Rouen was not the biggest city in the world, but as far as cities in the fourteenth century went, it was a wonder in its own right. Long before one arrived at the city, it was possible to sight the bell tower of the Great Cathedral from the distance; and if one was timely enough, to hear the tolls of the bell calling all to the church like the horn of war summons crusaders to the battle front.

 

The streets of Rouen were crowded with peasants admiring the colorful knights passing by. One would also find nobility standing at the balconies and windows of their homes, masking their excitement with a stern, unexcitable, haughty frown.

 

William and the three men that made up his retinue rode in the desire to keep as much of their nobility intact. However, Wat found himself staring after a comely milkmaid holding a pail, Roland determined to help him close his gaping mouth but fell entranced at the sight of the milkmaid’s comelier companion. In the end, it took Geoffrey closing both their mouths to bring them back to reality.

 

The jousting tournament meant money in any town. Both for the honest blacksmiths hammering poverty and wretchedness away, the beggars hoping travelers would have silver or gold to spare, and sticky paws hoping to make unsuspecting travelers lighter.

 

Up a little distance, there was some four to five men round a table, casting what appeared to be lots. And this time, it was Geoffrey whose mouth had to be closed by Roland.

 

William slowed the horse down when he saw the tournament entry table.

 

“Herald Geoffrey? Up ahead,” he said.

 

“Ah,” Geoffrey exclaimed when he saw the entry table. “If we are discovered to be what we are, I suppose they will hang us from the gallows or brand us across the forehead.”

 

The tournament entry table was where knights got registered to take part in events. It was basically a table with three men, including the King-of-arms. Behind the men was a collection of shields representing the different events offered in the tournament.

 

Geoffrey stood before the entry table with a scroll in his hand. Smiling at each of the three men as though he knew some intimate secret about them.

 

“Who is your Lord?” asked the King-of-arms, dressed in as many colors as a bird if paradise can boast of.

 

“I present to you, Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein,” said Geoffrey, with a slight bow.

 

William threw his chin up in pride at the mention of his name.

 

The King-of-arms stole a glance at William’s way and nodded. “Patent of nobility?”

 

Geoffrey unfurled the scroll in his hand and read it to the King-of-arms.

 

“…Duke Gusebe of Saxony son of Ghibellines, Son of Wendish the fifth Earl of Southwick. The same Wendish who inherited the field of Ledbury from…”

 

“That’s enough, herald,” said the King-of-arms, “six generations is more than enough. Is your Lord sworn to a house or is he a free knight?”

 

“He is sworn to a noble house in the faraway west lands of Gelderland country,” Geoffrey answered.

 

The King-of-arms recorded this in a parchment. “Indicate which events your lord Ulrich shall compete in.”

 

Geoffrey picked up a long staff on the table and poked at two of the shields behind the King-of-arms.

 

“Sword and lance,” he said cheerily.

 

“The entry fee is two silver florins,” said the King-of-arms.

 

Geoffrey took out a heavy bag of gold from within his clothing and the King-of-arms grunted.

 

“I see your lord Ulrich is heavy with gold,” said the official. “Though he doesn’t look like it.”

 

Geoffrey picked out two florins and handed them over. “How many knights have lost their lives to nasty bandits for “looking like it”?” he said, returning the bag to his pockets.

 

The King-of-arms nodded and took the money. “Sir Ulrich’s number is 32, and he’ll be meeting Roger lord of Mortimer in the lists tomorrow morning.”

 

He handed a wooden tag to Geoffrey who passed it on to William on the horse.

 

The King-of-arms bowed to William, and the latter returned with a nobly nod and rode away with Geoffrey as the next contestant stepped up to be registered.

 

“He thinks I’m rich,” said William, “you did it Geoffrey, you really did it!”

 

“It'd be odd if a knight sworn to a house was as poor as free knight. If he’d dared to peep into the knight’s purse, he’d have found only two florins and the finest stones from the riverbank.”

 

William chuckled. “True that.”

 

"I still don't get why we said William is sworn to a house and not a free knight," Wat questioned.

 

Geoffrey sighed. "As I explained it before you dullard, if he is a free knight another house might want to recruit him. That's every free knight's dream so none would reject that offer. Sir Ulrich... might be investigated and decent scholar would recognize these patents to be of questionable origin. Should they actually attempt to verify his ancestors it would take some time but the truth would inevitably be revealed."

