The de Montfort Histories - The Dove and the Devil (2 page)

Chapter One

Northern France
,
Twelve Years
Earlier

1199 AD

The de Montforts

Amaury de Montfort, woken by the unaccustomed noise in the castle, sat
up rubbing his eyes, taking care at the same time not to disturb his younger
brother Guy, whose presence, he judged, could sometimes be a nuisance.
Clambering out of the goose down bed he shared with the four-year-old, he
padded barefoot over the icy floor of the tower room and tugged at the heavy
oak door of their bedchamber.
 

The steps leading from the bedroom to the battlements of the castle that
belonged to his father’s friend, Count Thibaut of Champagne, were even colder
than his bedroom floor had been on this early winter’s morning. Amaury ran
quickly, his feet scarcely touching the stone slabs. He was just tall enough to
peer over the crenulations of the sturdy castle walls and what he saw caused
him to draw in his breath and stare, his mouth agape.

Below him on this cold and misty November morning was a village that had
sprung up overnight whilst he had slept. Spread out beneath him in the field
below was what looked like an enormous tapestry, rather like those that hung on
the walls in his father’s chateau back in Montfort. Brilliantly hued pennants
floated idly above dozens of multicoloured pavilions. To the little boy, they
seemed like fantastic ships sailing across an ocean of haze. As he watched, the
sun rose gradually and the tendrils of mist that had at first enveloped the
field began to clear, revealing the small village that had sprouted from
nowhere! He was sure there had been nothing in the meadow when he and his
family had arrived the night before.
The
whole world must be here
, the eight year old thought, as his eyes took in
the market traders, the farriers, the beer sellers, the men at arms, some of
the local militia and even servants whom he recognized from the great hall at
last night’s dinner.

Past the immediate foreground he could see young squires attending to
the palfreys that had transported him and his family, the de Montforts, here to
this region of the Ardennes in Northern France. Beyond them he could hear the
snorting of the gaily caparisoned destriers, huge horses especially bred to
carry armed knights on to the battlefield. They had accompanied their owners
here to take part in what promised to be the most celebrated tournament of the
year. They stamped their feet and moved about restlessly, impatient to show
their mettle to a crowd that was growing by the minute. Everyone, from the
noblest of lords to the lowliest of servants, was looking forward to the exciting
entertainment that this last great tournament of the twelfth century would
surely provide.

Amaury shivered with excitement, hardly able to contain himself. He had
been woken by the noise from the kitchens and clatter of the preparations being
made for the banquet that evening. Work had begun in the great hall before
sunrise that day and the kitchens had already been transformed from comfortable
places to be on a cold November morning to places of purgatory, as the great
fires built to roast the huge carcasses of pigs, and even bigger carcasses of
bullocks, began their effort. The faces of the servants destined to turn the
spits were already scarlet from the heat, and tempers were beginning to rise as
the servants bellowed uncomplimentary remarks to each other.

Outside the castle the noise was even greater. Amaury could hear the
sound of hammering as market stall owners constructed their flimsy shelters
under which they would display their goods. The lines of colourful booths
resembled a small town bedecked with all manner of local produce. Great cheeses
vied for space with flagons of wine and butts of beer. Clearly, some of the
vendors were already guilty of sampling the beer for which this part of the
country was so famous. Their good-humoured voices rang out as they called to
each other, cheerfully insulting the quality of each other’s goods.

Although Amaury had been practically asleep when he and his family had
arrived last night, he vaguely remembered that he had had to greet some very
important people staying in the castle; he had been warned that it wouldn’t do
to offend any of them. He wasn’t really very interested in the guests, no
matter how exalted they were. This was his first real tournament and he wanted
to take part in the preparations. He adored horses and anything to do with
them. He loved his own little palfrey, but his real loves were his father’s
warhorses. Simon was unaware that his son had already spent some time helping
to groom the great beasts. It was a secret between the boy and his father’s
squire!

Amaury loved the warm smell of the stables and the feel of the enormous
animals’ glossy coats as he rubbed his hands over their flanks. True, he needed
a tall stool to reach the tops of their great domed heads, but time would take
care of that. For now, he could content himself with helping to polish their
shoes and currying their hindquarters. He felt in his bones that there might
possibly be some opportunity to get near the huge beasts whilst he was here,
and he shivered in delight at the thought. He knew both his parents would be
distracted by other matters here in the domains of Thibaut of Champagne and
that they would be paying scant attention to him and his little brother.

Although he could not see clearly where the destriers were stabled from
this height on the battlements, he could at least hear the clash of steel and
the whinnying of the great beasts. He even thought he could smell the leather
of the harnesses and saddles from where he stood, and was certain he could pick
out his father’s favourite animal, caparisoned as it was in the de Montfort
colours of vermilion and silver. Hopping up and down in an effort to get a
better view, he saw Walter, his father’s squire, in the distance, for he wore
the same livery as the destrier. The young man moved backwards and forwards
between the beasts carrying bits of equipment, the sun glinting now and again
on the arrogant silver lion embroidered on his tunic.
That’s what I’ll be wearing soon
, Amaury thought proudly.

In his short bed gown, Amaury shivered in the frosty air, completely
unaware that his knees were beginning to turn blue as they felt the bite of the
frost! It was almost the end of November, the first week in Advent. Although he
had the holiday of Christ’s mass to look forward to in a matter of a few weeks,
it all paled in comparison in the face of this... a real tournament. He had
never been allowed to accompany his mother and father before because they said
that tournaments were too dangerous for children to attend. And they were!
 
Several riders and spectators had been
injured and even killed in other tournaments. Amaury thought the danger was the
best part. It promised to be the most exhilarating event
of his life!

