“And Roland was saying, “Any moment from now, like a phoenix”, we were expecting you to leap out of the river.”

 

“I’d like to see you leap out of anything with that armor strapped to your body,” said William.

 

“Don’t move your head now,” Wat warned, as he cut excess locks from William’s hair.

 

Roland was seated on a fallen log, his hand skillfully worked the needle in and out of a cloth. He sighed and bit off the knot.

 

“Our phoenix is ready to fly,” he declared, raising the banner up.

 

William’s mouth dropped where he sat. “That’s… beautiful.”

 

Roland smacked his lips. “I know,” he said. “We leave for Rouen in the morning. And I’m glad to know if we lose at jousting, we have your admirable sword skills to rely on.”

 

“We will win at jousting,” said William, stubbornly. “And I should warn you all not to call me, William anymore. That name will not go to the tournament with me.”

 

He rose with flourish, despite Wat’s grumbling. Throwing his chest out, he said, “I am Ulrich Von Lichtenstein of the Borish kingdom from now on.”

 

Early the next morning, they set out of the woods that had housed them for a month.

 

“Oh, I’ll miss this place sorely,” Wat mourned as they stepped out.

 

“You’re welcome to stay behind,” William suggested.

 

They were all in neat, fairly respectable clothes, buying as cheaply as they could from their thirteen florins, determining to save – with miserly resolution – what they could of it.

 

Once they were out on the road, William rode on the horse, while Wat and Roland walked beside him.

 

At first, the journey had been sweet and noisy as they sang songs from old lore and forgotten stories. But by noon, the sun was directly above them, and their legs felt like heavy iron.

 

“It’s my turn to ride,” Roland declared, hotly. As sweat dripped from his exhausted face.

 

“No, it’s not,” said William. “We’ve not arrived at the mile marker yet, and I’m not sure it’s acceptable for you to do so. Suppose another knight passes by us, what do you think he’ll think if he sees my squire ride while I walk?”

 

“None of us should be riding the horse,” said Wat, squinting at the unforgiving sun. “The horse is not what it used to, and we need it to do what it used to do.”

 

Wat flinched aside in fright as a man walked past him.

 

“Hoy,” said William, “look at this.”

 

The said man had not a stitch of clothing on, and was as naked as Adam was in the garden. Not even his feet had the luxury of shoes or rags.

 

“Hoy there! What’re you doing?” asked William.

 

The naked man stopped ahead and turned around rather dramatically. He was a lean, tall fellow with sandy blond hair. He looked a bit older than they were, William reckoned he was probably in his mid twenties.

 

“Me?” the man said, putting a hand to his chest. “Trudging.”

 

“Trudging?” Wat blurted.

 

“Yes, trudging,” the man replied, “the slow, weary, yet determined walk of one who has no other choice but to soldier on.”

 

William glanced at Roland who shrugged as though to say the situation was confusing to him as well.

 

“Were you robbed?” William asked.

 

The man inhaled. “Yes, and yet a resounding NO” he said, letting air out. “A sort of an involuntary vow of poverty. But to trudge represents pride. Pride, resolve and trust in God to deliver me from my current tribulations.”

 

“Who are you?” asked Roland.

 

“Lilium inter spinas,” said the man, bowing.

 

When he raised his head, it was to the blank expression on the faces of William, Roland, and Wat.

 

“The lily among the thorns, Geoffrey Chaucer,” he continued. “I’m a writer.”

 

“A what?” asked Wat, blankly.

 

Geoffrey, the nude man stared at Wat. “A what? A writer!” he said. “With ink and parchment? For a penny, I’ll scribble all you want; from warrants, edicts, affidavits, and patents of nobility…”

 

William’s eyes widened at this.

 

“…Even a poem or two if the muse descends heavily on me. Perhaps, you’ve read a work of mine; Book of Duchess?”

 

The most awkward of silence fell on all four men for a moment.

 

Geoffrey broke the silence and stated, "well, I suppose it was allegorical."

 

Roland cleared his throat. “We won’t hold that against you,” he said. “That’s something for every man has to decide himself.”

 

“What are you talking about?” asked Geoffrey.

 

“Did you say patents of nobility?” asked William, frowning.

 

Geoffrey raised his brows, looked from Roland, to Wat, and William sitting on the high horse.

 

“Now,” he began, “who are you, gentlemen?”

 

“We are…” Wat started but William cut him off the same instant.

 

“I am sir Ulrich Von Lichtenstein,” William said, infusing as much nobility as he could into his accent. “And these here are my faithful squires.” He gestured to Roland then Wat. “Delves of Doddington, and Fowlehurst of Crewe.”

 

Roland and Wat glanced at each other, cleared their throats and adjusted their shirts even if there was no need to.

 

“Yes,” said Roland, “we are what he said we are.”

 

Geoffrey burst into a guffaw, holding his belly as he bent forward. When he raised his head, tears had formed in the corners of his eyes.

 

“Ah yes,” he said, trying to stifle his laughter. “And I am Richard the Lion Heart. No wait! My name is Charlemagne. You can call me Geoffrey the Baptist.”

 

He flew into his fit of laughter again, and with each note he produced, William and his companions grew as red as tomato sauce.

 

Furious, William jumped off his black steed and drew his dagger out. He ran over to Geoffrey’s side and grabbed him by the collar.

 

“Hold your tongue or lose it,” William said, raising Geoffrey’s chin with the tip of the dagger.

 

Geoffrey’s laughter died away that instant, although one could still see the shine of mischief in his eyes.

 

“Now, that I believe, Sir Ulrich,” he said to William.

 

William regarded the naked man for a while and pulled his sword away. “Thank you, Geoffrey,” he said.

 

“Do you have anymore to say, Master Nude, or, having failed your identity test, may we be on our way?” Roland bellowed.

 

Geoffrey licked his parched lips. “Are you going to the tournament?” he asked.

 

“This road leads to Rouen, does it not?” Wat retorted.

 

“That remains to be seen,” said Geoffrey, shrugging. “They’re limiting the field at Rouen; all noble birth must be established for four generations on either side of the family. Patents of nobility must be provided.”

 

William sighed and returned to his horse. He deigned no reply to Geoffrey, and neither did his companions.

 

“Cloth me, feed me, shoe me, let me ride a bit, and you’ll have your patents. I’m thinking your mother’s father was Shilhard von Rechberg. His crest a proud peacock.”

 

“And I hail from Borish,” said William, excitedly.

 

“If you claim you’re Borish everyone will try to find out which noble house you serve,” said Geoffrey. “We will choose somewhere so far away, it’d be madness to go looking for them. Somewhere real but far away. Ah! I might have the perfect place!”

 

“Where?” asked William, warily.

 

“Gelderland,” said Geoffrey, musically. “Sir Ulrrrrrich von Lichtenstein of Gelderland.”

 

William shrugged. “Doesn’t sound bad at all.”

 

“No, it doesn’t,” said Geoffrey, “so what say ye, will you take me?”

 

The three friends convened together for a quick discuss.

 

“We need him,” said William aside to Roland and Wat. “We need the patents and so we need him.”

 

“Fine,” said Wat, bobbing his head. “But can I have a moment with him?”

 

William and Roland shrugged.

 

“Thank you,” said Wat. He went over the Geoffrey and stood with his legs apart. “Betray us and I’ll fong you in the hole of your arse till your inside is out and outside is in. Your ears will blow snot, sulphur, and shit will squirt from your navel.”

 

Geoffrey nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind, Squire Fowlehurst. Now, if you’ll kindly give me your shoes.”