by Tony Davis
Both their lances broke, to the huge cheer of the crowd. On the second pass it happened again, but Sir Lucas was almost pushed off the back of his saddle. He writhed with pain as he made his way to the end of the tiltline to turn for his third and final pass.
Sir Lucas looked very unsettled, and Roland still didn’t like the way Urbunkum had made him hold his lance. Nudge paced up and down nervously, while Roland’s stomach churned. It wasn’t meant to be like this.
The third pass created the biggest impact of the day. Roland watched Sir Sterling’s lance hit just above Sir Lucas’s shield and slide toward his helmet. From then, it all seemed to slow down.
Sir Lucas was thrown up and backward. Roland and Nudge watched openmouthed as he slowly rolled and twisted a full three yards above the grass. He began to fall, headfirst, crashing his helmet against the tiltline.
Twofold Castle’s newest page shrieked at the sound of Sir Lucas’s armor rattling to the ground. Roland ran out onto the lists to help, but was pulled away by one of the tournament guards. He saw Lady Mary lift her silk handkerchief to her face in horror. He heard Jenny scream. And he noticed Lord Urbunkum leaving so quickly he scarcely had time to cough.
Seven
Little Douglas
The spectators boldly cheered Sir Sterling’s fine hit. But after a while they became quiet when they realized that a brave and popular knight had been badly injured.
Sir Sterling leapt off his horse and ran to the spot where Sir Lucas lay broken. He was following the code of chivalry: one knight must never leave another to die of his injuries.
Sir Lucas’s squire and others also arrived. Together they carried away the motionless knight. Even the constable looked upset as he walked out to speak.
“A victory to Sir Sterling,” he said in a slightly quavering voice as the sun glinted off his bald head. “He has unhorsed his opponent on the third pass.”
Roland ran to Sir Lucas’s arming tent, but a big hand grabbed his page’s tunic and stopped him from going in.
“Calm down, young man,” said Sir Gallawood, who was now holding Roland’s shoulders tightly. “No one else is allowed in. But they have the best people working on him.” Roland slumped to his knees as Sir Gallawood added, “With a bit of luck, he’ll be fighting fit and back on his horse later in the day.”
After what he’d seen, Roland didn’t think Sir Lucas would be fit for fighting, or for any other thing, any time soon.
Roland wandered away with everything blurred by tears. He rubbed Nudge’s back and walked nowhere in particular. When people talked, he didn’t really try to hear what they were saying. A couple of times he banged into a fence or tripped over a tent rope.
After a while Roland felt an arm around his shoulder. He kept walking but eventually looked across to see the hazy outline of a face. It was Jenny Winterbottom. He waited for her to say something, but as his view improved, he realized she too was crying.
Roland knew that she felt exactly as he did: a long, long way from home, in a very strange world where nothing happened quite the way you expected. She had lost her mother, and now Roland might have lost the knight who had shown so much faith in him. He couldn’t believe that any of it was happening.
After a while they sat on the grass together, Jenny’s arm still around Roland’s shoulder. The tournament continued noisily in the background, but neither of them was the slightest bit interested.
With Nudge nuzzling against his neck, Roland reflected that Sir Lucas hadn’t been wearing Wright Armor. Maybe his father’s armor could have made the difference. He feared he’d never go back to his village with Sir Lucas, and never have another lesson from the most skillful swordsman he had ever known.
Roland noticed a shadow move across his face and felt a kick in the ankle. “The little peasant boy, s-s-s-s, has found a little peasant girl, I see. And she’s just as big a crybaby as he is.”
Roland looked up to see Hector smiling broadly. “Don’t forget, s-s-s-s, my surprise.… Ever heard the name Little Douglas? Ha, ha, ha.”
Tournaments didn’t seem like nearly so much fun after all.
The jousts went on, but Roland didn’t watch. He heard the noise of the melee, but he stayed sitting with Jenny and Nudge. Roland scarcely felt anything at all when the team he had cheered for—the Tenans—was declared the victor.
