The Copper Sign (32 page)

“But there are a lot of people here.” Ellen pointed at the many people around them shouting and commenting on the victories and defeats of the young knights who were doing battle.

“Yes, hardly anyone here wants to miss the jousting because this is where you get to see the young daredevils for the first time. Older and important knights are here, too, on the lookout for good fighters they can either hire on the spot or watch carefully because they could soon be their future opponents.”

After the jousting was over, groups of a dozen or more men slowly began to gather at the barriers.

“Do you see over there the knights under the red banner with the lion rampant in gold? Those are our Young King’s own knights. And there, too, is the young knight who defeated Sir Ralph earlier! On the right-hand side are the Angevins, then a bit further away the Bretons, and right next to them the Poitevins. All the groups fight against each other, and the winner is whoever has vanquished the most opponents and taken them as hostages. The winners here come away with a lot of money because the hostages have to buy their freedom. Because a successful knight is also a generous knight, the merchants have their hands full, as do the jugglers, the musicians who play at the concluding festivities, the whores who keep the beds warm for the noble gentlemen, and the cooks at the food stalls who care for their bodily needs. The losers are treated magnanimously, for the next time the winner could be the loser. Whoever fights and wins at the tournaments can expect high fees the next time. Some barons even offer brave fighters a woman in marriage and a little fiefdom if they do battle for them. For many later-born men that is the only possible way to get a wife and a regular income. Ah, it won’t be long before they ride off. Look! They’ll meet way over there in the west at the foot of the hill, and that’s where the main tournament will begin.”

Ellen felt someone tugging at her sleeve.

“We should start thinking about your work—it’s already afternoon,” Jean said.

“I’ll come back later to see if you can do it without me.” Henry gave them a wink as they left.

Thibault’s heart was racing when he arrived on horseback at the back of the tent and dismounted. He had unseated fat Sir Ralph as if he were a feather! Thibault tore off his helmet and wanted to wipe away with his sleeve the drops of sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes, but first Gilbert, his servant, had to help him remove his chain mail shirt.

“You were splendid, my lord! The crowd roared, and I saw myself how the
Marechal
nodded approvingly.” Gilbert’s eyes beamed with pride, but Thibault paid hardly any attention to him.

The Marshal! If he only knew! Thibault could think of nothing else. “Very well, Gilbert, leave me alone now,” he ordered him gruffly. He didn’t have much time left to pull himself together before he would have to get dressed again because the main tournament was beginning. Thibault sat down on a stool and put his head in his hands. Just how could she show up here? She ran right into his horse and had almost been crushed underfoot. Wasn’t she looking? Thibault thought about her sparkling green eyes that he loved so much, but he didn’t have to see her eyes to remember. He took a deep breath. He was still excited to know that Ellen was nearby. She had brought his blood to such a boil that he had felt invincible. Perhaps fate had determined that she was his! He jumped up, overturning the stool. “Gilbert,” he roared, “Gilbert, help me get dressed again. Today I’m going to make a fortune!”

After the squire had helped him back into his chain mail and tunic, Thibault stepped outside. He already felt like a winner! He looked himself over with satisfaction as the maids on the field pointed at him, held their hands up to their mouths, and giggled. “I can have any one of them,” he mumbled smugly and jumped up onto his horse.

When he went to join young King Henry’s knights, he was greeted with nods and fists raised in a sign of victory. So they had noticed his triumph in the jousting! That was good, but now he had to do well in the main tournament, too. Thibault looked over at William, who gave him a thumbs-up sign with his gloved hand and ordered him to come to his side.

“Take as many as you can, my friend,” William ordered, “but don’t touch the leader of the French group. He belongs to me.”

“Just watch out that you’re not captured yourself,” Thibault grumbled, but in a soft undertone so William wouldn’t hear it. The French were not far away from them and were gossiping about the huge losses the English had suffered in earlier tournaments. With hearty laughter, they planned how to divide up the spoils they would take from their English opponents. Finally, the tournament began. At first the opponents rode toward each other in disciplined rows, but the closer they got the more bellicose they became, and the rows soon disintegrated into a turbulent mêlée.

