by Damien Black
The herald swayed slightly as he spoke, his face flushed and sweaty beneath the late afternoon sun. Adhelina guessed he’d had a few refreshments himself. The crowd were in full flow by now, their raucous yelling drowning out the polite ripple of applause from the bleachers. Down in the stalls the knights were evenly divided in their affections, with the Lanraks and the Markwards each cheering on their man.
‘Couch!’
For the umpteenth time lances went down.
‘Tilt!’ cried the herald, forgetting to get the nod of approval from the Eorl. Formalities tended to diminish as the day wore on and the officials got drunker.
At the first pass both knights smashed their lances, neither one unhorsing the other. Rearming for the second tilt, they thundered together again. Agravine’s spear glanced off Otto’s shoulder as Otto caught him in the chest. He teetered backwards, dropping his lance. Adhelina rose, her heart in her mouth – but at the last second Agravine grasped the pommel of his saddle and heaved himself back into it before bringing his horse up short.
An excited hubbub went around the crowd. Most bouts were over after one or two passes. There had only been a couple fought on foot that day.
The two knights squared off again for the final pass. The herald gave the command and they crashed together once more. This time they both flew off the saddle, landing in the mud amid the broken splinters of their lances.
Their squires came and armed them. Agravine chose a sword while Otto opted for a mace. The two rashed together furiously, but Otto had been injured in the fall and was limping. It was no hard matter for Agravine to outfoot him and bring him low with a swipe to the back of his good leg. As Otto sprawled in the mud, Agravine placed his blunted sword point against the aventail of his bascinet where it guarded the throat, a symbolic gesture of victory in a bout for love.
‘Touch!’ cried the herald, slurring his speech. ‘Sir Agravine does it for the host team! And the House of Markward has the first knight in the quarter finals!’
Cheers and applause erupted. Her father remained seated, pointedly refusing to join in. Looking past him to Albercelsus, Adhelina saw the Steward of Hockburg staring coldly at Agravine. That only made her clap more loudly. She smiled and waved at her paramour, flirtatiously blowing him a kiss.
‘Wine!’ she cried to a nearby servant. ‘And one for my lady-in-waiting too!’ If this was to be her last bit of freedom, she would bloody well enjoy it.
The contest was moving swiftly now as the draw whittled down to the real contenders. Torgun was up next, and made light work of Aethelwald. Even had he not been her champion, Adhelina would have applauded him: she had grown up watching tourneys and his jousting technique was flawless. Before the Northlending even a seasoned campaigner like Aethelwald looked ordinary.
If he was the victor that would mean he would be ahead of the other two in her favour. But Torgun was an outlander, and would have no reason to linger after the tournament was done. Most likely her father would banish all three of them anyway. She tried not to dwell on that as the herald ushered in the next bout.
‘And now we have our quarter-final line-up!’ cried the herald a few bouts later. Sir Adso Bastardson was the last knight in: the stern-faced Marshal of Hockburg was of middling years and middling girth, but still knew how to couch. Down in the stalls she saw Hengist ranting drunkenly: ‘That’s my marshal! That’s my marshal! One of the best! One of the best, I say!’
Was she really about to marry this man?
She turned to look at her father, but he seemed to be pointedly ignoring the drunken Herzog, who was linking arms with Hangrit and Reghar. His sisters Festilia and Griselle weren’t much better, yelling boisterously as they wagered on the winners of the next round.
‘I wasn’t aware that ladies ought to place wagers,’ she said loudly, so Albercelsus would hear. He ignored her, but Berthal leaned up from the row below them and nudged his fellow steward in the knee. ‘That reminds me,’ said Berthal. ‘I believe you bet me ten regums against Sir Agravine making the quarters…’
The old steward winked at Adhelina as Albercelsus tossed him a purse with a muttered curse.
Her father called for more wine in an irritable voice.
‘Oh yes father, an excellent idea,’ said Adhelina. ‘More wine for Hettie and me too! Hettie will have another goblet, won’t you Hettie!?’ She had fairly torn through her last drink. Her head felt light. It was not an unwelcome feeling.
