Chapter 3
The jousts would begin after terce and
go on until sunset. First there was a procession—not as rich or
elaborate as those of King Edward III, or as long as those Ranulf
had been in through London, but a goodly spectacle and, if it
pleased the folk of the castle and the ladies, then why
not?
The theme of the procession was
unknown knights and mysterious damsels.
Giles had already told him that Lady Blanche of Fitneyclare had
instructed that those knights taking part in the joust should be
masked and in disguise: no distinctive armor or badges or heraldry
until they entered the ground itself.
“An idiotic notion, and the women are
masked, too,” grumbled Giles. “I will probably pick a troll and
have to appear delighted when she removes her
veiling.”
“A mask is simple enough to make,”
Ranulf said easily. “A few twigs and feathers on a cloth.” He
closed his ears to the rest of Giles’s moans while he considered
the theme afresh. It seemed peculiarly apt, with the mystery
princess of the East within the camp. Had Lady Blanche suggested
the theme as an honor to her, or as a jibe?
No matter, but it will
be amusing to escort the princess, he thought. I will know her by Sir Tancred. If that fellow can disguise
himself, I will be mightily astonished.
That had been an hour ago. Now Ranulf
was waiting in the bailey of the castle as the members of the
procession jostled and gathered into their lines and the waiting
crowd, smaller than in previous years, waved their flower garlands
and nervously cheered. He felt himself quite ridiculous, but it was
no matter. He had made a cap of moss and feathers and covered the
lower half of his face with a dark strip of cloth. For the rest, he
had sent on his black armor to the fighting ground with his squire
and Offa, who had made a rapid recovery from his sickness once it
was certain he would not be sent on his way until the following
morning. Covered by a baggy cloak smeared with more moss, Ranulf
called himself Sir Jade, in honor of the mythical green
knight.
The cloth across his chin itched.
Ranulf scratched his cheek with his thumb, settling into that
waiting state he was familiar with at mêlées. The damsels had yet
to arrive from the castle, led by Lady Blanche.
“Fleas are the very devil, are they
not? My lady gave me a potion to go in my bath and clothes and I
have been free of them since.”
Ranulf recognized the jutting gray
beard. “Well met, Sir Tancred.”
“Sir Dew of the Moon, if you please.”
The older man turned on the spot, showing off a costume of loose
white and silver robes smothered in pearls and silver coins. He had
a cap on, too, that looked very much like a nightcap, but one that
trailed more ropes of coins.
“Have you a troop of seamstresses with
you?” Ranulf asked, grinning to show he meant no ill
will.
“Nay, but my lady guessed it would be
unknown knights. It is a popular theme.”
“Indeed.” A dormant streak of mischief,
long banished since he had been a squire, stirred in Ranulf. He
knew very well who Sir Tancred’s lady was. “Would you swap masks
and costumes with me?”
There was a rustle of cloth and coins
as the older knight shook his head. “I have promised to escort my
lady.”
“May I escort her also? We could stroll
on either side: Sir Dew and Sir Jade.”
“I do not think my lady would like
this. . . .”
“If you allow it, I will joust in your
armor and you can keep the prizes.”
“Agreed!”
As they shook hands, a rattle of drums
sounded and a woman robed in yellow, scarlet, and blue came down
the castle steps, arm in arm with a short, burly man wearing a mask
of tall, sweeping peacock feathers and a feather
cloak.
“Lady Rainbow and Lord Phoenix!” roared
an iron-throated herald, to a pattering of applause.
Behind these came the other ladies,
gaudy in tight, long-sleeved gowns of blue and scarlet, purple and
gold. Ranulf saw Giles, whom he recognized by his cocksure air and
costume of long blue robe and black mask—the role of sea knight,
which Giles had played at other jousts—rush to escort a lady who
seemed to be a sparkle of gold.
“Beauty needs no foil,” he murmured. He
wagered that once the ladies unmasked, Giles would be
disappointed.
“And are you beautiful, sir knight?”
asked a new voice behind him.
“My lady!” Sir Tancred bowed so low
that a rope of coins and the tip of his headdress touched the dirt.
“We looked for you, Sir Jade and myself. We did not see you come
with the other damsels. Where, too, are your
attendants?”
“I chose another way, my lord, a way
less crowded,” came the calm response. “Sir Jade?”
His heart hammering as it never did
when he was about to tilt, Ranulf determined to be equally
reserved. “You will know jade, my lady, being as you are from far
away.” He patted his moss-strewn chest. “I am the English kind. But
I see you disapprove of me.”
He looked down, straight into a veiled
face dominated by a pair of brilliant eyes, as large as a falcon’s,
and as piercing.
“Sir Jade, you are mistaken.” Turning
away from him without more ado, the lady threaded a narrow hand
deftly through Sir Tancred’s waiting arm. “I congratulate you on
the elegance and wit of your mask and costume, Sir Dew. This
forenoon you will dazzle us all.”
