Fitzjohn

[Axeknight]

Part three: Hunting for the Banquet

The drums from the parade ground filtered up to the Duke’s private study. Tossing the farming reports aside, he went to the window. He watched as a group of the soldiers who had fought with him the previous year fell back into their place around the outside of the parade ground, and another unit stepped into the hollow space. The drum rolls began again, and the unit started marching, their officers keeping them in perfect line, bellowing orders. #Out past the curtain walls, the light cavalry were changing formation at speed. At the sound of a bugle, the cavalrymen spread wide; at another, they formed a tight wedge. The Duke’s mind wandered, to gently rolling plains, to forests, to the countryside. He swore, in French, thinking of the reports he had to read, the orders to sign and seal, and the annoying people he had to see. He swore again, using his preferred French for swearwords.
“Langland! Our horses, if you would. We’re going hunting.”

The two fast riders arrived at Bordeaux Castle not long after the Duke had left. They had presented the King’s seal when challenged, and had asked after the Duke at the gate.
“Message for the Duke.”
“Gone ‘unting. In th’ forest” Ross had the gate, and had been sharpening his spear point. Style was in the next room, and came running in.
“A message fer the Duke? You’ll be lucky. He’s ‘unting, and he’s in one of ‘is rages. He won’t take kindly to disturbin’, an’ he might jus’ kill yer.” Ross and Style both bit their tongues to suppress the laughter as the riders looked at one another. Life under the Rabid Duke had its plus points.
“We…we’ll stay here until he gets back. The gate, if you please.”

Langland dismounted, gave Fitzjohn his longbow, and took his own. The Duke had had them made after seeing the Welshmen use them in battle. He dismounted as well, took a bodkin from the quiver, gave another to Langland, and notched it into the bowstring. Pulling the heavy string back, he aimed at the boar. He let the string go by his ear, and arrow flew straight into the boar’s flank. It squealed, fell, and Langland ran and dispatched it with his short sword.
“The next is yours, Langland.” Fitzjohn put back his longbow, dragged the boar to a large oak tree so it could be found later, and remounted. They set off, looking left and right for another boar, or, better, a deer. Though he had spent the best part of five years in France, he was still not sure if there were deer in the countryside. He had decided never to ask anyone, but to find out for himself. Perhaps I shall find the French deer today; he thought idly, I shall bring it back myself.

Langland had been trying to build the necessary courage for days, now, and was still unsure as he opened his mouth,
“My Duke?” he had drawn attention to himself, now, there was no going back. The Duke reined Copenhagen in, and looked at Langland quizzically.
“Yes, Langland?”
“I humbly request, my Duke,” he took a deep breath, “permission, Sir,” another deep breath, “to marry, Sir.”
“I am sorry. What did you say, Langland?” Fitzjohn stared at him
“Nothing, Sir. Nothing” Langland tried desperately to salvage the situation.
“No, I heard you, Langland.” Fitzjohn smiled ruefully,
“I am sorry, Sir. Not the time, should never have asked, Sir. Please forgive me.” Fitzjohn laughed out loud,
“Langland, my man, betrothed? I had no idea! My, this is a surprise! Ha, ha ha, betrothed, Langland! Betrothed! What is her name?” Langland let out a mighty sigh of relief, and reflected that this was the best mood he’d seen Fitzjohn in since he had been made Duke last year.
“Her name is Catherine.” Langland smiled, and Fitzjohn smiled too, recognizing the look on the young Squire’s face. His mind wandered briefly to Elizabeth. Before he could cut the thought off, the memory which still, six years later, kept him awake at nights resurfaced, his dear, dear Elizabeth, on the bed, the pox taking it’s cruel course. She put up a fight, a truly spirited fight, but…
“Sir?” Fitzjohn looked up, his face ashen. He blocked the memory off again, stared at Langland’s face, and his smile returned.
“Why are you asking me permission to marry? Surely a matter for the priests?”
“ ‘A soldier must ask permission from his officer before he marries’; I am a squire, therefore a soldier, and you are my officer, Sir.” Langland’s smile faded.
“Granted, Langland. Granted! Granted! Granted! And the boar,” he gestured back to where the last animal had been left, “is for the banquet. Your banquet, Langland! Yours! Ha, ha ha! On, Copenhagen. On to fetch boar for Langland’s banquet, Copenhagen!”

