The Willows

by Mathew Sperle

  Dauntingly enough, it had not been right that set her heart pounding, but rather anticipation.

  It was not enough looked at Lance, breaking the hold he had over her. If she should have known that that she saw how foolishly she had let her thoughts wander. She should have known that if Michael had come on a mission, it did not include her. His casual stance, his lazy defiance, all betrayed the enjoyments he derived toying with Lance. He meant to out manipulate them, to take charge of the competition and keep her.

  He meant to have his revenge.

  Shuddering now, he saw what she should have understood the instant he had made his appearance. Michael had not come to win her hand; he meant to reject it. By not claiming her, by spurning her in front of her neighbors, he would make certain no one else wanted her, either. If Lance not win this competition Gwen might as well start planning her life as a spinster.

  This can’t be happening, he thought, shaking her head in denial.

  “Gwen is against it, too,” she heard Jervis say suddenly, apparently taking the gesture as her vote. “That leaves you, Edith.”

  Her ousin looked across the field, her expression grim. “I know you want me to decide with you and all,” she told her father hesitantly. “But truly, daddy, how can I do that to Michael? I’m the reason he’s late. Besides, what will everyone think if we don’t let him compete? I mean, its right there in the rules that we have to include him.”

  “She’s right.” John sat back in his chair, grinning. “There will be one nasty stink, if you try to keep him out now. Come on, let them play. Lord knows this crowd is starved for entertainment. With all the yawning I have been doing, I look forward to a little excitement myself. Even if it’s only watching Lance get hot under the collar.”

  “I can’t see what harm it can do, “Edith added primly. “Look at him. The man is a nobody. What chance has he at besting the finest horsemen in parish?”

  Gwen seized that little scrap of optimism. Of course Michael cannot outright Lance. Few men could outshine her Lancelot on the field. Yet, glancing at Michael, finding him remarkably calm and unruffled, her small shred of hope withered away.

  “We have a new challenger,” daddy shouted to the crowd, taking the decision out of everyone’s hands. “Let the competition continue.”

  “It took five passes for me to get this far,” he said through grinding teeth. “Now this… This person comes in late and I am force to start over?”

  “I am willing to make five passes first, “Michael said, riding up behind him. “I see no problem with starting out even.”

  “You shouldn’t be allowed to compete at all. You-“

  “What is your title, sir?” John asked Michael, completely ignoring Lance. “The Herald needs to announce you.”

  Michael looked at Gwen. “You can call me Arthur. Of Camelot.”

  “What gall,” Lance spurted, looking from him to Gwen. “All that black you’re wearing, you might better call yourself the dark Knight.”

  “Either way.” Michael shrugged again, then smiled, as if determined to be pleasant. “Makes little difference to me.”

  Gwen knew it made a great deal of difference. Arthur was Gwen’s King and husband, entitled to her favor, whereas in their childhood games, the dark Knight had also been called the Despoiler, the evil villain for knights must vanquish. Arthur would protect his queen to the death, but the Despoiler meant only to destroy her.

  “If you gentlemen will please take your places,” daddy said beside her, “perhaps we can finish this sometime today.”

  Gwen held her breath as Michael bent down to murmur to Mr. Perkins. She wished she could hear which title he chose, for then she would know what role he meant to play in her future.

  She did not have long to wait. “Now entering the lists,” Mr. Perkins called out, “is Arthur, of Camelot.” Even as Gwen exhaled relief, the Herald added, “the dark Knight.”

  And excited titter moved through the crowd as they sensed the drama about to unfold. Next to her, daddy sat up in his seat, and even Gwen found herself leaning forward.

  Bowing to the crowd from atop his horse, Michael tilted his weapon in her direction. With dismay, Gwen recognize the white square tied to the staff. It was her handkerchief, the token of her favor that she’d never wrangled back from him.