She had not answered his question on
her lack of servants, but the older man straightened and stroked
his white robes as if they were the finest ermine. “It is because
of you, my lady. You were my inspiration.”
“What do you think of mine?” Ranulf
interrupted. Usually he had no time for such folly; play like this
reminded him of Olwen, of what he had lost. Yet this cool veiled
green damsel piqued him. Perversely, he wanted her to think well of
him.
The cool bright eyes studied him. “I
find you apt, sir. Today I am the Lady of Jade.” She offered him
her free hand. “What do you think of me?”
She stepped closer as if daring him to
touch her. A sweet, rich perfume rose from her as she
moved.
“You are as green as Roman glass, my
lady,” he remarked.
“And as slippery?” she
countered.
“As green as jade,” Sir Dew/Tancred put
in, keen not to be left out of this encounter.
“I did not say that,” Ranulf answered,
disliking to have thoughts assumed of him, even if they were right.
“Are you always veiled?”
“It is the custom of my people. Women
go veiled. Some men, too.”
“The old and ugly,” said Tancred, but
Ranulf ignored him.
“Are such loose clothes also the
custom?” he asked. She was a pale green shimmer, clad head to toe
in a filmy, billowing sheet of something—whether robe, tunic, or
gown, he could not say.
“These are the clothes I wear and how I
wear them when I am walking,” she said. “When I am watching the
joust, I will be so,” and she twisted her arms.
At once the sheet about her settled
snugly over her hips and became a single slender rope across her
left shoulder, running crosswise over her narrow waist and
surprisingly full breasts. Beside him and around him Ranulf heard
the gasps and sensed the stares—he would be gawking, too, he
wagered. Beneath the green shimmer, which he could not honestly
call a cloak, but then he had no other words to describe it, the
lady was all but naked.
She hides her face but
still wears less than a tavern wench, was his astonished
thought.
Truly, she wore a tiny golden bodice or
jerkin over her bosom, cut to show the tops of her arms and
breasts, and stopping before the last of her ribs, so that her
upper arms and her middle were bare, naked and bare. Ranulf found
himself leaning in to her, almost reaching for her slender waist
and copper-colored, smooth-as-silk skin. He was reminded now,
crudely and starkly, that he had not lain with any woman for
months. The blood thumping in his ears and more painfully
elsewhere, his mind flashed to the little modest maid of the
morning, who had darted off. Two different kinds of
challenges.
“You are the very season for lilies,
Princess,” he said, making a play of breathing in slowly and
commenting on her perfume because she expected him to scold or
praise her costume.
“Today I am the Lady Jade,” she
reminded him anew, nodding to a belt of green beads wound about her
hips and several bracelets of green bangles. One of the nearby
knights started to say something in French, but Ranulf stared at
him and the man instantly went quiet. He clasped the hand she
offered, amazed that she should be wearing gloves up to her
elbows.
“Have you a favor in that costume for
me?” he asked, while the knights about hitched their eyebrows at
her strange attire and the ladies in masks made a point of not
glancing her way.
“Alas, Sir Jade! My favors are all
given out.”
“Your face-veil is green and we shall
soon be unmasking. ’Tis considered unmannerly to remain masked when
the lord and lady are not.”
“Thank you for pointing out that
custom, Sir Jade. To be sure, I did not know it.”
“To be sure you did, Princess.” Ranulf
squeezed her fingers, tempted to shake her until her bracelets and
beads rattled.
“I will remove that veil when we reach
the place of tourney,” she replied, not in the least discomfitted
by his outright denial.
They were moving by this time,
strolling to the jousting ground, the princess in her fantastic
costume floating like a low green cloud between him and Sir
Tancred.
“May I claim it?” he asked. “I am jade,
as you.”
“Huurph!” grunted Sir
Tancred.
“Forgive me, sir, but I cannot grant
your request. To do so would be to break faith with
others.”
“I understand completely,” Ranulf
replied, looking over the princess’s veiled head at Sir Tancred.
“We must honor our agreements.”
He had been her kindly knight of the
river, but now he was different, arrogant and brazen, judging her.
Were it not for the agile way he moved and his resonant voice, she
would not have known him. It was disillusioning, and she was angry
at herself for hoping to keep her illusions alive a little longer.
She had not expected to encounter him again so soon, which was
nonsense, given where they were.
He was a fighter who had sought her
out. Why? And should she believe him over his jade costume and
name?
Gregory would have
called it a godly coincidence, that we are the Lord and Lady of
Jade, but what meaning has it, really ? None. It is but chance.
There are no signs, no portents, merely
accidents.
He was appalled by her costume—these
lusty knights always were.
Sir Jade, or whatever
he is called, never saw me at the forge, working and sweating
stripped to the waist.
Yet what did it matter? Her “Eastern
dress” was a creation of her grandfather’s memories and drawings,
pieces of traded cloth, and her own devising. Over these last
months, she had discovered that the more startling her costumes,
the fewer questions she had to fend off. Men were too busy ogling
and women too envious.