‘Why not?’ said Hettie, evidently thinking much the same. ‘My nerves could do with it.’ She sounded more like her old self, but Adhelina noticed her hand trembled as she took the proffered cup.
The damsel pushed her troubled thoughts away as she focused on the remaining field.
There were half a dozen knights besides Adso and Agravine left: both her other paramours had made it through, along with Urist, who seemed to be enjoying a late summer in his tourneying career like Adso. That left a sleek-looking tournament veteran from Westenlund, a burly vassal of Stornelund, and the black knight, who had left his last opponent nursing a broken shoulder and a dislocated leg in the infirmary. The herald appeared to take ghoulish delight in enumerating the jousters’ injuries, but that was part of his duty after all.
Adhelina made a mental note to help the Marionites later. Provided she didn’t get too drunk.
‘My honourable – and not so honourable – friends!’ bellowed the herald, to hoots and jeers. ‘And now we come to the business end of the tournament! Eight brave knights remain – but only one shall be crowned champion of the Graufluss Bridge Tourney! A purse of a hundred gold regums and a Westlun stallion awaits the victor!’
Grunts of approval went up at that. Doubtless the charger was the more prized reward – the white horses were foaled on the southern plains of Westenlund and very rare.
‘For our first quarter final bout, show some appreciation for Sir Hugo of High Wharram and the black knight!’
‘Who do you think he is?’ murmured Adhelina as she did her best to relax back into her seat. The wine was helping, but she’d have the drinking sickness come morning at this rate.
‘Possibly a minor baron from one of the border provinces between Westenlund and Aslund,’ said her father. ‘Perhaps we’ll find out soon – Sir Hugo couches a decent lance.’
A decent lance wasn’t enough, in the event. Three passes went by without either knight dislodging the other.
‘Dismount and choose your weapons!’ cried the herald.
Hugo opted for a morning star and shield while the black knight took up a two-handed war axe. He was hugely strong and wielded the thing like a toy, but for a while Hugo kept him at bay with great sweeps of the spiked ball and chain.
‘He moves quickly for a man his size,’ commented Adhelina.
‘Too quickly for Hugo,’ muttered her father. ‘I don’t think your man’s going to be in this tournament for much longer.’ This last comment was aimed at Albercelsus.
‘I fear you may be right,’ the seneschal conceded. ‘At least I didn’t wager any coin on this bout.’
It would have been money lost if so. Biding his time the black knight waited for Sir Hugo to attack again. Ducking the blow aimed at his head he stepped in, stabbing forwards with the toe hooks of the axe blades. It was an unexpected move and caught the vassal completely off guard. He staggered back with a cry as the blow caught him square in the chest, flailing desperately with his shield as he let go of his morning star. Taking another step forwards the black knight raised the axe high above his head and brought it crashing down on Hugo’s helm. The metal crumpled beneath the force of the strike and Hugo sank to his knees with a pitiful groan. He keeled over sideways and did not get up.
‘Touch!’ cried the herald. ‘And the black knight bests one of Stornelund’s finest to advance to the semi finals!’
Cheers erupted as two lay brothers dressed in white overalls dashed over with a stretcher to carry Sir Hugo from the lists.
Holding his axe over
his head the black knight turned a full circle in triumph. It reminded Adhelina of reading about the fighting pits of the Thalamian Empire. She supposed every era had to have its blood sports.
‘He’s not the prettiest to look at but he fights well,’ remarked the Eorl. ‘If he isn’t too high-born for service I’ve a good mind to recruit him.’
‘I was thinking much the same,’ replied Albercelsus dryly.
Hearing this Adhelina glanced over at her future spouse. As the present lord of Hockburg Keep it should have been Hengist doing the recruiting. But Hengist wasn’t even paying attention to the tournament any more. Down in the stalls she could see him with Hangrit and Reghar, shouting and laughing boisterously as they groped a serving wench.
Sir Braxus took the proffered spear from Vaskrian and prepared to be called. His heart was thumping in his chest as he looked down the oblong of churned mud at his next opponent. Sir Adso Bastardson was half brother to the Herzog and the illegitimate son of his father Henrich. The purple plume on his helm marked him out as a distinguished knight, a man of high achievement.