  She bit her lip, turning her attention to Lance. Stiff backed as he watched from his mouth, he was obliviously pouting. Wait until he learns who gave Michael his token, she thought with a sinking feeling. She didn’t for a moment doubt Michael would tell him, not when taunting Lance would give him the advantage. With the mood Lance was already in, a jealous rage could make all the difference in his performance. And indeed, as Michael rode out, making one a good pass after another, it’s became clear that Lance would need the performance of his life.

  After five rings have been neatly captured, Michael turned his horse and, with a mock bow, once more pointed his weapon at Gwen. Staring at the fluttering white square, she realized it was not just Lance meant to taunt.

  Lance was called to compete, and though he took the ring with the necessary pretense, she saw less conviction in his stride. Nor did he prance about the arena when he was done. Returning to the starting line in businesslike fashion, he seemed to be summoning all his concentration to bring the contest to a swift and satisfactory end.

  Muttering that the heat in the dust left him parched, that he stood up suddenly to declare that he had seen enough. After one last, final run, they picked themselves a champion, so everyone could go home for a drink.

  Gwen cannot see how her father could be thirsty; he had been pulling from the flask all afternoon. As if knowing this, Homer had appeared some time ago Standing behind his chair, ever ready to prevent his master from missing his step. It would be an utter miracle if they got through the day without being humiliated in front of the neighbors.

  Win and win now, she silently pleaded with Lance, leaning forward to lend him the added encouragement.

  You would need it, for his horse seem skittish as Michael sailed through the poles, the ring all but leaping onto his weapon. When it was lances turn to charge, his mount still had not calmed. Speeding forward, the horse reared at the last moment, and while Lance still managed snare the ring, the effort was enough start many in the crowd snickering.

  “A weak performance.” Daddy leaned back in his chair, his own humor playing on his new rude face. “I say we give the crown to the newcomer, this Arthur.”

  “No”

  Gwen had not known she’d spoken out loud until she saw her uncle smile at her. “I vote for Lance. And you, baby girl?”

  Edith slowly shook her head. “How would it look?” She asked again. “Everyone saw Lance stumble. Forgive me, but I fear I must decide with Uncle John.”

  Gwen gaped at her cousin. She was voting against Lance? All at once the pieces sifted into place. Her jealousy, the spiteful things she had said-either had not meant to be cruel; she merely wanted Lance for herself.

  Jervis, oblivious to his daughter’s feelings, pressed on. “It’s would seem we have a tie,” he said grimly. “According to the rules, up the queen to decide she will marry. What say you, Gwen? Will it be your Lancelot, or this stranger?”

  Gazing at the competitors, Gwen wished the decision need not be left to her. Her conscience said Michael, for he had one convincingly, but Lance was the man of she had chosen, the one she had expected to marry. Lance had promised to love her, protect her, while Michael meant to use his victory as revenge. There was no logical reason for her hesitation.

  Blurting out Lance’s name, she told herself she felt nothing but sheer relief at having it over and done with, yet she cannot stop squirming in her seat as Jervis called both men over.

  As he pronounced Lance Champion, a groan went up from the crowd.

  When expected Michael’s rage, for he had every right to complain, yet he faced them all calmly. “Pardon me,” he said, as if he had just found a surprise, “but I’d
like to raise it points of order.”

  “It’s is too late.” Uncle stood, pointing to Gwen’s crown. “The Queen has made her choice. The competition is over.”

  “You folks seen any hurry to end this.” Michael looked at Gwen as he spoke. “But if you check the rules, you’ll find I’m entitled to a challenge.”

  Lance open his mouth to protest, but uncle waved him off. “What are you getting at?” He snapped.

  Gwen leaned forward, curious in spite of herself. Having no idea what Michael was talking about, she glanced at the list of rules beside her father’s chair. Maybe she should snatch them up and read them.

  “The joust,” Michael said pleasantly, forestalling the need. “I am sure you remember. Winner takes all?”

  Lance and uncle exchanged worried glances. Why include a joust’s in the competition? Gwen wondered. What man had the training, or even equipment, to engage in such a dangerous sport?

