by Tony Davis
He decided that his only chance was to use his speed, and just before impact, he sped up even more. He dropped his lance tip at the last moment, but it missed completely.
Little Douglas’s lance was spot on. Roland felt something like a hammer blow to his left shoulder. He only just managed to stay on his feet.
Roland could hear Nudge whimpering as the crowd cheered the breaking of Little Douglas’s lance. “Jump out, Nudge,” Roland growled through his pain, but his brave little mouse just pushed himself even more deeply into his pocket.
“One lance to Little Douglas,” announced the constable, “and none to Roland Wright.”
They lined up again and raised their lances. This time Roland was hit even harder and came closer to falling down. It felt as if he had run into a tree while sprinting as fast as he could.
“Two lances to Little Douglas,” Sir Gallawood yelled to Roland. “The only way to win now is to knock him to the ground. I know you can do it.”
“Yes, Roland, you can do it,” blurted out Sir Tobias, who was standing nearby. “I’d never be able to, but you can!”
Sir Geoffrey was watching too, and for a brief moment, it looked as though he might say something. But he didn’t.
By the time Roland turned at the end of the tiltline, he was stumbling around dizzily. All the wind had been knocked out of him. Nudge, completely soaked in Roland’s sweat, felt even worse. He’d twice been squashed between breastplate, mail shirt and chest.
“This is the last one, Nudge,” Roland whispered. “Then we can both lie down.”
Through his helmet Roland could hear a chant building up. He turned and saw Humphrey, Morris and almost all the other pages clapping their hands.
“COME ON, ROLAND! COME ON, ROLAND! COME ON …”
Even Nudge was bringing his front paws together in time with the pages. In the first two charges, Roland had been happy enough just to stay on his feet; he had never considered trying to do much more than that.
Now he could feel himself overcoming his sadness. He could sense that Sir Lucas was with him. In his mind he saw those green eyes and heard the words “There’s no substitute for a huge heart.”
The old fire was back. For the first time Roland wanted to win—and truly believed he could.
“I’m not even going to look at his lance this time, Nudge. I’m going to look only at where our lance has to go, because unless we knock him over, we won’t win.”
With that thought, Roland lifted his lance to signal he was ready for the last charge. He stuck out his bottom lip and started to run. As his feet moved under him, Roland suddenly remembered that, just before the collision each time, Little Douglas had lifted his head and looked at the sky. It was something many knights did to make sure no lance splinters poked through their eye slots.
Roland realized that, for a brief moment, his opponent couldn’t see him. And this time, when Roland was just a few yards away from his opponent, he didn’t speed up. Instead he slowed just a tiny bit.
Little Douglas’s timing was thrown off by the change of pace, and his lance glanced harmlessly off the side of Roland’s shield. While this happened, Roland watched the head go up, dropped his own lance and slid it right into Little Douglas’s shoulder.
The impact was so great that Roland felt his lance shatter and his own arm jerk back so violently he feared he had broken it. Little Douglas disappeared from view, but Roland heard an enormous roar from the crowd.
He continued running along the tiltline, moving his right arm around to check it was still working. It seemed all right. He turned to see Little Douglas lying flat on his back, with the broken end of Roland’s lance sticking out of the shoulder joint in his armor.
“You did it!” yelled Sir Gallawood above the cheering of the pages, the clapping of the ladies and the roars of approval that were coming from the knights and even the King himself.
Nudge climbed out and jumped onto Roland’s shoulder to soak up some of the applause.
The victor’s thoughts, though, were not of triumph. He was worried he’d badly hurt Little Douglas, and he threw his shield and broken lance to the ground and ran as fast as he could.
The tip of the lance was wedged in the armor but hadn’t pierced it. Roland was able to pull it out and open the front of the helmet. The opponent who had been so fearsome looked no older than Roland and had a small, freckly face so soft it could have been a girl’s.
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be all right,” Little Douglas said, with a trickle of blood running from his nose. “It’s only my pride that is really hurt. I didn’t think any boy could beat me in any type of fighting, and certainly not one as young as you.
