Chapter  4      A Knighting

 

 

 

"Not 'til after a long, full life, and even then, not without a fight."  Stewart still remembered the tone, for that was how Thomas had answered his question about death the previous winter.  That was the only time Thomas had ever made a direct reference to it.  Usually, he seemed to skim past the subject, barely acknowledging such a thing existed.

That winter, two of the stewards had contracted influenza and were sequestered in a room of their own while the stars and planets cast distressing shadows over the pair.  One died, Jack, who had been a hard worker but spoke little because of a lisp.

At services, Thomas had bowed his head, said the words expected of him, as had the entire household, and passed by the coffin to be comforted by the deceased's peaceful expression and the Chaplain's words of intercession.  As he passed Stewart on the way out of the chapel, Thomas placed a strong hand on his valet's shoulder and shook his head, as if saying this kind of foolishness was not for him.  Stewart had wondered at the expression on his master's face for some time, finally concluding that Thomas did not acknowledge the power of Death at all.  He did not seem arrogant about it.  It was rather as if he had been accosted by a peddler on market day and had stepped aside because he did not speak the peddler's tongue.

Now, Thomas of Oakham, squire, stood ready for knighting.  May his luck hold.

Usually a knighting spanned several days, beginning with instruction, a fast, holy vigil, and prayers, culminating with a ceremony before the lords and knights of the shire.  In time of war, most events moved with expediency and knightings were no exception.  The squires who were ready and nearly ready for the colee stood at the head of the troops and took their spurs in a brief ceremony little better than a battlefield promotion.  The ceremony was good, like the colored paper wrapping a gift at Christmastide, and it served to heighten the event itself, but the gift, the knighting, glittered as the unrivaled prize.  Birthdays were barely noted, marriage anniversaries acknowledged in passing, but knightings held a place above all other events in a man's life.  Whatever else may happen, the date and circumstances of a man's knighting, those, he would carry proudly to his grave.

The bell in the chapel tower began ringing.  All turned their attention to the door.  There, the Chaplain and his entourage of proud-faced boys descended the steps, the boy with the censor in front, followed by a boy with the monstrance.  Third came the Chaplain, flanked by pole-mounted holy emblems, and followed by a small choir of boys.  Chaplain carried a beautiful, leather bound book in his arms.  A red sash swung majestically against his white robes, and a cross of dark wood hung from a gold chain around his neck.

The procession approached the formation of knights with solemn precision, stepping over spilled tankards and horse dung with admirable aplomb.  So careful were their steps, that not one boy would have to wash his robes or clean his shoes, and so practiced were they that their maneuvers to avoid the litter went altogether unnoticed.  From his doorway, Stewart had to nod approval.  The Chaplain would receive some kind words in private from Lord William if the remainder of his performance went equally well.

Way was made for the procession, and the Chaplain had the boys walk directly into the arena formed by the wall of knights.  The boys stole glances at the armor and arms, the surcoats of bright color, and the hard, eager faces of the men framed in mail, but the Chaplain kept his eyes on the monstrance as if it were the only light in a dark room, and in a few moments, Mother Church presided over the occasion.

"Brothers in Arms!" shouted the Chaplain, after a few moments, before the spell of the procession dissipated.  "Brothers in Christ!"

The knights nodded their heads in unison and, with their right hands, made the sign of the cross over their hearts as they had been taught from childhood.

"Brothers!" he said once more, but with a voice which tapered into a more intimate tone.  "A knight is God's staff on earth, a strong and sturdy bulwark for the Church Militant, and the power by which these lands are brought to peace and prosperity."

A low rumble from the knights indicated these words were well received.  Stewart's eyes narrowed with humor.  God's warriors needed their egos massaged a bit now and then.  Life was hard and war ruthless.  If God's smile could bring warmth in winter, then the Chaplain would not keep God's pleasure secret.

"This morn, we stand witness for a knighting," said the Chaplain.

Chins raised in question.

"Three knightings!" amended the Chaplain, with a mischievous smile.

An audible sigh rippled through the assembly.  Stewart smiled.  Now there was a bit of Welsh humor.  Even the robes of Mother Church could not stifle that!

The sigh made a couple of circuits around the slightly swaying wall of cloth and metal and threatened to grow in volume.  The Chaplain touched his rosewood cross with his right hand and the knights grew silent once more.  Though only a Chaplain, the man in the white robe interceded between Man and God, and no man on the eve of battle dared show anything less than respect for so powerful an office.

"The three candidates, approach," commanded the Chaplain in a sonorous voice which somehow managed to echo from the walls of the chapel and the tower.

