The Nonexistent Knight (5 page)

So he went on fighting side by side with the periwinkle knight. Every time the enemy after a useless new assault found themselves backing, one took on the other’s adversary with a rapid exchange, so confusing them with their different techniques. Fighting side by side with a companion is far nicer than fighting alone. Each encourages the other, and the feeling of having an enemy and that of having a friend fuse in similar warmth.

Raimbaut often shouted incitement to the other; but the warrior was silent The young man realised that in battle one must save one’s breath and was also silent, though rather sorry not to hear his comrade’s voice.

The tussle grew fiercer. Then the periwinkle knight unhorsed his Moor; the latter escaped on foot into the undergrowth. The other rushed at Raimbaut but in the clash broke his sword; afraid of falling prisoner he too turned his horse and fled.

“Thanks, brother,” exclaimed Raimbaut to his helper, opening his visor. “You’ve saved my life!” And he held out his hand. “My name is Raimbaut, son of the Marquis of Roussillon, squire.”

The periwinkle knight did not reply, nor did he give his own name or shake Raimbaut’s extended right hand or uncover his face. The youth flushed. “Why don’t you answer me?” And at that moment what should the other do but turn his horse and gallop off! “Hey, knight even if I do owe you my life, I consider this a mortal insult!” yelled Raimbaut, but the periwinkle knight was already far away.

Gratitude to his unknown helper, mute community born in battle, anger at that unexpected rebuff, curiosity at that mystery, excitement temporarily appeased by victory, and immediately on the lookout for other objectives—that was Raimbaut. He spurred his horse after the periwinkle warrior. “You’ll pay for this insult, whoever you are!”

He spurred and spurred but his horse did not budge. He pulled its bit, and its snout dropped. He shook himself in the saddle. The horse gave a quiver as if made of wood. Then he dismounted, raised its iron mask and saw its white eye; it was dead. A blow from a Moor’s sword had penetrated the chinks of the caparisons and pierced the heart. The animal would have crashed to the ground long before had not the iron pieces around his flank and legs kept it rigid, as if rooted to the spot. Sorrow for a valorous charger killed on its feet after serving him faithfully conquered Raimbaut’s rage a moment. He threw his arms around the neck of the horse that was standing there like a statue, and kissed it on its cold snout Then he shook himself, dried his tears and ran off on foot.

But where could he go? He found himself running over vaguely marked paths, beside a stream deep in woods, with no more sign of battle around him. All trace of the unknown warrior had vanished. Raimbaut meandered on, resigned now to losing him, but still thinking, “I’ll find him again, though it’s at the very end of the world!”

What tormented him most now, after that blazing morning, was thirst. As he climbed down towards the surface of the stream to drink he heard branches moving. Tied to a nut tree by a loose bridle rein was a horse cropping at the grass, relieved of its biggest pieces of armor, which were lying nearby. There was no doubt; it was the horse of the unknown warrior, and the knight could not be very far away! Raimbaut flung himself among the reeds to find him.

He reached the river bank, put his head between the leaves; there was the warrior. Head and torso, like a crab’s, were still enclosed in armor and in the impenetrable helmet, but the knee and hip pieces had been taken off, and the warrior was naked from the waist downwards and running barefoot over rocks in the stream.

Raimbaut could not believe his eyes. For the naked flesh was a woman’s: a smooth gold-flecked belly, round rosy hips, long straight girl’s legs. This half of a girl (the crab half now had an even more inhuman and expressionless aspect than ever) was turning round and looking for a suitable spot, set one foot on one side and one foot on the other side of a trickle of water, bent knees slightly, leant on the ground, arms covered with iron bands, pushed the head forward and the behind back and began quietly and proudly to pee. She was a woman of harmonious moons, tender plumage, and gentle waves. Raimbaut fell head over heels in love with her on the spot.

The young Amazon went down to the stream, lowered herself into the water again, made quick ablutions, shivering slightly, then ran up again with little skips of her bare pink feet. It was then that she noticed Raimbaut peering at her between the reeds.
“Schwein Hund!”
she cried, pulled a dagger from her waist and threw it at him, not with the gesture of a perfect manager of weapons that she was, but with the impetus of a furious woman throwing at a man's head a plate or brush or whatever else she happens to have in her hand.