“I’ll always remember your name, Roland Wright, and I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
At the end of the tourney, a long chain of people made their way back toward the castle.
As they walked in the line, Morris ran his hand slowly through his black hair and turned to Roland. “You did so well! I’ve heard they’re going to make you the heir to the throne. Our next ruler: Mighty King Roland!”
There was no response. Roland cared only for finding out about Sir Lucas.
It was left to Humphrey to answer. “Don’t be silly, Morris, don’t be silly. That could never happen, never happen … could it?”
Ten
An Heir Is Announced
Jenny walked back with Lady Mary. As they crossed the fields near the castle, they caught up with Hector.
His head was cast down. He was kicking his feet forward slowly while moaning and hissing and grumbling to himself. “I wanted him hurt, s-s-s-s, really hurt. He wasn’t meant to win!”
He didn’t notice the woman and the young girl—until Jenny shouted at him.
“If you were chivalrous, Page Hector, you wouldn’t let us walk through this muddy puddle ahead.”
Hector looked up. He hissed and was ready to say something as rude as he possibly could to this friend of Roland. However, at the last moment he also saw Lady Mary and realized he had to be polite.
“I’m sorry, ladies, s-s-s-s, that I don’t have a horse with which to carry you over the mud,” said Hector, through gritted teeth.
“No matter,” said Jenny. “A real knight would simply take off his coat and use that to cover the puddle.”
Lady Mary looked at Jenny with surprise, then slowly brought her handkerchief to her face to hide her growing smile.
“Unfortunately, s-s-s-s, I don’t have a coat, either,” said Hector, thinking himself very clever. “Otherwise I would be only too happy to cast my fine garment on the ground with no thought of anything but your wellbeing.”
“Your shirt will do,” Jenny snapped without a moment’s pause. “We ladies aren’t proud.”
Hector reddened and looked at Lady Mary, expecting her to tell Jenny to be quiet. Instead Lady Mary simply moved her handkerchief and echoed the words, “Yes, we ladies aren’t proud.”
Hector had no choice. With loud and unchivalrous groaning, grunting and hissing, he removed his new shirt—the whitest piece of clothing he had ever owned—and laid it across the filthy puddle.
Hector stood back and ungraciously held his hand out to usher the ladies forward. He waited for them to stamp his finest linen into the sludge.
“Look, Lady Mary!” Jenny suddenly cried out. “I’ve just seen a perfectly good path over there. Isn’t that lucky—we can walk there instead.”
With that, the two ladies strolled around the puddle—and Hector’s shirt, which was already turning brown as the mud seeped through it.
Hector was left shirtless and seething.
“S-s-s-s,” he said. “S-s-s-s, s-s-s-s, s-s-s-s!”
Back at the castle, the bailey was cleared so that musicians, tumblers, jugglers and the jester could help welcome home the knights who had won their bouts.
Sir Tobias, his face a little bruised and bloody, had been unhorsed for the fourth time in his life, though he had broken his lance twice against one
opponent. When he saw Roland step onto the drawbridge, he wiped his face clean and walked quickly toward him.
“I failed again, so no surprises there,” said Sir Tobias, without leaving any spaces between the words. He grabbed Roland and pushed him into the queue of champions. “But you were victorious, young man, and should walk with the winners.”
And so it was that Roland, with Nudge on his shoulder, marched into the bailey between rows of colored banners and long lines of cheering spectators. The trumpets sounded, the people clapped and threw rose petals, the jugglers juggled and the tumblers tumbled. The Queen, her arm wrapped up in cloth after her collision with the tent, squinted when she saw Roland up close. She then screamed.
“John … King John … there’s a mouse on that boy … a mouse in the castle. Arrrrhh!”
Nudge responded by standing on his hind legs and waving his paws in her direction.
The crowd and music and jester’s rhymes might have been exciting at some other time, but Roland was looking solely for somebody who could tell him what he most needed to hear. Lady Mary walked toward him with a silk handkerchief in her hand.
