When Conon decided to give a tourney as a climax to the wedding and adubbement festivities, he sent out several servitors of good appearance and loud voices to course the country for some twenty leagues around. These varlets bawled their proclamation at every crossroad, village, inn, and castle gate.

"The Wednesday after St. Ancildus Day, good people! In the meadow at St. Aliquis by the Claire. The Wednesday after St. Ancildus day! Let all come who love to see or to join in deeds of valor!"

This is "crying the tourney." As soon as the news spreads abroad, every petty sire takes council with his wife whether he can afford to go. The women begin to hunt up their best bliauts and furs; the men to furbish their armor. Soon various cavaliers, arranging with their friends, undertake to form challenge parties. They write on a scroll "At the castle of A—— there are seven knights who will be ready to joust with all comers to St. Aliquis." This they post on a tree by the wayside in order that other lordlings may organize similar parties to confront them.

Tourneys are to be reckoned as "little wars themselves, and the apprenticeship for great ones." They have an inconceivably prominent place in feudal life. Vainly the Church objects to them. All nobles will tell you that without tourneys you can never train good warriors.

Tourneys, however, bring profit and pleasure to all manner of people—no cause for unpopularity. The "joy women," who rush to ply their sinful wiles despite every attempt to restrict them; the common villeins, who drop their work to enjoy one grand holiday; and the merchants, who really hold a small fair near the lists, all are delighted. As for men of gentle blood, an English chronicler can state the case alike for France and England: "A knight cannot shine in war if he has not been prepared for it in tourneys. He must have seen his own blood flow, have had his teeth crackle under the blow of his adversary, have been dashed to the earth with such force as to feel the weight of his opponent, and disarmed twenty times; he must twenty times have retrieved his failures, more than ever set on combat." Then he will be ready for actual war and can hope to conquer!

In early feudal days tourneys differed from battles merely in that the time and the place were fixed in advance, and fair conditions arranged. According to the epics, at "Charlemagne's court" the nobles often got tired of ordinary sports and "demanded a tourney." The results were merely pitched battles in which many were slain and many more wounded.

There was no luxury, pomp, or patronage by fair ladies at the earliest tourneys.[65] They were exceedingly violent pastimes in which "iron men" measured their strength and rejoiced in deadly blows. Since then tourneys have been getting less brutal. An important spectacular element is intruding. The rules of combat are becoming more elaborate, fewer knights are killed, and there is an appeal to something better than mere fighting instinct. On the other hand, in the thirteenth century jousts and mÊlÉes are far from being mere displays of fine armor and fine manners. The military element is still uppermost. Furthermore, since the vanquished cavaliers are the prisoners of the victors and are subject to ransom, or at least their horses and armor are forfeit, certain formidable knights go from tourney to tourney deliberately seeking profit by taking prisoners. In short, so dangerous are tourneys even yet, that as recently as 1208, when Prince Louis, heir of King Philip, was knighted, his father made him swear he would merely watch them as spectator—for the life of a prince royal is too precious to risk in such affairs.

The popes have long since denounced tourneys. Innocent II, Eugenius III, Alexander III, and finally the great and wise Innocent III have prohibited Christians from participating in the same under peril of their souls. But cui bono? Great barons who shudder at the thought of eating beef on Fridays defy the Church absolutely when it comes to a matter of "those creations of the devil" (to quote St. Bernard of Clairvaux) in which immortal souls are so often sped.

When Conon decides to add a tourney as a climax to his fÊte, a score of carpenters are hired down from Pontdebois to help out the levy of peasants in preparing the lists and lodges. Some of the guests have already come to the wedding and the adubbement, but many more arrive merely for the knightly contests. For these, of course, the baron affords only limited hospitality—a good place to pitch their tents, water and forage, with perhaps an invitation to the castle hall at dinner time to certain leaders. Many visitors can get accommodation in the better houses in the village, or at the monastery; but, the weather being fine, the majority prefer to set out their pavilions by the Claire, and the night before the sports begin there seem to be tents enough for an army.

The visitors come in their best bliauts and armor. Certain powerful counts collect as many lesser nobles as possible, even making up bands of twenty knights, twenty squires, a great number of ladies and waiting women, also some hundreds of ignoble servitors. Except for the presence of the women and the omission of military precautions, you might think them going to an ordinary muster for war.

