Another tale typical of the courtly medieval tales that were once thought suitable for youth.On a fresh, sweet morning of May, in 1359, a gay company of lords and ladies might have been seen cantering out of the little English town of Reading. Their merry chatter and laughter mingled musically with the bird-notes that tinkled through the morning air; and the brilliant coloring of their attire seemed to vie with the glory of the early sunbeams and the dewy, flowery meadows along the way. One might readily know this was a royal party, for the warlike figure at the head was unmistakably that of King Edward III. Close beside him rode the Black Prince on his black charger. Following them rode the Queen and her ladies; Prince John and his pretty girl-bride, Blanche; Prince Lionel and Elizabeth; and the two young princes, Edmund of Langley and Thomas of Woodstock. After these came a score or two of attendants—knights and ladies, squires and pages.
Conspicuous among the latter was Elizabeth's young favorite, Geoffrey Chaucer, who in later life became one of the greatest of England's poets.
Evidently he was the favorite of others besides the countess; for, as he cantered along on his sleek little palfrey in the midst of his companions, he was telling them tale after tale, and constantly provoking bursts of laughter by his quaint jokes and gestures. Now and then he fell behind, and, riding close to the hedges that bordered the road on either side, plucked a blossom or two to toss into the lap of some smiling maiden; or, growing more bold, he plaited for his fair mistress a tiny wreath of daisies, to him the dearest, daintiest flowers of the field. More than once, too, he was summoned to the side of Prince John, whom he had met at Hatfield the previous year, and who, always a friend to the boy, was afterward the best patron of the poet.
Even without the entertainment that Chaucer furnished, the whole party had cause to be merry. Only the day before, the Sabbath bells had called them to the Benedictine Abbey of Reading to witness the wedding of Prince John and Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster; and now they were hastening to London to spend the week in public games and all sorts of merrymaking at court.
The pleasure of anticipation rang in their voices as they talked of the feasting and dancing in prospect, and in every group there was a ripple of new enthusiasm when one mentioned the festivities of Thursday. On that day there was to be famous jousting. Heralds had proclaimed throughout the country for miles around that a tournament would be held, in which the Mayor of London, with the sheriffs and aldermen, would undertake to hold the field against all brave knights who might accept the challenge.
This was the event of the week, not only to the pleasure-loving nobility, but to the city and country folk as well. Everywhere were signs of preparation for the coming holiday. In the towns through which the highroad ran, and in the streets of London, were displayed the colors and emblems of favorite knights, or the arms of the city of London, according to the sympathies of the people.
At the castle on the morning of the gala-day all was bustle and excitement, and at an early hour the train of courtiers and ladies was on the road again, considerably larger and no less merry than before. Bustle and excitement reigned, too, in the streets of the surrendered city as they passed through. On all sides were people on foot and people on horseback,—"peple poore and peple riche," as Chaucer remarked,—all of them in exuberant spirits, and all going one way.
Not far outside the city the royal party came to the place where the lists had been prepared for the jousting. It was then a "fair large place" called Crownfield, but is now known as Cheapside. Here they found a host of eager spectators already in their places—a motley crowd of villagers and city people in the lower tiers of seats, and above them the gentry and the lesser nobility, filling the galleries to overflowing. In the middle of one side was a covered balcony hung with purple and white, the colors of the royal bridal party. Hither the ladies and guests of the court were conducted, amid the enthusiastic greetings of the assemblage, which rang out again and more cheerily than ever when Lady Blanche took her place on the daintily cushioned throne prepared for the Queen of Love and Beauty. The childish sweetness of her face was dignified by her crown of pearls and amethysts; and her fair hair fell in long plaits adown her robe of royal purple bordered with ermine and gleaming silver. On the front of her pure white gown of sendal was broidered the crest of her husband, Prince John. Around her sat the ladies of the court, and her father, Henry of Lancaster, with King John of France, and many of his nobles, Edward's prisoners at Poitiers.
A splendid sight met their eyes as they glanced around the vast inclosure. Over the rough framework of the galleries hung rich tapestries of many hues, forming a background for the banners of the contending knights. The peasantry and gentry wore colors and shades as varied as their rank; while the lustrous crimsons and blues of the velvet gowns of the nobility were relieved by the spotless white and the heavy gold trimmings of the ladies' coverchiefs. Below in the lists were sergeants-at-arms " priking up and doun" to keep order in the eager crowds; and heralds stood ready to announce the beginning of the contest.