“How is Sir …,” Roland shouted above the crowd, but his voice trailed away. From the redness of Lady Mary’s eyes, he knew things were bad.
“I’m so sorry, Roland,” she said, but she was drowned out by a blaring of trumpets.
King John, wearing a long red and gold coat, walked onto a stage in the center of the bailey. He was followed closely by Lord Urbunkum, who was all the time coughing his little coughs.
“Congratulations to our brave knights who fought so well,” said the King, rubbing his beard and looking carefully at the lineup of champions. “Sadly, though, there were some serious injuries, and Sir Lucas, one of the finest knights any king has ever had by his side, is now fighting not for his team, the Tenans, but for his life.”
The King took off his large jewel-studded crown and held it next to his chest. “My personal surgeon says that even if Sir Lucas doesn’t succumb to his injuries, he may never walk again. For a knight, that’s a fate worse than death. I’ve asked for a special Mass to pray for his recovery.”
Roland felt tears on his cheeks as the King talked and Urbunkum coughed.
“This tournament, as you know, was special. My expert suggested it could be more than just training for war. It could be a way of selecting the noblest, bravest, strongest and most capable man to take over as King when I end my days. Such is my admiration for Lord Urbunkum, I agreed.
“I would now like him to explain more.”
“Ahem,” coughed Urbunkum as he puffed out his chest. “Yes, Your Majesties, knights, ladies and gentlemen of Twofold Castle, it was a terrific tournament. But, as the King said, there was tragedy as well as triumph. The tragedy was that Sir Lucas did not follow correctly the expert advice he was given. Fortunately, it could have been far worse.”
Roland looked at Lord Urbunkum through his tears. He didn’t know what to think, but an instant later someone nearby spoke up in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Far worse?” blared Jenny. “What could be worse for a knight than to be almost killed and never able to walk again?”
The King scrunched up his eyes and looked ready to pounce down on Jenny. Urbunkum’s eyes shrank and moved farther apart, while his whole head turned scarlet, as if about to explode.
Lady Mary quickly put an arm around Jenny and said loudly and clearly, “Your Majesty, she is newly orphaned and upset. She means no offense to you or your expert.”
Urbunkum looked down as if Jenny were the most idiotic person imaginable. He placed his hands on his enormous stomach and sneered. “What could be worse? Not living … not living up to your potential, of course.”
The King smiled at his expert’s excellent answer. “I think that explains it clearly enough,” he said. “On other matters, it will soon be time to announce the overall victor of our tournament and thereby pronounce the heir to the throne.
“As you all know, my firstborn son, Prince Daniel, was unable to compete, being only three years old. Fortunately, Urbunkum has been able to use his scientific methods to work out how Daniel would have fought if old enough, and to include him in the scoring system.”
“Yes indeed, Your Majesty,” said Urbunkum, who had calmed down as attention turned back to him. “I had to perform a difficult series of calculations, based not just on results, but on skills and style and, most importantly, on how well each competitor listened to the expert advice he was given.
“After all this complicated reckoning, the result was obvious. Prince Daniel was the clear winner, well ahead of Sir Geoffrey in second place.”
Urbunkum coughed several more times, then announced, “And because of this tremendous result, Your Majesty, it’s Prince Daniel who’ll be appointed as your successor.”
There was a huge cheer from all around the bailey, including from the knights—apart from Sir Geoffrey. He nodded a little bit and pulled on his nose but, as always, he said nothing.
The King congratulated Urbunkum on his fairness and expertise, then turned back to the crowd. “I wish to again mention the much-loved Sir Lucas. I command that we all now spend a moment in silence in his honor.”
As the crowd responded, the only sounds to be heard were the wind whistling in the towers, the horses shuffling in the stables and the royal flag flapping above the gatehouse.
Roland looked at the drawbridge, which was still open. He felt sure Sir Lucas would walk through the arch at any moment, straightening a new silk scarf, twirling the end of his mustache between thumb and first finger and then lifting his hands to accept the cheers of the crowd and the admiration of the ladies.