Thibault decided to keep clear of William, who was the prized target of the best Frenchmen, and along with some other knights of the royal household attacked the Angevins. He picked out as an opponent none other than the brother of the Duke of Anjou, but this young knight was an excellent jouster and overpowered Thibault faster than expected, thrashing him mercilessly with his sword. He soon dragged Thibault off into a corner as his prisoner and handed the reins of Thibault’s horse over to his own squires. Seething with anger, Thibault sat there on his horse, condemned to stay on the sidelines for the remainder of the tournament. William fought bravely but was overpowered by the superior French forces and taken captive. Thibault stroked his chin, happily. So William said he would conquer the leader of the French? No way! That braggart William was out of action! But then the squire of the Young King went riding over to the French and bought William’s freedom so he would be able to continue fighting. Thibault shouted for Gilbert, who was waiting at a respectful distance from his master.

“Go get my money and buy my freedom, and be quick about it!” he ordered his squire. In contrast to this upstart William, Thibault de Tournai was the eldest son of his father and therefore received a generous allowance, which gave him the means to buy his freedom and continue the fight. Even though he would have liked to have the favor of young Henry,
he
didn’t have to depend on it.

Twice again on this day both he and William were taken prisoner. At the end, Thibault’s gold purse was a lot lighter, and he was in fact almost penniless, but he was not indebted to anyone. William, on the other hand, had had his freedom bought three times and was more indebted than ever to young Henry.

Ellen was still in raptures over the jousting when she heard in the distance the wonderful, rhythmic sound of hammers on the iron anvil and fell silent. Ever since she had been in Beauvais she dreamed of making a sword all on her own—the plans for the sword were already in her head, and all that was missing was the chance to carry them out. She positively had to find work with a swordsmith. Jean had told her they didn’t have booths with leather roofs like the merchants but worked in stone barns or stalls that were set up for them at the tournaments. Every smith brought along his own hearth, a tree stump to which the anvil was attached, tools, bellows, and a water trough as well as a table for displaying the items. When Ellen entered the stall and admired the smith’s handiwork, she felt a great sense of happiness. There were so many things here for sale: swords, knives, parts for the handle and pommel, helmets, chain mail rings, lances of every length, pikes, and even spiked maces such as those captured from the Saracens by the first Crusaders. In addition there were shield bosses, chapes, and decorations. Jean went over to a dark-haired man who, judging by the items in his showcase, was a fairly talented armorer.

“Pierre!” Jean greeted him like an old acquaintance. “I’m here to propose a bet.” Then the boy raised his voice and announced, “Hear this, smiths, I’m challenging Pierre and anyone else to a bet. Either a job for this woman or a week of her work without pay.”

The smiths looked at Jean without much interest: why would they want this unknown woman to work for them, even if it didn’t cost anything? Pierre didn’t react.

So Jean had to try harder. “Come now, Master Pierre, you don’t want to pass up this opportunity, do you?”

The smith only mumbled something unintelligible and waved him away. Ellen saw all her hopes fading—they wouldn’t even give her the chance to prove what she could do.

“Didn’t I tell you, my young friend? They’re not half as afraid of the devil as they are of a woman, especially when she is as beautiful as your girlfriend and furthermore understands her trade. What would it be like if a woman proved to them that she’s just as good a smith as most men here? It’s a question of their honor!”

A disgruntled murmur went through the crowd, and some booed.

Ellen hadn’t noticed Henry le Norrois until he’d raised his voice.

Angry smiths gathered around her. No matter how sure she was of her abilities, she was afraid of putting herself and Jean in danger. She wasn’t worried about Henry. He was certainly smart enough to even turn their defeat into something positive.

“What do you mean by that?” said Pierre, the first smith Jean had addressed.

“This woman here says she can measure up to any man in her work, and what do you say to that?” Henry asked with a smirk. “You don’t want to—or is it perhaps that you don’t dare?”