He spurred his horse into the lists at the herald’s call. How had he got this far? He hadn’t fought a tourney for more than two years – with the highlanders a constant threat there simply hadn’t been any need to hold one. He was a veteran of skirmishes, surprise attacks fought at close quarters in unexpected circumstances. Tourney knights fought best in the open field when there were rules. The closest he’d got to that was taking part in the civil war of the Northlendings. Perhaps that had benefited him, he reflected as he couched his spear.
Sir Adso was tall for a Vorstlending, and built more like a Northlending. That meant he presented a higher target and would be easier to hit – but it also gave him a better position from which to strike.
Braxus measured his breathing, which sounded loudly in the confines of his helm. A bead of sweat ran into his eye as the herald shouted the command to tilt.
Spurring his horse forwards he felt its hooves thundering as the spectacle of the armoured knight before him grew larger and larger… The Lanrak crest on his shield loomed across his limited field of vision as the distance between them vanished.
Braxus tunnelled his vision, focusing on the honour point of Adso’s shield. He pulled his heater in across his torso at the last second – he’d watched Adso’s last couple of bouts and he tended to favour the chest strike.
Adso’s lance caught his shield a glancing blow, but not enough to turn him in the saddle. Braxus’ spear caught him dead centre in his, with enough force to twist him around, wrenching his lower back into the cantle and lifting his left leg clear of the stirrup. Braxus thundered past him, bringing his charger wheeling around. The cheers of the crowd told him his gambit had paid off. Adso lay sprawled in the mud, his steed rearing madly.
‘Siiiiiiiiir Braxus of GAELLEN! And the Thraxian is into the semi-finals!’
This time Braxus did not bother to take off his helm, contenting himself with a lap of honour around the lists before retiring. Perhaps it was premature, but he was in high spirits. This was just what he had needed after the terrors he had witnessed. Something to put courage back into his bones. If only his father could see him now!
The herald’s call brought him back to reality.
‘Sir Agravine, bachelor of Graukolos, versus Sir Torgun, errant of Northalde!’
So now we come to it, Braxus thought feverishly as he handed his helm and spear to Vaskrian. Let’s find out who’s really worthy to court her.
He caught the look in his squire’s eyes as he struggled one-armed with his helm and spear. He knew how much Vaskrian admired his compatriot. The expression on the youth’s scarred face wasn’t encouraging.
Come on, study him Reus dammit! Everyone’s got a weakness…
If Sir Torgun had one, he hid it well. Agravine couched a fine lance, but the Northlending sent him flying over his crupper at the first tilt. The crowd erupted into an ecstatic frenzy of applause. There was no denying the foreigner had won over the home crowd.
Braxus felt a cold bitterness creeping through his guts as Torgun humbly acknowledged the crowd before exiting the lists with an effortless grace and dignity.
He barely registered the last quarter-final bout. Sir Urist managed to best the tourney veteran from Westenlund at the final pass. He didn’t look so sleek after that, limping off the lists with his multi-coloured plume spattered with mud and his purpure and sable tabard torn in two by Urist’s questing spear.
The herald declared a fifteen-minute pause to allow the remaining four knights to refresh themselves and prepare for the semi-final bouts. Braxus would be paired with Urist next, though that concerned him far less than what lay after.
Concentrate dammit, he berated himself. One step at a time…
He had studied Urist in the previous couple of rounds. The Marshal of Graukolos jousted well, but at well over forty winters he was clearly a fading force.
The black knight and Sir Torgun were the first to take the lists. Saluting each other, they lowered their lances at the herald’s command and tilted.
The two thundered together with a roaring crash at the first pass, exploding together in a shower of wooden chips as both their spears shattered.
‘Another tilt it is, folks!’ cried the herald, struggling to be heard above the rabid crowd. It was hard to tell which of the two knights was the most popular.
They couched again and waited for the command. Again it came, and again the two of them smashed together, their shields cracking with the force but neither of them budging.