The three young men detached themselves from the crowd and moved into the arena.  Hands clasped their shoulders or lay for a supportive instant on their backs as they passed through the ranks.  All wore their pride rather ill concealed, but all had the sensitivity, feigned or otherwise, to bow their heads at the honor soon to befall them.  They knelt on both knees before the Chaplain on a red cloth hastily unfurled by one of the white-robed boys.

"Thomas of Oakham, James Beaumont, Cyril of Tutbury," said the Chaplain, "are you prepared in Spirit and Body to enter into the Order of Knighthood?"

"Yes," they answered with subdued voices.

"Without benefit of Holy vigil and prayer, you squires-to-be-knights have not had the opportunity to reflect upon the Temporal side of your promotion; however, in the sight of God, I am certain you will uphold the Law of the Church, the Law of your King, John, who by the Grace of God rules this kingdom of England, and the honor of your lord, William of Norbury, while preserving and holding the tenants of Chivalry as they have passed down to us in tradition."

That was a bit long-winded, commented Stewart voicelessly.  Remember your audience is half drunk.

The Chaplain heaved his gold-encrusted book to a position on his left arm convenient for reading and opened the tome to a marked page.  A boy instantly appeared and took the book, keeping it in the same position relative to the Chaplain.  The boy had to hold the book at nearly head level, and for the boy's sake, Stewart hoped the Chaplain would not belabor the citation excessively, else his book holder fail to maintain the discipline, which up to now, appeared flawless.  The Chaplain straightened his robes and began.

Latin flowed melodiously about the courtyard, echoing from the stonework, carried by the Chaplain's deep voice.  The language of intercession and prayer, a magical music of beautiful, incomprehensible sound.  Stewart closed his eyes and listened.  Line followed line, each phrase suffused with meaning beyond words.  At last, a pause stretched into a silence and Stewart opened his eyes.  The litany was over.  The boy holding the great illuminated book had solved the problem of supporting it by stepping forward slightly sometime during the service and resting the spine of the book on the top of his head.  Now, he stepped back to his original position and closed the covers at the Chaplain's bidding.

From the upper windows of the manor, the ladies of the household watched the courtyard, emboldened by curiosity to move close enough to the windows to be seen from below.  The younger noblewomen, girls really, placed their hands forthrightly on the sills and leaned into the morning air.  Fine bosoms in fine cloth.  Behind the largest window, framed by heavy drapes, stood an older woman, a step or two back in the shadows, but elegantly dressed in white and blue, with sleeves sewn tight against her forearms.  This was the Lady, herself, a kindly woman from Stewart's experience, but a firm hand at running her husband's household in his presence, and a knowledgeable overseer for his lands in his absence.  She was nearly a decade younger than the lord, taken to wife by him five years after a chill took the first Lady of Norbury.

Lady Em's bearing and demeanor perfectly matched that of her husband.  It was speculated, sometimes not altogether respectfully, that his first marriage had been for land and his second for love.  Even if true, what of it?  The lord had fulfilled his obligations to his first wife, provided for her, and cared for her, and judging by the degree of sorrow at evidence during the funeral, grown to love her.  The world was changing, and a marriage for love fit the fashion.  Even a generation before, so Stewart had heard, the women would have been barred from watching so manly a ceremony as a knighting.  Now, they hung their tightly plaited and beribboned tresses out the window for all to see.  The girls seemed a bit forward, but the knights below, once catching sight of their audience, as if at a revelation, stood an inch or so taller, and generally conducted themselves with additional gravity.  It made for a grander ceremony, but Stewart had to wonder if the ceremony had the knights' full attention.

Chaplain dipped a golden wand into a bowl of holy water and made the sign of the cross over the head of each candidate.  Thomas raised his head slightly, catching for an instant, Stewart was convinced, the Chaplain's eye.  Thomas.  Ever aware of his surroundings.

The Chaplain spoke.  "I commend you now to the lord of this manor.  Live well in the sight of God and fight keenly in the service of your lord!"

There were nods and sounds of assent.  There-upon, the Chaplain retired from the focus of the arena, leaving the squires kneeling before the chests.  Flawlessly done!

Lord William stepped forward amidst a silence so absolute, that Stewart could even hear the clink of mail against the quillions of his sword.  The lord's surcoat was white and clean.  His household emblem shone brightly on his chest, no doubt the end product of many loving hours of needlework by his Lady.  His nephews moved soundlessly to flank their uncle, holding lances flying the household banner.  The knights of his court stood tall and serious, the banneret particularly severe.