"Daughter," said Duke Henry, after a few minutes' enjoyment of the scene, fascinating though familiar as it was, "methinks the people waxeth impatient of our delay."
Lady Blanche signaled to the heralds with her slender scepter, the trumpets sounded merrily, and the gates at either end of the lists were thrown open. Twenty-four knights, well mounted and armor-clad, entered through each gateway in double rank. They advanced slowly into the ring to allow their squires and pages to find place behind them. The excitement was visibly increasing throughout the rows of spectators. In the balcony it was no less intense.
"By my halidom!" exclaimed King John of France, looking where the shields bearing the arms of the city of London showed the position of the mayor and his staff, "they are a warlike company! Those young knights, whoever they be, must bear themselves well if they would win."
The contestants were now drawn up ready for the fray. On one side were the mayor and the four sheriffs, protected on the flanks by seven of the aldermen, and in the rear by the remaining twelve. On the opposite side were the twenty-four knights who had first presented themselves in answer to the challenge of the mayor, each one eager to show his prowess before the lady whose scarf he wore.
A second time the trumpets sounded, and the heralds proclaimed the rules of the tourney. The weapons allowed were the lance and the sword, the latter to be used only to strike, not to thrust. A knight unhorsed or forced back to his own end of the lists was considered vanquished. A conquering knight might be forced to face two or three assailants at a time, but in that case a second sword would be allowed him.
Again the trumpets rang out "loude and clarioun," and the heralds cried, "Do now your devoir!" Instantly the front ranks met with a tremendous shock in the center of the lists. The people gazed breathlessly at the dust-enveloped mass to distinguish the victors.
"The mayor conquers!" shouted many voices, as his opponent was seen to be unhorsed and declared vanquished. Several other knights were rolling in the dust under their horses' feet. Reinforcements from the second ranks were joining in the strife, but the victory was plainly with the mayor's side before the heralds' "Ho!" recalled the knights to their places.
In the second and third encounters the sheriff, whose place was at the mayor's left, was easily the victor, as again and again he drove an enemy back, back to the opposite gate. The interest of the spectators was centered on him, and prophecies of yet another victory were made.
In the fourth encounter, however, he lost his lance and was obliged to draw his sword. Now he was gaining ground again, when two knights came to the aid of his opponent. For a few moments longer the young sheriff held his own bravely, wheeling his horse around, striking now here, now there, and parrying the blows of his assailants with consummate skill. But by an unlucky stroke his steel snapped. He was lost! Already his antagonists were forcing him back and demanding surrender. Suddenly a page dashed to his side, pressed a fresh blade into his hand, and swiftly withdrew. With renewed vigor the sheriff defended himself. The outcome of the contest was very doubtful. Then all at once victory was assured when by a few masterful strokes he scattered his enemies and stood alone, the conqueror of the day.
"The voice of peple touchede the hevene" as all recognized his prowess. Amid cheers and confused shouts of "Largesse! Largesse!" and the blare of trumpets, the heralds led him to the foot of the balcony, where the Queen of the Tourney stood ready to give him the victor's crown. The ceremony was interrupted by cries of" Unmask! unhelm him!" The sheriff obeyed the demands of the people, removed his helmet, and revealed—the face of Prince John of Gaunt! Before the lusty cheers that greeted him had begun to subside, the mayor and his comrades entered the lists again, and, saluting the Queen, uncovered their heads. The mayor was transformed into King Edward, the three remaining sheriffs into the elder princes, and the aldermen into well-known lords.
Cheer after cheer arose, and mingled with shouts of "God save such a king!" were heard cries of "The page!" "Bring out the page!" And, with slow step and downcast eyes, Geoffrey Chaucer was led before the throne.
That night, while the stars blinked sleepily before the brightness of the perfect moon, young Chaucer stood long by his open window. His mind's eyes were looking far into the future, when he should be in the wars—perhaps a squire of the King himself; for that evening had seen him made squire to Prince Lionel, and a firmer friend than ever to Prince John.
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