THIS TWENTY-SEVENTH DAY OF JULY IN THE YEAR OF Our Lord 1202: It may have been the feast day of the Seven Sleepers, but I wasn’t one of them. I didn’t want to miss anything; and all my life, I will remember everything. Even the little things: how Rhys trimmed Bonamy’s feathering and wound strips of white linen above his fetlocks; the way Serle’s right stirrup broke, and his foul curses; Milon saying Turold’s face is like a map, the kind the Saracens make; the golden buttons on Cardinal Capuano’s tunic blazing in the sunlight; yes, and Bertie punching the air with both fists after Milon dubbed me.
For a while I lay on my bed. I listened to the sea breathing for me. I watched our tent suck in its cheeks and blow them out again. I heard a distant trumpeter, like a hidden longing, summoning me. Then I leaped up.
Before Lord Stephen and I had broken our fast, Milon’s priest, Pagan, rode into camp; and as soon as he’d tossed back a tumbler of ale, he shaved a round spot on the top of my head.
“When you took the Cross at Soissons,” he said, “you enlisted in God’s army. And now, with this tonsure, you prepare yourself to become one of God’s knights.”
“Why are you called Pagan?” I asked him. “A heathen Christian. That’s very odd.”
Pagan smiled a weary smile. “Words sometimes change,” he said. “‘Pagan’ once meant ‘villager’; now it means ‘heathen.’”
Pagan told me I should feel honored because Cardinal Capuano had agreed to lead me through the responses. He’s only just arrived here from Rome.
And then, when I’d got dressed in my new white clothing, nothing but white, Pagan led us all down to Milon’s encampment.
The sun took one look at me, and drove her golden lance into my skull. Straight down through my poor bald fontanel! All day my brains seethed, and Serle says my tonsure looks like one of those eggs that come out of the shell streaked and spotted scarlet.
As we rode in—Lord Stephen and I, followed by Sir William and Serle, with Lady Cécile behind them, then Rhys and Turold, and then Tanwen with Kester—Milon’s trumpeter raised his shining trumpet. Quick and keen as the blasts of the huntsman. I could see Bertie, grinning at me, and Wido, and Godard and Giff, and at least a dozen other men.
Milon stepped towards me and held Bonamy’s bridle while I dismounted.
“You ready?” he asked me.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Not?” demanded Milon, frowning.
“I mean, I’m trying to be. I’ve thought, and I’ve prayed. I’ve tried to understand what a knight should—”
“Bon!” said Milon, and he clumped me on the back and led me over to Cardinal Capuano, then leaned on my shoulders until I dropped to my knees.
The cardinal is very still and watchful, but somehow his body has collapsed into itself. He’s quite a big man who looks rather small—the opposite of Lord Stephen, who’s a small man who looks quite big.
“God be with you! Saluti!” said Cardinal Capuano. He put his head slightly to one side, then held out his pectoral cross for me to kiss.
Seeing this, everyone else got onto their knees—everyone except my father. He tried to, but couldn’t manage it.
“Dratted joints!” he growled.
Everyone stood in a circle around me and Milon and the cardinal.
Wido and Giff and Godard: What were they thinking? That I’m raw as an unripe greengage? That I’ll fail myself and fail everyone else as soon as I actually come face-to-face with howling Saracens?
And Lady Cécile: She stood next to Sir William with her eyes closed, her pink-and-pale-blue eyelids trembling like butterflies on the bough.
And Bertie: the way he stood, legs well planted, shoulders pulled back, chest thrust out. Compact and intent and excited.
The day grew still under the weight of the sun, and all around me I could hear bright splashes of sound. Man-shout and hoofthud, bell-clang and shingle-screech, bagpipe-wheedle, drumthump: all the noises of an army making ready.…
I closed my eyes and began to expel the old air inside me. All my old life. I pushed it out, all out, with little coughs, until my lungs were flat as folded parchment. Then slowly I breathed in again, new air, fresh salty air. I opened my eyes and looked at the cardinal.
“Arthur de Gortanore!” the cardinal began.
De Gortanore? Is that who I am?
“Why do you wish to become a knight?”
Why? I’ve always and always wanted to be a knight. Since before I can remember. But I wasn’t sure whether Sir John wanted me to be, or whether my Yard-skills would ever be good enough.
“To get rich?” the cardinal demanded. “To lay your hands on Saracen treasure? Gold, jewels, armor, horses? Is that why?”
No. No, that’s not why at all.
“Arthur de Gortanore, is that why?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why?”
“I wish to become a knight so I may serve Our Lord Jesus Christ. Pure in heart, strong in body.”
“A knight is a guardian,” the cardinal continued. “Whom will you guard?”
“I will do all I can to defend and care for people less fortunate than I am,” I replied.