Soon afterward, there was a short blast of trumpets and the constable shouted, “All pages present themselves now!”
Humphrey, Morris and the others walked toward the lists, and eventually Jenny gave Roland a gentle push and he dragged his heels behind them.
Standing beside the constable was a knight who looked even thinner than Roland and not much taller. He was wearing a breastplate, a shirt of mail and a helmet with a full visor. No one could see his face.
His sword was almost as tall as he was, but he swung it with great speed and skill. There were gasps all around; none of the pages had ever seen such a small person display such fancy moves.
“Is it a man or a boy, a man or a boy?” asked Humphrey.
“Has to be a man,” said Morris. “He’s far too quick and strong.”
The constable shouted again over the muttering of the pages. From this close, his voice was so loud and raspy some of the pages jumped backward in fright, and Nudge curled into a little ball.
“It’s my pleasure to announce that His Majesty King Notjohn—ruler of all the conquered lands—has sent Little Douglas to this tournament.”
Roland and Humphrey looked at Morris. Could this be Little Douglas? Had he been given his name not because he was big, but because he was, well, little?
“King Notjohn says Little Douglas is the best fighter of his height in the known world,” said the constable. “He is very slight and, at eleven and a half, still a page. However, Little Douglas has never been beaten, even by King Notjohn’s best squires.
“By agreement between the two Kings, he is to be matched against the best page from Twofold Castle as a special entertainment for the ladies.”
There were more mutterings from the gathered pages. They looked at each other, wondering who Twofold Castle’s “best page” was.
“Choosing the challenger,” rasped the constable, causing more pages to jump backward, “is the responsibility of King John’s oldest page.”
Roland turned around and looked at Hector, who was now dressed more like a squire than a page. Hector hissed, then smiled at Roland.
At another time Roland might have been worried, or excited, or confused. Right now, he felt nothing. He didn’t care what happened to him, as long as Sir Lucas was all right.
Eight
Nudge’s Decision
“Good afternoon, page boys,” Hector said, spitting out the words “page boys” like an insult.
“When I was preparing to speak today, I thought it was best to change from my page uniform, s-s-s-s, and to put on a new white shirt.
“It’s to remind you that I’m different from the rest of you. I’m older and more experienced. I’m also more important, s-s-s-s, because my father owns thousands of acres and has his own army.”
Hector stood up straight and proud. “As for Little Douglas, obviously I’m the best page from Twofold Castle. I could beat him myself in an instant, s-s-s-s, and I’d scarcely raise a sweat. On this occasion, though, I’d rather see our newest page boy fight.
“Roland Wright is a reasonable swordsman. Pity then, s-s-s-s, there’ll be no swords in the fight.” Hector laughed and hissed and laughed and hissed. “Pity too that he’s left-handed.”
The constable sent Roland to a nearby tent to dress, telling him to hurry. But Roland walked slowly, lost in a daze.
“I can’t fight,” he whispered to the mouse cradled in his arm. “I’m too upset, and I don’t even know what we’re supposed to be fighting with.”
“ ,” said Nudge, turning his head to one side and rubbing his paw gently against the inside of Roland’s wrist.
“And what, Nudge
, has being left-handed got to do with anything?”
Roland and Nudge made their way to the tent. Inside was a large wooden box overflowing with mail and breastplates and shields and helmets and visors. Roland slumped to the floor and held Nudge.
After a while Humphrey burst in. “Off the floor. We’ve come to help you, come to help you.”
“Yes,” added Morris, following closely behind and rubbing his hand over his mouth. “We know you’re upset, but I heard Little Douglas say how scared he was of you … and I wanted you to know that.”
“He did not,” snapped Roland. “He doesn’t even know who I am. Go away, both of you.”
“We’re not leaving,” said Morris. “You’re our friend.”
