When Conon decided to give a tourney as a climax to the wedding
and adubbement festivities, he sent out several servitors of good
appearance and loud voices to course the country for some twenty
leagues around. These varlets bawled their proclamation at every
crossroad, village, inn, and castle gate.
"The Wednesday after St. Ancildus Day, good people! In the meadow at
St. Aliquis by the Claire. The Wednesday after St. Ancildus day! Let
all come who love to see or to join in deeds of valor!"
This is "crying the tourney." As soon as the news spreads abroad, every
petty sire takes council with his wife whether he can afford to go. The
women begin to hunt up their best bliauts and furs; the men to furbish
their armor. Soon various cavaliers, arranging with their friends,
undertake to form challenge parties. They write on a scroll "At the
castle of A---- there are seven knights who will be ready to joust with
all comers to St. Aliquis." This they post on a tree by the wayside in
order that other lordlings may organize similar parties to confront
them.
Tourneys are to be reckoned as "little wars themselves, and the
apprenticeship for great ones." They have an inconceivably prominent
place in feudal life. Vainly the Church objects to them. All nobles
will tell you that without tourneys you can never train good warriors.
[Sidenote: Early Tourneys Were Battles]
Tourneys, however, bring profit and pleasure to all manner of
people--no cause for unpopularity. The "joy women," who rush to
ply their sinful wiles despite every attempt to restrict them; the
common villeins, who drop their work to enjoy one grand holiday; and
the merchants, who really hold a small fair near the lists, all are
delighted. As for men of gentle blood, an English chronicler can state
the case alike for France and England: "A knight cannot shine in war if
he has not been prepared for it in tourneys. He must have seen his own
blood flow, have had his teeth crackle under the blow of his adversary,
have been dashed to the earth with such force as to feel the weight
of his opponent, and disarmed twenty times; he must twenty times have
retrieved his failures, more than ever set on combat." _Then_ he will
be ready for actual war and can hope to conquer!
In early feudal days tourneys differed from battles merely in that the
time and the place were fixed in advance, and fair conditions arranged.
According to the epics, at "Charlemagne's court" the nobles often got
tired of ordinary sports and "demanded a tourney." The results were
merely pitched battles in which many were slain and many more wounded.
There was no luxury, pomp, or patronage by fair ladies at the earliest
tourneys.[65] They were exceedingly violent pastimes in which "iron
men" measured their strength and rejoiced in deadly blows. Since then
tourneys have been getting less brutal. An important spectacular
element is intruding. The rules of combat are becoming more elaborate,
fewer knights are killed, and there is an appeal to something better
than mere fighting instinct. On the other hand, in the thirteenth
century jousts and mêlées are far from being mere displays of fine
armor and fine manners. The military element is still uppermost.
Furthermore, since the vanquished cavaliers are the prisoners of the
victors and are subject to ransom, or at least their horses and armor
are forfeit, certain formidable knights go from tourney to tourney
deliberately seeking profit by taking prisoners. In short, so dangerous
are tourneys even yet, that as recently as 1208, when Prince Louis,
heir of King Philip, was knighted, his father made him swear he would
merely watch them as spectator--for the life of a prince royal is too
precious to risk in such affairs.
The popes have long since denounced tourneys. Innocent II, Eugenius
III, Alexander III, and finally the great and wise Innocent III have
prohibited Christians from participating in the same under peril of
their souls. But _cui bono_? Great barons who shudder at the thought
of eating beef on Fridays defy the Church absolutely when it comes to
a matter of "those creations of the devil" (to quote St. Bernard of
Clairvaux) in which immortal souls are so often sped.
When Conon decides to add a tourney as a climax to his fête, a score
of carpenters are hired down from Pontdebois to help out the levy of
peasants in preparing the lists and lodges. Some of the guests have
already come to the wedding and the adubbement, but many more arrive
merely for the knightly contests. For these, of course, the baron
affords only limited hospitality--a good place to pitch their tents,
water and forage, with perhaps an invitation to the castle hall at
dinner time to certain leaders. Many visitors can get accommodation in
the better houses in the village, or at the monastery; but, the weather
being fine, the majority prefer to set out their pavilions by the
Claire, and the night before the sports begin there seem to be tents
enough for an army.
[Sidenote: The Lists and the Lodges]
The visitors come in their best bliauts and armor. Certain powerful
counts collect as many lesser nobles as possible, even making up bands
of twenty knights, twenty squires, a great number of ladies and waiting
women, also some hundreds of ignoble servitors. Except for the presence
of the women and the omission of military precautions, you might think
them going to an ordinary muster for war.