“Tell her to go to the farriers outside. We have no use for beginners here,” Pierre grumbled.

“I’m no beginner,” Ellen responded confidently, even though her heart was pounding. “It’s surely an art to forge a knife or a sword like that,” she said, pointing to his items on display, “and you are very skilled at it, master, but I can do the same and will be glad to compete with you.”

“Haha, just listen to the little lady’s brave words,” Pierre said, now apparently in a jovial mood. “Aren’t you perhaps a little weak for such a tough vocation? Spinning, embroidering, perhaps bearing children—I would think those are the right things for you to be doing.” Pierre seemed to have the last laugh.

“Well then you shouldn’t mind taking the bet,” Ellen suggested calmly.

“There’s not a smith here who would lower himself by competing with a woman,” Pierre replied contemptuously, and looked around at all the smiths, who nodded in agreement.

“Let’s see, you think I’m a beginner. Why don’t you look for a strong man who is a beginner, too? Somebody like the muscleman who lifts tree trunks to entertain the crowd? What do you think of him? I’ve admired his upper arms that are thicker than my thighs.” She laughed provocatively.

Jean looked at Ellen, horrified. “Have you completely lost your mind? He’s many times stronger than you are,” he whispered.

“Just ask him,” Ellen challenged the smith, without even looking at Jean. “If he agrees, I’ll challenge him, and whoever swings the hammer better wins!”

Pierre didn’t waste any time thinking about it. “That’s fine, let’s ask him!” He stormed out, and the other smiths followed him, grumbling loudly.

They presented the strongman with the challenge. He was mightily amused at such silliness and looked at Ellen sympathetically. “If she loses, she’ll work for you free for one week,” Pierre declared.

“And what do I get from you if I win?” Ellen asked the strongman.

“Half of my weekly earnings,” he suggested with a grin.

“No, not half, the whole amount, otherwise it’s not fair,” Ellen contradicted him boldly. “Or are you unsure of winning and afraid to take up my challenge?” She flashed her most innocent smile. “And you’ll let me work,” she asked Pierre again, “if I win?”

“But of course,” he laughed, “since hell will freeze over before that happens.”

Pierre tried to give the strongman some advice on how to hold the hammer, but he just brushed him off arrogantly and patted him on the shoulder. “Take it easy, master, I know your hammers and what they weigh! Have you ever tried to lift my tree trunk? I’ll bet you can’t lift it one hand’s breadth from the ground. Just let me go ahead. I’m looking forward to having her work for me for a week.”

Pierre was annoyed at the condescending way the strongman spoke about his work. After all, a sledgehammer couldn’t be wielded just any way.

There were two volunteers among the journeymen who took an iron and put it in the fire and then held it on the anvil with a set of tongs. Ellen took the sledgehammer in her right hand and was careful not to grasp it too far forward. With her left hand she placed the handle under her right shoulder just as all smiths do, then began hammering with a constant, even rhythm. The strongman took the hammer firmly in both hands in front of him and at the first stroke hit the handle with full force into his stomach. He groaned and fell forward a bit, but didn’t give up. He tried as best he could to imitate the grip that Ellen had on the handle, but his huge muscles got in the way. He took big swings, but his rhythm was irregular and he was tiring fast.

The piece he was working on twisted under his blows, whereas Ellen’s piece came out neat and straight. After the first few blows, the smiths realized she was far from being a beginner. They no doubt hoped the strongman could win on his strength alone, but soon he was sweating hard, water was streaming down his body, and his head was such a fiery red that it looked like it would explode. Ellen kept working even after the hammering next to her stopped, because she didn’t dare to look to the side and lose her rhythm. But then someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“It’s all right, you can stop now—you have won,” Pierre grumbled sheepishly. “You can start with me tomorrow if you are still able move.” It was obviously hard for him to maintain his self-control.

“I’ll be here,” Ellen replied, placing the hammer in the water bucket next to the anvil.

Jean was jubilant and flung his arms around her neck. “That was great!”

“You have my highest esteem, madam.” Henry smiled, offering her his arm.