paraded themselves, trotting their destriers up and down in front of the tiered seats where the king and his court watched, and they glanced patronisingly at the Scots, whose horses were smaller and whose armour was old- fashioned. The French had great helms, padded and plumed, while the Scots wore bascinets, mere skull caps with a tail to protect the neck, and Sculley wore no helmet at all. He kept his great falchion sheathed, preferring a mace.
‘Any knight who cries for quarter will be given it,’ a herald was reading the rules, which every man knew so no one listened. ‘Lances will be blunted. Sword points may not be used. Horses are not to be maimed.’ He droned on as the king offered a purse to a servant who hurried off to place the money on the superb French contingent. The Lord of Douglas put all he had on his own men. He had decided against fighting, not because he feared the melee, but because he had nothing to prove, and now he watched his nephew, Sir Robbie, and wondered if the youngster had been softened by his time at the French court. But at least Robbie Douglas could fight, and he was one of the fifteen, his shield, like all the Scotsmen’s shields, showing the red heart of Douglas. One of the French knights evidently knew Robbie, for he had ridden to where the Scotsmen readied themselves and the two were deep in conversation.
A fat cardinal, who had been paying court to the king all day, sidled between the padded seats to take the empty space beside Douglas. Most men avoided the hard-faced, dark-faced, grim-faced Scot, but the cardinal smiled a welcome. ‘We have not met,’ he introduced himself genially. ‘My name is Bessieres, Cardinal Archbishop of Livorno, Papal Legate to King Jean of France, whom God preserves. Do you like almonds?’
‘I’ve a taste for them,’ the Lord of Douglas said grudgingly.
The cardinal held out a plump hand to offer the bowl of almonds. ‘Take as many as you wish, my lord. They come from my own estates. I am told you have placed money on your own side?’
‘What else would I do?’
‘You might have a care of your money,’ the cardinal said happily, ‘and I suspect you do. So tell me, my lord, what you know and I do not.’
‘I know fighting,’ Douglas said.
‘Then let me try another question,’ the cardinal said. ‘If I were to offer you one-third of my winnings, and I was to place a large sum of money on the fight, would you advise me to back the Scots?’
‘You’d be a fool not to.’
‘No one, I think, has ever accused me of foolishness,’ Bessieres said. The cardinal summoned a servant and gave the man a heavy bag of coin. ‘Upon the Scots,’ he instructed, then waited for the servant to go. ‘You are not content, my lord,’ he said to Douglas, ‘and today is supposed to be a day of rejoicing.’
Douglas scowled at the cardinal. ‘Rejoicing for what?’
‘The sunshine, God’s blessings, good wine.’
‘With the English running loose in Normandy and Gascony?’
‘Ah, the English.’ Bessieres leaned back in the chair, resting the dish of almonds on his protruding stomach. ‘The Holy Father urges us to make a peace. An everlasting peace.’ He spoke sarcastically. There had been a time, and not so long ago, when Louis Bessieres had thought himself certain to become Pope. All it would have needed was for him to produce the Holy Grail, the most desired relic of Christendom, and to ensure that he could produce it he had gone to immense and expensive pains to have the false Grail made, but the cup had been dashed from his hands, and, on the old Pope’s death, the crown had gone to another man. Yet Bessieres had not given up hope. By the grace of God the Pope was sick and could die any time.
Douglas caught the cardinal’s tone and was surprised. ‘You do not want peace?’
‘Of course I want peace,’ the cardinal said, ‘indeed I am charged by the Holy Father to negotiate that peace with the English. Would you like another handful of almonds?’
‘I thought the Pope wanted the English defeated,’ Douglas said.
‘He does.’
‘But he urges peace?’
‘The Pope cannot encourage war,’ Bessieres said, ‘so he preaches peace and sends me to negotiate.’
‘And you?’ Douglas asked, letting the question hang.
‘I negotiate,’ Bessieres said airily, ‘and I shall give France the peace that the Holy Father wants, but even he knows that the only way to give France peace is by defeating the English. So yes, my lord, the road to peace lies through war. More almonds?’
A trumpet sounded, calling the two groups of knights to go to the ends of the tilting ground. Marshals were inspecting lances, making certain they were tipped with wooden blocks so they could not pierce shields or armour.
‘There will be war,’ Douglas said, ‘yet here we are playing games.’
‘His Majesty is nervous of England,’ Bessieres said frankly. ‘He fears their archers.’
‘Archers can be beaten,’ Douglas said vehemently.
‘They can?’
‘They can. There is a way.’
‘No one has found it,’ the cardinal observed.
‘Because they’re fools. Because they think that playing on horseback is the only way to make war. My father was at the Bannock burn; you know of that battle?’
‘Alas, no,’ the cardinal said.
‘We crushed the English bastards, tore them to pieces, archers and all. It can be done. It has been done. It must be done.’
The cardinal watched the French knights form a line of ten men. The remaining five would charge a few paces behind to take advantage of the chaos created by the impact of the ten. ‘The one to fear,’ Bessieres said, gesturing with an almond, ‘is the brute with the gaudy shield.’ He pointed to a big man on a big horse, a man arrayed in shining plate armour and holding a shield that displayed a clenched red fist against a field of orange and white stripes. ‘His name is Joscelyn of Berat,’ the cardinal said, ‘and he is a fool, but a great fighter. He is undefeated these last five years except, of course, by Roland de Verrec, and he, alas, is not here.’
Joscelyn of Berat was the man Robbie Douglas had been talking with before the knights withdrew to the ends of the field. ‘Where’s Berat?’ Douglas asked.
‘South,’ Bessieres said vaguely.
‘How would my nephew know him?’
Bessieres shrugged. ‘I cannot tell you, my lord.’
‘My nephew was in the south,’ Douglas said, ‘before the pestilence arrived. He travelled with an Englishman.’ He spat. ‘Some damn archer,’ he added.
The cardinal shuddered. He knew the tale, knew it only too well. The damn archer was Thomas of Hookton whom Bessieres blamed for the loss of both the Grail and of Saint Peter’s throne. The cardinal also knew of Robbie Douglas, indeed that was why he had come to the tourney. ‘Your nephew is here?’ he asked.
‘Piebald horse,’ Douglas said, nodding towards the Scots who looked so ill armed compared to their rivals.
‘I would like to talk with him,’ the cardinal said. ‘Would you be so kind as to send him to me?’ But before the Lord of Douglas could answer, the king waved, a herald lowered his banner, and the horsemen dug in their spurs.
Bessieres immediately regretted his wager. The Scots’ horses looked so scrawny compared to the magnificent destriers that the French rode, and the French rode tight, knee to knee, as knights should, while the Scotsmen, slower off the mark, spread out instantly to leave gaps through which their opponents could ride. They had chosen to ride in a single wide line, all fifteen abreast, but they also rode faster, increasing their disarray, while the French came slowly, keeping station, only spurring into the canter when the two groups were about fifty paces apart. The cardinal glanced at the Lord of Douglas to see if the Scotsman shared his apprehensions, but Douglas was smiling sardonically as though he knew what was coming.
The hoofbeats were loud, but drowned by the shouts of the crowd. The king, who was exceptionally fond of jousting, leaned forward expectantly in his chair, and the cardinal looked back to see the leading Frenchmen raise their shields and couch their lances, bracing for the impact, and the crowd went suddenly quiet, as if it held its breath, waiting for the crash of armoured men and horses.
The cardinal never quite understood what happened next, or rather he did not understand until it was
