The Rules of Chivalry

I have never really bought into the concept of chivalry.

Of course, I do not mean that in a literal sense. Through my reasonable French I know that their word for horse is cheval, and so really, that's all that chivalry is: a man with a horse. And I have always loved horses.

But ask a churchman, ask a poet, and he will provide a different definition. He will speak of honour, of loyalty, of fairness and of courage, and this is, unfortunately, how chivalry will be remembered. He will not speak of the realities of battle, of the exhaustion, the blood, and above all, the screaming. He will not mention deception in war, of the subtle manoeuvre that takes the foe unawares, of the power of terror. Yet without these, any mention of war is a fabrication. All that matters, in war, in life, is winning. If you win battles, take land, gather power, ensure loyalty, then you will have 'chivalrous' values attributed to your name, regardless of your true personality.

This is why I have decided to write this turbulent tale of my life - I wish to be remembered as I am, not as some foolish 'chivalric' ideal. When my ancestors read this, they will know the truth of my exploits, and my legacy of victory at any cost. That is the code I have lived my life by, not an idealised concept of honour and virtue. Across all the lands I have travelled, across all the cultures and religions I have encountered, I have learnt that those who hold honour above all else are the first casualties in any conflict, be it political or military. Ironically, then, those who are 'unchivalrous' are far more likely to survive and have histories written of them, which will depict them to be the honourable people that they could not afford to be. Of course, those who fail as rulers or soldiers are instantly condemned as cowardly, fearful and dastardly.

I have forged my own chivalry. I have written my own rules of war.

I served two kings, one who loved me and gave me purpose, and another who despised me and sought to bring me down. Ultimately, the men of chronicles will treat them as opposites, and certainly I am tempted to do so, but in many ways, they were not so different. Both resorted to devious means to keep power. One succeeded, one failed. That is their difference. Thus chivalry is a lie. For I am Alistair Fitzwalter, soldier of thirty years, brother of a traitor, servant of Richard and John, and this is my tale.

Chapter 1

I shall never forget the sound of my sister's laughter on that fateful day, early in the warm spring of the year 1188. Perhaps it is all I have to cling on to, given that it was the day that my privileged life, one almost absent of responsibility, was abruptly ripped away by the cowardice of one close to me.

Oh, how happy she was, how infectious her joy as she excitedly explained every nuance of her betrothed, a noble named Gilbert Peche who held the title of Baron of Bourn. Of course, the announcement of their engagement had brought mixed emotions at the time; Alice was one of the few people I can truly name as friend and unburden myself to. Yet her imminent departure to the district of Bourn in Cambridgeshire was at least a five hour ride away, and so our time spent together in the future would be extremely limited. Of course, as the heir to the barony of Little Dunmow, I could not spend time travelling. According to my father, the heir to the barony of Little Dunmow was not permitted to be emotional over something as trivial as the departure of a sibling, a mere woman at that.

He never did like me much.

Fortunately for him, he had sired a second son, Robert, who boasted every trait deemed valuable in his eyes. Robert was boisterous whilst I chose my words carefully, he was stocky where I was skinny, he loved mock combat where I loved horse-riding. At sixteen he was already one of the strongest men in the settlement of Little Dunmow, whereas I, at eighteen, struggled to even lift, let alone swing, my father's longsword properly. My father always blamed my mother for her refusal to force me into strenuous combat exercises - she seemed to believe in the idea that her children could explore whichever pastimes they enjoyed, and not just be moulded in their parents' image. Shocking indeed.

As per normal, my brother had curtly refused my offer to ride with myself and Alice; he seemed intent on spending his free time in fist-fights with the other boys his age in the village, knocking what few wits they possessed out of each other's thick skulls. And so we rode through the sun-streaked forest that bordered the village, the light filtering through the vibrant leaves to reflect my sister's glorious mood.

"The age difference doesn't mean anything to me," she declared. "I have friends who have married men thirty, even forty years their senior. With only a twenty year age gap, I feel I've been quite fortunate!"

