prince as I came up beside him.
We were not the only Englishmen on the battlefield. All around us, our archers and men-at-arms had begun to loot the bodies of the French dead. A swarthy young fellow darted in among the Bohemian king’s retinue and began to strip off valuables like a tanner skinning a dead animal.
“ Have a care, you!” cried I as the looter began to root around the fallen king’s corpse. I sprang forward and cuffed the man. He would have traded blows with me, but he saw the company I kept and resigned himself to cursing before he slunk away. My blow had knocked his plunder from his hands; on the ground I saw the plumed ostrich feathers that had erstwhile crowned the Bohemian’s head. I picked them up.
“ Highness,” said I, and I fell on one knee before the prince. “The spoils of the fallen belong to the victor.”
The prince dismounted and took the feathers in his gloved hand. He looked them over with reverence. “I take them not as spoils but as inheritance, for I will honor these feathers as surely as if mine own father had bequeathed them to me. What says the motto on his shield?”
“ Ich dien
,” said I, sounding out the German with some difficulty.
“ Ich dien
,” repeated the prince. “
I serve
. Old and eyeless he was, yet he served his master well and performed his duty. My sight remains, and I can only hope to serve as bravely as he.
Ich dien
. It shall be my motto henceforth.”
He looked at me, still kneeling. “And you,” said he, “You serve Sir John Chandos, do you not?”
“ Aye, highness,” said I. “I am his squire.”
“ What is your name?”
“ John Potenhale.”
“ Then,” said he, drawing his sword, “
rise
Sir John Potenhale, knight of England and—with your master’s permission—knight of my own household.”
“ He has that permission,” said a clear voice. Glancing behind me, I saw that Chandos had come up behind us on the battlefield. Chandos gave me a friendly nod and I saw that he did not in the least begrudge the good fortune that had befallen me. I smiled gratefully at my old master in wordless thanksgiving for all his years of patronage. Then I turned my eyes to my new master, eager to do him some service.
“ Well then, Sir Potenhale,” said the prince with a smile, “you are mine to command. And the first act of service I demand from you is to order prayers to be offered by all of our men in the field. Instruct them to give thanks to the Holy Trinity, for the victory we won today was not through our own strength. And when you have done this, find my father the king. Tell him the enemy is fled, the battle is won, and I await his further instructions.”
*****
Both the precociousness of my knighting and my entrance into the prince’s household were wholly unexpected events for one of my station. I was not born a nobleman. My father was a man-at-arms with no great estate; my mother had been waiting woman to a lady, but she was a steward’s daughter and unendowed to boot.
But though my ancestors were not knights, our family had martial blood in its veins. My grandfather had lost his life fighting against the Scots; my father had lost his leg fighting against the French. My father’s name was William Potenhale. The limb under discussion was severed at Sluys, the first great battle our king waged against Philip. My father was boarding the French flagship when it happened. The enemy was intent on boarding as well, and the iron grappling hook they tossed aboard the English vessel pinned his leg to the rail. The leg was mangled beyond repair, and it was a marvel that he lived when the surgeon removed it. He returned home crippled in body and cramped in soul. The battlefield was in his blood, but no noble would take a maimed man into their garrison or regiment.
With the sword his only skill, my one-legged father was forced to lean on his wife’s relations. My mother’s people were from Herefordshire; we moved there and
We were not the only Englishmen on the battlefield. All around us, our archers and men-at-arms had begun to loot the bodies of the French dead. A swarthy young fellow darted in among the Bohemian king’s retinue and began to strip off valuables like a tanner skinning a dead animal.
“ Have a care, you!” cried I as the looter began to root around the fallen king’s corpse. I sprang forward and cuffed the man. He would have traded blows with me, but he saw the company I kept and resigned himself to cursing before he slunk away. My blow had knocked his plunder from his hands; on the ground I saw the plumed ostrich feathers that had erstwhile crowned the Bohemian’s head. I picked them up.
“ Highness,” said I, and I fell on one knee before the prince. “The spoils of the fallen belong to the victor.”
The prince dismounted and took the feathers in his gloved hand. He looked them over with reverence. “I take them not as spoils but as inheritance, for I will honor these feathers as surely as if mine own father had bequeathed them to me. What says the motto on his shield?”
“ Ich dien
,” said I, sounding out the German with some difficulty.
“ Ich dien
,” repeated the prince. “
I serve
. Old and eyeless he was, yet he served his master well and performed his duty. My sight remains, and I can only hope to serve as bravely as he.
Ich dien
. It shall be my motto henceforth.”
He looked at me, still kneeling. “And you,” said he, “You serve Sir John Chandos, do you not?”
“ Aye, highness,” said I. “I am his squire.”
“ What is your name?”
“ John Potenhale.”
“ Then,” said he, drawing his sword, “
rise
Sir John Potenhale, knight of England and—with your master’s permission—knight of my own household.”
“ He has that permission,” said a clear voice. Glancing behind me, I saw that Chandos had come up behind us on the battlefield. Chandos gave me a friendly nod and I saw that he did not in the least begrudge the good fortune that had befallen me. I smiled gratefully at my old master in wordless thanksgiving for all his years of patronage. Then I turned my eyes to my new master, eager to do him some service.
“ Well then, Sir Potenhale,” said the prince with a smile, “you are mine to command. And the first act of service I demand from you is to order prayers to be offered by all of our men in the field. Instruct them to give thanks to the Holy Trinity, for the victory we won today was not through our own strength. And when you have done this, find my father the king. Tell him the enemy is fled, the battle is won, and I await his further instructions.”
*****
Both the precociousness of my knighting and my entrance into the prince’s household were wholly unexpected events for one of my station. I was not born a nobleman. My father was a man-at-arms with no great estate; my mother had been waiting woman to a lady, but she was a steward’s daughter and unendowed to boot.
But though my ancestors were not knights, our family had martial blood in its veins. My grandfather had lost his life fighting against the Scots; my father had lost his leg fighting against the French. My father’s name was William Potenhale. The limb under discussion was severed at Sluys, the first great battle our king waged against Philip. My father was boarding the French flagship when it happened. The enemy was intent on boarding as well, and the iron grappling hook they tossed aboard the English vessel pinned his leg to the rail. The leg was mangled beyond repair, and it was a marvel that he lived when the surgeon removed it. He returned home crippled in body and cramped in soul. The battlefield was in his blood, but no noble would take a maimed man into their garrison or regiment.
With the sword his only skill, my one-legged father was forced to lean on his wife’s relations. My mother’s people were from Herefordshire; we moved there and
Similar Books
