A Perfect Knight. Anne Herries

Alayne,’ the Queen said. ‘They are ready to begin.’

      The heralds had begun to blow a fanfare before announcing the names of the knights who had entered the lists. Then a great cheer went up as the people shouted for their favourites. Mounted on great chargers, the heavy horses snorting, their breath making clouds on the morning air, the knights began to parade before the courtiers. Each rode along the line of ladies and gentlemen, bringing his destrier to a halt before the ladies and bowing both to the Queen of the day and Queen Eleanor. Each knight tipped his lance in salute as he paraded and confirmed his willingness for the contest.

      Some of the knights were wearing favours tied to their arms, which had been given by the ladies they admired. A few of the knights looked hopefully at Alayne, but she merely smiled. She would show favour to none, even though her heart did a strange flip when Sir Ralph de Banewulf tipped his lance to her. She noticed that he wore no favours, and that his colours of black and silver were more impressive than most. He was a proud knight, his stern features giving no sign of his own feelings about this contest.

      ‘I shall pray for Sir Ralph to win,’ Marguerite whispered as he rode away. ‘But it is a real challenge this time, for they say that he is not battle hardened and will not last the course.’

      ‘I pray that he may not be hurt,’ Alayne said and discovered that the palms of her hands were warm and damp for some reason. Why should it matter to her what happened to this knight?

      ‘I believe he may surprise us all,’ the Queen said, her eyes bright with anticipation. The English knight had added some spice to the tourney.

      ‘What will happen now?’ Alayne asked, gripping her hands tightly together so that they would not tremble and reveal her inner tension.

      Queen Eleanor explained that there were different forms that a tourney could take. Sometimes the knights rode into the mêlée, meeting opponents at random, unhorsing those they could, fighting on foot if they were unhorsed for as long as they could.

      ‘Any who are still on their feet at the end retain their honour and their armour,’ Eleanor said. ‘However, the vanquished are obliged to give it up to the victors.’

      ‘Let us pray that is all they lose,’ Alayne said in a low voice that only those closest to her could hear.

      She knew that sometimes those unhorsed fell, never to rise again, dying of their wounds, and carried off by faithful squires and pages. She thought that she would find it unbearable should the English knight lose not only his armour but also his life.

      This day, however, the knights were to meet in single combat. To be unhorsed meant the loser must retire from the lists. Quite often a knight would be satisfied if he remained unhorsed and did not enter again, for it was often a way of settling personal quarrels, but the victors could all ride again if they wished until the last challenger was vanquished and the victor remained. The stewards of the day were responsible for matching the first pairs and they announced the names of the knights who would ride against each other in the first contest. Alayne strained to hear as the pairings were announced.

      ‘Sir Renaldo de Bracey to meet Sir Jonquil de Fontainbleau,’ announced the herald. ‘Lord Malmont to meet Sir Henry…’

      ‘Oh, poor Sir Jonquil,’ Marguerite whispered, but Alayne was intent on the herald and hardly heard her. She listened carefully as the names were read out, her heart missing a beat when it was announced that the English knight would ride for Baron de Froissart against Sir William Renard.

      ‘Is Sir William skilled in the joust?’ Alayne whispered to Marguerite. Her nails had curled into the palms of her hands and she felt quite sick with apprehension. She was relieved when her friend gave a little shake of her head. Until this moment Alayne had not thought it mattered who won the contest, but now quite suddenly it was very important that Sir Ralph should be the victor.

      ‘I think it should be an easy contest for Sir Ralph,’ Marguerite whispered and Alayne breathed again.

      All the knights had retired to wait until their contest was called. The first pair rode at each other furiously, the thud of their chargers’ heavy hooves and the noise of lances striking against shields making hearts beat faster. Then there was a gasp as one of the knights was unseated and only a ragged cheer for the victor.

      ‘Oh, poor Sir Jonquil,’ Marguerite cried as he went down from the first thrust of de Bracey’s lance. ‘I fear that he is better at singing his poems than jousting.’

      ‘I do hope he is not badly wounded.’ Alayne watched anxiously, for Sir Jonquil was a gentle knight and one of her favourites. ‘No, he is on his feet.’ She watched as the vanquished knight tottered off the field with the assistance of his squire and page to the cheers of the crowd: Sir Jonquil was popular, the man who had defeated him was not liked. ‘I fear he will be feeling mighty sore by nightfall.’

      ‘I dare say his vanity is as much bruised as his body,’ Marguerite said and laughed. She was clearly enjoying the contest, as were the other ladies who watched and cheered their favourites. ‘To be vanquished so soon is a humiliating experience for any knight.’

      ‘He should not have entered the lists.’

      ‘I believe he wanted to impress a lady.’

      ‘Poor Sir Jonquil,’ Alayne said. ‘I hope she will not scorn him for his failure.’

      ‘Do you not know?’ Marguerite’s brows arched. ‘Sir Jonquil is one of your most devoted admirers. His poems and songs are all for you, and the looks he sends in your direction can leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that he is devoted to you.’

      ‘No, no,’ Alayne denied, her cheeks heated, but she was prevented from saying more by the herald’s fanfare.

      The next contest was more strongly fought, the knights riding against each other twice before one was sent flying from the saddle. He did not rise himself immediately and was carried off the field by his squire and two young pages.

      ‘Do you think he is badly hurt?’ Alayne asked anxiously.

      ‘I believe he suffered a glancing wound to his side,’ Marguerite said, ‘but he was probably winded by the fall. His armour would have protected him from the knight’s lance.’

      All the knights wore a suit of chain mail beneath their tunics and surcotes, and they had a small, round, metal heaume beneath a similar covering of mail that protected their head and necks.

      Five more contests took place before the one that Alayne longed and yet feared to watch. Several knights were carried from the field, but the word was that none were seriously hurt, and Alayne relaxed a little, but then it was time for Sir Ralph to ride against his opponent.

      Alayne took a deep breath, her palms wet and sticky again. She wanted to close her eyes, to shut out the sight that she dreaded, yet found that she could not remove them from the English knight. She was drawn to him. His tunic was white with a black rampant lion emblazoned on the chest, his shield black and silver; it bore the same coat of arms, but with a small bear at the tip.

      ‘Why is the emblem on his shield different to the arms on his pennant and tunic?’ she whispered to Marguerite.

      ‘The bear is his own personal emblem,’ Marguerite replied and leaned forward to call encouragement to Sir Ralph. ‘It is the mark of a man who has shown great bravery in battle and granted only to a few.’

      Alayne knew that the English knight was about to commence his contest, but could not call out in the way that Marguerite had, for her throat was tight with fear.

      ‘God be with you, sir,’ she whispered, her heart catching as the two knights rode at one another. Both lances struck, but one knight remained seated while the other went flying to the ground. Alayne let out a sigh as she saw that de Banewulf was the victor of this contest. Fortunately, the other knight seemed merely winded and after a moment was helped away by his friends.

      ‘It seems that Sir Ralph is more skilled than was thought,’ Marguerite