King of the Middle March (16 page)

I
TOLD YOU,” SAID SERLE. “YOU SHOULD HAVE GOT THEM
mended before we left Venice.”

“They were all right then,” I said. “They only need a few stitches.”

But all morning I had to trail from camp to camp, searching for a shoemaker, and I was barefoot because my hose stops at my ankles.

The man in the Doge's camp was the first to turn me away. He was lining a pair of boots with some kind of cherry-red material and told me he had far too much to do.

It was the same wherever I went.

“You see this pile?”

“I've no time at all. I can't even look at them.”

“It takes time, son. Lining. Punching the holes. Lacing the sides. Folding over the caps.”

You might have thought I wanted shoes inset with precious stones and threaded with gold, or magic shoes to climb a glass mountain. “They only need a few stitches,” I said.

“So you can trample all God's enemies under your feet? Well, boy, you'll just have to wait.”

Eventually, though, I did find a shoemaker in one of the Italian camps who was willing to help me. He spoke some English and had his own little pavilion.

“Picardians and Venetians and Poitevins and Angevins,” he said, “they're just cobblers. I'm a shoemaker. I'm a cordwainer. Look!”

Stacked in the corner of the pavilion were rolls of skin, dyed olive green and mustard and chestnut.

“Goat,” said the shoemaker.

“Doesn't it tear?” I asked. “Goatskin used for parchment is so thin, it always tears.”

“You wouldn't want it for marching,” the shoemaker replied. “Goatskin for ladies' shoes.”

“On the crusade?”

The shoemaker smiled a leathery smile. “I'll sell along the way. Embroidered shoes. Scorpion-tailed shoes. Boots edged with fur. And if there are any left when I get home, the ladies of Milan won't disappoint me.” He pointed at another, much thicker roll, the color of old beech-mast. “Cow,” he said. “Cow for soles.”

“You could make up a riddle about shoes,” I said. “They've got souls, and tongues. They've got eyes.…”

In another corner there were half a dozen lasts, all over the floor were little snips of leather, and seven pairs of beautiful new boots stood ankle to ankle on a trestle bench.

“Let's have a look, then,” the shoemaker said.

I handed him my boots.

The shoemaker made a sucking sound. “Dreadful!” he said. “You're doing your feet a mischief, you are. And if you don't care for your feet, what kind of man are you?”

“What about monks who wear hair shirts?” I said. “And crusaders who scorch their own bodies?”

“I don't know about that,” the shoemaker said. “You squires, you all think you're clever and you all wreck your boots.”

“I'm not a squire. I'm a knight,” I said.

“You? A knight? What's your name?”

“Arthur. Sir Arthur de Gortanore.”

“Well, your boots are a disgrace.”

“I know.”

The shoemaker picked up a pair of handsome calf-length boots and smiled. “
Signor
Artù,” he said. “You buy these.”

“No, I can't. I've only got three farthings.”

“When you buy,” the shoemaker said, “always ask three questions. How long they last? How comfortable? And how elegant?”

“I wish I could buy them,” I said. “My brother has boots like that. Can you mend mine, though?”

The shoemaker stared at me. “Feet first?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were you born feet first?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I know I was born left-handed. I can write with my left hand and my right hand.”

“You ask your mother,
Signor
Artù.”

“My mother! Yes! Yes, I will, then.”

The shoemaker started to stitch the seam of my right boot. “Feet first means magic. You can heal people.”

“No,” I said. “I can't do that.”

“How do you know?” he asked me.

Then the shoemaker opened his tinderbox, and blew the spark
into a flame, and held a strip of leather over it until it began to smolder. It smelled disgusting.

“What are you doing that for?” I asked.

“You know nothing,” said the shoemaker. “To keep away demons.”

I
T'S STRANGE. LAST NIGHT, I TRIED TO REMEMBER ALL THE
songs I've made up, and they're always about strong feelings, like love-fever and fighting-fever. Feelings are running high here now. Last night, Lord Stephen and Sir William had another argument, I don't know what about, and Serle told Simona she was a sow, and Rhys accused Serle and me of caring more about our boots than our horses. The French are building siege engines, and everyone's waiting for orders, and wherever you go you hear gossip and terrible new rumors:

Nobody's sure what so-and-so really said
But everyone knows someone who knows,
Roundabout it goes, and we all suppose.

A says the abbot says that, boiled and lightly salted, a Saracen's like rabbit, and you should wash him down with sherbet.…B says the count's a reckling, a runt, and rides out at night, and grows a snout and fangs.…

Round and round, round again it goes,
And somewhere between word and word and word,
Everything worsens as the gossip-wind blows.