Meantime, in the wide exercise ground where Sire Aimery had been dubbed, the special lists are made ready. These are simple affairs, something like a race course of other days. Two pairs of strong wooden palisades are erected. The outer line is shoulder high; the inner is lower and has many openings. Between the two lines is the space for spare horses, squires, attendants, and heralds; also for privileged spectators. The humbler onlookers will peer standing over the outer palisade, but behind and above this rise the series of lodges, shaded with tentlike canopies, floored with carpets, and gay with pennons. In them will be stationed the ladies and the older, less martial knights. The space within the lists is some hundred yards long by fifty wide. That evening Conon and Sire Eustace survey the decorations, the forest of banners waving over the colored pavilions of the visitors, and listen complacently to the glad hum of voices and the jongleur's chants everywhere arising.

"Ah, fair Baron," says the seneschal, "all France will talk of this spear breaking until Christmas! It will be a great day for St. Aliquis."

At gray dawn the heralds from the castle go through the avenues of tents, calling, monotonously: "Let the jousters make ready! Let the jousters make ready!"

Soon squires half dressed are seen running to and fro. There is a great saddling and girdling, neighing and stamping. A few pious knights and dames hurry to the castle chapel for a mass very hastily said, but the bulk of the company cross themselves and mutter: "We will be sinners to-day. The blessed saints are merciful!" Presently, by the time the sun is well above the trees, everybody is bound for the lists. The ladies, if possible, ride white mules and are dressed as splendidly as for their own weddings. Not in many a day will St. Aliquis see again such displays of marten, ermine, and vair, of sendal and samite, of gold thread and pearls. The common folk point and applaud loudly when an unusually handsomely clad dame sweeps by. What right have grand folk to claim the obedience of the lesser, if they cannot delight the public gaze by their splendors? As for the jongleurs, their name is legion. The whole affair is characterized by a "music" becoming deafening.

While the dames and other noncombatants take seats in the lodges, the six camp marshals—distinguished knights in charge of the contests—appear in the lists. They advance on foot, wearing very brilliant bliauts. Conon, as giver of the festivities, is naturally at their head. Behind follow the humbler born heralds and pursuivants who will assist them, and encourage the combatants with such cries as: "Remember whose son you are!" "Be worthy of your ancestry!" There is also a large squad of varlets and sergeants to keep order, bring new lances, clear away broken weapons, and rescue fallen knights. Conon's keen eye sweeps the tilt yard. Everything is ready. The baron bows politely to his suzerain, the duke and duchess, in the central lodge; then he raises a white baton. "Bring in the jousters!" he commands.

Instantly there is a great blare of trumpets from the end of the lists farthest from the castle. Four gorgeously arrayed heralds lead the procession on foot. Then comes a jongleur on horseback, playing with his sword, tossing it high in the air and catching as it whirls downward. Next come the actual contestants, some eighty knights riding two by two. They go down one side of the lists and back the other. Some cavaliers turn deliberately to ogle the ladies in the lodges, and the gentle dames (old and young) are not backward in leaning forward and waving in reply. It is a sight to stir the blood—all the pageantry of war, without as yet its slaughter; the presence of gorgeously clad women in graceful attitudes; and the air charged with the excitement of brave deeds and of genuine perils to come. Suddenly all the knights begin to sing. The women catch up the chorus of some rousing melody which makes the lists shake. The cavaliers compel their horses to prance and curvet as they go by some lady of especial favor. From many lances are hanging bright streamers—not banners, but sleeves and stockings, the gifts of friendly dames. The younger knights are rejoiced by seeing damsels, whose eye they have taken, rise in the lodges and then and there, before the cheering hundreds, fling them "gages of love." It is so with young Sire Aimery as he modestly rides near the tail of the procession. The daughter of the approving count stands boldly and casts him a long red ribbon wherewith she had braided her hair. The other new knights receive similar tokens from unabashed admirers. This process will keep up through the games. The shrieking, excited ladies will presently cast into the lists gloves, girdles, and ribbons. Many will sit at the end with only their flying hair, and their pelissons and chemises for costume.

