Chapter 12

Account of a Strange Incident

 

 

 

Journal Entry

 

“It wasn’t long before Dormoy had organized a day trip to the Celestine convent, to further his studies in the Arabic origins of Alchemy and other pursuits, both forbidden and fascinating. It was rare for us to venture across the river, to where our accents would be more noticeable and where no one, but priests and court officials, spoke a word of Latin. Consequently, we decided to meet at the Ecurie the evening before to make some precautionary plans.

“First of all, we were to leave our academic robes behind, so as to present a less obvious target for gutter thugs and soldiers, but our street clothes were not at all in fashion with the place, or the time. We finally settled on a stratagem to sport long, riding cloaks to conceal our non-Parisian attire, even though spring had come and gone, and the balmy breeze, wafting from the Seine, would most likely overheat us before we had managed to cross the Pont St Michel. We all procured black cloaks with hoods, except for Testagrossa’s, which was brown, Gaudin remarked, like a Franciscan’s.

“For his part, Testagrossa was taking little or no interest in our preparations, whether out of disapproval of Dormoy’s academic pursuits or for some other, unstated reason. I turned, at the mention of the cloaks, and noticed that my Italian friend had removed himself to a separate table, closer to the spiral staircase. He was, at that moment, deep in conversation with the waitress, Caterina, who was leaning on the railing, one foot on the first step of the ascent. Testagrossa was speaking in a low voice, so I could not make out what he was saying, but I noticed that his hands were uncharacteristically still and his face, devoid of animation, was cast in an earnest grimace. I thought that this might very well be the expression that my friend would assume, when he was hearing confessions. Caterina, for her part, did not appear to be very happy with what he was saying, looking almost as if her large, solemn friend might be scolding her.

“Fortunately for Caterina, Marie Blanchard appeared at the top of the stairs, a tray in one hand and the other hand crooked at her hip. The young waitress wasted no time, darting obediently back up the stairs to the kitchen. Testagrossa sat still for a moment, staring into darkness, then he rose slowly and slouched back to the table, just as we three friends were rising, promising to meet early the next morning, in front of Saint-Severin’s.

“My questions about the little scene I had just witnessed would have to wait for a more appropriate moment the next day.

 

***

 

“The right bank was like another world, with wider, freshly paved streets, over which people of quality road on well-groomed horses or in fashionable carriages. The taverns were all up-scale, compared with those of the Latin Quarter, and there were many more lawyers, doctors and courtiers (judging from their dress) than there were friars and nuns to be seen ambling in small groups up and down the main thoroughfares.

“The Duc’s guards were very much in evidence here, and people’s papers were being checked at many of the intersections of larger and more crowded streets. Once, we were stopped on the Rue de la Curriere, at which point Dormoy produced his letter from the Brother Librarian of Sainte-Geneviève’s Abbey. At the sight of an official looking Latin document, the guard nodded and waived them on in the direction of the convent. We were given another suspicious glance, when we reached the intersection with the Rue Melville du Temple, but the guards, in the colourful livery of the House of Guise, decided, instead, to stop a farmer’s cart, in the hope that they could pilfer something valuable that might be concealed under the pile of hay that was covering the rickety conveyance.

“We continued due east until the street dead-ended at the Rue des Celestines, which runs north-south along the wall behind which the convent crouched. To gain access, we would have had to have turned right, in order to enter by the main portico which faced south, but there was such a commotion and bustle of people pushing and shoving its way north from where we could hear the beating of drums and the blare of trumpets. So, we decided, on the spur of the moment, to turn left, instead, and join the melee headed toward whatever spectacle lay in that direction.

“‘Cut-purse convention, I see,’ said Gaudin, looking at the faces of those who were pushing in around them, but since our heavy cloaks were over our belts and the sacks of coins that hung from them, we considered ourselves safe from thievery.

“When we reached the corner, we saw the object of the pilgrimage. The royal lodgings at L’Hotel des Tournelles stood out before them, to the east, in front of which stretched a long tilting yard, on an expansive, oval shaped piece of land just outside the apartments. The centre of the yard had been completely levelled, except that there was a wooden barrier, like a seam, down the centre, to separate two equestrian combatants as they would pass each other at high speed.

