"I know, my lady," said Roger gaily, "but I still may crave a token from her."
This was quite true and proper. Blanche herself had at different times during the tournament flung flowers, ribbons and even scarves to various worthy knights. "Here, child," she said quickly to Katherine as she plucked an iris from the bouquet by her chair, "stand up and give him this."
Katherine, her heart beating fast, obeyed the Duchess, tossing the blue flower in a graceful arc, and Roger caught it neatly in his gauntlet. He kissed the iris and tucked it into a joint of his heaume, where it waved jauntily beside the stag's head.
"Grand merci, ma toute belle damoiselle" he called, kissing his hand and lowering the pointed visor. He spurred his stallion and cantered easily down the field towards the other contending knights.
The King himself had watched this pretty by-play with approval. It had been gracefully performed with the requisite style and spirit. So many of the knights had grown lax in these degenerate days, impatient of ritual, and skimping the full chivalric observances. In fact it had been with a view to restoring these and bringing back the glorious days of King Arthur's Round Table that he had instituted the Order of the Garter twenty years ago. He inquired who the knight was, and his master herald, whose business it was to identify all coats of arms, replied that it was the young Sieur de Cheyne, one of the Duke of Lancaster's men; but the King's further inquiry about the favoured damoiselle the herald could not answer.
Katherine had subsided into confusion, wishing very much that the debonair Roger of the merry eyes and charming smile could be her knight in earnest, and interested to realise that even the Duchess saw nothing improper in this public attention from a married man. It was all part of the courtly game and not supposed to be taken too seriously.
Hugh Swynford, however, did take it seriously. He had watched Roger's sally down the field with savage uncertainty, not quite sure at that distance exactly what had happened, and he awaited Roger at the barricade.- "Who gave you that flower?" He pointed his lance at the nodding blue iris.
Roger raised his visor and grinned. "La petite de Roet, may Venus bless her."
"She's betrothed to me." Hugh's eyes narrowed, he looked at Katherine's green streamer which fluttered from his own helmet.
"Splendid, mon gar" said Roger cordially. "She's a beauty, a prize." He smacked his lips delicately and rode on, the blue iris bobbing in rhythm to the horse's trot.
Hugh wheeled his destrier and beckoned to his squire. Ellis de Thoresby eagerly held up the helmet and shield. He was a brawny lad of eighteen, doggedly devoted to his master. Ellis had been born at Thoresby Hall in the heart of Sherwood Forest and he was quite as impatient as Hugh was of the finicking graces exhibited by many of the foreign knights.,
"Not yet," said Hugh, refusing the helmet and shield. "Where's the Duke?"
"Over there, sir," said Ellis, pointing. "But it's time to buckle your helmet," he added anxiously, for the twenty knights who were to contend on this side of the general melee were starting to line up, while each squire hauled at the bridle of his master's destrier.
Hugh did not answer; he spurred his horse and cantered between the tents until he reached the Duke, who was drinking a last stirrup cup of spiced malmsey. John was magnificent in full tournament regalia. His helmet was topped by a crowned gold lion guardant, and around the lion was draped Blanche's scarf of silver tissue. His engraved brass armour shone like a mirror, and the gold lilies and leopards blazed against vermilion and azure on his jupon. Palamon, his great charger, was restive and two squires clung to the red-tasselled bridle as Hugh came up crying "My Lord Duke!"
John tossed his cup to a squire and looked at his knight in surprise. "What is it, Swynford? You're not ready? The melee's starting."
"I wish permission to fight on the other side, my lord."
"You what!" John cried, half laughing, staring at the square angry face surmounted by the skull-cap of brown cloth which would cushion the great helmet. "What foolishness is this?"
"I wish," cried Hugh furiously, "to tilt against Roger de Cheyne in a deed of arms."
The Duke was both amused and annoyed. The twenty rival contenders at the other end of the lists had been a fairly arbitrary choice. His brother the Duke Lionel headed that side, and there were Lancaster knights there as well as Frenchmen and a Scot. But these arrangements had been made for days, and a sudden change transgressed proper tournament procedure.
"If you wished a private joust with de Cheyne, why didn't you challenge him earlier?" said John, frowning and stroking his prancing horse.
"I did not know in time, my lord, and the tourney ends today." Hugh's eyes slid from the Duke's face and rested on his own helmet. Ellis de Thoresby, who had run after his master, held it cradled in his arms. John followed the glance and saw the green tippet. "Is that Katherine de Roet's?" he asked, enlightened.
Hugh nodded grimly. "And de Cheyne wears the flower she gave him."
"Oh," said the Duke, and he thought, with sudden anger, that maudite girl again. She's a nuisance and a troublemaker, and has certainly bewitched this poor knight. "Go then," he said impatiently, anxious to be rid of the whole episode. "Explain to the Duke Lionel and have him send one of his men here to replace you - but remember," he raised his voice sternly as Hugh turned with muttered thanks, "this is no jousting a l'outrance - there'll be real fighting enough for all in Castile. This is but knightly sport today."
Hugh's lips tightened. He made no reply, but galloped around behind the lists and the galleries to the opposite end of the field while Ellis jumped on his own horse and hurried as best he could after him.
In the loges the spectators had become impatient at the delay. Even the Lady Blanche's long fingers fidgeted nervously with the sapphire clasp of her girdle, and she strained her eyes down the field to try to make out the helmet with the golden lion while her lips moved in prayer to St. John the Baptist, her husband's patron.
But at last the trumpets brayed, the marshals advanced brandishing their white sticks and followed by the heralds and pursuivants at arms. The crowd hushed and listened avidly to the announcement. It was to be a general tournament melee with twenty of the bravest knights on each side, and fought for the honour of St. George and the King. The prize was to be a gold noble to each knight on the winning side, and an additional prize of one of the King's best falcons to the knight adjudged most worthy.
The combat was to start on horseback with the breaking of spears, but might then be pursued on foot with the flat of the sword as the only weapon. The lances must have coronal heads to cull them, and the swords were blunted by heavy lead foils. A knight would be adjudged hors de combat if he were unhelmeted, lost hold of his weapon or if any part of his body touched the stockades around the lists.
The marshals finished shouting the rules, while the heralds yelled, "Laissez al-l-le-e-r-," and scampered for safety over the barricades as the gates were raised at either end.
Katherine gave a frightened cry when the forty opposing horses thundered down the field towards her centre loge with the roar of an earthquake. The long lances streaked like light while from many of the knightly throats came bloodcurdling battle-cries. The shock of their meeting shook the loges, there was a tremendous crash of steel, the cracks of splintering wood and the wild high whinnies of the stallions.
"Oh, Blessed Sainte Marie," whispered Katherine, shrinking and clenching her hands. "They'll all kill each other!"
Some of the knights were at once unhorsed, more unhelmeted. The field became a threshing mass of shields and broken lances, armoured bodies and armoured horses. She could recognise nobody, but after a moment she heard the Duchess say with quiet pride, "He's still in the saddle, and his helmet untouched."