Some combatants are intent on grim business. These are the professional jousters, determined to get as many ransoms as possible and to maintain their own proud reputation. Their armor is beautifully burnished; but it is quite plain. They have prepared for a regular battle. Other knights have painted their scabbards, lance butts, and shields with brilliant white, red, or black. On the crests of their helmets they have set outlandish figures—monsters, heads of birds, or of women. As in fancy balls of other days, their aim is to attract attention by the peculiarity of their costumes. Conon does not desire a bloody tourney and the funeral of several friendly knights as a climax to his gayety. Orders have therefore been given that all lance points are to be blunted, also that all sword edges and points be rounded. The tournament lances, too, are lighter than the battle lances and made of brittle wood.[66] Nevertheless, the blows struck will be terrible. The best leach from Pontdebois is already in the duke's lodge, and his services will be needed.

Strictly speaking, a tourney falls into two parts—the jousting always comes first, with the mÊlÉe, which is the real tourney proper, as the grand climax to the entire occasion.

What follows might seem to men of other days somewhat monotonous after the novelty has worn away, although the first contests are exciting enough. The competing knights have been told off in pairs, partly by mutual consent, partly by the tactful arrangement of the camp marshals. After the procession around the lists, the contestants take their stations, some in the saddle, some dismounted in the spaces between the barriers. There is an awesome hush along the lodges and in the great standing throng of the vulgar. A herald calls in loud voice, "Let him come to joust who wishes to do battle!" Instantly two keen trumpets answer each other from opposite ends of the lists, and two pursuivants come forward. These worthies are really only jongleurs on less exciting days. They have now taken the deniers of two young barons who are anxious to make a brave appearance. The pursuivants are grotesquely dressed with bright parti-colored mantles and bliauts. Each begins bawling shrilly even while his rival is calling: "Here is the good cavalier and baron, Ferri of St. Potentin. A brave knight of a valorous house. He will teach a lesson to his enemies!" "Here is the good cavalier, Raoul, eldest son of the most puissant Count of Maurevay. Watch now his deeds, all you who love brave actions!"

Then each of the twain reviles the master of the other: "He! Your Sire Raoul is the son of a crow. All his friends will this day be ashamed of him. Let him find his ransom money!"

"Silence all boasts, you pursuivant of a caitiff master. Sire Ferri, if he outlives the shock, will have his spurs struck from his heels as being unworthy of knighthood!"

Meantime the two champions, rigid as statues, suffer their squires to lead them upon their tall destrers to opposite ends of the lists. When they are facing and their squires have nodded that their masters are ready, a marshal waves his white baton, calling loudly, "In the name of God and St. Michael, do your battle!"

All the dames, nobles, and base-born rise in the lodges and shout together when suddenly the two knights and their mighty horses spring to life. The ground quakes and the sod flies when they rush down the lists as if hurried toward each other by irresistible force. As they gallop, each bends low in the saddle—swings his shield to cover his body, lowers his helmet almost to the top of his shield, swerves his horse so as to pass his opponent on the right, and with sure grip drops his lance point before him.

"Crash!" The splintering of wood can be heard through the din from the lodges. Both horses are thrown upon their haunches and are casting out great clods of earth. Each knight is flourishing the broken butt of a lance and across the shield of each there is a long jagged mark.

"Fairly broken! Fairly broken! A noble course!" cries everyone. The two contestants wheel gracefully and canter back to their stations. Squires run up with fresh lances. Sire Raoul takes a new shield, the earlier one showing signs of splitting as well as being battered. Another course; another crash—and two more broken lances. But at the third shock Sire Ferri meets utter humiliation. He indeed meets Raoul's lance fairly on his shield and again the tough wood is splintered, but excitement, overconfidence, or the intervention of the devil makes his wrist a little unsteady. At the moment of collision Raoul swerves his body a trifle to the left. Ferri's lance misses his foe's shield entirely. It flies off in the air, and in the confusion escapes from his hand. There is hooting from the villeins; worse still, there is shrill derision from all the lodges. Sire Ferri rides back to his post, grinding his teeth and swearing blasphemously. He must now pay a ransom to Raoul for his horse and armor, despite the boastings of his pursuivant, and not even have the melancholy consolation of knowing that he was unhorsed in a fair collision.

