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THE DRIFTING BLUE waters of the River Itchen sliced through a boundless panorama, an emerald backdrop of rolling terrain at its back, and white-stoned battlements setting off its prominence.
Itchendel Castle rose up from bedrock like a mystical vision of old. Serving not only as a citadel of Norman rule, it was also home to the fitzAlans. Father William, sons Drake and Stephen, and mother and wife Philippia of Aquitaine, entombed alongside a stillborn daughter beneath the chapel’s flagstones.
Clothed in their gayest costumes, townsfolk and country folk streamed onto the castle grounds. Though they came for the food, the drink, and the fête champêtre on this, the first sanctioned tournament to take place on English soil in many a year, it was the romantic notion of dashing knights in shining armor and secretly for the blood sport to come that brought them in droves.
At the base of castle hill, white-clothed pavilions sucked like sails in strong winds. Cooking pits flamed. Wine casks brimmed. Banners fluttered and flew. Jongleurs, acrobats, and troubadours entertained. And song and laughter drenched the fine summer air.
On the occasion of his sons being dubbed knights two days since in Winchester Cathedral by King Richard’s own sword and hand, William fitzAlan had emptied his purse. His largess was grand and knew no bounds. Common folk and nobles alike salivated at the mere thought of the feat and the accompanying feast to come. Of swans cooked fully feathered, stuffed pigling and cormorants, lampreys in galytyne, blancmange with anise and almonds, viaund royal, capon de haut de grace, venison en frumenty, and not to be left out, raisins, figs, dates, and pomegranates; pies, pasties, and sweetmeats; and to wash it all down, ale and mead.
On a long stretch of field, two sides formed up, fifty knights to a side, ranks split by familiarity, friendship, and habitual alliances. After donning armor at either end of the virgin meadow, one hundred knights mounted their warhorses and galloped towards each other, hoofs drumming. Lances were couched securely in one hand while shields were held fast in the other. To mark the opposing forces, banners of red and blue flew aloft, snapping in breezes coming off the river. The silver-clad warriors stopped a bowshot apart, reining in their chargers. A safe distance away, spectators climbed into stands or meandered along the riverbank, eager for the contest to begin. Cheers broke out in support of each side, everyone claiming a favored champion.
Standing on a platform for all the riders to see, Lord William fitzAlan of Itchendel separated the two forces by his presence. He held aloft a white banner and waited for order. When an impatient rustling took hold, he dropped the pennon and shouted, “In God’s name, charge!”
A cloud of dust rose from the trampled plain. Horseman rushed on horseman, shimmering steel met shimmering steel, and everything melded amidst sibilant war cries.
Tournament or not, anything could happen on a battlefield. Few rules applied in à outrance contests and those that did were soon discarded for the promise of stature, exaltation, and treasure. Honor quickly broke down. Fair was fair when a knight lost his horse, lost his weapons, lost blood or freedom, all to be claimed by the other side for prizes and glory. Since dead men paid no ransoms, capture rather than harm was the object, but fury was indiscriminate. Knights went down, scrambled to their feet, drew sword, grasped shield, dodged weapons that could impale, slash, and draw blood, and outmaneuvered raging horseflesh that might easily trample them to death.
Unseated from his horse, one knight became entangled in a stirrup and was dragged screaming into the distance. Another flew over the head of his steed, forthwith carried off the field, bleeding and insensate. Those knights who held their saddle soon scattered across the countryside, rivalry sending them headlong into one-on-one contests, two-on-one skirmishes, and five-on-one battles royal.
Scattered far and near, recets provided sanctuary to rest, rearm, hold prisoners, and count booty. After replenishing themselves with wine and catching their breaths, knights went out again, to pick another fight, acquire another reward, or lose an engagement. The brawling was destined to go on until dusk and beyond.