But it didn’t happen, and as the silence ended, people immediately started preparing for the banquet.
Roland was still looking around glumly when Sir Gallawood walked up and punched his right shoulder.
“I need to leave soon, young man,” he said as Roland rubbed the top of his arm. “I wish Sir Lucas could have seen how well you fought. We all do.
“And we have to believe that Sir Lucas will recover, Roland, because there’s no sense in thinking otherwise. Remember too that when something like this happens, we learn things that could be useful in real battles. So Sir Lucas wasn’t injured for nothing.”
Roland wasn’t sure. Until now he’d always thought of fighting as something that was fun.
“There’s another matter I want to discuss before I leave for my own castle,” Sir Gallawood said while Roland moved a bit farther away, in case another friendly punch was in store. “I’m worried, Roland, about Jenny. She’s here because I’ve personally asked the King, but she’s very forthright. By that, I mean she says exactly what she thinks. That’s a good thing—at times—but it can be dangerous in the King’s castle. I need you to look out for her.
“And lastly, young Roland, remember that there’ll be sad days ahead in your quest to be a knight. But there’ll be happy and triumphant days too—and I know, in time, you’ll join the very highest order of knights.”
Sir Gallawood mounted his horse and rode toward the drawbridge. Roland loved the idea of being in the very highest order of knights. But being badly hurt or watching your friends being badly hurt—or even killed—seemed a terrible price to pay.
As Sir Gallawood disappeared into the distance and the bailey slowly emptied, Roland sensed that everything was now just a little different. Humphrey, Morris and Jenny were coming over to take him to the banquet. He tried to walk away, but Morris and Jenny each put an arm around his shoulders, and Humphrey lifted his finger and suggested a new couplet for their page’s alphabet.
“S marks the sorrow we all feel this day, but T’s for the true friends found on the way.”
Nudge looked at Humphrey, then turned to Roland.
“ ,” Nudge added, in full agreement.
Acknowledgments
The author would like to dedicate this book to his wife, Carolyn Walsh,
and his sons, William, James and Daniel. All read the manuscript and gave many excellent suggestions. (Okay, Daniel is three and prefers illustrations, but he did inspire a certain character in this story.)
Others read drafts and said things that made sense: Graham Harman, Glenn Morrison, Alison Peters, Matthew Hunyor, Tim Fitzpatrick, Ben Abberton, my brother Damian and my parents, Pedr and Dolores.
On the historical side, I’ve learned much from medieval reenactment groups, and am especially grateful to James Adams, Elden McDonald and other “Black Ravens” for sword-fighting lessons and more. Champion jouster Justin Holland gave me a wonderful grounding in the coolest extreme sport of 1409. But if there are historical anomalies in here, blame me and not them.
Lastly, my heartfelt appreciation to Gregory Rogers for rendering the characters, old and new, with such warmth, skill and dedication. It would be much less of a book without Gregory’s contribution.
About the Author
Tony Davis has always worked with words. He has been a book publisher, magazine editor, and newspaper writer. In recent years he has been a fulltime book author—his most difficult but most exciting job yet.
Tony has long been interested in knights and armor and the legends and stories of the Middle Ages. His enthusiasm for the period comes through clearly in the world of Roland Wright.
When he is not putting words on paper (or screens), Tony is playing football or cricket in the backyard with his sons, strumming a guitar, reading, hiking, or listening to music on his iPod, stereo, or hand-cranked 78-rpm record player.
About the Illustrator
Gregory Rogers studied fine art at the Queensland College of Art and has illustrated a large number of educational and trade children’s picture books. He won the Kate Greenaway Medal for his illustrations in Way Home.
His first wordless picture book, The Boy, The Bear, The Baron, The Bard, was selected as one of the New York Times Ten Best Illustrated Children’s Books of the Year and received numerous other awards and nominations. He also illustrated Midsummer Knight, the companion to The Boy, The Bear, The Baron, The Bard.