A woman?” Betrand slammed his fist down. “A woman has no place on the field of honor!”
“I must admit,” the dauphin said icily, “this comes as something as a shock.”
Childeric sat silently in his seat, although François had a premonition of impending volcanic activity.
“You don’t seriously expect a Frenchman to follow a woman, do you?” asked Bertrand. “Our knights would never follow a woman in war! Women are good for siring warriors and keeping the hearth. On a battlefield they’re nothing but a hindrance!”
“I think the knights would have some difficulty following the orders of a female battle commander,” agreed Charles.
“What did you think,” added Bertrand, “that you could bring along your mistress as if this were some sort of summer outing?”
The last was too much for Childeric who bolted out of his chair. “How dare you talk about her like that you Breton cur!” He squared off against the dauphin. “You asked me if I knew a good battle commander, a foreigner loyal to the French cause, and I found one for you! You told me how we need to take off the blinders of the past in order to save France from the goddam English, but you’re just as blind as the rest of them! She isn’t some soft-skinned princess, but a veteran fighter with a better battle-sense than most of you put together! If you want a strong arm without a brain, we have plenty of that already. But if you want a leader...”
“Yes, that’s all very well,” agreed Charles, “but it will all go for naught if no one in her battle will follow her. I am willing to employ or bargain with anyone to save France, Childeric. Only I fear the rest of France isn’t quite so ready.”
“You’re not going to even give her a chance?” asked Childeric in dismay. “So what do I tell her? Thanks for coming, go on back to Scotland?”
The dauphin spread his hands and regarded Childeric sympathetically. “I’m afraid...”
He was interrupted by a page rushing into you tent. Out of breath, the lad spotted the dauphin and bowed, he head nearly touching the floor. “Begging your pardon, m’lord, but a strange knight has entered the camp and is creating quite a row. The guards sent me here to warn you about it.” All at once those in the pavilion started rising, grabbing weapons and shouting orders.
“Silence!” shouted the regent. “Sit down, all of you!” The confused hub-bub slowly died down. Some of the knights actually sat. “I don’t think one fell knight will destroy us all,” the dauphin said sardonically. “Now, boy, did you happen to catch the knight’s coat-of-arms?”
The page thought a moment, then said: “It’s, umm... sorta yellow with a big purple chevron, and a couple of little purple chevrons about it, and there are like three thistles on it too, sort of naturally colored like, m’lord, like you’d find in a field, but not on top of anything, m’lord. I mean the chevrons, not the yellow bit. The thistles be on top of the yellow bit.”
The dauphin turned around and addressed a herald standing in the shadows of the pavilion. “Who do those arms belong to?”
“What were those arms again?” asked the herald, thoroughly confused.
“Or, a chevron cotised purpure, three thistles proper,” said Childeric, the faintest of smiles on his face.
“Oh, why didn’t you say so it the first place?” The herald paused, shuffling through his mental library, then replied: “Aiobeann of Arran, a Scottish noble woman. Her arms are differenced from those of...”
“Thank you,” said the dauphin, dismissing the herald.
“Oh, but it is really quite fascinating. The arms allude to...”
“That’s quite all right,” assured Charles. “Thank you, that will be all.”
The herald shrank back into the shadows behind the regent’s chair, muttering about why did he bother learning about canting arms and differencing and historical allusions and rules of tincture if everyone told him to shut up when he tried to explain them.
The dauphin addressed the page again. “So, what is this knight doing?”
“Well, he... I mean she... well it looks like a lot of our knights are beating her up.”
“Well then,” said Charles, “I guess we’d better go save your Aoibeann from whatever trouble she’s stirred up.” He rose and swept out of the pavilion, his retinue following close behind. Outside, they could hear the noise of combat. It did not take long to spot the circle of onlookers indicating the battle ground. The dauphin walked briskly towards it, Bertrand and Childeric falling in at either side. Pepin following close behind vainly trying to write and walk and the same time. Bertrand and Childeric pushed people aside until they arrived at the clearing. At the far side, the Duke of Rohan was raining blows down upon Aoibeann. The Scottish warrior was fending them off deftly, occassionally answering with a counter. Neither seemed able to land a strong blow upon the other, although Rohan was clearly setting the tempo of the fight.