But the next duel has a more exciting ending. Two cavaliers who now engage are exceptionally experienced knights. At the first charge both horses sustain such a shock when the lances shiver that their masters can barely force them to their feet. At the second charge the more skillful rider holds his lance so squarely that, instead of its breaking, the opposing knight is fairly flung out of the saddle—dashed from his horse and sprawled headlong with a great clattering of armor. The heralds and squires run to him and find that, thanks to his hauberk, he has escaped dangerous wounds, though he coughs away several teeth. Great is the excitement in the lodges.

Several duels after this end in honorable draws. The knights have agreed to "break three lances fairly for the love of the ladies," and gallantly do so. There are no victors or vanquished. Then it is proclaimed that two seigneurs from Champagne, Sire Emeri and Sire Lourent, having an especial desire to "debate together" (their original quarrel had been over dice) are resolved to fight until one cries "mercy," and will continue their battle on foot should either be unhorsed. Three times they break lances unscathed, but the fourth time Lourent's stirrup parts and he is pitched upon the sands. Instantly he is free from his snorting, plunging destrer and on his feet, flourishing his great sword. Emeri now might lawfully ride against him, but it is no chivalrous thing for a mounted knight to attack an unmounted one. Down he leaps also, making his blade dance above his head like a stream of light. Then to the infinite joy of the lodges the two cavaliers hack and feud with each other for a good ten minutes, till the blood streams down their faces, the bright paint on their shields is marred, and the crests of their helmets have vanished in dentings. At last Emeri flings his strength into a lucky blow. His sword is blunted, but by sheer weight of the stroke the blade smashes Lourent's shield asunder, descending like a smith's sledge upon his helmet. Lourent topples like a log.

A great shout goes through the lodges. "Dead!" cry many; but, to the relief of the women, the word presently spreads that he is only soundly stunned, though the leech says that "he will not fight again till Christmas."

The duels continue all through the morning. There is an interval while cakes and wine are passed through the lodges and loaves are thrown among the plebeians. Most duels seem decidedly similar, but each is followed with undiminishing delight. The ladies no less than their brothers and husbands grasp all the niceties of the contests—the methods whereby each champion holds his lance and shield and controls his horse are wisely discussed by a hundred pairs of pretty lips. Between each tilt the heralds, besides praising the valor of the next pair of combatants, keep up their cries, "Largesse, gallant knights! Largesse!" and now one, now another baron rises in the lodges to fling coins among villeins (whose rough scrambling causes much merriment), or even to toss money to the heralds themselves—which they never hesitate to pick up.

Many knights are content with a single passage at arms, but some who have been successful once tempt fortune a second time. These are likely to be the professional champions, and they give remarkable exhibitions of perfect horsemanship and lance play. As the afternoon advances, for variation, there is a fight at the barriers. A stout wooden bar about waist high is set across the middle of the lists, and seven knights from one seigneury and seven from another undertake to cross the same, while preventing the other party from advancing. They fight on foot with sword and mace. It is desperate work; and when at last one party has forced its way across, four of the defeated side have broken bones, despite their hauberks, and all-but-broken heads, despite their helmets.

Then a very arrogant baron who has already won three ransoms determines to increase his wealth. Stationing himself at the head of the lists, he bids his pursuivant challenge all comers. There is a long hush. Sire Paul has made such a trade of his prowess that assuredly there seems something mercantile about his valor, yet assuredly he is a terrible man. Suddenly the lodges begin to cry, "A St. Aliquis!" Sire Aimery himself (who earlier had broken three lances very neatly with a friend) is sending down his pursuivant.

All the older knights mutter: "A fearful risk for the lad! Let him pray to his saints." Conon demands angrily of Olivier, "Could not you keep back the boy from this folly?" But does not Heaven favor the young and brave? Perhaps it is because Sire Paul has let himself become careless; perhaps because his squire has forgotten to tighten his saddle girths; perhaps because St. GÉnevieve cannot allow her votary to undergo disgrace thus early in his knighthood. In any case, results confound the wiseacres. "The pitcher that goes too often to the well is broken," dryly observes Father GrÉgoire, when at the first course Sire Paul is ignominiously flung from the saddle. HÉ! Sire Aimery will now have more sleeves, girdles, and stockings than can ever flutter from any one lance, and his kinsfolk are out of their wits for joy! No victory could ever be more praised and popular.

