This is the final part of this story. There was so much more to tell, but this is not the right forum for it all. Maybe one day I'll flesh it out more. I hope you enjoy the end of The Gauntlet. Warning. This is violent and the timeline jumps around a lot.
KB
*****
Priory of Saint-Martin-des-Champs
Paris, France
December 29, 1386
Sir Jean de Carrouges stood inside his tent as his squires bolted his armored breastplate in place, securing it to the matching backplate. He had risen before dawn when the constables had taken Marguerite to prepare her to stand trial. He first went to the chapel to pray, then stripped and bathed ritually, purging his flesh and his soul. He first donned an undergarment of white linen; then, his squires began the time-consuming process of preparation.
They dressed him in layers. First came a thick, heavy, padded cloth, covered with layers of leather and leather shoes. Over this, he put on a hauberk of chainmail that covered his upper body. They also wrapped his legs in chainmail. Over this, came the heavy, articulated plate mail, beginning with his feet, then his lower legs and thighs, with thicker caps covering his knees. A steel codpiece protected his groin.
Then they moved to his upper body, with the back and breastplates. Armor was locked in place, not with buckles and straps, but bolted together so that his opponent could not easily breach the protective shell.
Then, he covered his head with a cloth cap, which served as padding, but also kept the chainmail coif from entangling his hair. The coif left his face uncovered and hung down to overlap the top of the body armor. Then, to protect his throat, a heavy steel gorget was bolted in place.
He slid soft leather gloves on each hand, followed by steel, lobster-tail styled gauntlets. Finally, they lowered his bascinet helmet, with a conical top, made to deflect blows onto his head and bolted it to his armor. The second to last piece to be attached was his perforated visor which allowed him to breathe but had no opening large enough to allow a blade to penetrate. Once bolted closed, just before combat, the only vulnerable point was the narrow eye slits.
Over everything, his squire lastly placed a long, flowing surcoat of crimson, covered in a sea of silver fleur-de-lys. Around his hips, squire Robert fastened his knight's belt, with his sheathed longsword and dagger.
The squires then escorted their commander out to climb up onto the saddle of his waiting warhorse. While Sir Jean had been armored, attendants and done a similar thing with his horse covering it in plate armor and covering it with a crimson cloth, covered in the same silver flowers as Sir Jean's surcoat.
Hanging from harnesses attached to the horse's saddle were two more vicious weapons: a long, two-handed sword and a large-bladed horseman's ax. As Sir Jean settled into the seat, Robert attached his curved jousting shield, which also bore his red and silver family crest.
Thus far, Sir Jean had remained silent, keeping his mind focused on what was about to happen, mentally preparing himself to kill or be killed. Robert handled his master a long war lance, from which a red and silver pennant fluttered. Jean rose the tip high in the air and spurred his horse forward. He waited for his entourage to mount up, then lead the procession forward and out onto the streets of Paris.
They made the short walk to the Abbey of Saint Martin des Champs solemnly, riding past the crowd of people that filled the streets, all looking on in somber silence. They passed through the gates into the courtyard. Sir Jean was surprised by the number of people filling the stands and lining the walled area of the list. No one was cheering or making cat-calls. They were as silent as a funeral, having been warned by the Marshal that anyone who yelled out would be killed. This was not a celebration.
The first thing he noticed was his wife, Marguerite. She was seated, alone, dressed in a long black gown. Her beautiful hair had been shorn to stubble, and she was shackled and chained, hand and foot. He had already known the severity of the situation, but seeing his wife prepared for execution caused it to hit home. If he lost today, his wife would die with him, but her death would be much worse. He could think of no more horrendous way to die than to be burned alive at the stake. Their eyes met briefly, but he forced himself to look away. He could not afford to be distracted.
He rode to the center of the sand-filled square and turned to face the King and Queen, bowing low with respect. Just then, his opponent entered the courtyard through a gate on the opposite side. Jacques le Gris rode in at the front of his own entourage. He too was fully armored and on a barded warhorse. The two men were nearly identical save for the colors and patterns of their family crests, which ironically were opposites. Where Jean's was a red field with silver-white flowers, Jacques was a blood-red line that cut across a field of pure white.
Jacques stared at Marguerite on her perch, then turned to face the King, ignoring Jean completely. He bowed and raised his head, defiantly.
The King's Marshal stepped forward and spoke loudly, for all to hear, "Sir Jean de Carrouges, you have made charged that on the morning of January 18, in the year of our Lord One Thousand Three Hundred and Eighty-Six, that Squire Jacques le Gris did with force and malice, force your wife, the Lady Marguerite de Carrouges, to have carnal relations against her will. Do you still press this claim?"
Sir Jean looked to the King as he shouted, "By God, I do!"
The Marshal turned to Jacques and asked, "Squire Jacques le Gris, you have sworn before God and King that the charges against you are false and that you are innocent. Do you stand by this assertion?"
