Gifts of the Queen (25 page)

He suddenly took my hands, turned them over and kissed the palms. 'Do not be afraid,
ma mie.
I cannot bear for you to be afraid. No one shall harm us today. Today, we shall not fail you.'

He asked no other question, gave no excuse, no explanation more, nor did I have the chance to reply to his words. He strode out of the tent, already shouting his orders. Knights, squires, and groomsmen came running at his command. I had seen them run like that often enough. And, strange as it may seem, a sort of resignation came over me. I knew the nature of the attack on us and the danger entailed. I had fought Raoul to make him change and he had won. I had done my best to keep him safe and I had failed. And yet, suddenly, it was true; I was no longer afraid. He deserved to face his enemies as they should be faced. Let him go forth nobly and with honor high. That day, I think I realised what it meant to be the wife of a fighting man, a countess of an old and honorable line. Daughter of a soldier I was, wife to another, mother of a future one. I accepted fate. That day, for the first time, I understood what honor meant to him. And I felt, I cannot explain it otherwise, that his own resolution and courage had become part of me.

Two of the younger maids, steadier than the rest, I trusted to throw these favors with me; I marshalled the other women, marched them in good order to the spectator stands. I had them tear the red and gold flags of Sieux into strips, red for blood and gold for victory, that at Walter's whisper, we should tie our ribbons on men's arms as they rode by in the parade. And victory hung singing in the air . . .

A mêlée is what is sounds like, a mix, a mingling, when two sides meets as in real battle. The combatants pick sides, charge as in real battle, fight fiercely as in real battle, meet and thrust and charge again until, when only a few are left still horsed, they fight hand-to-hand with sword and shield. They do not seek to kill each other as in real battle (although men are killed) but today death was expected. When I saw those two distant lines, looming dark on the horizon, I knew at last I had found those menacing figures of my fears. Between the lines of horsemen the meadows were still mist encased, a sign of heat; the grass stretched green that, before the day was out, would be churned to mud. De Boissert led one side. Lord Raoul the other, eight men apiece, and all the other lords of Normandy, so attended, to fight against. Not all perhaps, for each time I rose at Walter's nod, I pushed my women up to shower our red and gold ribbons on as many men as we could, that Raoul could pick them out as friends. And when my lord passed, already helmeted so that his face was hid, I thought I heard that laughter in his voice to set his men at ease. 'Decked out, by God,' Raoul said, 'a Yuletide log.' And he dipped his lance in salute, then cantered on.

Beside me, Sir Jean squirmed, 'Against the laws of chivalry,' he cried, trying to prevent my standing up. 'Favors are given only in the joust.'

And what do you do against the laws of God, I thought, you, your daughter and that fair Isobelle? I let him whine who was scarce able to give the order to charge; and I outfaced the Lady Isobelle for a front seat, sat and watched that no man should say of me I turned aside today.

Charge the two sides did, in two great waves, meeting in the center with a shock that made the ground sway. Twice they met, parted, wheeled back. After each passage, men were hurtled into the air, horses ran on riderless, squires rushed to pull the fallen out of the way—dead men, if this had been a real fight; unhorsed knights do not live long. At the third charge, we heard the cry. Down they swooped, great dark birds, the sun full out to blind them, spears leveled like shafts of light. Loud the cry rang out, 'To your left, lord Count, look left,' above the din. There were many lords still on the field, many knights, and only one I think who was a count. I steeled myself to show no sign, so it has been said that without a look I watched Count Raoul ride to his death. But so did murderers sit beside me and smile while their hired assassin struck their coward's blow. I tell you it is no easy thing to watch for death. Down they swooped, those black uneasy lines; they met and broke; the dust clouds eddied like spray thrown against a cliff. Out of the mêlée , two figures emerged, one wearing de Vergay blue, the other that well-known black and white. The de Vergay man rode toward the stands where we sat, almost at his leisure, and as he approached you could see why. He had been wounded in the thigh and his saddle had slipped. Raoul's men had kept good watch for Raoul's assassin and had put their mark on him to brand him. The other man was de Boissert himself, and as we looked, two men in red and gold came hurtling after both. I knew each of the Sieux riders well. One, praise God, was Raoul, bareheaded, his helmet flung off, his black horse snorting as it came, although for a moment I had thought it riderless, the saddle empty, for Raoul had bent over the side to avoid the spearthrust that would have killed him. He rode fast after de Boissert, the faster when de Boissert urged his horse away off the field. But now, from various points behind the stands, from the tree clumps, other men of Sieux rode forth, both squires and knights, some to control the crowds, some circling round to hem the other contestants in. All save that other Sieux man, who rode helter-skelter as only Matt could ride, against Raoul's would-be murderer.

