The Royal Tournament Read online

  The

  Royal

  Tournament

  The Royal Tournament by Richard H. Stephens

  http://www.richardhstephens.com/

  © 2017 Richard H. Stephens

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Marco Pennacchietti

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7751036-0-8

  Publication has been a long time in coming. I would like to say thank you to all my Beta readers: Caroline Davidson, Jordan Brown, Joshua Stephens, Louise Spilsbury, Paul Stephens and Ralph Phelan for your invaluable help in making my fantasy become a reality.

  Throughout the end stages of the writing process I found, quite by chance, an artist of unsurpassable talent. Thank you Marco Pennacchietti for your patience and your vision in bringing my characters to life. You can check out his amazing artwork at: https://www.artstation.com/deimos23390 or contact him directly at: [email protected]

  I would also like to say thank you to David M. Kelly who came to my rescue as I floundered within the daunting world of publishing. Thanks for your patient guidance. David is a Canadian Author who writes Science Fiction. To check out his books, please visit: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B01MZGQYQG?tag=geolinkerca-20

  You can also visit his website: http://davidmkelly.net/

  Finally, a special note to Horsechickie. Your constant support means more than you’ll ever know.

  “My treasures do not clink together or glitter, they gleam in the sun and neigh in the night.” -Arabian proverb

  “My Beautiful Angel, you fill me with wonder, ever more each day. You are most truly, heaven sent.” -Alcyonne

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1-Strange Harvest

  Chapter 2-Training Day

  Chapter 3-Inaugural Joust

  Chapter 4-Simply Noble

  Chapter 5-Thwart

  Chapter 6-Heartfelt

  Chapter 7-Emperor of the Field

  Chapter 1-Strange Harvest

  “Javen! Come quick, boy!”

  The boy in question stood up with a start, looking across a great expanse of golden wheat. The voice beckoning him was Jebadiah’s, his father. By the distress in his tone, he wasn't calling him to help with a broken wagon wheel or fetch extra twine.

  He had seen his father an hour earlier in the northern quarter of their farm where a great river meandered about its perimeter. Javen dropped the pitchfork he had been using and lumbered toward the river in the direction of his father's voice. Behind him stretched a neatly cut row of wheat, heaped and bound every so often in large piles, ready for the wagon.

  He neared the farm’s edge abutting the riverbank, dreading the thought of finding his father afloat in the river. Approaching his seventeenth birthday, he begrudged the fact he had never learned to swim.

  Before the riverbank came into sight he exhaled with relief—his father's head and shoulders visible above the gently swaying golden crop.

  His father waved frantically at him.

  Javen waved back.

  “Get down, boy,” his father warned in a hushed voice.

  Javen ducked, looking over his shoulder. Bending below the height of the crop, he weaved his way through the stalks until he came across his father lying beside the riverbank, peering through the last row of wheat separating them from the water’s edge, tightly clutching his sickle.

  “What is it, papa?”

  His father pointed across the river at the rolling hillside, to a line of grassy mounds topped by pine trees.

  For a few moments, only the tranquil countryside met Javen's stare. He detected movement behind a clump of trees atop one of the higher ridges, a brilliant azure banner rising above its peak; the crest indecipherable from such a distance. As quickly as the billowing pennant appeared, so did its bearer, astride a magnificent white horse. The majestic beast, glimmering in silver plate, and draped in azure and vermillion, matched the pennant and the rider’s surcoat. Another horse followed, rider and mount matching the first, then two more, then three. A couple of breaths later, a score of mounted knights rode along the ridge, gleaming in the midday sun, heading south toward Millsford.

  “Who are they, papa?” Javen asked, unable to take his eyes off the enchanting procession.

  His father remained silent for some time. When the last rider disappeared behind the next ridge, his words caused Javen to jump.

  “Don't rightly know, son. They're not from these parts, of that I am certain.” He fell silent again before adding, “As far as I can recollect, I have never seen the likes of their markings. I haven’t traveled everywhere in this realm, but I reckon they aren’t the king's men.”

  “Do you think there will be trouble in town?”

  Jebadiah turned his gaze northward, making certain a rear scout wasn’t trailing the host, before he gained his feet.

  “Well, the good baron has mentioned more than once that the king is concerned about troops massing along the southern border of the Kraidic Empire, but I doubt he would allow a host this far into the kingdom without offering some sort of opposition. Those men appear too well polished and fresh to have done battle with the king's forces recently.”

  “Perhaps they slipped through unnoticed?”

  “Aye, they may have.” His father scratched at his three-day-old beard. “They may have, but I doubt it. Zephyr's border guards patrol the outlying regions with an iron gauntlet. So much so, in fact, that our allies are hesitant to trade with us these days.”

  Javen stood and attached his sickle to a thong hanging from his belt.

  Looking across the river to the spot where the procession had disappeared, his father added, “Best we find out what the good baron knows.”