“Quite right,” said Humphrey, dancing around with his hair swinging from side to side. “We would have been here earlier, would have been here earlier, but we went to find out what you’ll be fighting with. They said lances. Lances! If you’re not dressed properly you could be badly hurt, could be badly hurt.”
“I don’t care,” said Roland. “Little Douglas can injure me all he likes.”
Humphrey and Morris pushed and pummeled their roommate, dragging over his shoulders a mail shirt that hung down to his knees, pushing over his head a mail balaclava and covering his hands with steel gauntlets. They also found a basinet helmet that fitted perfectly, and slid a jouster’s great helm over the top to cover Roland’s whole face.
Roland looked at them through the eye slots. “I don’t know why you’re doing all this. I’m not even going to fight back.”
His voice echoed in the helmet, but it lacked spark, and his knees were buckling under the weight of all the armor.
“Not going to fight back!” someone new said deeply and loudly. “What’s this nonsense?”
Roland couldn’t see much through his great helm, but he knew straightaway that Sir Gallawood had arrived—even more so when a friendly punch on the shoulder almost sent him flying out the other side of the tent.
“Take off that lid, Roland. We must talk.”
Roland uncovered his face with help from Humphrey and Morris, then slumped back to the ground. “I feel sadder than I’ve ever felt before, Sir Gallawood,” he said in a tiny voice. “Maybe on another day I’d want to fight Little Douglas—if I could do it with a sword. Today I just want to go home.”
“Roland, Roland, Roland,” said Sir Gallawood. “The injury to Sir Lucas is sad. But we have to realize such things are the way of the world.”
The constable’s voice burst in from outside, hollering for “Master Wright.”
Roland’s face became very red. “Why do such things have to be the way of the world, Sir Gallawood? Why do good men have to be hurt?
“And you once said that if you are true to yourself, and fight nobly and justly, and as well as you possibly can, everything will work out for the best. I can’t believe that Sir Lucas didn’t do all that.”
The constable roared again, “Master Wright, come out to fight.”
Sir Gallawood stroked his pointy black beard and turned to Humphrey and Morris.
“Boys, go and tell the constable that Roland will be a few moments—and that he will take on Little Douglas.”
Sir Gallawood turned back to Roland. “Sir Lucas was true to himself. I know it. He fought bravely, nobly and according to the code of chivalry. But we don’t know what higher plans are made for us mere mortals. We have to believe in what we are doing, and we have to accept the risks that come with it.
“Being a knight, Roland, is a special gift. People like you and me are born with the fire within us. From the very first we feel the need to learn to fight, so we can protect our land, our loved ones and our King.
“And we need to compete in tournaments, even dangerous ones, to keep those important skills at their very utmost.”
Roland wasn’t entirely following Sir Gallawood’s words, but something about his tone seemed to be making sense. And Roland realized that this smooth, deep voice reminded him of his own father. How he wished Oliver Wright could be here to tell him what to do.
Roland slowly pulled himself to his feet. “I don’t think I could fight even a weakling right now, and Little Douglas is the most skillful boy I’ve ever seen.”
Sir Gallawood looked down at Roland and put a huge hand on his shoulder, just as his father would have done. “It’s at times like these, young man, that we learn who has what it takes to be a real knight. I believe you have what it takes, but do you?”
Roland didn’t reply.
“Just before I came to this tent, Lady Mary said she wouldn’t watch your fight with Little Douglas. I said she must. I said that Roland Wright, her special page, was fighting for Sir Lucas, a fine knight, who sadly can’t be here to finish his own jousting … a man who admires you, Roland, a man who told me he had never seen such speed, raw talent and determination in one of your age.”
Humphrey and Morris arrived back, panting. “We told him, we told him. But when there are three short blasts of a trumpet, three short blasts of a trumpet, Roland must begin. He can’t keep Their Majesties waiting, Their Majesties waiting.”
