The House of Shadows

against a dark blue field, above that a strip of silver stars against a red background. The two knights waited at either end of the lists in their silver-edged armour, ready to joust; their war destriers, eager to charge, snorted and pawed the ground, resplendent in gorgeously caparisoned cloths and gleaming black harness. The knights sat, heads slightly down so that they could peer more clearly through their visor slits; from each helmet elegantly plumed feathers ruffled in the breeze. The noise of the horses, the creak of harness and the harsh clatter of armour carried across to the spectators, intensifying their excitement.
    A drum began to beat, a striking hollow sound. The crowd fell silent, the course was ready. The knights, unable to control their restless horses, let them move forward a little to relieve the tension. All eyes watched their champions, visors down, sitting so immobile in the high horn saddles, shields up, blunted lances ready. The trumpets blasted, a carrying, ringing sound which sent birds in the nearby trees whirring up to the sky. The crowd moaned in pleasure. Another trumpet blast, followed by a third, and the jousters moved forward, a resplendent vision of moving, dazzling colour. The horses broke into a trot, the herald threw his baton down and stepped back even as the horses burst into a gallop, moving to a furious charge, the drumming of their hoofs drowning all sound. Lances came down, crossing over the horses’ necks to meet their targets, shields slightly raised; a magnificent sight, man and horse, free as a bird, fast and furious as a falling falcon.
    They met in a dramatic clash of steel. Each shattered their opponent’s lance and shield. One knight swayed slightly in his saddle but managed to stay in his seat. They reached the end of the lists. Fresh lances were brought and the heart-throbbing music of battle began again as both knights moved into the charge, bearing furiously down upon each other. They met once again in the centre, lances shattering, horses neighing and rearing. The knight who fought under the banner of the Grey Boar swayed dangerously. He tried to right himself, his horse swerved, chain-mailed feet broke free of the stirrups and the knight tumbled to the ground with an almighty crash. His opponent reined in and turned round. The fallen knight tried to raise himself, struggled weakly and lay back as squires and pages, in tabards brightly coloured as a field of flowers, hurried across to help.
    ‘Well I never! God and St George help us!’ Sir John Cranston, Lord Coroner of the City, turned to the small, thin-as-a-beanpole man standing next to him. ‘Well, Bohun, that was a mighty fight. Reminded me of my younger days.’
    ‘Yes, Sir John, it did. But what was the tourney over?’
    Cranston put his arm round his old comrade’s shoulder.
    ‘I asked you to meet me here, Bohun, as I knew you would be interested in it. The Knight of the Grey Boar is Sir William Stafford, his opponent Sir Humphrey Neville, both young bucks of the Court. Now, a month ago, our noble Regent staged a Bal des Ardents. ’
    ‘What’s one of them?’ Bohun asked.
    ‘A little conceit our Regent has imported from France, where the nobles of the Court, for God knows what reason, dress as wild men of the woods, their faces smeared with mud, their heads and bodies covered in coats of hay, straw and bracken. What happens is this...’ Cranston kept his eyes on the hapless knight as he was lifted on to a stretcher. ‘Oh good,’ he murmured, ‘it doesn’t seem as if he was hurt too badly. What happens is this: the young bucks like to fight, to frighten the ladies, so all the candles are doused in the great hall. The wild men of the woods appear, carrying torches. The lady of their heart has to find which is her beloved. Anyway, to keep my tale brief and pointed, Sir Humphrey, whether by accident or design, let his torch slip and set fire to Sir William’s coat. A lady doused it but Sir William was furious,-he claimed it was no accident and challenged Sir Humphrey to a duel. It looks as though honour has been satisfied.’
    ‘It’s a pity both the stupid buggers weren’t consumed by fire.’
    Cranston laughed. ‘Bohun, let’s visit the glories of Smithfield .’
    They walked across the open expanse which stretched in front of the great church of St Bartholomew’s and its adjoining hospital, a favourite meeting place beyond the old City walls, with its makeshift stalls, the