“Outside of the central, tilled area, there were clusters of colourful pavilions, resplendent with coats of arms, which caught the sunlight like convex mirrors, topped with multi-coloured, striped and checked pennants that competed with each other for the attention of the dazzled onlookers. Since jousting was clearly a spectator sport, the next ring of the oval was taken up with recently erected wooden bleachers at the east end of which was an elevated reviewing stand. Over the front of the reviewing stand was draped a huge tapestry, dominated by the emblem of a shield: three golden fleurs de lys: two on top, one below, on a field of azure.

“Above the Valois tapestry were two throne chairs and some smaller chairs for the privileged few who sat by invitation on the dais with the King and Queen. That day, however, the dais was empty, notwithstanding the fact that the bleachers were packed and bustling with boisterous activity, and the pavilions were already spilling out armoured knights. Grooms were hastening forward with destriers and chargers decked out in colourful caparisons.

“There was a fence at the far end of the oval, behind which we four and the other late comers were pushing and jostling for position. A group of Bretons, who had evidently been celebrating for some time, recognised Gaudin and offered us a place in the front spot they had staked out for themselves earlier. One of them noted that there would be no dignitaries today, because these were just preliminary elimination rounds, to allow some of the younger knights to get some tournament experience. There was however, one knight who was striding from pavilion to pavilion, checking on the positioning of everyone’s armour and evidently giving pointers on the tightening of the helmet strap and the securing of the spurs.

“‘That’s Gabriel, Comte de Montgomery, the captain of the King’s Scottish guards,’ said our Breton host, with the casual air of an expert on these matters. ‘He’s giving some pointers to the novices on how to keep from breaking their necks the first time they meet an opponent,’ he added by way of commentary.

“A young knight was deep in consultation with Montgomery, when a groom brought up a skittish charger, draped in yellow and green. A squire had taken the reins to try to calm the animal. He was struggling, unsuccessfully, to slip a piece of protective iron headgear, which Gaudin said was called a “chanfron,” onto the horse’s snout. Montgomery immediately intervened, quieting the animal by stroking his neck gently with one hand while mounting the headpiece quickly with the other. He then continued to hold the reins firmly while two attendants helped lift the young knight into the saddle. The first timer was so heavily laden with armour that he could never have mounted the charger by himself.

“Gaudin pointed in the direction of the encumbered knight and his mount. ‘That horse isn’t so big. You should see the massive beast that Montgomery rides in tournaments. He’s half again as tall as this one and nasty as a headache after a night of drinking and carousing,’ he added for emphasis. ‘They control the animals with the spurs they wear high on their leg plates, to dig into the horses’ flanks, and with their thighs, they control direction and movement, since their hands are occupied with weapons. Montgomery has thighs like an Italian whore, and rides with equal confidence and vigour!’ He nodded at his friends knowingly, his lips twisted into a leering grin.

“The young knight brought his mount to a steady canter and moved him to the end of the tilt yard closest to the spectators’ fence, while another knight was assisted to his charger and positioned himself nearest to the pavilions. Montgomery shouted: ‘Aim, then lower your head for contact,’

“The Captain offered his final instructions to the first knight, as the two riders aligned themselves to the central barrier, lowered their solid oak lances into position and spurred their mounts toward each other.

“They really didn’t build up great speed, because this pass was about accuracy in positioning the blunted end of the lance on the opponent. Nevertheless, the thumping sound of wood against metal was loud enough to startle Dormoy, who had never before witnessed either real or ceremonial combat and who was sure that he had heard the sound of bone crunching. Neither rider was unhorsed, but one had apparently nearly missed the neck of his opponent’s horse, which, in addition to being uncomfortable for the animal, would have caused the beast to rear in protest and almost certainly throw and seriously injure the rider.

“‘Aim for the shield; I told you to AIM!’ shouted Montgomery, his hands gripping the horse’s reins to hold him firmly but gently while he upbraided the youth, still sitting high in the saddle. ‘Two more passes with lances,’ Montgomery said to both combatants, ‘and the only bruises I want to see should be born by you! Do I make myself clear?’

