Chapter Text
London Bridge, England, 1352
Charles' mother holds his hand as they weave through the crowds and step onto London Bridge.
It feels almost as busy as before the plague came. Women hold trays piled high with sweetmeats and pies. Cutlers proclaim the sharpness of their knives and fletchers declare the fleetness of their arrows from the doors of shops that line the bridge like teeth in an overcrowded mouth.
Today is the day of the knight's parade. Tomorrow, the largest tournament in Christendom will begin. Since King Edward announced the tournament a month ago, all of London has been scrambling to prepare for the influx of foreign visitors and the sorely needed coin they will bring.
Charles is ten years old and cares more about the knights than money.
He and his mother come to a stop in the narrow courtyard in front of St Thomas' chapel. The crowd is packed tight, and Charles is too small to see above their heads.
The crowd surges back and knocks him into stone, and Charles sees his chance. He takes a deep breath and, with a whoop and a leap, Charles clambers up the roughly carved plinth and settles against the fine stone of St Thomas' statue.
With his arms wrapped around St Thomas, Charles can see above the thronging crowd who have gathered to watch the parade of competitors on their way to the grounds.
Mum!" he shouts out and waves. He sees his mother's panic when she realises he is no longer by her side, and then the look of relief as she sees where he is perched.
"Charles, get down!"
"But I can't see down there!" Charles says.
His mother's face softens, "Hang on tight and for the love of everything holy, do not knock anything off that statue while you're up there."
"I promise," Charles replies and hugs St Thomas' waist tighter for her benefit.
He hears a man say, "Bloody heathens," and spit on the ground next to his mother's feet. The words are loud enough for his mother to hear, but her face remains impassive.
Charles is accustomed to the way people look at him. His mother, with her brown skin and dark, thick eyebrows, is even more obviously not English stock. His mother is used to this treatment — muttered curses and even thrown stones — it existed even before the Great Pestilence came to this land on foreign boats. Yet it hurts worse than any taunt thrown at him to see the way shopkeepers push out a dish filled with vinegar for her to drop her coins into, even now.
The sounds of horns interrupt his thoughts.
Charles sees the flags first: long, thin lengths of fabric that the breeze whips back and forth. Flags the red of blood, the yellow of buttercups and the bright blue of a midsummer sky.
The flags are held by each knight's varlets. Their tunics are emblazoned with their master's coat of arms. They feature beasts prominently — fierce eagles with wings outstretched, hounds in profile with long lolling tongues, even a bear with its mouth stretched wide in a roar — alongside crosses and hands holding weapons.
It is the knights that Charles has come to see, and they do not disappoint, all wearing full armour for the parade. There are dull and battered breastplates on men old enough to be Charles' father. With their helmet visors lifted, these men display scarred, war-wounded faces. One man's helmet has a sharp, ridged comb and a red feather. He looks like an angry cockerel.
A young man in finely wrought chain mail with golden accents waves to the crowd as he passes by. His varlets throw out small coins and nuts into the crowd. His armour is as pristine and shining as his face.
The Black Prince, England's Prince Morpheus, is the final knight in the parade. The crowd surges forward at the sight of his coat of arms held high by his flag bearers — three ostrich feathers on a black field. Overlapping voices shout out, "God save the prince!" and "God save the King!"
The prince rides a black horse, its mane and tail plaited with gold fabric. His armour is a deep burnished bronze, and his face … he is smiling, a sardonic quirk at one corner of his mouth as he locks eyes with Charles.
Charles, shocked, grips tighter to St Thomas. The prince's eyes are a very pale blue. Unlike the previous knights, Prince Morpheus has foregone his helm, and Charles can see the crow dark hair that gave him his title of The Black Prince.
The Black Prince turns his head after a heart-stopping moment and lifts his hand to acknowledge the cries of the crowd on the opposite side of the thoroughfare. Charles' breath rushes out of his mouth in a gust, and he folds to his knees at the base of the statue.
The crowd slowly begins to disperse once the prince has passed over the bridge. Charles slides down from the statue and lands gracelessly at his mother's feet.
"He looked at me, Mother. The Black Prince looked at me!"
"Did he now? Well, that was worth the trip alone then. Perhaps you don't need a treat."
"Mum!"