What about the Doge? C says he'll stop at nothing, gouge out eyes, drown men in sludge, scourge them with flames.…D says if only the marquis were here, then something I don't understand about a black girl, a chalice, a pear.…

Nobody's quite sure, though we all know each word,
But no one cares and no one counts the cost
When roundabout it goes, and we all suppose,

And truth and honor and trust lie lost.

W
HEN I STEPPED OUT OF CAMP THIS AFTERNOON
, and sat with my back against a weather-beaten stanchion beside the canal, and unwrapped my stone, I saw jealousy and scheming and treachery as bad as Count Simon de Montfort's.

“Disgraceful!” exclaims Sir Agravain.

Many knights turn their heads and listen.

“It's disgraceful that day after day and night after night Sir Lancelot beds the queen, and we do nothing about it, and allow the king to be shamed.”

“Enough!” says Sir Gawain, Sir Agravain's brother. “I want to hear no more of it.”

“Neither do we,” say their brothers, Sir Gaheris and Sir Gareth.

“But I do,” says Sir Mordred quietly.

Sir Gawain's mouth tightens. “I can well believe it,” he says. “You always make bad worse.”

“Whatever becomes of it,” Sir Agravain says, “I mean to tell the king.”

“And cause conflict? Many knights will side with Sir Lancelot.” Sir Gawain puts his right hand on his brother's shoulder. “Don't forget Sir Lancelot has often come to the king's rescue. He rescued me from King Carados; he rescued you and Mordred from Sir Turquine. Do his kindness and courage count for nothing?”

“Sir Lancelot knighted me,” says Sir Gareth. “I won't hear another word against him.”

“Here comes the king!” Sir Gaheris says. “Keep your voices down.”

“I will not,” says Sir Agravain.

“Neither will I,” Sir Mordred says.

“Then because of you and Mordred,” Sir Gawain tells his brother, “not because of the queen and Sir Lancelot, our great gathering of knights will splinter and split.”

King Arthur approaches them. “What a hubbub!” he says.

At once Sir Gawain, Sir Gareth, and Sir Gaheris bow and walk away.

“What are you arguing about?” asks the king.

“Mordred and I,” Sir Agravain says, “we're the sons of your own sister, and we can hide it from you no longer. Sir Lancelot and your queen are lovers. He is a traitor.”

Arthur-in-the-stone lowers his eyes. Is he thinking of Merlin's warnings? “Love can be blind.…Don't say I haven't warned you.”

“If what you say is true,” the king replies gravely, “then yes, Sir Lancelot is a traitor. But if he is accused, he'll fight and prove his innocence. No one can match him.”

“Sire,” says Sir Mordred, “it is true.”

“I must have proof,” the king insists. “Sir Lancelot's my knight of knights. He has honored me by serving me.”

“When you go hunting tomorrow,” Sir Agravain says, “send word you'll stay overnight in one of your lodges. I'll catch the rat. I'll bring him to you alive or dead. Mordred and I will have twelve knights with us.”

“That may not be enough,” the king says grimly.

Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere: Their sin is hot—it is the strength of their love and the weakness of being unable to resist it. But Sir Agravain and Sir Mordred? Their sin is hate, not love. It is cold. They don't care about protecting their king. They want to ruin Sir Lancelot. What Sir Gawain said is true: Because of them, the Round Table will be shattered.

I can see a small chamber hung with chains of flowers. A bed. Sir Lancelot and Guinevere lying on it. Sir Lancelot's sword is on the floor beside him.

There's a loud knocking at the door.

“Sir Lancelot!”

“You traitor!”

“Come out or we'll come in!”

“We're lost!” cries the queen.

Sir Lancelot sits up. “My lady,” he says, “is there any armor in here?”

“None!” the queen cries.

Guinevere is shaking, and Sir Lancelot wraps his arms around her. “There's nothing to fear,” he said.

“There is everything!” says the queen.

Sir Lancelot holds Guinevere close.

“You cannot fight them all,” Guinevere whispers. “You'll be killed. I will be burned.”

“And all because I'm not wearing armor,” Sir Lancelot replies.

Now the knocking and shouting begin again.

“Come out!”

“You scum!”

“Dear Jesus,” says Sir Lancelot. He draws Guinevere to her feet. “My lady, my queen,” he says, “I have loved you from the day I first saw you. Can you remember what I said when you belted on this sword?”

Guinevere trembles.

“‘Who can fully live unless he's ready to die?'”

“No!” whispers Guinevere.

“Guinevere! Guinevere, you will not be burned. My nephew, Sir Bors, Sir Lavaine or Sir Urry, one of them will rescue you.”

“If you die,” the queen whispers, “I will be ready to die.”