“Good Lord!” muttered Bertrand. “Rohan’s going to kill her.” Rohan had a reputation as one of the heaviest hitting knights in France.
“Hold!” commanded the dauphin. The fighters backed away from each other warily, then turned to face him. “What’s going on? We’re supposed to be fighting the English, not each other!”
Aoibeann pushed up her helm to show a ruddy, smiling face. She was breathing heavily, but managed to bow to the regent. “Hou d’ye fend, ma laird?” she said in a pleasant voice. “Dinnae fash yersel aboot the swurds, thaim’s nae shairp. Childeric said A was tae laed thaim in weire, an it be bletheration tae fell thaim aa afore we lat at the wannyod Soothrons.” [Editor’s note: “wannyod Soothrons” = “Godless English”]
“Excuse me?” asked the dauphin.
“The weapons are blunted,” explained Rohan, “otherwise she’d kill us all and and there’d be no one left to fight the goddam English.”
“You actually understood her?” the dauphin asked Rohan in amazement.
“We in Brittainy have fairly constant contact with Scottish merchants. I’ve managed to pick up a working understanding of their tongue.”
“I see,” said Charles. “So, how did this all start, and could you please speak a bit slower, lady Arran?”
“Ay, ma lord. A came tae yer camp and aabodie be conflummix, ah, surprised, tae see a wumman in armor. And then...” here her face went a shade crimson, “they aa began tae lauch [laugh] at me.” At this the knights in the dauphin’s retinue started laughing themselves. “Sae A put on ma armor, and A daured aabodie tae fecht!”
The dauphin looked at Rohan. “She challenged the field,” he said.
“So, that’s when you and Rohan started fighting?” asked the dauphin.
“Nae, furst be the coont o Foix.”
“Where’s he?”
Aoibeann pointed to a prone figure near one end of the clearing being attended to by several servants. His helm lying nearby showed a large dent in it. “He should be aaricht.”
“Foix will never live this down,” muttered Bertrand.
“So then you and Rohan...”
“Nae, neist wis the laird o Trie.” Aoibeann pointed to another prone figure on the other side of the field who was groaning and waving his arms around haphazardly while actively attended to by another flock of servants.
Bertrand went pale. Trie was the standard bearer in the central battle and had been hand-picked by Bertrand for this place of honor.
“So, then did you fight Rohan?” asked Charles.
“Nae, neist thair wis Robert o Bethune.” She looked around and lowered her voice a bit. “Dinna ye think he’s a wee auld tae be fechten? He’s git tae be echtie. A didna fecht we aa ma strenth, but A knocked his helm aboot his heid. A fear he’s gannerin [wandering aimlessly] thonder.” Aoibeann pointed off into the distance. They looked but could see nothing. Then they heard a war-cry, the screams of several women, then saw a pavilion collapse in the distance.
The dauphin rolled his eyes. “Will someone please retrieve Bethune?” Several servants scurried off towards the commotion. “So,” he asked with some trepidation, “then did you fight Rohan?”
“That A did. He’s guid, awfu guid. A’ve nae fechted a knecht sae guid sin faur back. It was muckle brawlie. A wis sae cantie as a sou amang glaur.”
The dauphin looked back at Rohan. “She says she hasn’t fought someone this good for quite awhile, and she, ah, really enjoyed it.” The knights in the dauphin’s retinue started exchanging glances.
Bertrand spoke up in protest. “You could see how he was pushing her around the field at will. She was completely outmatched. She has no place on the field!”
At this the Duke of Rohan spoke up. “She’s no worse than most the knights here. And she had bested two respected fighters before me.”
“We need to discuss this,” the dauphin declared, “but not here. Let’s retire to my pavilion. Aoibeann... Rohan... attend us!” He swept back to the royal pavalion, a now somewhat enlarged retinue trailing behind. They filed into the tent, finding space where they could. Charles seated himself, then introduced Aoibeann to the major commanders and aides. Finally, Charles tackled the problem at hand. “I’m afraid,” he said apologetically, “that there has been some resistance to having you installed as a battle commander.”
