Belle's Song (17 page)

“We’re not finished yet,” Walter said.

“Yes! Yes! It’s finished,” I cried. “Please, Walter.”

But nobody took any notice of me. Sir Jean, still
fully armed, then lumbered over. “Will you publicly crave mercy, Sir Knight? Will you go down on your knees in front of the stand? If you do that, we’ll forget this feud.”

“Impossible,” Walter said.

“What else can we do?” Sir Knight wrung his hands in some despair. “We’ve offended God by swapping the pilgrim staff for the lance when we’re just two days short of Canterbury. Without God’s favor we can never win. Oh, why of all people did we have to bump into you, Sir Jean?”

Sir Jean snorted. “If you’re fearful, sir, just say so.”

“I’m fearful of God,” Sir Knight said, trying to regain some dignity, “as any wise man is.”

Sir Jean turned to Walter. “Well, Sir Squire,” he said. “Are you less fearful than your father? Mount up! His horse is still fresh enough.”

“Walter will do as I do,” said Sir Knight at once. “As his father and lord, I forbid him to fight. I forbid it utterly. He’s a pilgrim too.”

Walter went red, then white, then red again as Sir Jean’s ardor cooled to contempt. “You English …” The insult hung unfinished.

“I’ll fight,” came a voice from outside. Luke pushed through.

My hand flew to my mouth. This was too much.

“No,” I heard Walter say loudly. “He’s not a knight,
Sir Jean, and he doesn’t approve of tournaments like this.” Luke tried to interrupt. “You said so,” Walter said to him directly. “Everybody heard.”

“I don’t deny it. But no Frenchman should go away disappointed,” Luke said, his eyes glinting dangerously.

The Master quickly intervened. “Walter’s right, Luke. You can’t fight.” He turned to Sir Jean. “The boy’s not even a squire: he’s my scribe,” he said.

“And who might you be?”

“Geoffrey Chaucer.”

“Master Chaucer?” Sir Jean started. “Well, I never. One of the few Englishmen I admire. I write poetry myself. We might engage in some wordplay later.” The atmosphere lightened a little. Sir Jean looked from Sir Knight to Walter and back to Sir Knight. “Very well. I’ll go and disarm, but I warn you, I consider our business unfinished. We’ll cross lances again, and when we do I’ll show no mercy.” He found Luke in his way. “Move, boy,” he said. Luke didn’t move.

“Don’t, Luke,” said Walter quietly. “It’s over.”

“Is it?” Luke said, and making two hard fists, he punched Sir Jean’s breastplate as though it were a boxer’s bag.

Sir Jean lurched backward.

“Come on,” Luke said, and a bright red spot appeared in each cheek. “You seemed very keen just a moment ago.”

“You’re a scribe.”

“Then the joust shouldn’t be very long.”

“Don’t be a fool. You’ve nothing to do with this blood feud.”

“I’ve knocked on your shield.”

“Luke,” remonstrated the Master, “what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” said Luke slowly, but with clear intent, “that I don’t care about any blood feud, but if I win, I want the whole of Sir Jean’s ransom.”

At this, Sir Jean began to laugh, and from behind the Master, the summoner laughed too. Luke glared at him, which made the summoner laugh louder.

Sir Jean waited for the laughter to die down. “And what would you do with my ransom, boy?”

“I’d give it to somebody who needs it to care for her father.”

I almost stopped breathing. “Oh, Luke,” I said. “I don’t want the ransom money. I don’t want your charity.”

“It wouldn’t be charity,” Luke said, “it would be a miracle.”

I couldn’t allow it. “You have to refuse, Sir Jean. It wouldn’t be fair at all. As you say, Luke has nothing to do with any feud. He’s had no training, and anyway, nobody can joust in eyeglasses.”

“It’s true.” Walter piled in. “Eyeglasses are no good under a helmet. They’d steam up. He’d be fighting in a fog.”

But Sir Jean was regarding Luke with some speculation. “A half-blind scribe fighting for a miracle,” he remarked. “It’s almost better than a blood feud.”

“Do you accept my challenge?” Luke looked at nobody but Sir Jean.

“You’ll be hurt.”