Fitzjohn sent some of bodyguards out for the five boars they had killed, reflecting on how Langland’s aim dropped drastically when he was talking about Catherine. The gate guards, two men he remembered from the battle on the border last year, let him in. Wondering, no doubt, why I’m in such a good mood. #Thought Fitzjohn idly. The news of Langland’s wedding had left him feeling that for once, something simple and good was happening around him. Apparently, Catherine was a dressmaker, who worked in the castle, and Langland had said that had Fitzjohn never become Duke, he would never have met her. Ever the charmer, Langland. At least he’s happy. Langland was a loyal man, a handsome man, too, and Catherine was, by Langland’s account, a beauty. and Fitzjohn prayed that the two would not be so cruelly separated as he and Elizabeth. The gate guards had spoken of two riders, bearing a King’s message. They rounded a corner in the courtyard, and saw them waiting.
“King’s message, Sir.” The first rider held it out, his hand trembling. Fitzjohn took it, checked the seal, opened it, and read the message as he walked to the keep.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Year of our Lord 1261
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Royal Estates

Hugh Fitzjohn, Duke of Aquitaine,
# # #The King is pleased with your conduct governing the province of Aquitaine, and favours you by ordering you to lead an attack. The King wishes you to attack the French army garrisoned in Toulouse, and take possession of that place. He will send a small force to garrison Bordeaux castle in you and your army’s absence.

Humble servant my Lord,
W. de Montfort, King’s secretary

“We go on the attack, Langland. Into Toulouse.”
“Your armour, Sir?” Langland asked,
“No Langland. I shall get it. Sadly, your wedding must be delayed. Say your farewells to your fiancé, Langland.” Fitzjohn was grim. Although the opportunity for battle was always to be looked forward to, he hated having to delay Langland’s wedding. He must be devastated. Fitzjohn shook his head.

A few days later, the garrison army arrived. Just five hundred men strong, and without cavalry, it was lead by a distant cousin of Fitzjohn’s, who had taken the family name shortly after cousin Hugh had taken command of his first army. He walked confidently up to the Duke, and spoke.
“Cousin Hugh, a Duke now, eh?”
“Cousin William.” Fitzjohn spoke awkwardly. His opposition to William’s adopting the family name was well known. Not worthy of the name, Fitzjohn thought, looking at his cousin. a court jester, perhaps, but never a Fitzjohn. William straightened, and touched the brow of his helm in salute.
“Count William Fitzjohn, reporting Sir. Ha, ha!” He nudged the Duke
“Indeed, cousin. I must be gone. If you would, please leave my private chambers alone, take the guest room.” Fitzjohn said, then, “‘Tis comfortable enough, cousin.” #to pre-empt any jibes his cousin could make.
“I am sure of it, cousin. I shall look after the house while the Duke goes raiding. Ha ha, I am reduced to common housewife!”
“Of course not, cousin.” Fitzjohn let traces of irritation slip into his voice.
“Cousin, calm yourself! I jest.”
“That I noticed, William.” Fitzjohn’s composure was slipping fast
“So, Hugh, when do I get the honour of dining with the Duke?” William smirked.
“I have eaten, William. And I must go, my troops wait for me.” Fitzjohn hurried this excuse, making it sound false. His face was contorting with the effort of keeping civil. William did not take the hint.
“Ah, I see. Rush off, dear cousin. Leave your fellow Fitzjohn with the castle, and off to glory, eh? Ha ha!” the count had misjudged the last comment, and it slipped Fitzjohn over. He spun around, walked back to his cousin, mail armour clanking. He stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder with his cousin, and began the onslaught.
“Never, ever, ever talk to me in that tone again, dear cousin,” he spat the last part, making it sound like an insult, “Lest I take offence. Do you hear me, cousin?” William began to splutter an apology, but ‘The Rabid Duke’ cut him off.
“I don’t care for your apologies, William! For my quarrel with you goes further. You are a Fitzjohn at my pleasure, William. I am Duke, and if you displease me, I can make you remove the name!”
“But, dearest cousin, you…” again he was cut off.
“I let you be a Fitzjohn! I LET YOU! Yet you dishonour the name with your jesting. YOU DISHONOUR MY NAME! MINE! And you dishonour my father, his father, his father, back to the first days of England and Fitzjohns. YOU DISHONOUR THEM ALL! #You are nought but a clown, a fool, and Fitzjohns are NOT clowns, cousin. Do you hear?” Fitzjohn’s rage had drawn a crowd, but he would not stop in mid-flow. “Your humour goes too far, cousin. Look at your soldiers! An undisciplined rabble if I ever did see. They need a firm hand, cousin! Not a joker, a leader, cousin. #Now, if we are done, I must go. My soldiers wait on me.” Fitzjohn left his stunned cousin in the street, and headed for the gates.