Anyway she missed Raimbaut’s forehead by a hair’s-breadth. The youth, ashamed, drew back. But a moment later he longed to reappear before her and reveal his feelings to her in some way. He heard a clatter and rushed to the field. The horse was no longer there; she had vanished. The sun was declining; only now did he realise that the entire day had gone by.

Tired, on foot, too stunned by so many things that had happened to feel happy, too happy to understand that he had exchanged his former preoccupation for even more burning anxieties, he returned to the camp.

"I’ve avenged my father, you know. I’ve won. Isohar has fallen. I...” but he told his tale confusedly, overhurriedly, since the point he wanted to reach was another. “And I was fighting against two of them, and a knight came to help me, and then I found out it wasn’t a soldier, it was a woman, lovely, the face I don’t know, in armor she wore a periwinkle blue robe...”

“Ha, ha, ha,” roared his companions in the tent; intent on spreading grease on the bruises all over their chests and arms, amid the great stink of sweat which is present every time armor comes off after battle. “So you want to go with Bradamante, do you, little one? If she wants! Bradamante only takes on generals or grooms! You won’t get her, not even if you put salt on your tail!"

Raimbaut could not bring out a word. He left the tent; the sun was setting red. Only the day before, when seeing the sun go down, he had asked himself, “Where will I be at tomorrow’s sunset? Will I have passed the test? Will I be confirmed as a man, making a mark in the world?” And now here he was at that next day’s dusk, and the first tests were over. But now nothing counted any longer. There was a new test, and the new test was difficult, unexpected, and could be confirmed only there. In this state of uncertainty Raimbaut would have liked to confide in the knight with white armor, as the only one who might understand him; he had no idea why.

5

BENEATH my cell is the convent kitchen. As I write I can hear the clatter of copper and earthenware as the sisters wash platters from our meager refectory. To me the abbess has assigned a different task, the writing of this tale. But all our labors in the convent have, as it were, one aim and purpose alone, the health of the soul. Yesterday, when I was writing of the battle, I seemed to hear in the sink’s din the clash of lance against shield and armor plate, and the clang of heavy swords on helmets. From beyond the courtyard came the thudding of looms as nuns wove, and to me it seemed like the pounding of galloping horses’ hooves. Thus, what reached my ears was transformed by my half-closed eyes into visions and by my silent lips into words and words and words, and on my pen rushed over the white sheet to catch up.

Today perhaps the air is hotter, the smell of cabbage stronger, my mind lazier, and the hubbub of nuns washing up can transport me no further than the field kitchens of the Frankish army. I see warriors in rows before steaming vats amid a constant clatter of mess tins and tinkle of spoons, of ladles on edges of mess tins, or scraping the bottom of empty encrusted cooking pots; and this sight and smell of cabbage is repeated in every regiment, from those of Normandy, Burgundy, and Anjou.

If an army’s power is measured by the din it makes, then the resounding array of the Franks can best be known at mealtimes. The sound echoes over valleys and plains, till eventually it joins and merges with a similar echo, from Infidel pots. For the enemy too are intent at the very same time on gulping foul cabbage soup. Yesterday’s battle never made so much noise—nor such stink.

All I have to do next is imagine the heroes of my tale at the kitchens. I see Agilulf appear amid the smoke and bend over a vat, insensible to the smell of cabbage, making suggestions to the cooks of the regiment of Auvergne. Now up comes young Raimbaut, at a run.

“Knight,” says he, panting, “at last I’ve found you! Now I want to be a paladin too! During yesterday’s battle I had my revenge ... in the mêlée ... then I was all alone against two ... an ambush ... then ... now I know what fighting is, in fact. And I want to be given the riskiest place in battle ... or to set off on some adventure that will gain glory ... for our holy faith ... to save women and sick and weak and old ... you can tell me...”

Agilulf, before turning round, stood there for a moment with his back to him, in sign of annoyance at being interrupted in the course of duty. Then, when he did turn, he began to talk in rapid polished phrases which betrayed enjoyment at his masterly grasp of a subject put to him at a moment’s notice, and of the competence of his exposé.

“From what you say, apprentice, you appear to believe that our rank as paladins consists exclusively of covering ourselves with glory, whether in battle at the head of troops, or in bold individual tasks, the latter either in defense of our holy faith or in assistance of women, aged and sick. Have I taken your meaning well?"

