The Royal Tournament Read online

  Jebadiah rose stiffly and hobbled over to pat Sunseeker’s neck. The horse’s black coat was damp with exertion. Jebadiah was damp too. He didn’t handle the heat as well as he used to.

  Javen worried, noticing the pinched look around his father’s mouth. His father’s old leg wound from the war he’d fought at Baron Millsford’s side, obviously bothered him more than usual.

  “I’ll fetch us some lunch, and then we can get back to work,” Jebadiah said, ambling toward the house in the distance.

  Back at the barn, Javen dismounted and removed his old saddle from Sunseeker’s back. After rubbing him down with a knot of straw, Javen led him into the cool confines of his stall. Securing the door behind him, Javen grabbed a softly burning lantern from a peg in the wall and made his way to the storage room at the rear of the barn.

  The hinges on the room’s door squealed as he opened it. The lantern’s glow illuminated the dusty equipment inside the large room. His skin tingled with excitement. A large chest, buried behind rusty farm implements and dusty lances of various sizes, drew his attention. Aligning the lances in the aisle outside and setting aside the old scythes and broken pieces of harrows, he knelt in front of the chest and blew the dust from its lid.

  Inside the musty trunk lay his various collection of armour. His father’s really, but it now belonged to him. Hopefully this year it would fit better. He had grown taller and filled in a lot more since the last time he had donned the dented and rusted equipment.

  That had been in the spring during the local tournament held at the end of planting season, to celebrate the new crops. He had won the jousting event, and was runner-up in the crossbow competition, but overall, he hadn’t faired as well as he had hoped. If he wished to make the king’s men notice him he would have to do better. Unfortunately, melee fighting wasn’t in his makeup. He had nearly lost his head the last time.

  The baron expected great things of him, expecting him to pick up where his father left off twenty years before.

  Jebadiah had been a prize tournament fighter. Many said that had the Kraidic wars not intervened, he might have become ‘Emperor of the Field,’ the prestigious title awarded to the overall victor of the annual Royal Tournament.

  Becoming Emperor of the Field meant more than the prize money awarded at local tournaments. Emperor of the Field meant the king and his personal guard would be calling upon their service, more than likely enlisting them and training them at Castle Svelte, the royal seat of the kingdom.

  Nerves clutched Javen’s stomach. Tomorrow he would ask his father to help him practice with the hammer. Swords were for skinnier, faster moving men. Cudgels suited bigger men. Besides, his father had made a name for himself swinging his prized hammer for King Peter’s father.

  At the bottom of the chest, wrapped caringly in oily rags, lay the weapon in question. With more than a little trepidation, Javen pulled the heavy bundle free. Unwrapping the large headed hammer, he stared at the familiar etchings along the side of the metal head.

  He sighed. Who was he kidding. He was a marksman, not an infantryman. In a tournament of this size, the list of notable entrants vying for the eye of the king would be lengthy. He would be lucky to make it through the first round.

  He had three more days to prepare. What he lacked in aptitude he would have to make up for in strength. Of that he had plenty, but he would be facing grown men who made their living swinging a weapon for their overlords. There would certainly be men much stronger than himself.

  Stepping out the back door into the paddock he swung the hammer about, trying to get used to the heft again. In the spring tournament, he had misjudged what would happen were he to miss his opponent and found himself almost falling over as he tried to maintain his grip on the cumbersome weapon. His opponent, armed with a saber and small shield, had made quick work of his clumsiness.

  Rusty’s enthusiastic barking sounded at the front of the barn and continued through the open passageway between the numerous stalls. His father’s voice sounded above the dog, “Javen! Dinner’s ready!”

  “Coming papa!” Javen dropped the grisly hammerhead to the dirt. Three days. That wasn’t enough time to even work in the muscles required to wield the weapon properly, let alone get comfortable with it again.

  Rusty burst onto the paddock and circled him, barking like a fool.

  “Ya, ya, boy. I’m coming.”

  Javen followed the dog back into the barn and stood the hammer against the inside wall of the storage room. Before grabbing the lantern and walking away he studied his father’s armour. There would be new dents on it before the week was out. Of that he had no doubt.