“The next two passes showed perfect form, on the part of both combatants, and neither man nor beast appeared to have suffered any injury. Nevertheless, the series went to the young knight who had come to the far end of the tilt yard, because his lance had found centre shield on his opponent three times. I was beginning to get the hang of the rules. I wondered if dynastic conflicts might not also be solved this way, instead of sending men to war.

“Another knight emerged from a red and white pavilion near to the edge of the lists, and immediately there were shouts and “boos” coming from the nearest rows of bleachers. ‘They know this knight, and apparently they don’t like him very much,’ I commented, giving an appraising look across to where the knight stood, his armour a mirror of reflected sunlight.

“‘Yes,’ said Testagrossa, who had been quiet, up to this point, ‘I don’t like the looks of him very much myself.’

“‘What’s this?’ asked Gaudin in mock dismay. ‘Our gentle giant, the polite and reverend Father Testagrossa actually dislikes someone’s looks?’

“‘You mean someone whose looks he dislikes more than yours?’ contributed Dormoy, seeing no reason not to strike a blow in Testagrossa’s defence.

“While Gaudin and Dormoy were thus trading insults, the young knight, with the assistance of only one attendant mounted a heavy destrier, wheeled it briskly around and, his helmet crooked under his left arm, cantered, almost pranced his beast away from the near bleachers toward the fence where the four of us and our other companions stood. From near the dais, a herald brayed the announcement that Hugh de Frontenac, fourth son of Charles, Comte de Nimes, had entered the lists.

“‘There’s a braggart and an upstart for you,’ said Gaudin, pointing toward the chorus of cat calls that followed the young knight’s movements.

“I turned to follow the rider and caught, out of the corner of my eye, the image of my friend, Testagrossa, transfixed by the spectacle before him, eyes squinting in the direction of the proud knight, all the time clenching and releasing both his fists. It was then that I noticed what had probably so enraged the nearby spectators. The knight wore a white scarf just visible above his breast plate, clearly placed to display a token, carried at the behest of a lady. The scarf was plain, except for a large, golden brooch which joined its two halves and rested on the base of his neck, below his Adam’s apple. The brooch was in the shape of a blue shield on which was emblazoned a white salamander, spouting flames from its mouth and surrounded by a golden field of its own fire.

“‘How dare he presume to wear the emblem of our late king, François, an emblem that belongs to royalty, not to the fourth son of some provincial noble!’ said Gaudin in my ear, when he saw that I, myself, was gaping at the ornament.

“I paid no attention to what Gaudin said. Instead, I turned toward Testagrossa, who was dead silent and motionless, teeth clenched and tears welling up in his eyes. At that moment, I felt strongly that it could not have been for the honour of the Valois family that my dark faced companion wept. I also knew better than to invade the privacy of this moment to press Testagrossa in so public a place. Yet I had to know what weighed so heavily on my friend’s shoulders, and why these thoughts should trouble him at this moment of high entertainment.

“I turned back to the lists, where cheers and shouts of approval were rising from the bleachers like thunder from the hilltops. The crowd rose in unison to its feet as Gabriel de Montgomery, himself, mounted a giant sandy brown war horse. Bending down from his mount, he reached out his gauntleted hand to accept his shield, emblazoned with the red lion of Scotland, rampant on the field of amber, and deftly fastened it to the armour plate on his left arm. Next, he accepted a pro-offered helmet and placed it on his head, with a calm and steady motion, before guiding his horse, at a canter, to its position at one end of the course. Two squires simultaneously handed each knight his lance of solid oak, which the knights raised to each other in ritual salute.

“At a signal from the herald, they spurred their mounts into action. Steadily, they picked up speed as they leaned into their horses’ forward momentum, their knees and thighs like iron clamps on the haunches of the animals. The field fell silent as lances lowered in aim and the two men braced for contact. Each one waited for the other to flinch and move in the saddle. An instant before contact, de Frontenac hefted his shield, only minutely, and Montgomery’s lance dipped just enough to glance past the lower portion of the shield and strike his opponent squarely on the re-enforced breastplate underneath.