Charles' mother smiles and holds out both of her hands in front of her. They are both folded into fists. "Pick one," she says.
Charles touches his pointer finger to his mother's right hand.
When Charles' mother opens her palm, there is a single copper coin there.
They should spend the money on something useful. Or take it home and hand it over to Charles' father to decide.
"We should get honey cakes," Charles says. He would rather share a fleeting moment of happiness with his mother than put a coin into the pocket of his father, who would take it and only bring home drunkenness or anger.
Though a mouthful of pastry, Charles says to his mother, "If I were a knight, I'd always protect you. And I'd win tournaments and use the prizes to buy a fine house and eat honey cakes every day."
The woman from whom they bought the cakes, sturdy and fair-haired, laughs.
"I'm sorry," the woman says. "They're lovely, noble words, but it'd be easier to change the path of the stars. We all have our place in this world. Peasants may serve a knight as a varlet, but you couldn't even be a squire."
The world has changed since the plague. Women work in the shops and businesses once owned by their husbands. The wives of dead lords now administer their holdings openly, and some, Charles has heard, even pick up their swords and armour.
"Mother, is that true?" Charles asks.
His mother finishes the last piece of her honey cake before speaking. "It is true that the laws say that a knight must be of noble birth. But I was born under different stars from the ones I see every night here. Stars can be changed. For better and for worse."
She pauses and bends close to whisper in his ear. "I think a boy as brave and kind as you could change his stars for the better." Her gentle hand strokes through his hair. "Now, come along. We have errands to do."
Mons, Flanders, 1362
Sir Dagfinn? My lord?" Crystal calls out down the embankment. Her hands are pressed tight over her eyes to avoid seeing their master with his breeches down.
"He said he needed to ease himself and didn't want to be disturbed," Charles says.
He peers down to where he can see the tree that Sir Dagfinn had crouched behind after rushing out of the tournament arena, leaving Charles to beg for respite before the final jousting tilt.
"It's been too long. We need to head back to the lists now, or we'll forfeit. And I haven't eaten in two days. He just needs to stay in the saddle; he's broken two lances on Sir Ector already," Crystal replies. "One of you two needs to get him. I can't go. It wouldn't be proper, not for a girl."
Charles says, "You're not a girl. You're a strong, resourceful woman."
"I'm not going down that hill, Charles."
"I think he's dead," Monty says. He lifts his arm, so the linen of his tunic covers his mouth. The next few words are muffled. "I can smell him from here."
"Sir Dagfinn has always had his digestive problems," Charles says and hands Monty a stick. "You need to get closer. Poke him with this stick."
"Why is it always me?" Monty says, "Why can't you," — a wave of the stick at Crystal — "or you," — a more emphatic poking motion for Charles — "ever do the dirty work?"
"Seniority," Crystal says.
"I don't understand how following," Monty lowers his voice, "an old fool for longer than I have makes you superior."
"But it does, 'specially seeing as we saved you when you didn't have a coin or morsel to your name. We begged Sir Dagfinn to take you on. And how we are now paying for it with reduced funds and hungry bellies. If I owed such a debt, I'd be overjoyed to restate the balance with a bit of corpse-poking."
"Poking of a potential corpse," Crystal says.
Charles turns away from Monty to address Crystal. He wiggles his eyebrows. In a loud, clear tone, he says, "Funny how the world works, innit. You give and give and give. Not because you expect to get anything back, but an occasional bit of reciprocation would be — "
"Shut up," Monty says, "I'm doing it. If I catch the plague, I'm giving it to both of you, too."
As Monty sidesteps his way down the rain-slicked grass embankment towards what may or may not be the corpse of their employer, Charles hears him muttering. Words that sound like "unfair division of labour" and "emotional blackmail".
Monty shuffles around out of sight and makes a retching sound. He shouts, "He's definitely dead. As dead as our prospects of eating today or ever getting back to England."
"Fuck," Crystal says, "Fuck him for bringing us here and fuck him for dying." She folds herself down to the ground. "What do we do now?"
Monty wipes his hands on a clump of grass, then flops down next to Crystal and leans into her side. In a small voice, he says, "I don't know."
