The Saracen & The Knight-Maker

They called him the Saracen. As though he was first amongst thousands. And to me he was. But I knew him first as Durras. He found me on the last day of winter while the sun was lowest in the sky. I had my own fame, in a soiled, sordid kind of way, and he was not the first to seek me out. I was known to visit The Four Hounds as often as if my bed could be found there, and some nights it was. Most nights perhaps.

The clatter of dice on gnarled wood was as much a lullaby as a call to arms. My wine was warm, and my coin was low and yet I played on. My reputation as a devotee to stubbornness and misfortune made me a saint to gamblers, a role I was happy to play as long as men like Durras came to me. That is what I took him for at first. The same as the rest of the glory hounds.

He was long limbed, stark and golden in the dull light. His short hair, black and coarse, rested above a stern gaze the colour of honey. His jaw as flat and strong as oak doors now opened to show his full lips, blown dry and grey from the wind. His clothes were poor, threadbare in places, but he held himself high and straight like an arrogant cat. He came to my table and my companions, such as they were, eyed him with suspicion.

“What do you want, Moor?” One asked. “There’s no work to steal here.”

“I am looking for the Knight-Maker.” He said.

His voice had the timbre of thunder and the softness of song.

His Spanish was good, and they were taken aback.

“And so you have found him.” I replied and when his eyes met mine I took in a sharp breath, as though I had stepped into the sea for the first time. He bent his knee and lowered himself to the ground.

“Will you knight me, Sir?” He asked.

To their credit, they gave him half a heartbeat before bursting into laughter. Deep, roaring bellows that rattled the walls before coming to an end as his cold gaze slid over them.

“And tell me, would-be-sir, why do you want to be a knight? To serve a realm that so clearly despises you seems folly to me.”

And it did. King Ferdinand I in all his majesty had made his disdain for the Muslims clear to the public and had done little to prevent the violence against them by his own people.

He looked to me. “I do not desire to serve, sir.”

“Then why?” I asked.

“One must be knighted to make the lists.”

“Of course. The glory of the tournament.” I smiled. “I wish you luck. Seven escudos and I’ll knight you right now.”

His impassive face twitched into a frown.

“How many reales is that?” He asked.

Truly, I should have told him it was more than it was. A foreigner’s bargain for an immigrant fresh in new lands. But honesty escaped me anyway.

“Just shy of a hundred.” I replied and his frown deepened.

“You’re wasting your time, Perico.” One of the bar serfs said to me. “You’d have better luck finding- “

“-A man at the bottom of your tankard rather than the drunken rat I see before me?” I interrupted. “With all the ale you’ve bought with my money I don’t like my chances.”

I turned back to Durras, “No money, no knight, I’m afraid.”

He thought for a moment.

“I have a melee coming up. Axe and shield. The man is fat and slow but refuses to fight with me until I am knighted. When I win, I will have a hundred and fifty reales. Yours if you knight me right now.”

“I’m a gambler, friend, bad odds are my bread and salt but even I won’t take that wager.”

“Do you doubt my word or my arm?” He asked.

I flushed, quite uncontrollably, as though a strangers thought of me could matter.

“Neither. I need a drink now, not later. A promise of coin doesn’t afford much.”

Before he had a chance to speak the doors flew open, their hinges squealing in protest. In their wake stood a squat man, his large nose above a steel grey moustache, his belly squeezed in place by a gleaming breastplate of armour.

“Sir Aguado!” I called to him.

His red and sweating face tensed and grimaced.

“There’s the bastard.” He growled.

“You look hot. May I get you a drink?” I asked, rising slowly from my chair.

“No hotter than the place I’m sending you. You’ve flooded the lists with gutterscum and beggars! I can’t joust for lowborn arses. Your dishonour knows no depths and you’ve stained this country long enough.” His hand falling to the hilt of his blade.

“Shall I take my leave now?” The Saracen asked, a bemused smile on his lips.

“You’re in luck, the price just went down.” I grinned back at him.

He turned and stepped forward.

“I have business with this man.” He said, his body tight as a bowstring and just as ready.

“Out of my way, cur.” Aguado said as he stepped forward, drawing his sword. The scrape of steel on scabbard was instantly silenced as he moved. He was a fast as anyone I had ever seen. Faster still. His sandaled foot stuck him low, just above the knee. As Aguado stumbled, the Saracen grabbed him, his huge hand closing around his snarling mouth as he shoved him down. His face crunched against the stone floor and as he began to rise, he kicked him again, in the back of the head. There was a wet crunch, and he was still.

He straightened, turned, and looked to me. I looked at him.

“Pass me his sword,” I said, “And kneel.”

*

The man was fat and slow, as Durras had said. But he was armoured, from shining helmet to dull toe. Durras had little but a stiff gambeson stained and torn from use which I had leant to him. His boots too were mine, and I saw them bulge at the seams. But the axe was his. A wicked looking blade, more at home in a butcher’s shop than here. I stood barefoot in the dust of the arena, the first time in years. My head pounded at the slightest smell of ale from the drunkards come to watch. There were only a few in the wooden seats and the master of the fight had to be paid to open for such a little affair.

I watched the fat man shove his meaty arm into the straps of a shield. He swung his axe, once, twice, testing its weight and his movement. With the blade tip he pushed his visor up to glare at Durras across the way. His page, a boy of barely twelve, yet with bright blonde whiskers peppering his cheeks, scrambled forward and began rattling off titles of his master.

“Armpit.” I said.

“Hmm?” Durras responded.

“Armpit. You’ve got a fair height over him and fairer reach. He’ll overextend his swing to get at you.” I glanced at him. “Under his left shoulder. That’s where you’ll hit.”

He frowned. “Where is the honour in that?” He asked.