Meantime, in the wide exercise ground where Sire Aimery had been
dubbed, the special lists are made ready. These are simple affairs,
something like a race course of other days. Two pairs of strong wooden
palisades are erected. The outer line is shoulder high; the inner is
lower and has many openings. Between the two lines is the space for
spare horses, squires, attendants, and heralds; also for privileged
spectators. The humbler onlookers will peer standing over the outer
palisade, but behind and above this rise the series of lodges, shaded
with tentlike canopies, floored with carpets, and gay with pennons. In
them will be stationed the ladies and the older, less martial knights.
The space within the lists is some hundred yards long by fifty wide.
That evening Conon and Sire Eustace survey the decorations, the forest
of banners waving over the colored pavilions of the visitors, and
listen complacently to the glad hum of voices and the jongleur's chants
everywhere arising.
"Ah, fair Baron," says the seneschal, "all France will talk of this
spear breaking until Christmas! It will be a great day for St. Aliquis."
At gray dawn the heralds from the castle go through the avenues of
tents, calling, monotonously: "Let the jousters make ready! Let the
jousters make ready!"
Soon squires half dressed are seen running to and fro. There is a great
saddling and girdling, neighing and stamping. A few pious knights and
dames hurry to the castle chapel for a mass very hastily said, but the
bulk of the company cross themselves and mutter: "We will be sinners
to-day. The blessed saints are merciful!" Presently, by the time the
sun is well above the trees, everybody is bound for the lists. The
ladies, if possible, ride white mules and are dressed as splendidly as
for their own weddings. Not in many a day will St. Aliquis see again
such displays of marten, ermine, and vair, of sendal and samite, of
gold thread and pearls. The common folk point and applaud loudly when
an unusually handsomely clad dame sweeps by. What right have grand folk
to claim the obedience of the lesser, if they cannot delight the public
gaze by their splendors? As for the jongleurs, their name is legion.
The whole affair is characterized by a "music" becoming deafening.
While the dames and other noncombatants take seats in the lodges,
the six camp marshals--distinguished knights in charge of the
contests--appear in the lists. They advance on foot, wearing very
brilliant bliauts. Conon, as giver of the festivities, is naturally
at their head. Behind follow the humbler born heralds and pursuivants
who will assist them, and encourage the combatants with such cries as:
"Remember whose son you are!" "Be worthy of your ancestry!" There is
also a large squad of varlets and sergeants to keep order, bring new
lances, clear away broken weapons, and rescue fallen knights. Conon's
keen eye sweeps the tilt yard. Everything is ready. The baron bows
politely to his suzerain, the duke and duchess, in the central lodge;
then he raises a white baton. "Bring in the jousters!" he commands.
[Sidenote: Brilliant Procession of Jousters]
Instantly there is a great blare of trumpets from the end of the
lists farthest from the castle. Four gorgeously arrayed heralds lead
the procession on foot. Then comes a jongleur on horseback, playing
with his sword, tossing it high in the air and catching as it whirls
downward. Next come the actual contestants, some eighty knights riding
two by two. They go down one side of the lists and back the other. Some
cavaliers turn deliberately to ogle the ladies in the lodges, and the
gentle dames (old and young) are not backward in leaning forward and
waving in reply. It is a sight to stir the blood--all the pageantry
of war, without as yet its slaughter; the presence of gorgeously clad
women in graceful attitudes; and the air charged with the excitement
of brave deeds and of genuine perils to come. Suddenly all the knights
begin to sing. The women catch up the chorus of some rousing melody
which makes the lists shake. The cavaliers compel their horses to
prance and curvet as they go by some lady of especial favor. From
many lances are hanging bright streamers--not banners, but sleeves
and stockings, the gifts of friendly dames. The younger knights are
rejoiced by seeing damsels, whose eye they have taken, rise in the
lodges and then and there, before the cheering hundreds, fling them
"gages of love." It is so with young Sire Aimery as he modestly rides
near the tail of the procession. The daughter of the approving count
stands boldly and casts him a long red ribbon wherewith she had braided
her hair. The other new knights receive similar tokens from unabashed
admirers. This process will keep up through the games. The shrieking,
excited ladies will presently cast into the lists gloves, girdles, and
ribbons. Many will sit at the end with only their flying hair, and
their pelissons and chemises for costume.
Some combatants are intent on grim business. These are the professional
jousters, determined to get as many ransoms as possible and to maintain
their own proud reputation. Their armor is beautifully burnished; but
it is quite plain. They have prepared for a regular battle. Other
knights have painted their scabbards, lance butts, and shields with
brilliant white, red, or black. On the crests of their helmets they
have set outlandish figures--monsters, heads of birds, or of women.