Sir Gallawood turned back around. “The lances aren’t sharp, Roland, so you can’t be badly hurt. And it is not a question of whether you win or lose, it’s about how you handle yourself in this difficult time. I know, Roland, that you can overcome your sadness. And I know you can be true to yourself.
“So will you fight, young man? Will you fight for Sir Lucas, for the King, for me, for your family? But most of all, will you fight to prove to yourself that you can do it—that you are Roland Wright, Future Knight?”
After a long silence, a tiny “Yes” stumbled from Roland’s mouth. Immediately, three short blasts of a trumpet sounded outside.
The backs of Roland’s legs were shaking. “Sir Gallawood, would you do one thing for me? Would you mind Nudge?”
Roland threw off one gauntlet, lifted Nudge and tried to put him into his cloth bag. But the nimble white mouse wriggled out of Roland’s hand and ran up the inside of his sleeve of mail. He then jumped into the pocket behind Roland’s breastplate.
Nudge was not going to leave Roland to face Little Douglas all on his own.
Nine
The Moment of Truth
Roland walked out into the sunshine to find that the pages of Twofold Castle had made a line of honor from the front of the tent all the way to the lists.
“Good luck,” said the page with the helmet hair. “We don’t think anyone can beat him, but we know you’ll try hardest.”
It was nice of the page to wish him luck, but Roland wasn’t too sure about the rest of it. He was now very nervous. He didn’t care about himself, but he didn’t want Nudge to be hurt, or Sir Lucas to be let down.
Roland walked slowly along the line, hearing the phrase “Good luck” repeated by page after page. But at the end of the line was Hector, still in his white shirt and smiling a nasty, toothy smile.
He too said “Good luck” but followed it straightaway with “to Little Douglas, s-s-s-s.” Hector laughed at Roland, then scoffed, “Not that he’ll need any luck to flatten you, peasant boy.”
The constable announced the rules—loudly. They were to joust on foot. The tiltline had been lowered to waist height. There were to be three passes, the same as when jousting on horses.
Roland tried to listen to the rest of the rules, but there was so much else going through his mind. Each page had to present a fair target, the constable said.
“There is no ducking out of the way. You must give your best hit, and take their best hit. That is the chivalrous way to joust.
“The page who breaks the most lances shall win, unless one should knock the other to the ground. If that happens, the page still on his feet shall be the winner.”
Back in his village, Roland had once run at a spinning target, or quintain. But he had no other experience of jousting, and this lance was bigger, and heavier, too. Roland found it a struggle
just to point it straight ahead with so much of the weight so far forward.
“What do you think you are doing, boy?” asked the constable impatiently.
“Holding the lance up?” Roland exhaled.
“Not with that hand, you’re not, boy. The barrier is on your left, so you must hold the lance on your right. All lances have to be held in the right hand, otherwise it isn’t fair and equal.”
The constable grabbed the lance and thrust the handle into Roland’s other gauntlet. He pushed a small shield into Roland’s left hand, saying, “You must carry that, too. Now hurry up!”
Using his right hand, Roland needed all his strength just to lift the tip of the lance off the ground. It was going to be hard enough to run with it, let alone aim it. Things didn’t seem fair or equal.
While Roland stressed and strained, his opponent lifted his lance over his head and thrust it at imaginary targets. It looked as though jousting, for him, was the most normal thing in the world.
Roland hadn’t seen Little Douglas’s face, but before they were sent to opposite ends of the tiltline, he heard his voice.
“This is the moment of truth,” the undefeated page said, with a surprisingly high-pitched tone for someone who moved so threateningly. “May the best page win!”
Roland tried to repeat “May the best page win,” but his voice was so weak it couldn’t make its way through the breathing holes on his great helm.
“Raise your lances to signal you are ready,” rasped the constable. Roland was already sweating so much he could feel his armor sliding around. He heaved his lance up with his right hand, then began to run.
It was very hard to see Little Douglas through the bouncing eye slots. Roland couldn’t hear the crowd, just the wind whistling through his helmet and the sound of his own breathing.