As I said these words, I thought at once of Gatty. I could see her hoeing her croft, and singing. I thought of Jankin and Howell, and all the villagers at Caldicot. I thought of Tanwen, and Kester.
“In the kingdom of Britain,” I said, “many people suffer. Many go to bed hungry. It’s not just.”
Cardinal Capuano looked down at me and rubbed his chin. I knew this wasn’t quite what he had expected me to say.
“My child,” he said, “all of us are equal in the eyes of God.”
That’s what Oliver told me. And he told me poverty is part of God’s will. I don’t believe that. I think a knight is bound to do everything he can to look after the people in his manor.
“Arthur de Gortanore,” said the cardinal, “do you undertake to defend widows and orphans?”
Gatty! She’s an orphan now. And my mother’s a widow.
“I do.”
“And will you oppose evil wherever you find it?”
“I will.”
“It is said and well said,” the cardinal continued. “The Saracens are evil. Never doubt that for one moment. They desecrate the holy places in Jerusalem; they defecate on them. War is violent, war is cruel, war is bloody, but it is natural. It is natural, and peace is unnatural. Love God, and win honor by destroying His enemies.”
Is that true? I thought. Is war really natural?
Then Cardinal Capuano slowly proceeded round the circle. Everyone kissed his cross except Lady Cécile and Tanwen. He rudely walked past them, I don’t know why.
The cardinal turned to Milon and nodded, and at once Milon drew his sword and stepped up to me. I bowed my head, but I could still see the tip of the blade trembling above my right shoulder.
As the first ray of sunlight at Caldicot touches and sets light to Tumber Hill…
Three times and lightly Milon tapped me on the shoulder.
“In name of God and all His saints,” Milon said, “I dub you knight. Sir Arthur! Le chevalier Arthur! Courage! Courtoisie! Loyauté!”
At once everyone in the circle shouted, “Sir Arthur! Sir Arthur!” ten times. One hundred times! Then they all scrambled to their feet, and began to grab my arms and hands, and hug me and tousle my hair—well, what’s left of it.
After this, Milon himself fastened a new sword to my belt. When I unsheathed it, everyone covered their eyes because it was so dazzling.
“Bravee!” cried Milon. “Sir Arthur bravee!” And then he showed me what his armorer had engraved on my sword, just below the hilt.
A ring. My ring! How did Milon know about it? The same square, flat top. A mother and her child. Wouldn’t my mother be proud for me now? She would, wouldn’t she?
I looked at Milon. His expression didn’t alter, but his eyes simmered. Mine began to sting.
“Ring of hope, ring of patience,” Milon said quietly. “Ring without end.”
I didn’t dare look at my father; I didn’t want to. And I mustn’t let him see the ring. I lowered my head and my eyes filled with tears.
“Come on!” said Bertie enthusiastically. He helped me dress in a new white surcoat, embroidered with a bloodred cross on the front and back, and then Serle gave me a length of sacking taller than I am.
“Here!” he said. “From Sir John.”
“Sir John!” I exclaimed.
I unrolled the sacking and inside it was the most beautiful bow, made of yew.
“He says he knows it’s scarcely the right gift for a knight,” Serle said, “and yew’s against the law anyhow because you’re not yet seventeen.”
“He gave you yours when you were sixteen,” I protested.
“But seeing as he promised you…”
“It’s wonderful!” I cried. “It’s wonderful. And you brought it all the way from Caldicot? Look! The stave’s exactly right.” I fingered the ancient yew, and for a moment I remembered the bow made of shining elm that Will made for me and Sir John gave me almost three years ago. “I’ve stopped growing now,” I said. “I think I have, and the stave’s just half a fingerspan taller than I am.”
At noon we feasted and after that we all rode down to the strand. I showed a trick Rhys has taught me, leaning right down out of my saddle at full gallop, and grabbing a jackknife stuck into the sand. I missed it the first time but got it twice after that. Then, in honor of Sir John, I displayed my bowmanship, shooting a full furlong. I’ve never been best at Yard-skills, but I’ve always been able to notch fast and shoot straight, and it was the same today.
After this, Serle and Bertie and I tilted at the quintain, and then I fought them at quarterstaff and swordplay.
“You, Arthur,” said Milon approvingly. “Sharp as a Venetian’s tongue.”
“Not really, sir. I wish I were.”
“I invite sea-feast councillors,” Milon said. “But they not come. Shipwright not come.”
“I’m not surprised,” Lord Stephen said. “The Venetians are extremely impatient and angry.”
“Sir Arthur! Sir Arthur!” my father mumbled. “Well! The bloody Saracens had better watch out.” I looked at him, and then I had to look again to be sure. He was nodding at me, and smiling. “As for the Venetians,” he boomed, “people around here accord them far too much respect.”
Away east, out over the sea, it looked very murky, and before long I heard a low growl. An old sea-god, yawning. A gruff warning.