“Ach! Aa the men in Scotland gie me muckle truible anaa. Tae be shuir, we Scots have a auld-faurrant [old-fashioned] wey tae deal wi sic.”
“Let’s see if I have this correctly,” said Charles with a deeply furrowed brow as he tried to piece together Aiobeann’s brogue. “The Scottish men give you a great deal of trouble, but there’s some way way you have for dealing with them?”
“Ay, ye’ve gied an hit the tacket on the heid,” replied Aoibeann, smiling.
“Ah... right. Now then, what is this way you’ve dealt with them?”
“A bate in their heids tae thay all seen things ma wey. A’d begin wi the weire-laird, whilk be-nou wad be ye, ma laird.”
Charles looked helplessly at Rohan, who shifted uneasily. “She says that she would bash in the head of the chieftan which in this case, um, would be you, my lord.”
Charles put up his hands in mock self-defence. “I assure you, I do not need convincing, it’s...”
“Bi fegs, thar’s aye anither, e? Weel, A’d best begin wi him,” she said, jabbing a thumb at Bertrand. “Alloons-ze Bertie, git yer armor an cam ootby.” She gestured to the Breton to follow her outside. Bertrand look indignant, they started up out of his chair. “Trie!” he shouted, “Attend me on the field!”
“I believe Trie is indisposed for the moment,” observed the dauphin. “I suggest you both sit down.”
Bertrand looked non-plussed, then returned to his seat in a glower. Aoibeann sighed and returned to her seat as well.
Charles sat pensively. “To some degree, this is not my decision, but that of the knights of the southern battle whom you would lead. I would not send men onto the field behind a commander they do not trust. Rohan?”
The duke of Rohan shrugged. “You know me, I like to fight, not lead. At least I won’t feel like the boys will have to stand around protecting her. I mean, what does it take to be a French commander other than the ability to point to the enemy and say: ‘kill them’?”
Charles gave another of his thin smiles and said, “I was hoping to raise the expected competency requirements a bit in that respect, but thank you for your opinion, Rohan. What about you, Toulouse?”
The comte de Toulouse rose from the back of the crowd. “We people of the langue d’Oc feel that we are a bit more... enlightened if you will than our northern compatriots in many respects. We will follow her, although I must admit I can’t understand a word she says. Still as Rohan points out, all she need do is learn the signal to advance the troops. And sometimes, not even that is required.”
“I’ll make sure that she learns how to pronounce ‘charge’ in a passable manner,” the dauphin replied with a straight face. “Any objections?” he asked, looking straight at Bertrand.
“Just one,” growled the Breton. He stood up, walked over to Childeric, and slapped him in the face. “I will not have anyone call me a cur!”
Childeric stood up and started to say something when Charles bolted out of his chair screaming “God damn it! Who needs the English to fight when we’ve got so many goddam Frenchmen!” He strode over to Bertrand. “My commanders will not be starting a feud amongst themselves, do you understand!?”
“But he called me a Breton cur!” Bertrand protested.
The dauphin groaned, lifting his eyes heavenward in frustration. Then he looked back down at Bertrand. “No he didn’t,” he said.
“What? I distinctly heard him call me...”
“I heard him call you a ‘courageous Breton.’ You must have mis-heard him. You really should clean the wax out of your ears sometime.” The dauphin turned to face Childeric. “That’s what you said, isn’t it Childeric?” he asked in a pleasantly lethal tone.
“Um, why, yes, I suppose it was,” agreed Childeric sullenly.
“Very good we got that cleared up,” smiled Charles. “Please enunciate better next time, Childeric.” He turned back to Bertrand. “And for that you go slap him. Instead, you should be thanking him for the compliment. Why don’t you thank him, Bertrand?”
Bertrand looked down at his feet. “thanks”
“Now, everyone is happy with each other, and that’s just the way I like it.” He turned back and sat down. “My apologies,” he said to Aoibeann, “but one of the professional hazards of commanding French troops is, well... having to deal with the French.”
But Aoibeann was beaming. “Ye needna fash yer thoum. A can see it’s gang tae be juist like hame!” [You needen’t worry about it. I can see it’s going to be just like home!]