“Perhaps you’ll be hurt.”

Sir Jean spread his legs like oak stumps. “You verge on the insolent.”

“Master Chaucer!” I beseeched. “Stop this!”

“I accept,” said Sir Jean quickly, before the Master had time to intervene again.

And that was it. There was no going back. Suddenly Sir Jean was hurrying to his horse and Luke was asking Sir Knight for his armor. Sir Knight flapped his arms vaguely up and down. “That was silly, very silly. Do you know at all what to do? I mean, it takes years, but perhaps we could start with how to hold—”

“I’ve been watching,” Luke said shortly. “I know enough.”

It took ten minutes to get Luke ready, and with all the padding, the armor was clearly much heavier than he expected. But when he moved toward me with that ungainly roll, I was not even tempted to laugh. In what odd ways our dreams come true. “I want to carry your favor,” he said. “It’ll be the one and only time. I’ll carry the pendant you wear.” My reply was a choke. He
didn’t hear it because he had already thrust me aside and plucked my pendant from the summoner’s neck. I should have known he would have noticed. Walter gasped. Luke himself was wordless as he returned the pendant to me and I, equally wordlessly, fastened it under his collar. Luke nodded, then climbed up the mounting ladder and onto Granada.

By the time the two horses reached the open ground, the crowd, deprived of any blood, had grown impatient, and when they saw Luke’s spectacles, some of the ladies in the stand sniggered. Luke’s cheeks turned crimson although he kept his eyes firmly ahead. At least the pilgrims and townsfolk applauded. An underdog is always popular. When the townsfolk began to whistle, Granada threatened to bolt. I bargained furiously. “If I see three swallows—no, three birds of any sort—if I see three purple shoes, if I hear three people say Luke’s name …” I saw no birds or shoes and heard nothing.

Only when Luke reached his place at the far end of the arena did he cram the helmet over his head. It was obvious at once that the arms of his glasses were too thick for comfort, for Sir Knight’s helmet was quite close fitting. Nevertheless, he grasped a lance. When the cuff of his gauntlet snagged on the end, the ladies laughed openly, and Luke had no choice but to allow Walter to hold Granada until the lance was safely under his arm. He was hardly prepared when the trumpet
sounded for the contest to begin. Sir Jean was waiting, visor closed.

Luke pulled down his own visor, pushed it back up, then pulled it down again. Walter let go of Granada. The horse, not used to Luke, spun in reverse, then bolted forward so that Luke had to hike up his lance when already going full tilt. To underline his superiority and confidence, Sir Jean was deliberately slower off the mark and asked his horse only for an idle canter. As they approached each other, Luke was struggling to keep the lance straight, but a lucky strike had him catch Sir Jean’s shoulder and jolt the opposing lance away. There were a few splinters. The crowd booed. I could sense Luke’s relief. He had survived at least one encounter. He pulled Granada around and galloped in the vague direction of his mark.

As Walter feared, in the tin oven of his helmet, Luke’s spectacles clouded up and he became hopelessly disoriented. In the end, Walter had to run and lead Granada back to the proper place. There was general laughter now, even from the pilgrims. I couldn’t bear it.

Perhaps because of the laughter, once back at the mark Luke wrenched off the helmet and threw it away. Grasping a new lance, he raised it to show that he was ready. “You’ve forgotten your helmet,” shouted the steward. Luke raised his lance again. Sir Jean frowned. “Does a knight have to wear a helmet?” he called.

The steward consulted his superior. “It’s up to each man what he wears or doesn’t wear.” Luke shook his head at Walter, who was clearly begging him to put the helmet back on, and raised the lance a third time. Sir Jean shrugged. “So be it.”

“God in Heaven,” Master Chaucer expostulated. “He can’t really be going to joust without a helmet.” In the stand, the ladies were suddenly silent.

In seconds, both horses were galloping. This time, Sir Jean treated Luke with more respect, setting his lance early and low. In response, remembering jousts he’d seen earlier, Luke set his later and higher, leaving Sir Jean no time to alter his grip. They clashed. The heads of the lances shattered but both riders stayed in the saddle. The ladies murmured and a few began to chant Luke’s name. This made Sir Jean angry. He should have floored this scribe by now. Though he had no doubt he’d win, it was beginning to look like a proper contest, and mindful that he’d been deprived of a bloody end to the blood feud, he kicked his horse unnecessarily hard.