Beside me, Walter sucked in his cheeks, 'Slow down, slow down,’ I heard him beg. On the other side. Sir Jean was on his feet.

'Squires on the field,' he cried, 'the order was not given to out swords; sound the retreat.' The order, if such it was, was lost amid shouts of alarm and outrage. Almost beneath us, by the barricade, de Vergay's man stood his ground.

'Back, young master,' we heard him shout. He beat at Matt with the flat of his sword. 'I do not fight with unknighted boys.' That rasping voice I had heard before, at Saint Purnace. And so had Matt.

His helmet gone too, his face twisted with rage, Matt reined up with difficulty. 'Traitor,' he snarled, 'to strike my lord in the back. You owe me an arm. You did not mind to attack me once. I'll hack your spurs off to unknight you so we be quits. Stand you and fight.'

He kicked his horse forward; it bounded on. He rode at the de Vergay man as if at a tilt. The older man had but to wait and thrust through as Matt plunged past. Yet even wounded, Matt still came on, blood pouring from his gashed side. He forced his horse forward again until another blow sent him crashing against the fence. But before the de Vergay man could escape, two more of our men rammed him and his horse and pinned them down. I closed my eyes. A murderer pays a brutal fee. And so does loyalty.

On the distant edge of the field, Ralph de Boissert still looked for escape, but as he fled we could tell now how Raoul out-circled him, forcing de Boissert to turn and run another way. You saw then what skill Raoul and the black horse had, to pivot and swerve, almost without thought, doing what Matt had tried to do, compelling the enemy to his will. So that, at last, unable to turn or run, de Boissert was forced to shelter beneath his long shield, which now shook under those relentless blows.

They want to see if I can fight.
Proudly, arrogantly. Lord Raoul played de Boissert, although the black horse had lost half of its bridle and Raoul guided it more by voice than rein. And when Raoul bent, you saw the rip along the left side of his mail coat where a spear, thrown from behind, had glanced away. Soon all men watched them. At each blow, the crowd raised up a cheer. De Boissert's horse began to slip, the ground churned by its own hooves, buckling under that incessant onslaught. Its front legs gave way, it slid to its knees, tipping its rider gently off, feet first. Raoul leaned over and, with his sword point, snapped the other man's helmet up and slashed at the straps. The helmet fell and clattered in the dirt.

'Yield to me,' Raoul cried, 'lawful prisoners, you and your men.'

De Boissert could not speak; his chest heaved as if with sobs. His gray hair was matted with sweat and his blank eye rolled desperately. But when he did not reply, I saw how Raoul's face tightened and his grasp on his sword hilt leveled it.

De Boissert turned to Raoul in suppressed rage. 'Why should I yield?' he began, but Raoul interrupted him.

'Your hired man has paid his price, now shall you pay mine.'

De Boissert cast a look around the field. Everywhere was confusion. Some of those in the plot, seeing their leader disarmed, had cried a halt, and had already thrown down their shields. Others, bewildered, had drawn aside, armed and ready, but most of these were marked with red and gold and had no part or agreement in de Boissert's schemes. A few fought on, but the Sieux knights were a match for them, striking indiscriminately. Even as he looked, de Boissert saw one of Sir Jean's sons unhorsed; another man's sword flew wide as he was crumpled beneath a slashing blow. Beside us in the stands, Sir Jean, still on his feet, danced with indecision, mouthed advice, too far away for it to be heard; but I could hear: 'Say nothing, do not yield.' To no avail. Before de Boissert could speak again, Raoul had reached over and yanked him hard; the surcoat tore but the sword belt held. Half-swung, half-dragged, he was forced to run as Raoul turned now toward the stands. He too stopped almost beside us and with another mighty heave cast de Boissert across the barricade. De Vergay licked his lips, all the women cowered away. How they screamed and moaned, even the Lady Isobelle, who so far had watched unmoved.

'By the laws of tourney . . Sir Jean began.

Raoul caught him next by the slack of his furred gown and held him as one might hold a rabbit or vermin to skin.