"Twenty-three years," I corrected.

"Oh Alistair, you can be so wretchedly pedantic sometimes," she said. "He's perfect for me. You'll love him too when you meet him. His singing voice is simply divine, and I have never seen a finer moustache upon a man!"

"I'm sure I'll find his moustache absolutely captivating," I replied with a smile. She laughed and spurred her horse forwards, forcing me to give chase, the wind ruffling the mane of my chestnut gelding, Raymond. We galloped a winding path through the towering trees, a route as familiar to me as my own home, until we drew up at the edge of Little Dunmow, whooping with exhilaration at the ride.

"I believe Baron Gilbert will be getting rather more than he bargained for," I grinned. "You're probably handier with a pair of reins than he is!"

"I should rather hope not - if I embarrass him too much, he might replace my reins with a set of needles and force me to sew!" she replied in mock horror as we walked our horses into the meandering streets.

"He'll regret that - I've seen how straight your stitches are," I said dryly. "Anyway," I continued, my smile fading, "It's time for my daily tuition with Father Geoffrey. You'd think that after eighteen years of my life he'd have run out of Bible text to drawl at me. I honestly think that he makes up new passages as he goes along. Last week he harangued me about the evil of wives and how their complaining is a curse sent by the devil!"

"How absurd. If I were his wife I would have nothing to complain about," Alice responded in an acerbic tone. Her sarcasm was easy to understand. Father Geoffrey was a most unpleasant creature, a balding man in his forties, who enforced the word of God with the sharp edge of a vine stick. Both myself and Robert had suffered blows from him during our childhood, and a hatred of the priest was one of the few things we had in common. The priest was also infamous for his tendency to take bribes in return for absolution of sins, exacting payment either in silver, or through sexual favours from young women who could not afford to pay. I often feel that had our priest been of a higher calibre, then Robert may have been encouraged to become a man of God, as was customary for second sons. Instead, he turned his eye to other ambitions.

Just another reason to hate Father Geoffrey, I suppose.

As I bade my farewells to Alice and picked my way through the bustling marketplace of Little Dunmow, the snatches of news concerning the outside world reached my ears. Whilst the vast majority of the townsfolk never travelled more than three or four miles from the village itself, foreign merchants occasionally passed through, and no news had caused a greater stir than that of the fall of Jerusalem to heathens in the east. Indeed, a papal emissary, despatched by the archbishop of Tyre, had arrived in the midst of winter to harangue my father about the new Crusade. Although he was forced into acquiescence by the fact that our King Henry had taken the cross, it was evident that he had no intention of riding to the Holy Land, due to his total lack of preparation. Of course, being young and foolish, I naively anticipated that I could have no part in this wild campaign half a world away. For the moment, my only concern was avoiding the lash of my viperous priest.

Robert was waiting at the entrance of the church, yawning languidly. "Enjoy our dainty little ride, did we?" he said mockingly as I approached.

"Just trying to spend some time with Alice before she leaves," I replied lightly, refusing to rise to his provocation. "And besides, if you ever intend to receive your knighthood, you really must give your horsemanship some attention. You boast of the tournaments that you'll win - obviously, you intend to joust on foot. That ought to make an entertaining spectacle."

Robert scowled. "At least I'd stand some chance in a melee. You'd be more at home with the ladies viewing the tilts. If we fought, right here and now, I'd have you hoisting up your skirt and running to mother within seconds."

"As much as I would love to take up that challenge," I said, rolling my eyes in exasperation, "our beloved Father Geoffrey is waiting. Shall we?" With that, I made my way into the church, with Robert reluctantly following. Not for the first time, I observed the barren nature of the interior of Little Dunmow's house of God. The walls were plain and unadorned, with little evidence of the elaborate golden decorations evident in the few other churches I had witnessed at that age. The ancient benches viciously delivered needle-like splinters to anyone unfortunate enough to sit through one of Father Geoffrey's services, and the altar and font were crumbling and in desperate need of reparation. I quietly suspected that the money saved on maintaining the church funded Father Geoffrey's rich lifestyle, yet it was unfathomable to voice such thoughts about a man of God. Instead, we meekly approached the priest, hoping that he was not in one of his fearsome black moods.

