The Military Order of St John of Jerusalem, of Rhodes and of Malta (the Knights Hospitaller) is known in modern Catholic circles today less as defenders of Christendom at the siege of Acre (with knights tying themselves to chairs with ropes when too wounded to fight standing) and more as a group that goes on pilgrimage to Lourdes, hosts charity events and provides soup kitchens for the homeless.
I’ve been familiar with the Order’s modern iteration since 2006, when I became a knight, but along the way I’ve also discovered that somewhere in the ancient DNA of most religious orders there remains a strand that hasn’t entirely managed to become extinct: the crusading warrior knight part which is echoed in the prayer that is recited by new knights and dames at every investiture Mass: “Lord Jesus, Thou has seen fit to enlist me for Thy service among the Knights of St John of Jerusalem… Be it mine to practise and defend the Catholic, the Apostolic, the Roman Faith against the enemies of religion; be it mine to practise charity towards my neighbours, especially the poor and sick.”
Indeed, I was delighted to see that the Order, a few years ago, published a short manual – translated from Latin – that set out the rules for 12th- and 13th-century knights on their way to Jerusalem. Never wear fur, as it was flashy and vulgar. Limit your wine drinking to two flagons a day. Such are the rules for the prayerful warrior whose chainmail smells of dried blood and effluence and whom the unbeliever enemy will not ransom for fear of meeting him again in battle.
I know this because for a few years I have fought such knights in physical combat. This was all thanks to Eric de Bouclan, who I met in Madrid back in 2011. The occasion was a reception being hosted by the European priories of the Order for a group called Cilane, an organisation for young members from various countries to meet up. Two people I met had a previous Grand Master of the Order in the family tree.
Eric had come to Madrid from his crumbling family chateau in Champagne and had long wanted to set up a military training school for Catholic warrior-knights. He began by organising a medieval-style tourney between French and Spanish knights. Soon he added English knights – whom everyone wanted to fight against – and a solo American knight (myself).
The tourney was set on the feast day of the Nativity of St John the Baptist, and the old tournament rules applied: only knights of the Order of Malta and Catholic nobles were allowed to fight with exact replica 13th- to 15th-century armour and swords. Full contact. No shields, no maces, no jousting.
We met under low grey clouds near Falaise, at Chateau d’Aunay, the castle of Stephen de Romanet. The ancient rules of scoring, disarming and knocking down an opponent applied; there was no limit on the amount of violence or force that might be used, except below the waistline. Some wore surcoats over gambesons crusty with dried sweat and mud. All others had their family arms on the surcoat; I had one made with a large white Maltese cross against a red background. (My young son wore the family shield on his apron; he did his best at handing me a sword that was a foot taller than he was back then.)
The tournament was broken up into two days of fighting, with a feast on the night following the first day. Having all gone into town that morning for Mass, confession and breakfast, we now knelt and prayed and crossed ourselves. The marshal and herald summoned the first contestants to the lists and into the fighting ring.
The French knights (Gérard de Boisboissel, Eric de Bouclan, Stephen du Romanet and Gonzague de Grandmaisson) were by far the best fighters. An English knight, a former public-school fencer, was knocked out early. Medieval combat and training since 1389 has been based upon a series of treatises called Fechtbuchs, written by a trainer of knights named Hans Talhoffer, summarising the art to that time. Copies were found on the internet by all of us and glanced over.
Like many things in life, martial theory is one thing, the nuts and bolts of actual fighting, quite different. For example, the secret of winning a combat is keeping your hands from being dangerously injured. Veteran knights have extensive methods for hand padding and wrapping beneath the metal gauntlet mittens.
I retired due to injury that year, was runner-up the next year before retiring injured again (fractured thumb joint), and won the gold chain in the third year. Following my last bout, as I sat in armour and surcoat with my seven-year-old son, I was approached by a local journalist whose father had been in the Order. The next morning the local paper ran a photo of myself swinging a sword above the head of an opponent with a crowd in the background. My son was duly impressed, which was a relief because I reckoned I could pretty well mismanage the rest of my life. In his eyes, and I’d still be the cool dad who won the Normandy Tourney.
Crispin Culbertson is the author of Grandeur of the Dooms: Sacred and Profane Adventures of a Modern American Among the English and European Aristocracy (Derrydale Press, 2005).
Areas of Catholic Herald business are still recovering post-pandemic.
However, we are reaching out to the Catholic community and readership, that has been so loyal to the Catholic Herald. Please join us on our 135 year mission by supporting us.
We are raising £250,000 to safeguard the Herald as a world-leading voice in Catholic journalism and teaching.
We have been a bold and influential voice in the church since 1888, standing up for traditional Catholic culture and values. Please consider donating.