Staying well behind the mêlée, his sun-streaked hair a crown of gold against the azure river at his back, Drake fitzAlan stood at the threshold of life and the edge of a killing field. Reining in his magnificent white destrier, the young knight wore a shirt of mail, his coif slung back and ventail unfastened. A sleeveless surcote of red and gold girded his waist. A shield strapped to his arm flaunted the same colors. He held a polished helm in his leather-mitted hand. His other hand gripped a lance, the pennon of gold and red whipping in the breeze. Strapped at his side was his dragon sword, forged of the best Poitou steel.
Engaged in a lively sword fight, his brother Stephen lost his saddle. Recovering handily, he fended off capture and withdrew to the sidelines. His hair glowing like dying embers, their squire Devon of Wheeling helped the knight remove helm. Stephen looked up at his brother, his expression ardent, his eyes sparkling, and his hair dark with sweat. Little separated the brothers, one from the other; not their hawklike profiles, brush-stroked cheekbones, lofty statures, or matching garnet rings. Because Drake and Stephen fitzAlan were not only brothers but identical twins, born in the space of three breaths on a black moon a little more than twenty years ago.
The brothers had been riding with Richard in France since winter before last, serving the duke of Aquitaine as his personal squires, and in serving, matured from green youths to valiant men. Drake and Stephen had returned to England with their new king in anticipation of his coronation, and they would remain in England for as long as it took Richard to prepare for the Holy Crusade, the third such crusade waged over the last hundred years, which purpose was to rescue the Holy Land from the Turks. Whether this would be the final crusade, only God could tell, but when the final Muslim had been routed from Jerusalem, Christendom would reign for eternity.
In the meantime, money had to be raised, supplies gathered, soldiers recruited, maps drawn, ships engaged, wagons and carts constructed, work horses and battle steeds acquired, weapons turned out, mercenaries conscripted, cooks and wagoners employed, and battle plans forged. It would take a hard drive across Europe, over rough terrain, treacherous rivers, mountainous ranges, verdant valleys, and arid plains. Along the way, Richard would bring allies to his side, turn enemies aside, cross stormy seas, and make many promises, some to be kept but most to be broken, until finally he reached the Levant at the head of the greatest army ever assembled and brought God’s judgment down upon the infidels of Islam.
For the fitzAlan brothers, the upcoming crusade was to be an adventure in the service of their king and the dream of a lifetime. Traveling through foreign lands, encountering alien peoples, experiencing strange customs, stranger tongues, exotic women, unaccustomed climates, and unforeseen travails would only be the beginning of an undertaking where their courage was to be tested, endurance proven, and bravery challenged.
The future, though, was but a dream. The present lay before them. The endless field they stood upon had been their childhood playground. Now they would romp on it as full-fledged knights, wielding sword and shouting battle cries, beating back pretend foes, winning prizes and prestige, and hearing ladies cheer them on for greater glory. But for Drake more than Stephen, it was a chance to forge the metal of his fighting instincts in prelude to the real war to come.
The brothers did not speak. There was no need for words, nor was there time. Stephen’s mount, a twin of Drake’s, came into view, a white beauty in a drab sea of black, gray, and brown. Ordinarily the stallion would have been a handsome prize for the man who unseated its rider, but the warhorse brooked none but the touch of a fitzAlan brother. Stephen whistled, made a dash and a leap, and regained his mighty charger, sad loss to the unsung victor. He let loose a war cry as he galloped in pursuit of another fight.
Drake donned his helm, spurred his horse, and charged headlong into the mêlée, riding the wind devil-may-care. In no time he merged with the rest, charging, attacking, defending, regrouping, circling back for another sortie, and yet another. The clashes intoxicated like wine. He lost his lance but stayed his horse, fought with sword and defended with shield, and outran and outmaneuvered the swords and lances crashing relentlessly down on him.
On a whirl of pent-up stallion, Drake caught sight of the black knight mere moments after the knight glimpsed him. Poised at the crest of a hill, the beardless youth made an obscene gesture, replaced helmet over unkempt hair, and rode off, baiting Drake to follow.