Allowed to gallop freely, Granada was enjoying himself, and so, indisputably, was Luke. He dumped the broken lance and raised a jubilant arm. This pleased one lady, who called out, “Well done, Helmetless Knight!” Almost at once, as sometimes happens, the name began to rumble through the whole stand and across the jousting field. Now that Luke’s spectacles
were his only protection, far from being a focus of hilarity, they’d become a badge of courage. “A helmetless English scribe’s going to beat a fully armed French knight!” one of the pilgrims declared. There was cheering from the daisy-strewn bank.

At this, Sir Jean clearly decided enough was enough. For this third challenge, he set his horse on a direct collision course, hoping to terrify. Luke kept his nerve and so did Granada. Two more lances were shattered. “God and his saints!” the Master kept exclaiming, elated and horrified.

The fourth challenge saw Sir Jean at his most determined. He picked up a heavier lance. Luke turned to Walter. Walter shook his head. It was clear to us that he was trying to persuade Luke to call a truce. It was also clear that Luke was refusing. He snatched up the only lance left in Sir Knight’s armory and spurred Granada on.

Everything seemed to slow: the bounce of Luke’s hair, the thrust of Granada’s haunches, the lances veering across both horses’ withers. I could hear cataclysmic music in my head. I could smell steel and sweat. I could sense Sir Jean suddenly truly nervous of his ransom money. I knew then that this would be the last challenge. Sir Jean bent low and yelling, “
Dieu, Charles de France, et mon droit!”
scored a hammer blow square in the middle of Luke’s chest.

In armor the weight of a coffin, Luke hit the ground
like a stone, his unprotected head and Granada’s hooves muddled together. I stuffed my knuckles into my mouth as the ladies shrieked and Granada galloped off, reins trailing. Luke didn’t get up. Before I was even aware of standing, I was racing down the bank, but by the time I got to Luke, Walter was already crouched over him.

Walter said nothing, not a word, but sometimes you don’t need words. It was how he held Luke, the tender curve of his elbow, the way he felt for a pulse, the delicacy of his forefinger as he wiped the blood from Luke’s lip, his complete disregard for where we were or who was looking. It was only then that I understood something I should have understood all along.

I dropped to my knees and removed Luke’s spectacles, miraculously unbroken. “Walter,” I whispered. I touched his arm. Two pools of misery were raised to me. It was the deepest exchange I’d ever had with anybody. At that moment, Walter’s soul was quite naked, and a naked soul is far more naked than a naked body. How could I have thought it easy being him? How could I have reckoned his life enviably uncomplicated? How could I, who prided myself on observing so much, have observed so little? Of course Walter didn’t want to kiss me. Of course he didn’t want to see Luke holding me. How could he, when he himself was in love with Luke? I knew now from where the melancholy song about the bird had sprung.

I had no idea how to react. Love like Walter’s was beyond my experience. Was it wrong? Certainly, the priests thought so and warned of hellish punishments. I wondered what my father would say—or Walter’s father for that matter, or, indeed, Luke himself. But in the middle of that jousting field, when I didn’t know whether Luke was living or dead, I had to decide for myself. I was sure about three things: first, Walter was my friend; second, I never wanted to lose him; and third, honest love, which was the only love a man like Walter could ever feel, could never be wrong. I brushed his cheek. “Love’s a surprise, isn’t it,” I said. It wasn’t profound. It didn’t solve anything. But Walter breathed out. This whole exchange had taken less than a second.

A gurgle from Luke’s throat. “Don’t speak,” I begged.

“If he dies, I’ll never forgive myself.” Walter was holding Luke as tight as he dared. “I should have fought. How I hate tournaments.” He was desolate.

“He’s not going to die,” I declared with great energy. “God wouldn’t dare. Now put his head on my lap. People are coming.”

“I don’t care,” Walter said.

“You must care,” I said.

“Belle—”