‘Like an unstoppable force against an immovable object,’ said Braxus.
‘Nah, Sir Torgun’ll have him at the next pass, sirrah, you’ll see,’ replied Vaskrian.
Braxus turned and glared down at him from the saddle. The squire blushed as he realised to whom he was talking. Adelko and Horskram exchanged wry smiles.
‘Well we’ll soon find out, won’t we?’ Braxus snapped.
Unluckily for him Vaskrian was proved right. Torgun caught the black knight at the third pass, disguising his strike until the last moment before catching him in the midriff. The black knight rolled head over heels off his horse’s crupper, sliding down its hind quarters to land sitting upright in the dirt.
‘And the black knight falls!’ cried the herald amidst cheers laced with booing. ‘And will he now kindly reveal himself?’
Staggering to his feet the knight obliged, pulling off his helm and bowing courteously towards the bleachers.
Braxus had half expected to see a lord of men met with gasps, but instead the nobles laughed as they registered the knight’s bushy black beard and twinkling eyes.
‘It’s Sir Wrackwulf of Bringenheim,’ muttered one knight standing close by. ‘Trust him to pull a caper like this.’
‘He’s no lord of men, I take it,’ said Braxus.
‘No,’ said the knight. ‘He’s another errant – does the tournament circuit every year. We’d had word he wasn’t coming this year due to dysentery. This is probably his idea of a joke.’
‘Sir Wrackwulf!’ cried the herald, warming to the theme. ‘You’ve led us all a merry dance – but now it’s time for you to call the tune to a halt! Make way there for our next competitors: Sir Braxus of Gaellen, and our very own Sir Urist, Marshal of GRAUUUUUUKOLOS!’
The cheers intensified as the home favourite urged his horse into the lists. Braxus felt his surroundings fall away from him. He felt strangely mechanical, as though he were witnessing the spectacle from afar, communicating with his physical self across a great distance. Once more spears were couched. Once again the order was given to tilt.
In the blinking of an eye it was over.
Sir Braxus was wheeling his steaming charger around, pulling tightly on the reins as it churned up more soil beneath its iron-shod hooves. Sir Urist was lying flat on his back in the mud, the wind knocked out of him. In his other hand Braxus clutched a broken lance.
The cheers of
the crowd lifted his spirits high up into the wispy clouds to nestle against the sun. He was in the final!
‘A half hour pause, most honourable sirrahs,’ cried the herald. ‘I think we all need to catch our breath back after that excitement! So grab yourselves a drink – but don’t go far, because after the break we have our final to look forward to… Sir Braxus of Gaellen, versus Sir Torgun of VAAAAAANDHEIM!!!’
Thunderous cheers. Braxus felt his spirits return to earth with a thump as he realised what lay ahead. He almost wished he was back at the Warlock’s Crown with the Gygant. For truly his love rival was a giant among men.
‘Any tips?’ he asked Agravine glumly at the wine stall.
The handsome Vorstlending shook his head miserably. ‘Don’t joust against Sir Torgun,’ was all he said, before stalking off to drown his sorrows.
Taking his own cup, Sir Braxus sat down on the benches to think while he drank. Vaskrian busied himself preparing his charger and weapons for the next bout. Glancing across the stalls he saw Torgun methodically preparing his own harness. He looked so calm and self assured. Braxus hated him for that. From where he was sat he could not see the bleachers. He was grateful for that – surely Adhelina’s heart must be moving towards Torgun? With all the top seeds gone the Northlending was the clear favourite to win.
Braxus took another sip as he eyed Torgun’s powerful frame. He’d fought alongside him for weeks, surely there must be some chink in his armour? None that he could recall, and if possible the young knight jousted even better than he fought on foot. He seemed to become one with his horse; he had heard that as part of their training knights of the White Valravyn were required to sleep with their destriers in the stables, to bond them closer to the animal.
He was up against the perfect gentle knight, the kind troubadours sang stories about. The question was: what was he going to do about it?
Presently the herald called for them to take the saddle and enter the lists. Putting on his helm and taking his spear from Vaskrian he ambled slowly into them, playing for time.