Catching up with him on an isolated scrap of grassland, Drake called out his rival’s name like a curse. “Maynard of Clarendon!”
The knight swung around, raised lance, and urged warhorse. The raven destrier, sleek and powerful, stretched his legs into a gallop.
Slashing his sword through the air, Drake shouted, “If you want a fight, damn it all, I’ll give you a fight!” Drake’s shield barely deflected the blow.
Maynard circled back. Instead of attacking, he allowed his steed to prance in a wide circuit while teasing with the point of his lance. Drake defended the perimeter in the opposite direction, brandishing his sword and working his shield.
The two men had been rivals since boyhood. Maynard always held contempt for the heir of Itchendel, and Drake loathed him in equal measure. The scrawny boy with black hair and blacker eyes had never been pretty. Pocked by adolescent pustules and scarred across his cheek from an accident with a wagon, he had always begrudged Drake for many reasons but mostly for his handsomeness, his inheritance, and the lasses who frolicked after him like bees to honey. In their youth, Maynard was bigger and brawnier. He bullied Drake, set traps for him, and teased him into fights that he inevitably won. Time and again, Drake would limp home; robbed of horse or boots or bow; bloody, hurting, and vowing revenge. The Lord of Itchendel wasted no pity on his son but put him through the paces, driving him harder with sword fights, wrestling matches, and trials of endurance. As he grew into manhood, Drake made up for lack of brute force with speed and agility. Instead of losing every fight with Maynard, he won every fourth or fifth. He wanted to improve the odds. The time to start was now.
“You’ve been looking for a fight all day, fitzAlan.”
“You have it wrong. I was in the market for a jackass. And here you are.”
“After besting you on the bedding field, you fear I will best you on the battlefield.”
Held at lance length, Drake searched for an opening, his mouth and eyes in constant use. “I fear your mother bedded a donkey and her spawn came out the wrong end of a mule. What say you?—half-ass, complete ass, or the mule itself, equus riding equus, the smarter equus with hoofs carrying the dumber equus with boots? Surely you can find better sport than an innocent lass.”
The black lance repeatedly jolted the red-and-gold shield. “Not so innocent, Drake. Just ask every man jack. Better yet, ask your doting king about the pleasures his brother takes in highborn maidens the likes of Geneviève de Berneval.”
The lady’s name, tossed around as sport, belonged to the maiden Drake aspired to take as his wife one day very soon. She had sent him off at the start of the festivities and would have been watching now had the two knights stayed within the vicinity of the viewing stands, from whence she had cheered him on, her daisy yellow hair easy to spot and her beauty surpassing all the other fair maidens.
He answered Maynard’s insult with a sharp thrust of his sword. The jolt to Maynard’s breastplate caused the destrier to whinny, throw up his head, and step into a wide, counterbalancing circle. When beast and rider came back around, Drake made ready with another blow and delivered it with such unbridled ferocity that Maynard of Clarendon toppled from his saddle, landing with a thunderous thump and a louder, “Oomph!”
“Ah, landed on your arse ... or should I say ass.” Drake dismounted and kicked away the knight’s dislodged lance.
Fumbling for the hilt of his sword, Clarendon scrambled to his feet.
“You owe the lady an apology,” Drake said, “and by God, she shall get one!” Two quick slices of Drake’s sword and Maynard lost his. A hook of Drake’s foot and Maynard fell onto his rump. A prick of white knight’s blade at the base of black knight’s throat, and Maynard broke out in sweat. Drake threw off his helm and slung back his coif. He intended to make Clarendon sweat a bit longer, too make his bowels run loose with fear, and to put the fear of God and of Drake fitzAlan into him.
The roar of hoofs approaching distracted him from his appointed task. Since his hearing counted only one horse, he took his time identifying the rider and appreciated instead the dread showing on the black knight’s face.
Drake misjudged the charger’s speed and turned too late. The horse arrived at full gallop. The rider’s boot hooked him under the jaw at the same driving gait, flinging him back in a clatter of armor and knocking him quite senseless.
