
favored to win the competition, and he appeared every inch the champion.  He
was followed by his squire Marcel, who led his palfrey, loaded with necessary
equipment for the competition.

D’Arenson halted in front of his tent that Marcel and his
other pages had erected the day before, dismounted, and rested on a stool as
Marcel bustled about, making preparations.  D’Arenson removed his helmet,
revealing his bright red hair that betrayed a strain of Basque blood coursing
through his veins.  He would fight to the death, however, any man who accused
him of being less than completely loyal to the Duke of Carcassonne and the
French crown.

The stakes of today’s tournament were especially high.  The
victor was to be rewarded by the Duke with the extreme honor of leading a
company of valiant Carcassonne warriors against the filthy and reviled English,
who were currently attempting to reassert their claim to the French crown, and
held under their control a fair part of the realm of France.  This year, 1348,
was the year the boastful French knights were determined to turn back the
invaders, and D’Arenson intended to be in the vanguard of that struggle.

As D’Arenson mused on these thoughts, he felt a light breeze
on his left shoulder.  He turned to see strands of long, straight, raven hair
laying over his shoulder.  He followed the strands to their source, and
perceived the beautiful visage of a young maiden.

“Claudette!  What are you doing here?  If anyone sees you,
especially the Duchess, we are ruined!”

“She is donning her gown for the attendance of the joust. 
She has other handmaidens to help her with that.  She will not miss me for a
few minutes.  I had to see you.”

D’Arenson took her hands. “Oh, sweet Claudette.  I love you
so very much.  I am yours forever.  I wish I could just ride off into the woods
with you.  But duty calls.  I am the Duke’s man.  Our love must remain a
tryst.  You must go now.  I will find you later, after the excitement of the
tournament has ended.”

Claudette Pressed his hands to her breast, smiling
joyously.  “Your profession of love is all I need to carry on, my love.  I will
cherish you always.  I will go now, but I wish to give you a token of my
affection.”  She handed him a white lace glove.  “Carry this into battle with
you, and win the joust for me.”

D’Arenson kissed the maiden’s hands, then the glove.  “I
will do as you ask.  I will carry it under my breastplate, next to my heart. 
Now go!  Before anyone sees you.”

Claudette smiled warmly at him, batted her eyelashes, then
disappeared into the forest surrounding the jousting field.

The final preparations for the tournament were made.  Marcel
assisted D’Arenson in donning his armor, then helped him mount his charger. 
The contestants rode onto the field of honor and presented themselves before
the Duke and Duchess of Carcassonne, who were seated under the canopy of the
ornately-decorated place of honor, raised above the west side of the field.  In
the distance, the towering red spires of the fortified town of Carcassonne rose
majestically above them.

The combatants rode slowly toward them, lances outstretched
in salute.  As they approached, the Duchess stood, smiling upon them and waving
an ornately-woven lace handkerchief for all to see.  She coyly surveyed the
assembled knights, waving the handkerchief toward them as if she meant to
bestow it upon one of them, but pulled it back at the last second.  She finally
halted in front of D’Arenson’s lance, smiled graciously, and draped it over the
tip.  The assembled crowd broke into thunderous applause.

It was no surprise that the Duchess chose D’Arenson as her
favorite.  It was a poorly-kept secret that she fancied him, incessantly
inviting him to balls at the palace and to promenades in the gardens.  The duke
turned a blind eye, because he was deeply involved in developing strategy to
deal with the invading English, and did not have time for courtly
pleasantries.  He was actually relieved that D’Arenson, his most trusted
vassal, had taken her off his hands.

It was during these interludes that D’Arenson had noticed
Claudette, one of the Duchess’ most intimate handmaidens.  He performed what he
considered his duty in entertaining the Duchess, but he harbored no romantic
feelings toward her.  Claudette, on the other hand, caused his heart to flutter
every time she drew near.  Her bashfulness around him, her poor attempts to
conceal her blushes from him, informed him she shared the same feelings.  But
they had not been able to find time alone, with the Duchess demanding so much
attention from D’Arenson and sending Claudette scurrying on all types of errands. 
She did this, more often that not, to be left alone with D’Arenson, for whom
she harbored a deep affection.  She showered gifts and attention on him, hoping
to win his heart.  But none of her coquettish wiles were enough to cause him to
betray his oath of loyalty to the Duke.  Besides, he desired Claudette.