  Sitting straighter in his saddle, Lance sneered at Michael. “Cannot joust without the proper armor. Do you wish me to cripple you?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Lance. Worry about them.” Michael gestured at the audience gathered at the rails. “After all, we want to give the crowd their money’s worth in entertainment.”

  “Can’t disappoint the crowd,” daddy offered.

  “It is in the rules,” he chirped behind him.

  Uncle looked to Gwen, as if expecting her to put a stop to this, but her father gave no opportunity. “Perkins,” he shouted, gesturing the Herald closer. “Announce that we will have a short intermission. The men need time to prepare.”

  Not having heard their decision, a perplexed Tom Perkins looked at the field. “I thought the competition was over.”

  “Indeed not. Tell everyone that at precisely 2 o’clock, Sir Lancelot will meet the Dark Knight for a joust.”

  There was no need for Mr. Perkins to repeat it; there wasn’t a soul but not heard father’s booming voice. As the crowd cheered in obvious excitement, John beamed from ear to ear.

  The dark Knight. Sitting slowly, the words echoing ominously in her mind, Gwen clutched her crown to her chest.

  ***

  “I hope you know what you are doing, Lance,” he snapped. “You cannot afford a repeat of that fiasco at the rings.”

  “It was the damned horse,” he bit back, strapping the leather padding over his wrist. “But I can assure you, my new mount will not misbehave.” He nodded at the powerful white animal being led in their direction. “There is not a finer steed in all Louisiana.”

  “I am not worried about the horse. I’m more concerned about the man on top of it.”

  “You are not serious?” Lance glared at Michael, showing his own equipment some distance away. “Look at him. His armor is a tarnished breastplates and a battered shield. You can’t possibly see danger in that.”

  “What I see is that the man’s a damned sight too competent for comfort.”

  “Relax. I have been training for weeks, and I have no intention of losing. You just make certain Father Jones is waiting on the grandstand, ready to start the ceremony that instant I have the crown in my hands.”

  “I will do my part. Just see that you do yours.” Spying a crowd of Lance’s followers approaching, uncle lowered his voice. “I expect you to do whatever it takes to win, dammit. Sheet, if you have to.”

  Lance answer him with a slow, leering grin. “But, of course. I have already thought of that.”

  ***

  Gwen trudged up the steps of the grandstand, as though trudging to the guillotine. During the intermission, she had gone back to the house for some lemonade, and to splash cool water on her face, yet nothing seemed to revive either her, or her hopes.

  Maybe what she needed was a poll from father’s flask. It certainly seemed to help him and uncle recapture their spirits.

  Taking her seat, she saw Lance. Surrounded by his friends and well-wishers, he made a great show of mounting his magnificent white horse. She wanted to have faith in him, she truly did, but she cannot overlook his opponent.

  Why couldn’t Michael take the defeat and go home to lick his wounds? Why pursue this thing to the bitter end, when it must be clear by now that he would never let him when? Why couldn’t he just quit, like any other man would do?

  Even as she asked them, she knew they were silly questions. He was proud and stubborn, and he would not rest until he had his revenge.

  Against her will, her gaze slid to him. Unlike Lance, Michael stood alone, no one helping, or even encouraging him. With nothing to shield his legs, nor a helmet for his head, his sole protection was an ancient, discolored breastplate and a dented shield. A Knight in tarnished armor, she thought, noticing how Lance and his friends snickered.

  Michael stood proud as if to well accustom to their scorn to be bothered by it. Nothing had changed, she thought with a paying of guilt. He was still the boy who watched from before, and she was still the one who kept him there.

  He looked up then, locking his gaze with her own, and Gwen felt as if she were falling, tumbling back into the past. Something always happen when he stared at her, she realized; even as a child, he alone had been able to dig deep enough to find the person buried inside. The little girl in her responded, smiling at him, as if she’d truly wanted him to win.

  As the horn blared, snapping her back to her senses, Gwen recoiled in dismay. As she completely lost her mind? This man meant to make a fool of her, to repay her for the childhood rejection. The absolute last thing she should want was his victory.