It worked well. It was all working
supremely well. Instead of breaking their backs, weeding in the
wheat fields and strips of beans, her fellow villagers of the
former Warren Hemlet were at ease in the great tent. Walter had
some new eyeglasses—the gift of a grateful knight to the Lady of
Lilies—which meant that he could carve wood again. Maria, who was
with child, could rest on the couch and not fear the reeve’s lash.
All could enjoy the daily bounty of food and gifts that was given
to her by her lordly admirers.
If they knew who you
were, you would all be killed, chided Gregory in her mind.
Trying to escape him, Edith lengthened her stride.
“Your servants loll in corners this
day?” the exasperating and altogether-too-sharp Sir Jade now asked
as he effortlessly matched her pace. “I wonder at their allowing
you to wander alone. A joust is no place for an unguarded damsel.”
He nodded to the bystanders. Every man gathered by the processional
path was watching her, ogling, staring. One or two were
drooling.
She had seen it before and would have
waved her hand had he not been gripping it. “I have my
knights.”
“You consider all knights
yours?”
“Those who sport my favor. Look about,
Sir Jade.”
“Alas! I can see nothing but
green.”
She laughed, tickled by the image, and
his dark eyes gleamed in response. For an instant he was again her
knight of the stream, but then he returned to the
attack.
“Sir Dew here tells me you predict the
outcomes of challenges.”
“Sir Dew of the Moon,” protested Sir
Tancred, attempting to shoo away a huckster who had broken through
the ranks of onlookers to join them, copying her walk and “veiling”
his grubby face with his grubbier hands. This was a constant
irritant in processions and one she silently endured.
“Sir Jade,” however, was having none of
it. He glared at the fellow, raising a threatening fist, and the
pie-man stepped sharply back into the ragged line of spectators.
“What do you see for me?” he demanded then.
“Many prizes.” It was a safe enough
answer.
“And if I fight against your
knights?”
She saw Sir Tancred’s eyes widen and
spotted the mottled blush rising past his beard. Something was
afoot here between these two.
“But you will not do so. Sir Jade does
not strive against the knights of Lady Jade.”
“Well spoken, my lady.”
He patronized her, but since he had not
disagreed she took it as a promise of intent and breathed a little
more easily.
They had reached the circle of caravans
and wagons, passing through a wicker hurdle gate to the jousting
field. Here the ladies were being led off to the stand that was
even now being loaded with cushions, while maids waited close by
with drinks and cups, lest their “betters” should be thirsty. The
steady mumble of chatter sharpened as damsels wished their knights
Godspeed and valor. Heralds and the more nimble ladies hurried
about the huge field to issue challenges and bestow more
favors.
The men and women were also unmasking,
casting aside their costumes. Edith watched more maids scooping up
the discarded masks and cloaks, thrown casually onto the grass, and
felt a rage at their thoughtless obedience. In these times of
pestilence, why should the old order matter? Why should the ladies
and lords not work?
They do the labor of
governance, said Gregory in her mind.
“They should try cutting the standing
wheat, instead,” she muttered in the old Hemlet dialect that, with
a few added clicks and groans, passed for her own Chinese
language.
“My lady? Was that a new prediction?”
Sir Dew/Tancred lowered his head to her, eager to hear
more.
“It was a prayer, for you and for Sir
Jade,” she replied blandly.
“I need none.” Rude and coarse as his
interruption, Sir Jade let go of her hand and stalked straight
ahead of her, putting his mossy figure directly in her way. “Should
you not be divesting yourself, Lady Jade? That is, if you have
anything you can remove without causing a riot.”
“It is for the lord to go first,” she
answered, inwardly seething. She knew the brute only spoke his
thought, that all he said was only what the other men thought, but
none had been bold enough to speak before him. To have it flung at
her was profoundly irritating. Feeling the blood pounding into her
face, she was glad of the veil.
“Is that indeed the custom of the East?
Here it is a lady’s privilege, but I will grant your
wish.”
He swept her a mocking bow, tumbling
off his baggy costume at the same time. When he straightened,
seeming taller and rangier than ever, he was already pointing. “Now
you, Lady Jade.”
She had anticipated this, and deftly
removed the green face-veil to show off the primrose yellow veil
beneath. Handing the delicate cloth to Sir Dew/Tancred, who
received it with a genuine bow, she smiled up at her unknown knight
of the stream. “See? I have done my part, my lord.”
There was a rush of applause from more
onlookers, and a shout of “The Lady of Lilies!” before both died
away. Her knight said nothing, but he looked almost as grim as he
had by the water, when she had glimpsed that ancient grief. Still
without speaking, he turned away and strode off, marching in the
direction of the stream where, only that morning, they had met
together in peace. Sir Dew/Tancred, meanwhile, was staring
desperately at the far horizon, as if he longed to be
elsewhere.
“Will you escort me to my seat?” she
asked softly.
He did so, silently and courteously,
taking care she had sufficient cushions and that the awning over
her head was to her liking, and she burned with shame.