For once, he would be able to see his beloved papa really perform. He
knew he was a great soldier—everyone said so—but he had only seen
his father in practice before this. There was sure to be a great crowd of
knights, barons, counts and dukes here, all with exceptionally high opinions of
their own skills. Some would surely deserve their reputations but others would
clearly be disgraced before the day was out. Amaury felt certain that he could
pick up some pointers—some good, some bad—which might serve him
well one day. After all, he was the eldest son and would inherit his father’s
estates in northern France, one day.

He wriggled his toes and jumped from one foot to the other to restore
some circulation. His feet were beginning to hurt, unshod as they were. He was
torn between rushing in and dressing as quickly as possible so as to get
outside again, and staying where he was because he had such a good view and
didn’t want to miss anything. The decision was made for him when the door
creaked open and his mother emerged.

Alicia de Montfort looked startled when she saw her elder son. “What are
you doing out here in this freezing weather with no clothes on?” she demanded.

“I’m not cold, honestly, Maman.” His blue lips told a different tale.

“How long have you been standing out here?” She took hold of his small
body and wrapped her arms around it.

“Maman, Maman! Look at the tents and the horses. There must be hundreds,
thousands even!”

She smiled to herself, thinking how like his father he was. Simon, her
husband, could also be transported into just these paroxysms of delight when
contemplating horses, armour or, indeed, anything to do with soldiering. “We
must go inside immediately before you catch your death of cold. It wouldn’t do
to miss any of the tournaments, would it?”

Amaury fervently agreed with her and willingly allowed her to lead him
indoors with the promise that if he dressed quickly and attended to the duties
his father had assigned him, he could go outside and join the pages who were
helping the squires ready the horses.

“Why didn’t you wake me? Why didn’t you tell me you were going
outside?”
 
The young Guy de
Montfort’s voice held a note of petulance that was near to tears. He had
clearly just woken up!

“Because you’re still a baby. Look, you’re nearly crying now!”

“I am not.” Amaury’s younger brother stamped his foot. “I’m nearly as
big as you.”

Amaury looked at him “You’re too young to understand these matters.
You’re only four.” He spoke scathingly from the great height of his eight and a
half years. “And besides, you can’t help the pages yet, as I can.” He looked
smug. “Papa says I may go away to England next year to my uncle of Leicester to
begin my training.”

Guy’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want you to go away,” he wailed.

“We all have to go,” said Amaury, a bit more patiently now that he could
see he had really upset his little brother. “How else do you think we can be
trained?”

“Boys, be quiet! Stop arguing and get ready.” The voice was peremptory
and held a tone that hinted disobedience might not be an acceptable course to
pursue. The bickering stopped immediately. They knew the quality of their
mother’s temper, and experience had shown them it was not a good idea to test
it!

Simon de Montfort, Amaury and Guy’s father, stood in the field that had
been given over to the tournament on Thibaut’s great estate. He would never
have been able to afford such an entertainment on his own smaller estate at
Montfort L’Amaury, but Thibaut was another matter.
 
Grandson of a king, nephew to two other kings and brother to
yet another, he was well able to afford to mount a spectacle such as would be
seen here in the next few days. Apart from its obvious entertainment value, it
was a good money-making venture. It would raise the status of the Count
himself, bring in a great deal of money for his local tradesmen and keep the
people of the estate and the nearby towns and villages happily entertained for
several days. It would lift the spirits of even his lowliest retainers and set
them up for the long, hard winter ahead.

The performers would come from far and wide, as would some of the
merchants. Pickpockets regarded tournaments as gifts from God. A man skilled in
his trade could earn enough to keep a family for a sixmonth. The prostitutes
were a problem, too. Invariably, they left behind them the unwelcome gift of
the new disease, the English pox.

 
In truth, the preparations
had not been going on merely overnight, as Amaury had supposed. Indeed, the
tournament had been set in motion a year ago when the first challenges were
sent out to knights worthy enough to be invited. The knights would come from
all over the north of France, parts of Germany and from the south of that part
of France which was not really French—areas known as Occitania, Poitou
and Aquitaine. It did not matter that both the Pope and the King forbade these
events because of their danger. All men worthy of their salt wanted to cover
themselves in glory and enhance their fighting reputations.

Aumery was quite right in his judgement of his father’s skills. Simon
had already gained enviable fame as a great fighter and worthy opponent, and
many knights wished to best him in the lists. Numerous men had been given the
opportunity and had failed, for Simon made a point of attending virtually every
tournament of the year, no matter what the distance from his own estates. He
loved the thrill of the melee, that great gathering of fighting men whose sole
aim was to unhorse their opponents.

It was a dangerous sport, hardly worthy of being called a sport, as the
risks it carried were life threatening. Severe injury and even death were the
competitors’ constant companions, but for all the risk, there was never a
shortage of knights willing to prove their mettle. If the risks were high, so
were the rewards. A man who unseated his opponent would win the opponent’s
horse and armour. Countless young knights had outfitted themselves at no cost
save that of demonstrating their prowess as fighters in the lists. But as Simon
was wont to point out to his companions, there was more to a tournament than
mere sport; it was truly a training ground for the skills that knights required
in real battle. Many young fighters in the early Crusades had cause to thank
the tournaments in which they had taken part, for saving their lives.

Today, however, there would be no melee because that was considered
somewhat old- fashioned. Jousting in the lists—where one man armed with a
lance tested his skill on horseback against another similarly armed—was
becoming the more popular sport. This was the part of the tournament most
feared by Alicia and, indeed, by all the other wives, especially since they
would be obliged to watch the entire spectacle from a raised dais immediately
in front of the joust.