Two days earlier, during the opening ball of the tournament,
D’Arenson and Claudette were able to escape the revelry for a brief moment and
find an obscure rampart on the walls of the town.  Under the moonlight, with
the broad expanse of forest and river stretching away as far as could be seen,
D’Arenson professed his love for her.  Claudette nearly swooned.  She could
hardly have imagined that a knight would fall for a lowly handmaiden.  But the
passion of his kiss assured her he was speaking truthfully, and she returned it
with all her soul.

D’Arenson wryly reflected on these memories as he held the
Duchess’ handkerchief aloft and rode slowly around the circuit of the field,
basking in the accolades of the crowd.  He returned to his position in front of
the Duchess and bowed as low as his saddle and armor would permit.  In a
booming voice, he called out, “I am you humble servant, my Duchess, and will
fight for your honor to vanquish all foes.”  The throng cheered even more
wildly as D’Arenson tucked the handkerchief into the gauntlet that would hold
his lance, and the combatants rode to their places for the upcoming contest.

Many lances were broken that day, many shields shattered. 
D’Arenson bested them all, contest after contest, until the only contestants
left were he and D’Aubreville Le Noir.  His armor was as black as night from
head to foot, calculated to strike fear into his adversaries.  D’Arenson
respected his skill, but was sure it was no match for his own.  For the last
joust of the day, the one that would determine the victor and the Duke’s
general, D’Arenson and D’Aubreville faced each other on either side of the long
beam that separated the two sides of the jousting field.  D’Arenson’s charger
stamped his feet, in anticipation of the impending charge, and D’Arenson
perceived that D’Aubreville’s mount did likewise.

The field marshal whipped the commencing pennant down with a
sharp motion, simultaneously yelling “Avance!”  The two opponents’ steeds
rushed forward, and the knights lowered their lances.  With a resounding crack,
lances met shields.  D’Arenson was knocked far back into his saddle, so that he
practically lay on his horse’s rump.  When he finally managed to right himself,
he gained control of his mount and turned to witness the result of the
conflict.  D’Aubreville lay face down in the mud, his shield and lance lying in
tatters around him.  D’Arenson had won!  The accolades of the crowd were
deafening.

As D’Aubreville’s squires helped him off the field,
D’Arenson urged his charger to prance in a victory circuit, then halted in
front of the Duke and Duchess.  He removed his helmet and genuflected to them
both.  He called out in a proud voice, “I thank almighty God for my victory
today, and humbly offer it to you, my liege and lady, in symbol of my undying
affection and loyalty toward your grace.”

The crowd applauded uproariously as the Duke and Duchess
smiled down on him.  Then slowly the Duchess’ face shifted to consternation. 
“What,” she asked imperiously, pointing to D’Arenson’s chest,  “is that?”

He looked down at his breastplate, and saw out of the corner
of his eye something white sticking out near his neck.  Feigning ignorance, he
nonchalantly said, “It is nothing, milady.  Just a piece of my undergarment
jutting out.”

The duchess was not convinced.  “Show it to me.”

A hush fell over the crowd as D’Arenson reached up and
pulled forth the item and passed it to the Duchess’ outstretched hand.

The Duchess examined it, and surprise registered on her face
as she exclaimed, “This is one of my handmaiden’s gloves!  I recognize it, for
I gave it her Christmas last.  What are you doing in possession of it?”

She read the full story in D’Arenson’s silence.  Fury tore
across her features as she screamed, “Leave!  Leave now, and never return!” 
Enraged, she turned to the Duke.  “He has betrayed me, and you!  I wish you to
banish him from your realm!”