Michael, Sir Dagfinn's grey charger, is cropping the grass behind them. Mud from the field is spattered up his legs from his hooves to his knees and hocks.
The sensible next step would be to sell off Michael to feed themselves and look for new work. There may be a knight at the tournament looking for a varlet, but none who would want to take all three of them together. They would be scattered to the winds, unlikely to see each other or England again.
That cannot happen.
"Unless…" Charles says.
"I hate it when you have ideas," Monty says.
"Why?"
"The most recent one involved me poking a dead body. Other ones had variable results," Monty replies.
"The Deventer Haddock Debacle," Crystal intones.
"Exactly," Monty says.
"That was not a debacle. It was maybe an incident. Do you want to hear my idea or not?"
Charles takes their silence as permission to proceed. "There is one tilt to go. All Sir Dagfinn needs to do is stay on his horse, and the jousting prize is his."
Crystal points at Charles. "We are not tying a dead man to a horse. He may have been a dick, but we should have some respect."
"Did I suggest that? Why would I suggest that?"
"What are you suggesting?" Monty asks.
"I will wear Sir Dagfinn's armour, return to the lists and joust," Charles says.
Monty laughs. "You've gone mad. Stark raving mad. Only those of noble blood may compete, in case you've forgotten. If we get caught, we'll be killed and displayed on the town walls as a warning to any peasant who has ideas above their station."
"No one will know it's me! You can hardly see out of the ocularium on a knight's helmet, never mind see in. It's perfect. We'll collect the prize we're owed for our hard work and go back to England. On home ground, we can find work easier and stay together."
Crystal says, "If you can stay on Michael. And we don't get caught by the Master of Arms."
"You want us to stay together?" Monty asks.
"Well, I need to keep you out of trouble," Charles tells Monty.
"More like we need to keep you out of trouble," Crystal says to Charles. She sighs. "I'm in."
"Monty?"
"Me too."
"Good! Now help me strip Sir Dagfinn. We don't have much time."
Monty lets out a groan, but rolls up the sleeves of his linen tunic and follows Charles down the embankment.
Charles arrives on the jousting field with Crystal and Monty bracketing him, Crystal guiding Michael by his bridle.
His vision is impeded by his helmet, so he cannot see the nobles' stand or the crowds of peasants in the field that borders the lists. He can hear the crowd's voices rise from a muted murmur to a roar.
Sir Dagfinn's armour is restrictive and unfamiliar; the shield plate on his left arm is a leaden weight. Sweat runs down his forehead already, stinging his eyes.
The only comfort is the feel of Michael's broad flanks expanding and contracting as he breathes. Charles tries to make his rapid breaths match.
On the far side of the lists, Sir Ector is seated on his roan horse. His dulled silver armour has the marks of battle, with one bright scrape visible from the second tilt where Sir Dagfinn landed a bone-shaking blow against Sir Ector's shoulder.
"Remember, even a broken lance can't win it for him," Crystal says somewhere to his left. "Just stay in the saddle. We'll be there on the other side to meet you."
The Master of Arms approaches and halts directly in front of him. He is a grey-haired bear of a man. In a gritty, low voice, he says, "I am glad to see you, Sir Dagfinn. It would have been a pity to disqualify you. I assume you are ready?"
Charles nods his head.
"Good! When the flag drops, you may charge."
The Master of Arms retreats to his place in front of the nobles' stand. Charles looks straight ahead.
A servant takes his position in the middle of the lists, against the dividing fence. He holds a red flag in locked arms high above his head.
A trumpet sounds. The crowd hushes.
The flag drops.
Charles digs his heels into Michael's flanks and urges him forward. Michael rears on his back legs, slams to the ground and pushes off.
Noise everywhere: the slam and clink of plate against plate; the screams of the crowd; the drumbeat sound of hooves on loosely packed earth as Sir Ector charges forward on his war horse.
Charles' lance is shaken free of its cradle on the right of his breastplate. He tries vainly to push it back in.
A vivid memory of Sir Dagfinn blaming his lance rest when he failed to hit a target flashes through Charles' mind. Not just the grumblings of a knight past his prime, then.
He wedges the wooden base of the lance into his armpit. Charles cannot drop the lance; he cannot be dismounted. All Charles needs to do is take the blow that is coming for him and survive.