“The silence was broken by a sound like that of a church bell struck with a dull hammer. De Frontenac contorted, bending to form a “U” over the head of the lance and rolled, almost in slow motion from his high saddle to the swirling dust below. The crowd moaned with the weight of the blow, then cheered as a groom ran up to take the horse’s reins and pull him away, lest he trample the fallen and helpless rider.

“Montgomery pulled up his horse, dismounted and bent to assist his opponent in the removal of his helmet. ‘You’re not ready,’ he said gruffly, as if the man had just failed a spelling test. ‘I told you to watch out for the dip of the lance.’ Then his tone softened a bit. ‘Don’t worry. I hit you where you had enough padding to protect your ribs. It’ll be a little sore, but nothing’s broken, and you’ll be fine in a couple of days.’ With that, he signalled to the herald that the day’s sport was over. While attendants helped the shaken de Frontenac off of the field, Montgomery lead his destrier to where a groom waited to take him to the stables of the Scottish Guards.

“At that moment, there was a howl, like a demonic laugh, coming from the unruly crowd piled up at the fence, behind which we stood. We were hemmed in as people jostled to get out of the way of what was evidently a raving madman, only a few yards behind us. Then all at once I saw and heard him, as he pushed toward the fence, his eyes, under his crushed scholar’s hat, riveted to the spot where Montgomery had felled his opponent. ‘The young lion, the young lion will defeat the elder on a field of single combat. He will drive a shaft through his eye, encased in a golden cage. The older will die a horrid death, and the younger will die in shame..Yes, yes, yes, he will!’

“Doctor Michel stood there in some kind of hysterical rapture, feet riveted to the ground and bony finger pointing to the spot where he most certainly thought that he could see the event he was trying to describe. Terrified faces gaped at a figure that was suddenly taller, having pulled himself out of his habitual stoop, a spectre carried on the wind, his black robe billowing, crackling as if it were being consumed by Seraphic fire.

“Dormoy fell into a kind of trance at his feet, a disciple at the Transfiguration of his master. This man, he was sure, knew the secret of the Oneness of all things, the common building blocks of which all things, including time, are made. He would follow his master to prison and to the gallows, if it came to that.

“However Testagrossa, who, in his black and evil mood, had no patience for transcendental things, shoved in between Dormoy and his dark prophet. He grabbed the old man with his two, large hairy hands, and turned him away from the place of vision. ‘Go away, you old fool, before you get us all arrested!’ he said through clenched teeth and with eyes seething with fury.

“With a strength belied by his frail body, Doctor Michael shook himself free. Placing both of his bony hands on Testagrossa’s two shoulders, he intoned a judgement on the young theology student, for all around them to hear. ‘One who is not your child will call you “father”,’ he said with neither mirth nor sorrow in the message.

“Gaudin laughed nervously and pulled Testagrossa away from his confrontation by grabbing the back of his brown riding cape. At the same time, he responded to my worried expression with his considered conclusion. ‘For certain, a whole parish full of people in Lazio will call him “Father”, if I’m not mistaken, none of whom, I hope, will have been begotten by our friend with that big head of his!’

“‘Let’s get out of here,’ I suggested, as the crowd began to disperse. Gaudin pushed an unwilling Dormoy before him, toward the rue des Celestines, from which we had come. Dormoy moved obediently, in dull somnolence, looking behind him for a sign of his master. As I turned my head in the same direction, I caught a glimpse of the old man’s robe just before it was swallowed by the encircling crowd heading toward the ancient church of the Templars.

“‘What the hell was that all about?’ enquired Gaudin, once they were within sight of the bridge to the Isle de la Cité and, beyond the island, the safety of the left bank.

“‘A young lion will defeat an older one,’ repeated Dormoy.

“Gaudin frowned in puzzlement. ‘But young de Frontenac was bested by Montgomery, was he not? The young one did not vanquish the older one, did he?’

“‘De Frontenac is a young snake, not a lion,’ remarked a surly Testagrossa, breaking his silence for the first time since leaving Doctor Michel alone in the crowd.

“‘Now, now, now FATHER Testagrossa,’ said Gaudin, trying to lighten the mood a bit. ‘My, we are touchy on the subject of this knight! Keep it up, and you’ll have to go to confession before you hear Mass tomorrow morning.’

“‘Oh, shut up,’ retorted the Italian, in no mood for his friend’s sporting banter.