 

Wat had a puzzled look before shouting, "Hold on! You just called me a dullard. What's a dullard? is that an insult?"

 

“Now William,” said Geoffrey ignoring Wat, looking around furtively. “If you don’t mind, I’d like check something, see you around.”

 

“Act as my herald, and you’ll receive a share of the winnings,” William said.

 

“Agreed,” said Geoffrey, “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to run along now.”

 

"Oi! Don't ignore me! William! Roland! What's a dullard?!" Wat shouted.

 

William saw Geoffrey hop in direction of the men casting lots, thinks nothing of it and continues riding with a big grin on his face.

 

He found himself before the cathedral, and stared at a magnificent edifice. It’s been long since he ever prayed in a church, yet, he felt that if there was ever a time when he needed to do so, it was at that moment.

 

William got off his horse and handed it over to the boy at the stables. Then he went into the church with nothing save for the tournament tag in his hand.

 

The church was a serene as the last time he remembered it. Up the choir stand is a small group singing in low, soothing soprano.

 

He lied to get into the competition, so he didn’t deem himself worthy of the front pew. Instead, he stayed at the last row and there, bowed his head in prayer.

 

William found himself speechless and yet, praying. It was as though his spirit and not his mouth was doing the petitioning in that moment.

 

“Amen,” he said, opening his eyes and watching the choir sing.

 

Suddenly, he found his nose invaded by the smell of roses and summer springs. He looked at his side and saw a lady of no more than eighteen– noble from her dressing – take a seat beside him.

 

The first time William was ever truly awed was almost ten years ago on the streets of Borish; the knights and their squires had been parading through the streets, their colorful flags with its snakes and dragons and lions fluttered in the air like scarecrows in a dastardly storm.

 

The second time William was truly awed was when he saw the end of a lance kiss another knight’s ribs, lifting him off his horse and into the ground.

 

The third time he was truly awed was right there in the church, as the lady settled beside him; eyes closed, lips moving up and down in mutterings of silent prayers.

 

He shook his head and rose to his feet, making the sign of the cross as he hurried outside. Old cupid had fired his arrow, and it was lodged in the depths of William’s heart.

 

William stayed by the great wooden doors of the cathedral, and then, she emerged from within, with another lady, who from her clothes, William took to be her handmaid.

 

He stood in her path immediately as she emerged, a mesmerized smile on his face.

 

“Would you speak to me?” he said.

 

The lady was of fair skin and was clothed in fine, white linen. Despite her gloves and clothes that covered all of her save her face, it was easy to see that she was fair and the sun would do harm to her skin. Her beautiful red hair stunning emerald colored eyes would make even the mightiest weak in the knees.

 

“I always admire knight's that pray,” she said, smiling faintly in return.

 

William narrowed his eyes. “How…” he began to ask.

 

“There’s a ticket in your hand,” said the lady. “Doesn’t require a Socrates to figure out. Tell me, what do you pray for?”

 

William shrugged. “Victory and forgiveness.”

 

“Victory and forgiveness? I pray for my family, the king, and my country,” said the lady. Then glanced at William. "Tell me Sir knight what do you need to be forgiven for?"

 

"Everyone should pray for forgiveness of our Lord God for we are all sinners. Do you not ask for forgiveness in your prayers my lady?"

 

She was taken aback by his response as she momentarily stared into his eyes. "Of course, it's the first thing I do when I pray." She then started walking away.

 

William smiled and followed closely behind.

 

She added. “I don't pray for victory though. What use have I for victory? Look at my hands, they bear no sword.”

 

“And yet you’ve struck me in the heart, how so?”

 

The lady put a hand to her mouth as she continued walking.

 

“I assure you sir, I’m not your missing rib,” she said.

 

“If you were then my ribs must be made of fine gold and field lilies,” said William, pushing his way through the crowd to catch up with her. “Will you not tell me your name?”

 

“What’s in a name?” she said, without stopping. “A rose by any other name would still smell the same.”

 

“A rose? Until you tell me your name, Rose is what I’ll call you,” said William, breathlessly.

 

She stole a glance at him and smiled before stepping into the gates of a castle. William was not sure when they'd arrived.

 

“ 'til we see each other again, my lady Rose,” William yelled after her.

 

The lady didn’t turn around, but her handmaid did, throwing him a quick glance and a girlish giggle.