He has done that many times before. He can do it again.
Sir Ector's lance angles high. The tip looms into Charles' vision till he can see nothing else.
He does not look away, just braces every muscle and straightens his spine.
The lance hits Charles' helmet, and a great many things happen all at once.
Charles' head snaps back, and his vision goes black.
All sound disappears, as if his ears have been muffled with wadding.
A full-body muscle spasm shakes through him.
The lance and the reins fall out of his nerveless hands.
Sir Ector's lance glances off, but the momentum has already flung Charles back in the saddle. His back slams against the saddle's cantle. He rebounds forward with a thump into Michael's neck.
Stars come out against the night sky of his vision.
Charles' ears ring like cathedral bells warning of fire or flood. Under that, there is a singing in his blood that tells him he is not dead.
With his hands looped through Michael's mane, he slows Michael down and guides him to turn before he can escape through the gate at the end of the field.
The narrow slit of the ocularium on his helmet is narrower still after the blow that has dented it in, so he can only listen to the hubbub around him.
The Master of Arms' voice cries out, "After three tilts, the winner with two lance hits to one is Sir Dagfinn!" The crowd cheers and claps.
It takes Monty grabbing Michael's loose reins to bring him to a standstill. Monty calms him with long sweeps of his hands down his withers.
Charles listens to Monty's shushing noises and tries to calm the racing of his heart.
Michael stops stamping and snorting. Monty slaps his hand against Charles' cuisse and exclaims, "We've won!" He begins to laugh. It's the most cheerful Charles has ever heard him.
"We can eat!" Crystal shouts." And you're not dead!"
"We had our doubts whether you'd make it," Monty says.
Their joy makes his pain — bruises he can feel on every soft part of him, his shivering muscles and the ache in his neck — lessen.
Charles lifts his clumsy, shaking hands to remove his helmet.
It does not move.
He tries again. The helmet rattles but does not disengage. His visor will not lift.
Monty and Crystal are still shouting out in joy, listing all the food they would be eating tonight, after getting Michael a nosebag full of oats. ("A double portion of oyster stew!"; "bread with butter!"; "Berry tart!")
Charles clears his throat. "Monty, Crystal. A little help?"
"The Jousting Tournament Champion: Sir Dagfinn of Washington!" A herald shouts.
A cheer goes up from the field adjoining the lists, and polite clapping ripples outwards from the stands.
Monty nudges Charles. "Put your hands out and step forward."
The helmet is still wedged tight on Charles' head, restricting his vision, even after some enthusiastic bashing by Crystal that set off the ringing in his skull anew.
They will need to find an armourer if Charles wants to eat tonight. And he very much wants to eat. Almost as much as he wants to sleep.
"Sir Dagfinn, a well-deserved victory," the Master of Arms says. Soft fabric presses down on Charles' outstretched palms.
"It's a gold feather on an embroidered velvet cushion. We'll get a florin for the cushion alone," Monty says.
A new voice rings out from the stands above, "Sir Dagfinn, remove your helmet." It's the voice of a man used to getting his own way, the duke and host of the tournament then. His haughty tone would make Charles consider disobeying, even if his helmet wasn't stuck.
Charles looks up and turns his head from side to side. The duke is wearing purple, his robes layered and billowing.
"The last blow from Sir Ector's lance has left my helmet jammed on." Charles attempts to lift his visor in demonstration. No movement, only the scrape of metal against metal. "I am unable to show the gratitude on my face. Soz about that."
A titter of laughter rings out. Abruptly silenced.
"Very well, knight," the duke replies. "We will keep you no longer."
"That's our marching orders, then," Monty says, low.
Charles bows, half as deeply as he should.
Monty and Crystal grab either arm and pull him along, away from the stands.
Crystal gusts out a breath and says, "That was close," as they pass through the tournament field's gate and towards the market.
"Thank our lucky stars," Charles says.
"Not God?" Monty asks.
"I prefer luck; those snobs up there already claimed God for their side."
Monty says, "Better not let anyone hear you saying that. You can be hanged for blasphemy."
"You can be hanged for impersonating nobility, but I just did. Very successfully." Charles says.
"You did," Crystal says. "Now we need to get you to a forge before your head gets too big to ever remove that helmet."