'Now hear me both,' Raoul said, a trickle of blood still coursing down his face. I could see where his armor had been hacked from the rear, a coward's blow indeed. 'I have been guest in your hall, toasted you, broken bread. Twice now have you plotted death for me and mine. What else shall you deserve of me? What you have begun, you shall end. Bid your carrion lay down arms, or I shall kill them and you.'

Sir Jean knew a truth when it faced him. He dissolved like wax, tore his gray hair, and begged for life. His wife beside him fell upon her knees, the other women started, horror-struck. Excuses fell from de Vergay like rain: Ralph de Boissert had acted on his own; he, Sir Jean, knew nothing of these plots; he was but a victim of them like the rest of us. De Boissert, struggling to his feet, smote Sir Jean across the mouth and took up a different tale: that de Vergay was a fool, to listen to his daughter's spite; that his wife was worse (who recovering, added her pleas for 
pitié;
that Sir Jean had planned it all.

'Not so,' Sir Jean wept and wrung his hands. 'We both do what we are told. We act for Geoffrey Plantagenet. And de Boissert has the ear of the queen . . .'

At those words de Boissert tried to strike Sir Jean again, berating him for a fool.

'But do you yield?' Raoul's voice cut like steel.

'Yield, yield,' screamed Sir Jean, his face tallow white. There were the last words I ever heard him speak. Above our heads was a whistling sound, the sound most men dread. It made us all start back; arrows, shot from crossbows, their use forbidden by church decree, never found on tourney field. Heavy, vicious, they fell about us in the stands. One glanced, by God's great grace, off Lord Raoul's back where he had slung his shield; one thrummed in the wood between Sir Jean's legs, who fell down in fright; the third took de Boissert full in the throat.

I suppose we ladies screamed out. I suppose I closed my eyes and prayed. I suppose Isobelle de Boissert suffered, who this while, I grant her that, had scarce showed any emotion at all. I remember Raoul's hand to steady me; Raoul's voice, hoarse with weariness, bidding me be of good cheer. I remember asking if he were hurt. I remember his order to Walter to lead us away. I remember Matt's face, drained white; he still lived, but only just, and could not yet be moved. I suppose I heard the murmurs of the crowd, the women's wailing; already the death watch begun. I suppose I saw the grins, half hid, among the peasant folk—de Boissert was not a master well loved. I suppose I saw how even our pages and boys had taken men-at-arms by surprise, and disarmed them as they stood and gaped. I remember too the hot sun, the smell of blood, the black birds that swooped and cawed against the sky. But I recall nothing of the fast ride back, Walter at my side as if, like all our other ladies clinging close, I was not able to manage a horse.
Men will die.
But not my noble lord, thanks be to God, not our men. But that is how other men died, and that was how the tourney at Boissert Field came to an end; that was the sport they planned. I suppose men still talk of it. But it was not quite the end. Lord Raoul's vengeance has become a legend in its time, that men should use it as byword, as much to say, So it was at Boissert Field, or As they did at Boissert. You may have heard of it; many have been the songs, the jests, and many women who wept for it. Since I had returned by then to Sieux, I can only repeat what I was told. But since it was Matt who told me, being there, I let him tell it in his own words.

He mended slowly. Matt, but he lived. And when he could creep into the summer sun, he would often sit for hours with my son Robert in his lap and speak of the mêlée slowly, with pain at times, for the sword that pierced his side had caught at something deep inside his chest so that ever after, although he could sometimes ride or hunt, he suffered from cruel shortness of breath. It is his story then, although to tell the truth he was in such state, I doubt if he remembered much about it at first hand, but his, nevertheless, since it was the first and last time that he ever fought. Well, knighted he was, he won his spurs to good cause; and sometimes when I see his merry eyes repeated in his sons, I think it was better so, God's fortune, that he should live to wed and beget children to come after him.

'Well,' he used to say, 'the conspirators, both on the field and off, were not slow to surrender after that. For Lord Raoul had posted us at places where we could control them easiest, if and when an attack was made on him. Those who had no part, those you had marked with red and gold, we let them go. They galloped off, the devil at their heels, save one or two more sober lords who stayed to help. The rest we stripped down to their shirts. We heaped their helmets, their shields, their swords—Christ's bones, what stacks of stuff—and rounded them up at rope's end.' He laughed and wheezed. 'We might have made a better use of it. But, "Nay," says my lord. "They thought to make a mock of us, play us along like fish on line; deal out life and death as if they played at dice. Tie up their horses, head to tail, we'll lead them home. Load up the gear. We've better use for rope than hanging them." '