As in fancy balls of other days, their aim is to attract attention
by the peculiarity of their costumes. Conon does not desire a bloody
tourney and the funeral of several friendly knights as a climax to his
gayety. Orders have therefore been given that all lance points are
to be blunted, also that all sword edges and points be rounded. The
tournament lances, too, are lighter than the battle lances and made
of brittle wood.[66] Nevertheless, the blows struck will be terrible.
The best leach from Pontdebois is already in the duke's lodge, and his
services will be needed.
Strictly speaking, a tourney falls into two parts--the jousting always
comes first, with the mêlée, which is the real tourney proper, as the
grand climax to the entire occasion.
What follows might seem to men of other days somewhat monotonous after
the novelty has worn away, although the first contests are exciting
enough. The competing knights have been told off in pairs, partly
by mutual consent, partly by the tactful arrangement of the camp
marshals. After the procession around the lists, the contestants take
their stations, some in the saddle, some dismounted in the spaces
between the barriers. There is an awesome hush along the lodges and
in the great standing throng of the vulgar. A herald calls in loud
voice, "Let him come to joust who wishes to do battle!" Instantly two
keen trumpets answer each other from opposite ends of the lists, and
two pursuivants come forward. These worthies are really only jongleurs
on less exciting days. They have now taken the deniers of two young
barons who are anxious to make a brave appearance. The pursuivants are
grotesquely dressed with bright parti-colored mantles and bliauts.
Each begins bawling shrilly even while his rival is calling: "Here is
the good cavalier and baron, Ferri of St. Potentin. A brave knight of
a valorous house. He will teach a lesson to his enemies!" "Here is
the good cavalier, Raoul, eldest son of the most puissant Count of
Maurevay. Watch now his deeds, all you who love brave actions!"
[Illustration: A TOURNAMENT IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY
At the back are the galleries where the ladies sit; then, near the
entrance to the lists, some cavaliers wait their turn to take part in
the contest; in the center, some servants and others of the contestants
pick up one of the combatants who has been thrown from his horse by his
adversary.]
Then each of the twain reviles the master of the other: "_He!_ Your
Sire Raoul is the son of a crow. All his friends will this day be
ashamed of him. Let him find his ransom money!"
"Silence all boasts, you pursuivant of a caitiff master. Sire Ferri,
if he outlives the shock, will have his spurs struck from his heels as
being unworthy of knighthood!"
Meantime the two champions, rigid as statues, suffer their squires to
lead them upon their tall destrers to opposite ends of the lists. When
they are facing and their squires have nodded that their masters are
ready, a marshal waves his white baton, calling loudly, "In the name of
God and St. Michael, do your battle!"
[Sidenote: Lance Breaking in the Lists]
All the dames, nobles, and base-born rise in the lodges and shout
together when suddenly the two knights and their mighty horses spring
to life. The ground quakes and the sod flies when they rush down the
lists as if hurried toward each other by irresistible force. As they
gallop, each bends low in the saddle--swings his shield to cover his
body, lowers his helmet almost to the top of his shield, swerves his
horse so as to pass his opponent on the right, and with sure grip drops
his lance point before him.
"Crash!" The splintering of wood can be heard through the din from the
lodges. Both horses are thrown upon their haunches and are casting out
great clods of earth. Each knight is flourishing the broken butt of a
lance and across the shield of each there is a long jagged mark.
"Fairly broken! Fairly broken! A noble course!" cries everyone. The
two contestants wheel gracefully and canter back to their stations.
Squires run up with fresh lances. Sire Raoul takes a new shield, the
earlier one showing signs of splitting as well as being battered.
Another course; another crash--and two more broken lances. But at the
third shock Sire Ferri meets utter humiliation. He indeed meets Raoul's
lance fairly on his shield and again the tough wood is splintered, but
excitement, overconfidence, or the intervention of the devil makes
his wrist a little unsteady. At the moment of collision Raoul swerves
his body a trifle to the left. Ferri's lance misses his foe's shield
entirely. It flies off in the air, and in the confusion escapes from
his hand. There is hooting from the villeins; worse still, there is
shrill derision from all the lodges. Sire Ferri rides back to his
post, grinding his teeth and swearing blasphemously. He must now pay a
ransom to Raoul for his horse and armor, despite the boastings of his
pursuivant, and not even have the melancholy consolation of knowing
that he was unhorsed in a fair collision.