With his arms still wrapped around the queen, Sir Lancelot leans back and looks at Guinevere. “I'll sell my life dearly. But I'd rather have a suit of armor now than be ruler of Christendom.”

“My love and my life,” Guinevere whispers.

“Jesus, be my shield!” Sir Lancelot says. “Jesus, be my armor.”

“Let us in!”

“We'll spare your life.”

“And take you to the king.”

Sir Lancelot wraps his cloak around him; he picks up his sword, and unbars the little door, and a large knight bends his head and steps in. His sword is drawn.

“Sir Colgrevaunce de Gorse,” says Sir Lancelot. “Welcome!”

At once Sir Lancelot slams the door and bars it again.

Sir Colgrevaunce jabs at him, but Sir Lancelot steps sideways and thwacks the side of his helmet. The knight falls over sideways.

With Guinevere's help, he puts on the dead man's armor.

Sir Lancelot looks longingly at Queen Guinevere. He swings round to the door, unbars it again, and steps out.

Sir Lancelot roars and, with his first stroke, he kills Sir Agravain. With eleven more savage blows, he fells eleven men. Only Sir Mordred is able to escape.

Slowly Sir Lancelot turns. He stoops and steps into the queen's chamber. He is breathing deeply.

“It is true,” he says. “This is the end.”

Guinevere bows her head.

“I have given my king cause to become my deadly enemy. We must leave, here and now, and I'll protect you. That is best.”

“That is not best,” replies the queen. “You've done harm enough. Go now to your own chamber.”

Sir Lancelot sighs.

“But if, tomorrow,” Guinevere says, “you see they mean to burn me—”

“I will rescue you,” says Sir Lancelot. “With all my heart, I swear it. For as long as I draw breath, I am your knight.”

They breathe; they gaze at one another. There is nothing more to say.

P
LEASE!” I PANTED. “DON'T
!”

Wido and Giff and Godard took no notice.

The boy yelled at the top of his voice. His yell rose into a scream.

“Don't!” I pleaded. Then I heard myself shouting, “Let him go!”

Giff glanced at me. He was grinning.

“Milon,” I said. “Wait! Let me find Milon.”

“Hear that, boys? Sir Arthur's going to ask Milon.”

Now the boy was whimpering.

“Don't you start that wailing,” bawled Giff. “Like a bloody Saracen.”

“Come on!” Godard urged them. “For God's sake! Knees up, right under his chin. Tighter!”

“No!” I cried. “He's only small.”

What happened was this.

Early this morning Milon and the other French leaders instructed their men to wheel their mangonels and tormenta and other siege engines into place, facing the city walls.

Giff and his gang were positioned right at the head of the channel, nearest to the Land Gate.

While they were heaping up stuff to hurl at the Zarans—a whole cartload of horse manure, a dead dog, hundreds of stones the
size of heads—many of the Zarans stood on the walls waving and cheering, and several times they started to sing, and burst out laughing.

They still believed what Count Simon and Enguerrand had told them. They must have. They didn't think the French were really going to use their siege engines.

Then a bunch of young boys jostled out through the Land Gate. At least twenty of them. They ran towards us. They yelled at us. They came even nearer, and arched their backs, and hurled stones at us. Then they sprinted away and back again through the city gate.

To begin with, Wido and Giff and Godard ignored them. But each time the boys came out, they got more daring.

“Get lost!” yelled Giff.

“Pests!” shouted Godard.

“Bloody wasps!” bawled Wido, mopping his brow.

The boys chanted and jeered and chucked stones, and then one of them hit Godard on his left shoulder.

Godard wiped his big, wet mouth with the back of his hand. “Right!” he said. And he started to run. Huge, heavy, lumbering steps.

The boys saw him and hared away again, but one of them tripped over a pothole and fell. He scrambled to his feet, but Godard grabbed him.

He scooped up the little, yelling, flailing, biting thing and carried him back.

Godard and Wido and Giff just looked at one another.

Then Godard threw the boy onto the ground, groveling at his feet. He kicked him in the groin, and the boy gasped and sobbed.

Wido picked up a coil of rope and he and Giff wound it round the boy's body, pinioning his arms. Then they brought his knees up under his chin, and wound more rope round his back and shins.

“This'll surprise them,” said Godard.

That's when I knew for sure. I lost my breath. My heart began to hammer. But before I could say another word, Wido gave me an almighty shove.

“Out of the way!” he growled.

I staggered sideways and fell onto the pile of stones. At once I got up, but Wido jammed his elbow into my face.

They dumped him in the cup. He was silent now, his eyes shut, eyelids tight.

Then they released the engine's arm, and the torsion rope howled. They hurled him high. They hurled him right back over the wall.