  After washing up, and changing into something befitting a baron's audience, Javen and his father hitched a two-horse team to an old buckboard and set off along a hard-packed, dirt path leading south into the town of Millsford. The wagon bounced its riders along the winding trail, careening from rock to rut, between banks of unharvested wheat breasting the lane. Grasshoppers by the hundreds jumped to and fro at their approach, while gnats buzzed about their heads.

  A cool east breeze wafted up the road, easing the heat of the day. By the time the great outer wall of the baron's homestead thwarted their progress, the huge orange sun had planted itself firmly upon the peaks of the distant mountain range stretching clear across the western horizon.

  Two sentries standing outside a lone portcullis greeted them warmly. Jebadiah told them he wished to speak to the good baron about an urgent matter. The ranking sentry rubbed his lips in thought for a moment before nodding and jumping onto the bench seat beside Javen, directing them forward.

  Javen led the team along cobblestone streets lined with merchants stowing their wares for the night. Millsford seemed busier than usual.

  The main street terminated at the threshold of another set of gates, bridging a stone wall surrounding the baron's estate proper. The inner wall hummed with the activity of sentries upon its high battlements; the iron gates were shut tight.

  Javen brought the team to a halt. The guardsman jumped down to converse with the inner gate sentries. Before long, the gates swung inward, exposing a vast green courtyard of trees and fountains lining pathways twisting about the grounds, adorned in a kaleidoscope of flowers.

  “Come with me,” the guard escorting them directed, breaking away from all his colleagues but one. “Jonas, here, will mind your wagon.”

  They walked down a lengthy promenade towa
rd the majestic keep at its other end. Javen's father engaged the sentry in idle talk while they strolled through the lush grounds, passing beneath an immense, iron latticed portcullis and entering a small antechamber inside the keep.

  The guard went through a wooden door on the far side of the room, closing it behind him.

  Shortly the door opened again, their escort beckoning them to follow. They walked down a vaulted passageway pocked with closed doors, softly lit by flickering sconces. The tapestry lining the hallway served to obscure narrow slits in the wall; murder holes protecting the egress. The hallway ended at an open set of massive oak doors.

  Backless benches ran the length of the hall beyond, their ranks broken by a slender aisle traversing its midst. At the hall’s far end, a large table set with half a dozen high-backed chairs faced the empty pews.

  “Seat yourself in the front row, Jebadiah. The good baron shall be with you momentarily.” The guard motioned to the empty bench before closing the door on his way out.

  They didn’t have to wait long. The baron of Millsford entered through a small doorway behind the table. They stood out of respect, watching the short, gray-haired man manoeuver his considerable girth around the chairs. They dropped to one knee.

  The baron's deep, monotone voice echoed loudly in the vacant chamber, “There is no need of formality here, Jeb. We are friends, alone, amongst ourselves.”

  Javen and his father rose to receive the baron's meaty handshake, the man's balding pate catching the flickering glare of the many rush lights lining the walls.

  With Jebadiah’s bidding, Javen fetched the baron a chair from the far side of the table, placing it before the pews so the baron could relieve his bowed legs.

  After exchanging pleasantries, the baron asked, “So, Jeb, what brings you to town during harvest? You are too busy to be paying me a social visit; though don’t get me wrong, your company is surely welcome.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jebadiah said. He paused, uncertain of what kind of tact to employ. When he spoke, his knitted brow informed the baron this visit was anything but social. “Is there any trouble about?”

  The baron frowned. “No. What would make you ask that?”

  “’Tis probably nothing.”

  “But?”

  “While working the north field this morning, we watched a host of fully armoured knights moving through the hills across the river, coming this way. Their pennants bore no semblance to any I know.”

  The baron leaned back into his seat, studying the two. He pulled thoughtfully upon his lower lip. The faint perception of a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Without warning, he let forth a hearty roar.

  Jebadiah looked on in confusion. He didn’t think the news he had taken the time to deliver, amusing.

  The large man slapped his thighs. “Oh Jebadiah, you are a godsend. Your fidelity is irreproachable. Even during peacetime, you ward my flank.”

  “I don't think I understand.”

  “No, of course you don't, my good friend, of course you don’t,” the baron chuckled. “Forgive me. I should have realized that while the rest of my great homestead prepares to receive our blessed king, my hardest working vassal has not had time to hear of the joyous event.”

  The baron had Javen's undivided attention. “The king? Coming to Millsford?”

  The baron overlooked Javen's slight of forgetting to address him properly.

  Jebadiah didn’t. He shot his son a dark look. He had taught Javen better than that.

  The baron laughed, his hands cupping his large belly. “Do not admonish young Javen, Jeb. He is excited, naturally.” He considered Javen's eager eyes. “Aye, young Milford, his grace shall arrive by Michaelmas. Escorted by Zephyr's finest knights to participate in the royal tournament. Hosted this year, in Millsford.”

  Javen's eyes threatened to pop from his face. He gaped, but not a sound escaped him.

  Jebadiah retained his formal composure. “It is unexpected news indeed, good baron. I thought his grace had chosen Ember Breath for this year's tournament?”