  Chapter 3-Inaugural Joust

  Tournament day dawned cool and clear.

  Jebadiah pulled up on the reins of the two plow horses leading their buckboard toward town. Steam billowed from their nostrils as they crested the last hill before Millsford and stamped to a stop. The town was cast in early morning shadow, but it wasn’t dormant. Jebadiah got to his feet and stared, unprepared for the spectacle below.

  Millsford was built into the heart of a large basin where the surging waters of the Canorous River met the subtle flow of the mighty Madrigail, converging in a flurry of spray and foam. With its northern and western borders flanked by water, the town stretched southeast to the base of a ridge rising from the river basin, half a league west of the ford. A low outer wall encircled the town between the two separate riverbanks at the base of the ridge.

  Within the low walls, a sprawling tent city had been erected. Tarpaulin structures of all shapes, sizes and colours were crammed together so tightly he couldn't imagine walking between them, let alone trying to navigate his buckboard amongst the throng. The higher peaks of the permanent buildings endeavoured to climb out from underneath the crush of man and beast.

  From Jebadiah's vantage point, both rivers stretched eastward into the rolling countryside. Along each bank, a separate road entered the town through the only two breaches in the wooden palisade.

  The roads teemed with approaching traffic, appearing from this distance to be great, writhing serpents coiled upon the rivers' banks attempting to squeeze through the barbicans to wreak havoc with the smaller snakes of milling people within.

  Prodded by the drivers of wagons coming up from behind them, laden with supplies and colourful people from every corner of Zephyr and beyond, Jebadiah waved a good morning to all, and urged his team forward.

  As they descended into the jowls of mayhem, Javen sat in the back of the wagon, facing the rear amid a jumble of tack and weaponry, equipment and fancy clothing. Oblivious to the turmoil going on around him, he busily mended and polished his tournament gear.

  Nearing the southern gatehouse, the procession slowed to a crawl, but Javen didn’t notice until his black horse, tethered to the rear of the buckboard, whinnied.

  Looking up from his preparation, Javen was awestruck. A plethora of various sized wagons surrounded him farther than he could see. The resulting din threatened to crush him as his senses attuned to their surroundings. He craned his neck to observe the outer wall, fifty paces ahead. Pennants from all over the world flapped lazily in the soft, morning breeze.

  His father's smiling visage commanded his attention.

  “Well, my boy, you've finally made it.”

  Javen could only nod, his throat tight. His father laughed and urged the team forward with a lurch. They passed beneath the portcullis into bedlam.

  Captain Korn appeared out of nowhere, motioning for Jebadiah to follow. The captain paused long enough to welcome Javen to the Royal Tournament, smiling when Javen mustered a squeaky thank you.

  Captain Korn's presence commanded respect in Millsford. Years ago, he fought many battles as a lesser knight in the king’s army, acclaiming himself well. As a reward for his valiant services, he was bestowed a plot of land near Millsford where his family bred warhorses for the royal guard. Although of average
height, his broad shoulders and thick chest bespoke volumes. A groomed, pointed, brown goatee highlighted his chiseled facial features. He surveyed the multitude of men and beasts parting before them, allowing them to proceed unimpeded toward the inner wall. The guard, tripled on the interior gatehouses, didn’t dare to slow their progress.

  Arriving the previous day, the king's men stood about in knots within the baron’s courtyard, watching knights sparring with nobles, all in mail and polished armour.

  It was Captain Korn's turn to show his respect, as he led his charges amongst the king’s men.

  The baron, anticipating their arrival, stood upon a broad, stone porch. He smiled, greeted Jebadiah warmly and said, “Ah, my champion has arrived. In the days to come, young Javen will bring the king's mighty war machine to its knees, you will see.”

  Javen jumped from the wagon, and promptly fell upon his face. Wide-eyed, he offered the baron a tight smile as he caught himself with his hands on the ground.

  The baron cupped his belly. “I see your nerves have robbed your voice. Come inside and relax if you can. Your first battle is scheduled for just before the midday feast.”