  So why, she wondered in panic, could she not break their gaze?

  With a grim smile and a curt nod, Michael abruptly broke it himself, reaching for his spear and yanking her handkerchief free of it. For a moment, she thought he would toss it aside, but he tied the cloth instead to the tiny hook atop his shield.

  As he pulled himself onto his saddle, Gwen stared at the handkerchief, hanging on this shield like a flag. By now, he must have told Lance it was hers, hoping to distract him. Each time he charged toward his foe, Lance would be force to see that symbol of her treachery.

  With irritating arrogance, Michael crossed the field, coming to his mark on the opposite end. Poised there on his beast of a horse, shining in black from his head to his toes, seemed to loom over the competition like a dark god.

  The dark Knight, she thought with a shudder. The destroyer.

  As if to distract her from such morbid thoughts, Edith came running up the steps, her article and father in her wake, with an unfamiliar elderly gentleman behind them. Briefly introducing himself as the father Jones, uncle took the chair Gwen’s side, while father took his place at her left. She noticed a new flask in his hands.

  “Is in this exciting?” Edith said as she sat. “Just look at Lance. Doesn’t he look wonderful?”

  Lance poised on his horse at the opposite end of the field. Also his horse in white, he seemed to glisten in the afternoon summer, his shield a gleaming silver circle with a white bolt of lightning. As he made a show of attaching her token to his new, sharper spear. Gwen compared the two competitors, reminded of the classic fight between Good and evil. The amazing, glittering Lancelot versus the black forbidding stranger.

  To bad Michael was the one who looked so calm and assured, while Lance looked both angry and nervous.

  Her father must have heard her gulp, for he suddenly thrust the flask in her direction. “Here, take a drink. You might find you need it.”

  She was so surprised to have him talk to her at all, she took the flask without thinking. It was not until the bourbon was burning her throat that she realized she should have sipped. She choked and gasped, her daddy shook his head. “Girl never could do anything halfway,” she heard him mutter, as she handed back the flask.

  On in the field, the Herald shouted for silence. Everyone adds forward in their seats as Tom Perkins dropped the flag, the signal for the fighters to charge. With a clutch of dread, Gwen realize it had begun, this battle for he
r future.

  She held her breath as the two horsemen rode towards each other, gathering speed, their long wooden staffs poised to do their worst. Please oh please oh please, she chanted in a whisper, bracing herself as the pair raced to the coming collision.

  But at the last possible second, Michael veered away, avoiding lances thrust, yet managing to knock the weapon from his hand. Lances. Went in one direction, her handkerchief in another. Only Gwen seem to notice it, fluttering to the ground.

  Heaven help her, she thought with growing dread as his friends rushed out to retrieve the spear. Watching how lances hand trembled as they handed it to him, Gwen reached again for her father’s flask. This time she welcomed the burn, for Michael’s cool smile had proved her suspicion. He was toying with Lance. Like a machine, he and that demon of a horse work together with silent efficiency, confident that they could unseat their opponent whenever they chose.

  As if he saw this, too, Lance gave a blood curling yell before spurring his horse into a mindless charge, Spears sorting recklessly in the air. Holding his own weapon steady, Michael leaned down to whisper to his horse, clearly urging stallion to greater speed. At the sound of each pounding stop, Gwen gripped the rail tighter, her knuckles showing white as she prayed for a miracle.

  Near seconds later, Lance was on the ground, while Michael galloped past in triumph.

  The crowd went silent, stunned by the outcome. Gwen who had yet to return the flask, took another, deeper pull.

  Horrified, she watched Michael wield his horse and ride back to Lance. With a puzzled expression as if he, too, wondered how Lance had been unseated so easily, Michael dismounted and offered his hand. Lance refused it. With a shrug, Michael turned to the grandstand.

  Gwen had gone numb. Whether it was the bourbon or the mirror shock, she could not with any real clarity recall what had happened. One moment Lance was charging toward; and the next, he had joined her handkerchief in the dirt.