As usual, however, our hopes were swiftly dashed. "You're both late, you wretched, stupid boys," he snarled, showering both myself and Robert with spittle.

"I am no boy," Robert declared sullenly.

"To a man anointed by God, all other men are boys," Father Geoffrey snapped, fingering his vine stick. "One more word of impudence out of you and you shall feel the wrath of the Lord."

Having grown accustomed to such exchanges, I ignored them both and began to gather some vellum sheets from Father Geoffrey's table, but froze as the priest swivelled towards me. "Not yet, boy. First I must hear your sordid brother's confession." I could hear the gleeful menace in his voice and, despite our differences, I felt a pang of concern for my brother.

"Confession?" Robert asked, clearly bemused. "What exactly must I confess?"

"The most abhorrant of sins," the priest hissed, turning and stalking away. "I have... evidence!" he roared, swivelling back and glowering at Robert, his pugnacious face inches from my brother's. "Evidence that you used the name of your father to ensure the silence of a girl; a girl who you violated in order to satiate your satanic lusts. You are a disgrace to God's church!"

Usually, I was not inclined to interrupt Father Geoffrey's tirades, but I was too stunned at what I'd heard to not intervene. "Is this true, Robert?" I asked him, gaping. "Did you... did you rape a girl?"

"So what if I did?" Robert answered, shrugging almost nonchalantly. "I felt it was about time to prove I was a true man, unlike you. And it's not as if she complained about it afterward. She should feel privileged to receive the seed of one of such noble blood. You always have been too gentle with women, Alistair. Another reason why I should inherit Father's lands - I doubt you'll ever beget an heir to continue our line. Perhaps you should wear skirts yourself."

Shocked as I was by the revelation of my brother's actions, I was unsurprised by its cause. Robert was ever envious of my position as firstborn, and although I did not flaunt it, he imagined slights where none had been made. That is one problem with most of the nobles in this land - they guard their prickly pride so zealously that oftentimes they launch pre-emptive strikes against those they feel would sully their prestige, when no insult was ever intended initially. Such is the problem of failing to properly limit the power of such ambitious people.

I made to respond to Robert's scathing words, but Father Geoffrey spoke first, his face turning a crimson that was mottled by rage. "You have some nerve to even step into this holy place!" he thundered, his strident voice echoing throughout the church. Christ surveyed the scene with consternation from within his majestic window of stained glass, as if the noise was disturbing him. "And do not speak to me of a man's lusts," Father Geoffrey continued, "for I have nobly refrained from such base desires in the name of the Lord for many, many years. As such I banish you from my church - unless you grovel and beg forgiveness from God, in which case a beating will suffice as punishment."

Robert rounded on him. "Only if you grovel first," he sneered. "We all know that you've taken more girls to your bed than you have hairs on your head. This isn't a church, it's a third-rate brothel. When I come into power in this village, your head will be the first to roll!"

I didn't even notice the implications behind my brother's words, so caught up was I in the confrontation. "Can we all just try to..." I attempted to intervene.

It was no use. "Devil-spawn!" Father Geoffrey screeched. "I shall flay your blasphemous skin off your bones!" He moved forward to strike Robert with his cane.

Whether my brother acted instinctively or deliberately, I shall never know. Swinging with all the strength of his powerful shoulder muscles, his fist connected solidly with Father Geoffrey's scrawny head. The priest's face barely registered surprise as he was flung backwards, his head colliding with the marble altar with a sickening crunch, and he slid to the ground, limp as a sack of oats. "What have you done?" I said to Robert, aghast. Even the most dim-witted of peasants knew that it was a truly unforgiveable sin to strike a priest. Robert, his face acquiring a deathly pale pallor, did not respond - he seemed enraptured by the priest's prone form. When I turned to examine the extent of Father Geoffrey's injuries, the reason for his panic became apparent.