[Sidenote: A Bloody Duel]
But the next duel has a more exciting ending. Two cavaliers who now
engage are exceptionally experienced knights. At the first charge
both horses sustain such a shock when the lances shiver that their
masters can barely force them to their feet. At the second charge the
more skillful rider holds his lance so squarely that, instead of its
breaking, the opposing knight is fairly flung out of the saddle--dashed
from his horse and sprawled headlong with a great clattering of armor.
The heralds and squires run to him and find that, thanks to his
hauberk, he has escaped dangerous wounds, though he coughs away several
teeth. Great is the excitement in the lodges.
Several duels after this end in honorable draws. The knights have
agreed to "break three lances fairly for the love of the ladies,"
and gallantly do so. There are no victors or vanquished. Then it is
proclaimed that two seigneurs from Champagne, Sire Emeri and Sire
Lourent, having an especial desire to "debate together" (their original
quarrel had been over dice) are resolved to fight until one cries
"mercy," and will continue their battle on foot should either be
unhorsed. Three times they break lances unscathed, but the fourth time
Lourent's stirrup parts and he is pitched upon the sands. Instantly
he is free from his snorting, plunging destrer and on his feet,
flourishing his great sword. Emeri now might lawfully ride against
him, but it is no chivalrous thing for a mounted knight to attack an
unmounted one. Down he leaps also, making his blade dance above his
head like a stream of light. Then to the infinite joy of the lodges the
two cavaliers hack and feud with each other for a good ten minutes,
till the blood streams down their faces, the bright paint on their
shields is marred, and the crests of their helmets have vanished in
dentings. At last Emeri flings his strength into a lucky blow. His
sword is blunted, but by sheer weight of the stroke the blade smashes
Lourent's shield asunder, descending like a smith's sledge upon his
helmet. Lourent topples like a log.
A great shout goes through the lodges. "Dead!" cry many; but, to the
relief of the women, the word presently spreads that he is only soundly
stunned, though the leech says that "he will not fight again till
Christmas."
The duels continue all through the morning. There is an interval while
cakes and wine are passed through the lodges and loaves are thrown
among the plebeians. Most duels seem decidedly similar, but each is
followed with undiminishing delight. The ladies no less than their
brothers and husbands grasp all the niceties of the contests--the
methods whereby each champion holds his lance and shield and controls
his horse are wisely discussed by a hundred pairs of pretty lips.
Between each tilt the heralds, besides praising the valor of the next
pair of combatants, keep up their cries, "Largesse, gallant knights!
Largesse!" and now one, now another baron rises in the lodges to fling
coins among villeins (whose rough scrambling causes much merriment), or
even to toss money to the heralds themselves--which they never hesitate
to pick up.
[Sidenote: Contest at the Barriers]
Many knights are content with a single passage at arms, but some who
have been successful once tempt fortune a second time. These are likely
to be the professional champions, and they give remarkable exhibitions
of perfect horsemanship and lance play. As the afternoon advances, for
variation, there is a fight at the barriers. A stout wooden bar about
waist high is set across the middle of the lists, and seven knights
from one seigneury and seven from another undertake to cross the same,
while preventing the other party from advancing. They fight on foot
with sword and mace. It is desperate work; and when at last one party
has forced its way across, four of the defeated side have broken bones,
despite their hauberks, and all-but-broken heads, despite their helmets.
[Illustration: KNIGHTLY COMBAT ON FOOT
(From an old print.)]
Then a very arrogant baron who has already won three ransoms determines
to increase his wealth. Stationing himself at the head of the lists, he
bids his pursuivant challenge all comers. There is a long hush. Sire
Paul has made such a trade of his prowess that assuredly there seems
something mercantile about his valor, yet assuredly he is a terrible
man. Suddenly the lodges begin to cry, "A St. Aliquis!" Sire Aimery
himself (who earlier had broken three lances very neatly with a friend)
is sending down his pursuivant.
All the older knights mutter: "A fearful risk for the lad! Let him pray
to his saints." Conon demands angrily of Olivier, "Could not you keep
back the boy from this folly?" But does not Heaven favor the young and
brave? Perhaps it is because Sire Paul has let himself become careless;
perhaps because his squire has forgotten to tighten his saddle girths;
perhaps because St. Génevieve cannot allow her votary to undergo
disgrace thus early in his knighthood. In any case, results confound
the wiseacres. "The pitcher that goes too often to the well is broken,"
dryly observes Father Grégoire, when at the first course Sire Paul is
ignominiously flung from the saddle. _Hé!_ Sire Aimery will now have
more sleeves, girdles, and stockings than can ever flutter from any one
lance, and his kinsfolk are out of their wits for joy! No victory could
ever be more praised and popular.