The Duke stood, his face stern, the weight of authority
seeming to slow his ascent.  He glowered briefly at the Duchess before he
spoke, his countenance reflecting his extreme displeasure of being forced into
such a position, but knowing there was no other recourse.  “I cannot ignore or
pardon such a flagrant violation of our trust and faith in you.  You are
banished hence, never to return.”  His visage then broke into melancholy as he
whispered, “I regret it has come to this.  You were like a son to me.”

He stared sternly at D’Arenson, who knew there could be no
reprieve.  Without a word he firmly set his jaw and spurred his charger into
motion, riding toward the exit of the jousting ring to his left.  All eyes were
upon him in the stony silence.  As he approached the exit, the throng there
parted to make way for him.  As they separated, one person was left standing in
his path.  It was Claudette, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her face
etched with trepidation.

When he came even with her, he stopped and looked down.  She
gazed up at him imploringly.  The tableau held for an instant.  The crowd leaned
forward in anticipation of they knew not what.  Then with a sudden motion
D’Arenson reached down, offering his arm.  A broad smile brightened Claudette’s
face as a sob of joy escaped her.  She reached up and took hold of his strong
arm with both her hands.  He pulled, and she leapt up and swung onto the horse,
behind him.  As they rode off, the buzz of the gossip of the crowd burst out
around the jousting ring.  But the riders did not hear any of it.  The court
was already behind them.

D’Arenson rode to his lands, and beyond, to the thick woods
that no farmer had yet tamed.  He sliced in on a little-known path and, after a
couple more hours of riding, arrived at a small cabin his father used to bring
him to for hunting, many years ago.  It was in a state of disrepair, but still
habitable.

He turned to Claudette, to whom he had not spoken a word
during the whole journey.  “This is where we shall live, love, grow old, and
die.”  He helped her down from the charger, then dismounted himself.  He turned
and held Claudette at arm’s length.  “It seems we both get our wish.  Let us
make the best of it.”  He hugged her as well as he could in his armor, and they
kissed.

Several months passed, and D’Arenson, whose Christian name
was Emil, and Claudette managed rather well.  Emil had repaired the cottage,
and Claudette had transformed it into a warm home.  They were content with each
other and their lot, even though one or both of them would yearn from time to
time for the lost ways of courtly life.  They were as happy as could be
expected.  After a time, Claudette’s belly even began to swell with expectant
new life.

One morning, as Emil was in the forest chopping wood, he
heard a creaking and groaning of wood.  He stood erect, wiped the sweat from
his brow, and peered down the obscure wheel-rutted path through the woods.  A
rickety cart came into view, barely pulled along by an old sorrel.  A mass of
rags sat atop the cart, lashing the poor horse every once in a while.  The cart
pulled even to Emil, and stopped.  The ragpile spoke.

“Care for anything from an old peddler?”  The raspy voice
was followed by a couple of hoarse coughs.

Emil chuckled, finally distinguishing a face in all the
grime and dirt.  “we live simply, and are content.  I thank you nevertheless
for your kind offer.”

“ ‘We,’ eh?” returned the croaking voice.  “You must have a
little lady to please.  A trinket for her, perhaps?”  The peddler turned and
fumbled around for a bit in the jumbled contents of the cart, then extracted a
bundle.  “Gaze on this!”  he unwrapped it, and what remained was a quite
remarkable stone, colorless yet full of color.  A chance ray of sunlight burst
through the dense foliage and struck the stone.  This sent a rainbow-hued beam
directly into Emil’s eyes.  He was dazzled.

“Yes, that is rather fascinating.  I do believe I would like
to acquire it.  I have some old jousting armor I have no more use for.  Would
that be a suitable trade?”

“Quite.  Quite.”  The old peddler cackled with delight,
which transformed into a spasmodic coughing fit.

“You have been on the road too long, old one.  Come, rest in
our cabin before you continue your journey.”

“You are kind to a stranger, sir.  I accept.”

Emil helped the old bag of rags get his cart to the cabin,
then helped him dismount and led him inside.  Claudette was busy stirring the
contents of a great iron cauldron hanging over the fire.