  The baron turned to enter his stronghold. Two knights snapped to attention and opened the heavy doors. Without looking back, he added, “Korn, see to their wagon.”

  Korn gaped at the baron's receding girth. With a grunt, he took the reins from Jebadiah. When the doors closed, he delegated the task to one of the men standing guard.

  The noonday sun parched the throats of amassed dignitaries and assembled guests seated along the perimeter of the jousting field in the great courtyard behind the baron's manor. Large banners depicting the king's coat of arms: a golden eagle with wings poised for landing, clenching a sword in its talons, beautifully embroidered upon a vermillion background, flapped lazily above the crowd. Alongside the king’s banner were those of Millsford, Madrigail Bay, Gritian and pretty well every other town in Zephyr. Interspersed with the local pennants, the flags of neighbouring kingdoms swearing allegiance to King Peter snapped in unison.

  The crowd buzzed with excitement, anticipating the next joust. All eyes were upon the northern ready tent. As one, the spectators rose to their feet in a thunderous ovation. Prince Malcolm's retainers pulled open the tent flaps and led his ebony stallion onto the grounds. Firerider’s glistening flanks rippled beneath its proud rider.

  Prince Malcolm, not yet eighteen, had won the Royal Tournament two years running, defeating the king's champion at Madrigail Bay to assume the honourific title, Emperor of the Field. He raised his polished lance in salute to the crowd. They roared even louder.

  His squire, a teenage boy with long black hair and bewitching ice-blue eyes, handed him Firerider's reins and then checked the saddle cinches. Satisfied his knight’s gear was properly fitted, the squire bowed deeply and scurried back into the tent.

  The prince scrutinized the crowd, his lance held easy. Smiling, he hailed the contestant waiting within the southern ready tent, following the protocol for pageantry.

  “Enter God's blessed field, meek challenger, if thou darest,” the prince called out. “Ride forth and know thee well, today ye shall be bested by the Emperor of the Field.”

  The cheering crowd craned its collective neck. The two huge tent flaps of the southern pavilion opened outward. Two squires rushed to get out of the way as the challenger's roan trotted onto the tilting field.

  The newcomer's sun bright, yellow surcoat rippled above the rider's polished armour, depicting the Cliff Face coat of arms. Riding out to meet the Emperor, the Cliff Face knight reined in alongside Firerider. Custom dictated that anyone challenging the Emperor of the Field must offer to surrender their lance without challenge.

  Bowing low over his pommel the challenger tendered his lance, handle first. “I submit to thee without contest my lance and my honour, should my Emperor decree.”

  The Emperor of the Field placed his left hand upon the lance handle. “Brave challenger, I would not dishonour your coat of arms without contest. Should ye decide to withdraw from the tournament, I shan't begrudge your courage. What say ye, o noble warrior?”

  The challenger pulled his lance back. Grasping the helmet resting upon his saddle horn, he donned the feather plumed, conical headpiece. He flipped open the faceplate. “I say nay, good Emperor. I wish thee luck, for thou shalt have gravest need.” With that said, the knight from Cliff Face closed his faceplate in defiance.

  The Emperor of the Field fitted his own, round topped, vermillion plumed helm over his head and proclaimed, “Then I say, ware thee well, foolish knave.” He proceeded to address the gathering, “Let the joust commence.”

  The crowd cheered as the two riders turned their mounts to face the royal box, built at ground level into the eastern stand, its awning ablaze with the dominant heraldic coat-of-arms of the king's house. Two knights resplendent in suits of gleaming plate stood guard, bearing large halberds, one on either side of the king’s box.

  King Peter regarded the contestants for a moment. With a nod, he gave them leave to assume their respective starting places.

  Within the northern pavilion, Javen stood spread eagle, peering through a crack in the tent flaps, gazing out onto the jousting field.

  Behind him, Captain Korn barked orders at the squires who were busy trying to fit Javen's badly dented armour, while two grooms outfitted Javen's warhorse with its protective plating and colourful mantle.

  Korn took in the spectacle of the squires’ ordeal as they tried unsuccessfully to steady Javen's limbs long enough to put his gear on.