“‘In a golden cage?’ pursued Dormoy, unable to get past the words of his spiritual master.

“‘Never mind all that,’ I said. ‘Let’s get back to our own quarter and sort this out over beer and soup,’ I added pragmatically. There was no point in asking Testagrossa about his reaction in front of Gaudin. That would only end up in the two of them coming to blows that afternoon, but I was worried about my friend and I wasn’t about to let the matter drop.

“When we reached Saint-Severin, we made for the Ecurie, for some sustenance, but Testagrossa, avoiding direct eye contact with any of us, excused himself and hurried off to his residence.

“Dormoy was positively manic, walking so fast that we other two could hardly keep up with him. His mind still swirled around the spectre of Doctor Michel in ecstasy, prophesying to the dust of the tilt yard. ’A shaft in the eye, a shaft in the eye, in a golden cage,’ he kept repeating, as if there were a hidden message, just for him, in these obscure words. A conversation with Dormoy would yield little on any subject but this, it seemed.

“The Ecurie was rapidly filling up with students and masters, thirsty and hungry at the late afternoon hour when their lectures were all concluded. The normally ebullient landlady, Marie Blanchard, spoke not one word to us three regulars, but rushed past us to clean up still more spilled beer from a table by the staircase and rescue two wooden tankards lying on the thresh covered floor, under the table.

“‘She’s in a foul mood for so fine a day,’ remarked Gaudin after she had brushed past us, wet rag in one hand and the handles of the two tankards in the other.

“I glanced in the direction of the surely matron and drew some inferences of my own. ‘Evidently, Caterina is not here today, and Madame Blanchard is providing the service in addition to supervising the kitchen staff by herself.’ I considered it unlikely that she would have given the girl the day off, if they were normally this busy in the middle of the week, for the pace was chaotic. Even at the table where the three of us sat, conversation seemed to have been supplanted by three distinct monologues, none of us actually listening to what the others were saying.

“’What a fight; what poise in the saddle and control of his mount; what skill and grace with a lance!’ expounded Gaudin in a continuing litany of praise for Montgomery’s sporting victory over de Frontenac. He wanted to relive the experience by repeating every nuance of his master’s horsemanship and skill at arms, as if it would continue happening as long as he persisted in relating its every detail. Dormoy’s eyes bulged with fevered enthusiasm, as well, but without a single thought about horsemanship or skill with a lance.

“‘He will pierce the older one’s eye in a golden cage but end his life in shame,’ paraphrased Dormoy, still searching the words, rolling them in his mouth, looking for the secret flavour of truth he was sure was hidden within them.

“Gaudin dismissed Dormoy’s statement with a wave of his hand. ‘Have no concern for the manner of Montgomery’s death; he will live on in glory.’

“‘I’m worried about Bernardo,’ I said, without a thought for either Montgomery or the words of the dark prophet. ‘I don’t know what’s come over him.’

“‘You mean what’s gotten into his fat head?’ asked Gaudin. ‘God knows! You don’t suppose that he was angry because de Frontenac was humiliated by the paragon of knights, do you?’

“‘On the contrary,’ I observed, ‘de Frontenac was apparently the focus of his anger.’

“Gaudin just shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s as incomprehensible as the obsession of this Provençal dolt, over here, with what some drivelling old fool has to say about a blow to an encaged eye and the shameful death of whomever he thinks delivered the blow.’

“Dormoy stirred himself and raised a finger close to Gaudin’s nose. ‘He saw something, an event of great significance in the unsettled dust of that one sided battle.’ It seemed to me that Dormoy had put on a look of rock solid certitude, as if he himself were a prophet of some kind.

“‘I’m more concerned with what Testagrossa saw or thought he saw,’ said I, determined to pursue my own subject.

“Gaudin wouldn’t give up his tirade on Dormoy’s idiocy. ‘He actually believes that excramentum equi (horse shit).’

“‘Very well,’ I concluded. ‘You try to work out the future of the Comte de Montgomery with Dormoy, and I will try to find out what ails Bernardo Giambelli so much that he would pass up a tankard of beer with his friends.’

“With that, we three drained our tankards and called it an evening.”