So ends the jousting, and that night round St. Aliquis blaze the great camp fires of the company, all cooking most hearty suppers (after fasting almost all day), everybody visiting from tent to tent, fighting the day's contests over again, condoling with the defeated and praising the victors. Alliances, both military and matrimonial, are negotiated between consequential barons; the jongleurs produce tricks and songs; there is a great deal of dancing by the red firelight; and also, one fears, much hard drinking and most unseemly revelry.

The next day there is the climax to the festival, the mÊlÉe. Really, it is nothing less than a pitched battle on a small scale. The details have been arranged at a council of the more prominent seigneurs at the castle. About forty knights on a side are to fight under the leadership of the Viscount of Gemours and the Baron of Dompierre. The space in the lists is insufficient. They go to a broad, convenient meadow across the Claire, where the noncombatants can watch from a safe distance. The marshals array the two companies "at least a bowshot apart." Groups of friendly knights are set together and are placed opposite to groups of rivals with whom they are anxious to collide. The great banners of the houses of Gemours and Dompierre flutter in the center of each respective array, and all the little banderoles of the various knights wave with them.

When all is ready, Conon gives the signal, "Charge them in God's name!"

Each baron is expected to charge a particular foe, but all are liable to be swerved in the great rush of men and horses. The two flashing squadrons of cavalry come together like thunderbolts. All the danger of the jousts is present, and another more terrible—that of being trampled to death, if once down, by the raging horses. There is no real leadership. Gemours and Dompierre merely try to set examples of valor and to push their banners forward as rallying points. At first the fighting is good-humored, but when the lances are broken and everyone is smiting one another with sword or mace, the contest becomes desperate. A fearful cloud of dust rises, almost blinding to the combatants, and rendering their blows more reckless.

After the fight has progressed some time, certain of the less adventurous knights begin to drop out. The squires dive into the murk of warriors and horses and drag to safety now this, now another fallen cavalier. At last, just as Conon is considering whether he should not proclaim a "draw," the Gemours banner is observed to topple. A desperate attempt is made to right it, but it sinks again amid a rending shout from the victors. The uplifted hands fall. The frantic horses are brought under control. "A Dompierre! A Dompierre!" bawl all the heralds. And so the mÊlÉe ends.

No one, thanks to excellent armor, is dead, although one heir to a barony is in a desperate condition and several shoulders and thighs are broken. It is futile to count the shattered collar bones and ribs. "A very gentle passage at arms!" says the Duke to Conon, congratulating his vassal on the fÊte and its climax. All the other seigneurs join in similar praises. That night there is another round of festivities and of visiting. The next dawn the whole company scatters. The jongleurs' music has ceased at last. There is no more dancing. After over two weeks of intensifying gayety St. Aliquis suddenly returns to sober, normal life.

Alienor, after tearful farewells, departs with her husband for Burgundy. Aimery rides over to his little castle at Petitmur, which he will hold as his brother's vassal. Adela lectures her maids on the need of catching up with their weaving, while Conon holds anxious conferences with his chief provost on the costs of the celebration.

Doubtless the affair has brought glory to the seigneury. More than a hundred knights and two hundred squires or unknighted nobles have attended, along with thousands of villeins. But how costly have been the furs, drinking cups and fine weapons presented the guests, the destrers given the new knights, above all the vast quantity of provisions devoured! Just God! If Conon had realized the entire expense he would hardly have embarked on the whole undertaking. The worst is that the peasants of the whole barony are so demoralized that it will be two weeks more ere they return to work. Money must be borrowed from Jew Simon in Pontdebois to tide over the crisis. The baron must give up his usual visit to the king's court at Paris. He must also dismiss certain cherished schemes of picking a quarrel with the Sire of Rideau and forcing a private war. Thanks be to Our Lady, however, FranÇois need not be knighted these ten years, when (being an eldest son) an "aide" can be levied on all the vassals to help cover the cost.