as I make my way, with the rest of the royal party, to the canopied grandstand. The remainder of the Court and the City dignitaries sit in separate uncovered stands, while the lower orders are crammed behind barriers at the far endof the yard. Torches flare; it’s only one o’clock, but it seems barely light.
I’m directed, with my friends, to the edge of the royal enclosure. It suits me fine. In the centre, next to my parents, the bride and groom sit stiffly side by side, Arthur managing to look smug and awkward at the same time. He doesn’t seem to be having much success in thinking of things to say to his wife.
Then trumpets sound, the great doors of Westminster Hall open and out into the cold air trundles a mountain on wheels. It’s pulled by a red dragon. On top of the mountain sits a (real) maiden with a (not-so-real) unicorn, lying with its head in her lap.
The mountain performs a tour of the arena, circling the wooden barrier that runs down the middle, to cheering that drowns out the efforts of the trumpeters. At last, it comes to a halt in front of our royal stand. Then a door in one craggy side opens, and out rides a knight on a black horse, his saddlecloth decorated with castle-shaped pieces of solid gold.
“How do they do that?” Beside me, Harry Guildford’s eyes have narrowed as he stares at the pageant-car. “How do they make the mountain? How do they stop the horse from going crazy and trying to smash its way out? And what on earth’s inside that dragon?”
“Count the legs,” says Francis Bryan on my other side. “It’s four men. And I bet there’s swearing in there fit to shock a ferryman.”
Never mind the dragon, my attention’s on the knight, who is busy bowing to my father. It’s the first tournament I’ve seen in ages, and I’m gawping at the armour – in this case a perfectly fitted suit that’s gilded all over and topped with a plume of ostrich feathers sprouting from the helmet.
“What will Brandon’s pageant-car look like?” I ask the boys around me. Today Charles Brandon will ride in his first public tournament.
“Can’t remember,” says Bryan. “What’s he being? A hermit in a hill? A pig in a poke?”
Compton leans towards me. “He’s in a tent made to look like a chapel, sir, accompanied by a wise man and two lions.”
And just as he says this, the chapel (on wheels) emerges into view through the doors of the hall. We cheer ourselves hoarse. Brandon – whom lots of the Court ladies seem to find very charming, God alone knows why – emerges from the chapel with his helmet under his arm, grinning like a maniac. As he rides past the courtiers’ stand a lady’s handkerchief is thrown, and flutters down onto the sandy floor.
Brandon sends a page to collect it. When it’s handed up to him in his saddle he makes a great show of kissing it and then tucks it into the band of silk that decorates the top of his helmet. The crowd whoops and whistles.
More arrivals follow: a knight dressed as a Turk, another in a tent covered with roses, and an unidentified Spaniard, without coat of arms or emblems, whom the heralds haven’t, it seems, been expecting. It must be a member of Catherine’s escort party; out of deference to her the heralds accept him as a competitor and he’s paraded round the tiltyard like everyone else.
More trumpet blasts. More cheering. And then, at last, the jousting starts.
The knights are divided into two teams: the challengers and the defenders. Their task is to take turns to ride at one another, almost head on, separated only by the wooden barrier. Each knight carries a long wooden spear – a lance – with which he aims to hit his opponent. One point is earned for a hit to the body, two points for a hit to the head, fourpoints if your lance shatters when it strikes.
I’ve forgotten just how exciting jousting is. Two minutes in, and I’m on the edge of my seat. The riders thunder towards each other at breakneck speed. There can be
I’m directed, with my friends, to the edge of the royal enclosure. It suits me fine. In the centre, next to my parents, the bride and groom sit stiffly side by side, Arthur managing to look smug and awkward at the same time. He doesn’t seem to be having much success in thinking of things to say to his wife.
Then trumpets sound, the great doors of Westminster Hall open and out into the cold air trundles a mountain on wheels. It’s pulled by a red dragon. On top of the mountain sits a (real) maiden with a (not-so-real) unicorn, lying with its head in her lap.
The mountain performs a tour of the arena, circling the wooden barrier that runs down the middle, to cheering that drowns out the efforts of the trumpeters. At last, it comes to a halt in front of our royal stand. Then a door in one craggy side opens, and out rides a knight on a black horse, his saddlecloth decorated with castle-shaped pieces of solid gold.
“How do they do that?” Beside me, Harry Guildford’s eyes have narrowed as he stares at the pageant-car. “How do they make the mountain? How do they stop the horse from going crazy and trying to smash its way out? And what on earth’s inside that dragon?”
“Count the legs,” says Francis Bryan on my other side. “It’s four men. And I bet there’s swearing in there fit to shock a ferryman.”
Never mind the dragon, my attention’s on the knight, who is busy bowing to my father. It’s the first tournament I’ve seen in ages, and I’m gawping at the armour – in this case a perfectly fitted suit that’s gilded all over and topped with a plume of ostrich feathers sprouting from the helmet.
“What will Brandon’s pageant-car look like?” I ask the boys around me. Today Charles Brandon will ride in his first public tournament.
“Can’t remember,” says Bryan. “What’s he being? A hermit in a hill? A pig in a poke?”
Compton leans towards me. “He’s in a tent made to look like a chapel, sir, accompanied by a wise man and two lions.”
And just as he says this, the chapel (on wheels) emerges into view through the doors of the hall. We cheer ourselves hoarse. Brandon – whom lots of the Court ladies seem to find very charming, God alone knows why – emerges from the chapel with his helmet under his arm, grinning like a maniac. As he rides past the courtiers’ stand a lady’s handkerchief is thrown, and flutters down onto the sandy floor.
Brandon sends a page to collect it. When it’s handed up to him in his saddle he makes a great show of kissing it and then tucks it into the band of silk that decorates the top of his helmet. The crowd whoops and whistles.
More arrivals follow: a knight dressed as a Turk, another in a tent covered with roses, and an unidentified Spaniard, without coat of arms or emblems, whom the heralds haven’t, it seems, been expecting. It must be a member of Catherine’s escort party; out of deference to her the heralds accept him as a competitor and he’s paraded round the tiltyard like everyone else.
More trumpet blasts. More cheering. And then, at last, the jousting starts.
The knights are divided into two teams: the challengers and the defenders. Their task is to take turns to ride at one another, almost head on, separated only by the wooden barrier. Each knight carries a long wooden spear – a lance – with which he aims to hit his opponent. One point is earned for a hit to the body, two points for a hit to the head, fourpoints if your lance shatters when it strikes.
I’ve forgotten just how exciting jousting is. Two minutes in, and I’m on the edge of my seat. The riders thunder towards each other at breakneck speed. There can be
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