  The baron became serious. “Nay, Jeb. Your information is correct, or I should say, was. A grievous storm swept in from the Zephyr Sea over a fortnight ago, inflicting great damage along the coast. So much so, in fact, it has rendered Ember Breath unsuitable to stage the royal festivities. I have dispatched as many people as I deemed expendable to aid our southern friends. That said, their misfortune has proven very propitious to Millsford.”

  Jebadiah furrowed his brow. “This is the first I have heard, good baron. Is there anything we can do to assist? Perhaps I can send a wagon train of wheat to help feed the people. Our crop is nearly in. With your leave, I volunteer Javen and myself to go hither and lend whatever aid possible.”

  What? Javen was appalled. The king was in Millsford. That in itself was an event that hadn't happened during his short lifetime, and his father had the audacity to volunteer him to miss the occasion.

  Javen wasn’t a selfish person by nature. He felt bad for the people in the south, but he had his future to consider. He didn’t care to follow in his father's footsteps pushing a plow for the rest of his life. He dreamed of making his way to the house of Zephyr to join the royal guard.

  For years he had participated in local tournaments, showing himself well. Ever since seeing his first jousting match, he fantasized about participating in the Royal Tournament, but the great festival always took place during harvest time, and his father couldn’t afford to lose Javen’s hands. It was just the two of them since mama died.

  With the tournament taking place in Millsford this year and the harvest almost in, he could participate in his favourite event, the joust, and still keep up with his chores. He stared vehemently at his father.

  The baron returned to his jovial self, his great smile but another fold in the fat of his cheeks. “Your offer is duly noted Jeb, and I thank you on behalf of our Ember Breath contingent, but I need your services here.”

  The baron paused, noticing Javen’s relief. “I am counting on your crops to supply this tournament, as most of our other staples have already been delegated to the relief envoy. Besides,” the baron paused, clasping his hands together, looking directly into Javen’s brown eyes. “I am personally counting on young Javen here to represent Millsford.”

  Javen's eyes bulged. “Me? Really?”

  Jebadiah shot his son a disdainful look; Javen again forgetting the expected formality required of addressing the baron. His attempt to say so was cut off by the baron, whose attention lay squarely on Javen.

  “Aye, you.” The baron slapped Javen's knee. “You have won the area tournaments for the last three years running in the junior category. It's time you entered the men's category.”

  “I would be honoured, but—”

  “But nothing. It is my opinion you are not only ready; you are worthy. In fact, Captain Korn, the head of our meager delegation, has personally selected you. You should be honoured.”

  “Oh, I am, good baron. I shan’t disappoint you.” Javen's voice squeaked, it was so tight.

  The colour returned to Jebadiah’s face. A slight smile replaced his frown. He always felt responsible for Javen having to miss the Royal Tournament, but there were more important things in life than silly boys’ games of derring-do. The baron’s jolly voice brought his attention back to the meeting hall.

  “I don’t expect you will, young Milford. In fact, I expect you will do very well. Especially if you conduct yourself anything like your father did in his youth.”

  Javen gulped.

  The baron laughed and said to Jebadiah, “Now get the boy home and train him up the best you can. The tournament commences six days from now. The lists will dominate the first day so get that fine horse of yours ready as well.”

  Chapter 2-Training Day

  Javen couldn’t get the vision of the gleaming cavalcade that had recently rode past the farm out o
f his mind. It was the day his life began to change.

  It was a hot day, the second day since their meeting with the baron. He and his father were taking a break from harvesting the wheat; the field they’d been cutting, now all spiky stubble and sheaves that lay waiting to be bundled for transport to the threshing barn. A line of willows marked the southern edge of the field. The trees leaned out over the river where green-blue dragonflies skipped across the water. The air was dense with the smell of plants and sweat. Cicadas buzzed in the distance.

  ‘Taking a break’ meant that his father sat on a boulder, resting his aches and calling out instructions while Javen worked, training in earnest for the upcoming tournament. Today, they were drilling with his jousting horse, Sunseeker.

  “More speed!”

  His father shaded his eyes, squinting as Javen put his heels to Sunseeker’s glossy sides, urging him into a hard gallop. Beside them, Rusty, their dog, tried to keep pace, tongue flapping about, barking encouragement.

  “All right, now imagine your opponent is cheating and aiming for a head shot. What do you do?”

  Javen twisted his body, angling his weight perilously over the left stirrup while making sure Sunseeker continued in a straight line. He ducked his head to the side and then snaked his weight back into the saddle before reining Sunseeker to a stop.

  “Yes!” Javen pumped his fist triumphantly in the air. “I got it this time, didn’t I?”

  “That was good,” his father said. “But it will be harder when you’re burdened down with armour. Tomorrow we will outfit you in your mail and breastplate.”

  Javen grinned. His father hadn’t let him wear the armour since the local tournament in the spring, insisting that the priority was to work on Sunseeker’s training. The horse had rushed the tilts back then, barely in control. Today Sunseeker was eager, his breaths pushing out against Javen’s legs, but he softened obediently to Javen’s hand.