Jacques turned to stare at Jean then shouted, "In the name of our Savior Jesus Christ and his mother Mary, I swear that I am innocent!"
The Marshal turned to the King, who nodded slowly. The King rose to his feet and addressed the men.
"Testimony has been given and evidence reviewed by my Parlement and myself. We have been unable to determine truth from lie, fact from fiction. One of you is lying, and one of you is telling the truth. Therefore, Jacques le Gris, you are charged with rape, and if you are found guilty, you will die for your crimes. Sir Jean de Carrouges, you have raised a charge of rape against Jacques le Gris, and if you lose, you will be found guilty of perjury in a capital case, the punishment of which is death. Furthermore, as your wife, Lady Marguerite de Carrouges, has brought this accusation if you lose, she too will be found guilty of perjury and will be taken immediately to Montfaucon, put to the stake, and burned alive.
"God will decide the truth. Therefore, I order you to enter unto this arena and fight to the death. The winner will be found truthful and the loser false. May God have mercy on your souls!"
The Marshal stepped forward again and addressed the men, "In this trial by combat, God is the judge who will decide your fate. For there to be no bias, you must be equal before God, so that he can judge you fairly for your crimes. But you are not equal."
He ordered one of Le Gris' squires to fetch a mounting platform. Moments later two men came scurrying out from the Le Gris pavilion carrying a set of wooden steps with a small platform, used for the heavily armored knight to get on and off his horse. The Marshal directed them to place it next to Jacques le Gris horse, then he mounted the steps and stood next to le Gris.
"In order for you to be equal before God," he shouted, as he drew his sword, "in the name of God, Saint Michael and Saint George, I dub thee, Jacques le Gris, a Knight." With that, he tapped the blade to each of Jacques' shoulders. "Now you are equal before God!"
He stepped down and had the platform quickly removed. "Get you both to your appointed positions and prepare yourselves for combat!"
Sir Jean spun his horse and rode across the sand to stop below his wife. He looked up at her tear-stained face. Timidly she met his gaze.
"I ask you now," Jean said, speaking softly so that only she could hear him, "are you mine?"
Tears welled in her eyes, and she lowered her gaze, uttering "God will decide the truth."
Sir Jean snarled and turned his horse, spurring it hard and charging to the end of the list, where his squires awaited him. Robert closed his visor and bolted it shut. Then patted his friend and lord on the shoulder, saying, "May God give you strength, Sir Jean."
Jean replied angrily, "God be damned! I have all the strength I need!"
The squires withdrew behind the barricade. On the far end of the field, Le Gris was ready. Now the courtyard was empty save for the two combatants. Sir Jean de Carrouges, accuser, and Sir Jacque le Gris, defendant, sat their horses, lances raised to the sky, awaiting the signal from the Marshal.
The Marshal climbed the steps up to his viewing stand in the center of the square. He pulled off a gauntlet and held it high in the air for all to see. The knights tensed. Their horses pawed at the sand.
The Marshal tossed the gauntlet into the air.
*****
Château de Carrouges
February 1386
"Jean, I beg you," Marguerie pleaded with her husband. "do not take this to the Count. Nothing good will come from pursuing vengeance. Le Gris is the Count's man."
Jean stared at his wife, with his rage barely under control. "How can you ask me to not seek vengeance? He raped you, and he will pay. I swear to God, I shall have justice!"
"There will be no justice for us in Argentan!" Marguerite argued. "If you go there and accuse Le Gris, they will destroy you. What Le Gris did to me was horrible, but losing you would make it far worse. I cannot live without you."
Jean paced the room nervously. He was filled with a need to do damage to Le Gris and anyone else who stood in his way. He had suffered too many humiliations at the hands of Jacques le Gris to just accept what he has done.
"I cannot live with the shame of what he did to you, without confronting him and seeing him punished," Jean explained to his wife. "What kind of man would I be if I did nothing?"
"A living one!" Marguerite answered.
"I would rather die than lose my honor," Jean replied.
"Would you have your son grow up without his father?" Marguerite asked, her hand rubbing on her abdomen. Jean hesitated, the import of his wife's words sinking in.
"You are with child?" Jean asked, sounding shocked.
Marguerite nodded. "I am, and I know it is a boy."
"I see. How do you know it is mine?" Jean asked bitterly. "How do you know it is not Le Gris' bastard in your belly?"
"I am too far along for it to be his," Marguerite explained. "You don't remember? The night before you left for Paris, you had me. You were exhausted and sick, but I used my mouth on you until you were ready, then I sat on your cock, and you spilled your seed inside me. That night you made your heir."
"How fortunate," Jean said rather snidely. He was growing angry again. "Tell me again, my wife, why is it that you told no one of this rape until I returned?"
She busied her hands with idle work, "I told you," she began, "why must I keep telling you again and again?"