So ends the jousting, and that night round St. Aliquis blaze the great
camp fires of the company, all cooking most hearty suppers (after
fasting almost all day), everybody visiting from tent to tent, fighting
the day's contests over again, condoling with the defeated and praising
the victors. Alliances, both military and matrimonial, are negotiated
between consequential barons; the jongleurs produce tricks and songs;
there is a great deal of dancing by the red firelight; and also, one
fears, much hard drinking and most unseemly revelry.
[Sidenote: The Great Mêlée]
The next day there is the climax to the festival, the mêlée. Really,
it is nothing less than a pitched battle on a small scale. The details
have been arranged at a council of the more prominent seigneurs at the
castle. About forty knights on a side are to fight under the leadership
of the Viscount of Gemours and the Baron of Dompierre. The space in the
lists is insufficient. They go to a broad, convenient meadow across the
Claire, where the noncombatants can watch from a safe distance. The
marshals array the two companies "at least a bowshot apart." Groups of
friendly knights are set together and are placed opposite to groups
of rivals with whom they are anxious to collide. The great banners
of the houses of Gemours and Dompierre flutter in the center of each
respective array, and all the little banderoles of the various knights
wave with them.
When all is ready, Conon gives the signal, "Charge them in God's name!"
[Illustration: A COMBAT IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY
From the manuscript of Herrade of Landsperg (Schultz).]
Each baron is expected to charge a particular foe, but all are liable
to be swerved in the great rush of men and horses. The two flashing
squadrons of cavalry come together like thunderbolts. All the danger
of the jousts is present, and another more terrible--that of being
trampled to death, if once down, by the raging horses. There is no
real leadership. Gemours and Dompierre merely try to set examples
of valor and to push their banners forward as rallying points. At
first the fighting is good-humored, but when the lances are broken
and everyone is smiting one another with sword or mace, the contest
becomes desperate. A fearful cloud of dust rises, almost blinding to
the combatants, and rendering their blows more reckless.
After the fight has progressed some time, certain of the less
adventurous knights begin to drop out. The squires dive into the murk
of warriors and horses and drag to safety now this, now another fallen
cavalier. At last, just as Conon is considering whether he should
not proclaim a "draw," the Gemours banner is observed to topple. A
desperate attempt is made to right it, but it sinks again amid a
rending shout from the victors. The uplifted hands fall. The frantic
horses are brought under control. "A Dompierre! A Dompierre!" bawl all
the heralds. And so the mêlée ends.
No one, thanks to excellent armor, is dead, although one heir to a
barony is in a desperate condition and several shoulders and thighs are
broken. It is futile to count the shattered collar bones and ribs. "A
very _gentle_ passage at arms!" says the Duke to Conon, congratulating
his vassal on the fête and its climax. All the other seigneurs join in
similar praises. That night there is another round of festivities and
of visiting. The next dawn the whole company scatters. The jongleurs'
music has ceased at last. There is no more dancing. After over two
weeks of intensifying gayety St. Aliquis suddenly returns to sober,
normal life.
Alienor, after tearful farewells, departs with her husband for
Burgundy. Aimery rides over to his little castle at Petitmur, which
he will hold as his brother's vassal. Adela lectures her maids on the
need of catching up with their weaving, while Conon holds anxious
conferences with his chief provost on the costs of the celebration.
[Sidenote: Vast Expense of Tourneys]
Doubtless the affair has brought glory to the seigneury. More than
a hundred knights and two hundred squires or unknighted nobles have
attended, along with thousands of villeins. But how costly have
been the furs, drinking cups and fine weapons presented the guests,
the destrers given the new knights, above all the vast quantity of
provisions devoured! Just God! If Conon had realized the entire expense
he would hardly have embarked on the whole undertaking. The worst is
that the peasants of the whole barony are so demoralized that it will
be two weeks more ere they return to work. Money must be borrowed from
Jew Simon in Pontdebois to tide over the crisis. The baron must give
up his usual visit to the king's court at Paris. He must also dismiss
certain cherished schemes of picking a quarrel with the Sire of Rideau
and forcing a private war. Thanks be to Our Lady, however, François
need not be knighted these ten years, when (being an eldest son) an
"aide" can be levied on all the vassals to help cover the cost.
FOOTNOTES:
[65] The earliest recorded tourney is alleged to have been about A.D.
850. In Germany they long continued to be excessively brutal. As late
as 1240 one was held near Cologne at which more than sixty persons
perished.
[66] Often sharp weapons were used in tournaments, especially between
combatants who fought _à outrance_, to clear up some desperate personal
grudge. Many noblemen were thus slain--_e.g._, in a tourney "in the
French fashion" at London, the Earl of Essex was killed in 1216.