The lord's hair reflected the dappled sunlight, each gray hair shining with sharp detail, as if each were a tiny, highly-polished strand of metal.  He walked before the candidates, and in turn, placed a hand on each young man's bowed head.  It was a gentle, fatherly gesture, seemingly out of place amidst the steel implements of war.  But his hand did linger on each head, as if some part of him regretted what he was about to do.

"Stand and be garbed as a knight!" he commanded in a powerful voice.

The candidates stood.

"Senior knights, attend me."

The marshal, the banneret, and John fitzRalph, an elder knight of the mesnie stood forward, one behind each candidate.  The banneret stood behind Thomas, the marshal behind James Beaumont, and fitzRalph behind Cyril of Tutbury.

"A man is known by his clothes.  The tailor wears fine shirts, the cobbler fine shoes, and the knight, fine accoutrements of war."  The lord let his arm sweep towards the chests.

Two stewards approached each chest, and before the gaze of the lord, set aside the wrapped objects lying atop their lids, and lifted from their interiors lanky coats of mail, new hauberks for new knights.  Next came mail leggings and a belt.  As the stewards held the armor, the attending knight fastened each piece into place.

First, the attending knights drew the mail leggings up over each foot and tied them firmly to a wide, lace-tied fabric belt.  Only a minute was lost to this activity, for the hands were practiced and sure.  Then, in equally-practiced movements, the candidates crouched and held their arms over their heads as the hauberks were lowered over them.  They pulled their heads through the neck openings and into the coifs, closely fitted mail hoods with fabric sewn to the inner surface.  The candidates stood once again, letting the mail fall to their knees.  Unlike the mail of a foot sergeant, the hauberk of a knight was split from the waist, front and back, to allow its wearer to mount and sit a horse.  It was a fine distinction, but essential in telling an unhorsed knight from a well outfitted sergeant at a distance on the battlefield.

The stewards drew three great helms from the seemingly endless depths of the chests.  Murmurs of appreciation rumbled from the wall of knights, for the workmanship was excellent, and the metal unblemished.  These were new helms, not refurbished booty from a tournament on the continent.  The helms were placed gently into the hands of the knights, neck opening upwards, like a beggar's offering bowl.  Into this makeshift receptacle, the attending knight placed a pair of mail covered leather mittens, a dagger and sheath, a war axe, and a kit in a leather pouch bearing the tooled seal of Norbury.  This done, the attending knights took the helms and handed them to the attending stewards, who held them at the ready.

Lord William pronounced, "Each knight hails from some land and owes allegiance to some lord, and through that lord, to one King."

The attending knights unfolded the white surcoats which had formerly occupied a position on top of the chest, and held their emblems aloft for the crowd.  "These knight candidates are of England, owe allegiance to King John, and wear the device of this household!"

A shout of approval burst from the knights as the surcoats were pulled over the willing shoulders of the young knights-to-be.

The crowd paused.  Lord William moved to the first candidate.  Now, would come the knighting.

The lord knelt at the feet of Thomas and fastened spurs to his boots.   Thomas stood proudly, swelled with emotion.  Standing once again, the lord stretched out his hand and received a sheathed sword and belt from a steward.  He buckled this on Thomas's left side, over the surcoat.  Continuing, he stepped back half a pace and placed his hands on Thomas's shoulders, peering steadily into the young man's eyes, searching.  He said something at a whisper, and Stewart could see Thomas nod a little and smile with his eyes.

The lord pulled himself to his full height and spoke to Thomas with a voice loud enough for the assembly to plainly hear.  "With this blow," he said, "remember this day he who made you knight!" and with that the lord gave Thomas the colee, the blow of remembrance, which in actuality, was a healthy open-hand strike to the young man's shoulder.  Thomas took a step back to maintain his balance, then stood tall.  "Be a knight!" shouted the lord and a massive cheer erupted from the assembly of knights.  Feminine cheering drifted from the windows above.  Banners waved, and the chapel bell struck a single note.  Horses snorted in consternation and jostled against one another.  The courtyard stirred and bubbled like a well-filled cauldron, then subsided enough to continue.

Repeating the procedure, the lord brought James Beaumont and Cyril of Tutbury into the honorable estate of knighthood.  Jubilant cheers enjoined each colee, and just as the affair was about to break down into anarchic celebration, the gates opened to reveal three massive war horses, led by stewards.  Two bays and a black.  The black was led by an affable fellow named Gil, who was the saddler's apprentice.