“Yes.”

“Well, then, what you have suggested are in fact activities particularly recommended to our corps of chosen officers, but...” and here Agilulf gave a little laugh, the first Raimbaut had heard from the white helmet, a laugh courteous and ironic at the same time “... but those are not the sole ones. If you so desire, it would be easy for me to list one by one duties allotted to Simple Paladins, Paladins First Class, Paladins of the General Staff...”

Raimbaut interrupted him. “All I need is to follow you and take you as an example, knight”

“You prefer to set experience before doctrines then; that’s admissible. Yet today you see me doing my turn of inspection as I do every Wednesday, on behalf of the Quartermaster’s Department. As such I am about to inspect the kitchens of the regiments of Auvergne and Poitiers. If you follow me, you can gain some experience in this difficult branch of service.”

This was not what Raimbaut had expected, and he felt rather put out. But not wanting to contradict himself he pretended to pay attention to what Agilulf did and said with cooks, vintners and scullions, still hoping that this was but a preparatory ritual before tushing into some dashing feat of arms.

Agilulf counted and recounted allocations of food, rations of soup, numbers of mess tins to be filled and contents of vats. “Even more difficult than commanding an army, you know,” he explained to Raimbaut, “is calculating how many tins of soup one of these vats contains. It never works out in any regiment. Either there are rations which can’t be traced or put on returns or—if allocations are reduced—there are not enough to go round and discontent flares up among the troops. Of course every military kitchen has hangers-on of different kinds, old women, cripples and so on, who come for what’s left over. But that’s all very irregular, of course. To clear things up, I have arranged for every regiment to make a return of its strength including even the names of such poor as usually line up for rations. We can then know exactly where every mess tin of soup goes. Now to get practice in your paladin’s duties, you can go and make a tour of regimental kitchens, with the lists, and check that all is in order. Then you will report back to me.”

What was Raimbaut to do? To refuse, demand glory or nothing? If he did he risked ruining his career over nonsense. He went.

He returned bored, no clearer than before. “Oh, yes, it seems to be all right,” he said to Agilulf, “though it’s certainly all very confused And those poor folk who come for soup, are they all brothers by any chance?”

“Why brothers?”

“Oh, they’re so alike ... In fact they might be mistaken for each other. Every regiment has its own, just like those of the others. At first I thought it was the same man moving from kitchen to kitchen. But on the list there were different names: Boamoluz, Carotun, Balingaccio, Bertel. Then I asked the sergeants, and checked; yes, he always corresponded. Though surely that similarity...”

“I’ll go and see for myself.”

They moved towards the lines of Lorraine. “There, that man over there,” and Raimbaut pointed as if someone was there. There was, in fact, but at first sight, what with green and yellow rags faded and patched all over, and a face covered with freckles and a ragged beard, the eye was apt to pass him over and confuse him with the color of earth and leaves.

“But that’s Gurduloo!”

“Gurduloo? Yet another name! D’you know him?”

“He’s a man without a name and with every possible name. Thank you, apprentice, not only have you laid bare an irregularity in our organization, but you have given me the chance of refinding the squire assigned to me by the emperor’s order, and lost at once.”

The Lorraine cooks, having finished distributing rations to the troops, now left the vat to Gurduloo. “Here, all this soup’s for you!”

“All is soup!” exclaimed Gurduloo, bending over the pot as if leaning over a window sill, and taking great sweeps with his spoon to bring off the most delicious part of the contents, the crust stuck to the sides.

“All is soup!” resounded his voice from inside the vat, which tipped over at his onslaught.

Gurduloo was now imprisoned in the overturned pot. His spoon could be heard banging like a cracked bell, and his voice moaning, “All is soup!” Then the vat moved like a tortoise, turned over again, and Gurduloo reappeared.

He had cabbage soup spattered, smeared, all over him from head to toe, and was stained with blacking. With liquid sticking up his eyes he felt blind and came on screeching, “All is soup!” with his hands forward as if swimming, seeing nothing but the soup covering eyes and face, “All is soup!” brandishing the spoon in one hand as if wanting to draw to himself spoonfuls of everything around, “All is soup!”