  Javen watched in awe as Prince Malcolm cantered Firerider toward him. He moved away from the tent flaps for fear the prince would catch him staring, the action eliciting a chorus of groans and curses from his attendants.

  Captain Korn noticed his young charge's knees tremble, the plate armour clinking rhythmically. He smiled at the exasperated attendants attempts to fit Javen's surcoat over his stiff arms—the back of the golden surcoat bearing the Milford coat of arms: a sword breaking upon a chaff of wheat, alongside the label denoting Javen as Jebadiah's first-born son.

  Korn had seen Javen joust in local tournaments many times before. The boy was good. He couldn’t recall seeing Javen as nervous as this before, but appearing before the king for the first time was certainly a big deal.

  Suddenly, from without, a great roar arose. Javen shrugged off his retainers, who in turn threw their arms up in disgust, beseeching Captain Korn’s aid.

  The captain laughed.

  Javen slit the tent flaps in time for he and his aides to receive a face full of upturned turf as Firerider dug in and charged down the tilting rail.

  Javen absently shook off the dirt, his attention riveted upon the ensuing collision.

  Prince Malcolm rode upright at full gallop, the tip of his lance poised above his vermillion plumed helm, much to the delight of the ladies in attendance.

  The combatant from Cliff Face bore down on him, hunched over his pommel, lance at the ready.

  Javen's eyes grew wide.

  Twenty paces separated the combatants. Ten paces. Five paces and still the prince rode erect, as if gallivanting across the countryside.

  Just before contact, the prince's lance dipped to level, his body lowering over Firerider's neck in one fluid motion, deftly intercepting his quarry's lance with his shield. A resounding clang and the crack of splintering wood marked the collision. The prince drove his lance into his opponent’s breastplate, unhorsing him.

  The assembled mass cheered, watching the Emperor of the Field rein in Firerider.

  The prince lifted his faceplate and proclaimed, “I take thee as my prisoner.”

  The knight from Cliff Face struggled to catch his breath. He rolled to his stomach with the help of his retainers. Gaining his knees with the difficulty afforded by his armour, he offered homage to his captor, “I succumb to thee, Emperor. Do unto m
e no further grief.”

  Clad in green and red patchwork livery, the local town crier announced the next combatants.

  The baron of Millsford sat proudly behind the king's box. Beside him, a nervous Jebadiah held his breath as his son's retainers pulled open the northern pavilion tent flaps. Protocol allowed for the knight with the highest prestige, whether he be royal, reigning champion, or from the tournament’s hometown, to occupy the northern pavilion. The honour allowed said knight to enter the jousting field first and call out his adversary.

  Captain Korn led Javen's steed, Sunseeker, onto the battlefield. Sunseeker, a stunning black warhorse, the pride of Millsford, demanded the king's notice, resplendent in a great, golden surcoat matching its rider.

  The crowd voraciously cheered their local entrant. The nerves Javen experienced earlier were nothing compared to those binding him up now. He knew at least half of the crowd personally, but at this moment, their presence provided him little solace. They may as well have been archbishops and kings.

  He sat upon his horse in front of the king's box, facing the king himself, the clamour of the crowd a distant thought as King Peter's eyes caught his own. He felt his face redden. He had forgotten to call out his adversary.

  The king’s expectant gaze didn’t do him any favours.

  King Peter's gaze softened, feeling for the young man. He smiled and nodded slightly.

  That little gesture proved enough to break the spell. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Javen hoisted his lance in salute to Zephyr’s monarch.

  The expectant crowd fell silent.

  Javen accepted Sunseeker’s reins from his retainers, who in turn, hightailed it from the field.

  Captain Korn offered him a salute and a wink, before following the others.

  Javen turned his mount to face the southern pavilion. With more than a little trepidation, evidenced by the squeak in his voice, he called forth his competitor. “Enter God's blessed field, meek challenger, if thou darest. Ride forth and know thee well, ye shall face the wrath of the chaff. The eternal giver of life in a world where mere men such as thee simply come hither to wither with the passing season.” He hoped that didn’t sound as corny as it felt.