I held up my hands. “Just a bit of advice.”

His dry lips twitched. “Do you think I need advice?”

“No, I don’t. Nor luck. I just like to feel useful.”

“Then announce me.” He smiled. “And let me fight.”

“I don’t know anything about you, what do I say?” I said.

“My name is Durras.” He responded with a flash of teeth. “And I am the Saracen.”

He won, of course. He had no form, but he had grace, even as he turned the man’s shield to splinters. Shards of painted wood by their feet as he danced around his opponent. A single blow would have broken the Saracen’s ribs, his jaw, shattered his brow and put out his eyes. Yet fear was a stranger to him. He could have taken my advice or ended it swiftly in a hundred different ways. Instead, he took his time. He made it a show. He made it seem as easy as breathing. I could hear the armoured knight squealing with effort as he swung again and again. I could hear his wheezing gulps of breath as he struck air each time. In the end, Durras let him humiliate himself until he couldn’t lift his arm high enough to swing. Then he struck him, once, a great ringing bell of a sound as he hit him high on his helmet. The fool hit the ground and the only thing that rose was a cloud of dust rumbling up. Then that too was still.

Afterwards, I watched him wash the clay-coloured smudges off his bare arms with a wet cloth. His thin, stringy leather belt pulled down by a pouch of winnings.

“Congratulations.” I said.

He nodded to me.

“You should have bet on me.” He said.

“If I had the money to, I would have.” I replied.

He stood, taking the cloth to his cheeks, lips and brow. He dropped it and in the same action reached for his coins. He held them out to me.

“What for?” I asked.

“For knighting me.” He said.

“You already paid me for that remember? Fighting for my honour.” I smiled, “You won this. It’s yours.”

“You certainly need it more than I do.”

“To keep half the taverns in business? I think not.” I said taking it from him. I felt its cold weight in my hands. More money than I had seen in years.

“First a horse. Something faster than a draft but I’ll take what I can get, as long as I can find a blacksmith afterwards who has a heart for charity. Who knows, maybe they’ll throw in a gorget for the cuirass if I weep in front of them.”

He stared at me, eyes like sunlight in cream.

“Back into the game?” He asked.

“Not for me.” I grinned, “For the first immigrant to win the Spanish tourney in a hundred years.”

His surprise was genuine. As was his gratitude a moment later, blossoming across his face as quick as spilt ink across the page and as easily read.

“But why? You hardly know me.”

“I know your technique needs work. You’ve got grace, now you need chivalry. Ever held a lance before?”

He smiled as he shook his head.

“Not as easy as it looks.” I said, “You could fill a book with all the mistakes I’ve made as a knight. Just do the opposite of what I would do and you’ll be the greatest knight Iberia ever did see.”

“I know not how to thank you.” He said, “Or why kindness is rare here and yet you give it freely and often.”

I waved my hand as if to brush away the floating sentiment like a cloud of flies.

“Nonsense. Whatever we have left from this fight we’ll bet on the next. You’ll make me rich, friend.”

“Ah, your kindness laid bare I see.” He smiled back.

“Of course,” I replied, “Why else would I help you?”

*

I gave my nights and days to Durras. He astride the horse at dawn, a brick red sorrel five years too old, his lance cracked and faded as it split the bags of sand I had put up. My hand on his chest at dusk, the heat of the day fading as I felt his skin rise, tremor, and fall with his breathing.

He talked little of his past. As though he had sprung from the earth of Spain, fully formed and perfect. And for his part he let me keep my secrets too. The disgrace of a knight is an old story, as dull as it is painful. In truth, I didn’t want him to see me that way. As the way he had met me. Greedy. Lonely. By the grace of his majesty King Ferdinand, making a living as the local dispensary of chivalry. Waiting for the drink or the sword to put me down. This was a better life, I told him once, than any knight could ask for.

“Even though there is enough sin between us to be put to death twice over?” He mused, his voice light and lyrical in the evening air.

“Even better.” I said, “Sin is what they call that which they can’t understand. We can keep all of our love for ourselves.”

*

He was resplendent. There was no other word for it. His armour like the surface of a lake. His shield a bulwark of vibrant oak, painted in greens and reds. From outside I could hear the chanting of the crowd. Was it his name on the wind? Or someone else’s? I watched as his fingers, so light and delicate, struggled to tie his pauldrons.

“Your help, Sir?” He smiled to me.

I shook my head.

“Not this time, my heart.”

“Ah,” He said. “You’re still worried.”

“Thousands of Muslims, Durras. Thousands.” I said. “Ferdinand is coming for them all. We have to leave. While we still can.”

He stood up, finally fixing the knot in place.

“And the contest of champions,” He looked to me. Bronze and snow. “all that work we’ve done? For what?”

“For us, Durras. It doesn’t matter, the knights, the jousting, none of it. You know as much as I that chivalry means nothing to these people. They’ll cheer for you now and spit on you after.”

“I hate when you talk of chivalry that way. Like it is a curse.”

“It is a curse. It is the lie murderers tell themselves. A lie when they say they protect the realm by expelling good men like you.”

“What of my honour?” He asked. “What of my lie?”

“You’re the most honest person I’ve ever met Durras, you know that.”

He walked over to me and held my chin in his palm.

“Then how could I leave now? Now, moments before the joust I promised to ride in. My word. My bond. Not theirs. You understand, don’t you?”

“I understand that they’ll come for you. They’re probably out there right now, waiting for you to ride on out.”

I watched him put his foot in the stirrup and heaved himself astride his mare.

“My lance, please.” He asked.

“Don’t, don’t do this to me.” I said even as I handed it to him.

“You knew when you met me.” He replied. “I am the Saracen. Who else could I ever be?”