A Tournament at Midsummer
Vesian III
Hooves thundered above the roar of the crowd, and Vesian lowered his lance. Beneath him, his loyal steed Zephyr churned his legs faster, tearing up clods of the tournament pitch. Vesian stared ahead through the vision slit of his helm, eyes locked onto his opponent. From the other end of the lists, a knight quartered in blue and red, his tabard emblazoned with a white Pegasus, hurtled toward him atop a red-haired steed. The lance heads gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, splayed to divert the force of the impact but still a deadly weapon in an expert's hands.
Vesian tried to shut out the raucous cheers of the crowd, tried to forget that the king and all his family were watching, and concentrate on landing his lance blow against his opponent. Both lance heads bobbed in the air before the riders with each rise and fall of the horses. Vesian gritted his teeth for the impact, peering out the frog-mouthed helm as the distance narrowed. He steadied his lance and held it firm until the last moment. The crowd roared in anticipation.
The two knights came together in a crash. Vesian jolted in his saddle as the lances each struck their opposites' shields. He was wrenched sideways in his high saddle, his feet twisting in the stirrups. He tightened his legs' grip around the horse and squeezed.
The lances shattered, spraying splinters across the face of his frog-mouthed helm, which he had tilted back just before the moment of impact. The cracking of wood was deafening, as was the thunderous hoofbeats of the two stallions passing. But it was the roar of an elated crowd that drowned them both out. Clapping, shouting, beating their feet on the stands, the tournament audience erupted with delight.
Vesian teetered in the saddle, discarding his ruined lance, and heard the crowd groan in worried anticipation. But he steadied himself, and regained his seat, and the groans turned to cheers. His stallion slowed as it neared the far end of the pitch, and Vesian lowered his head to look around again.
Before him stood his loyal squire Thibault, already with a fresh painted lance in his hand.
"Well struck!" Thibault cheered. Vesian nodded, his breath coming short in the excitement. Through the deadening iron of his helm, he heard the tournament judge cry out over the noise of the crowd.
"One point for Sir Vesian de Surrac! One point for Sir Eremund de Baltrier! The riders will tilt again!"
Thibault passed the lance to Vesian, who took it up and steadied it on his armored toe.
"The crowd seems to like you," he offered, and Vesian nodded as best he could under the heavy helm.
"They love a knight errant," Vesian replied easily. But through his vision slit, he turned his eyes to the royal family's box, where the king sat beneath a gold-trimmed canopy of crimson silk. The king looked from Sir Eremund to Vesian, giving each of them an approving nod, then gestured for the tournament judge to continue. But Vesian barely heard him, his eyes instead going to the young woman seated to the king's left. Princess Adeline was a slender young beauty, delicate in form and face, her long, dark brown hair flowing out from beneath a double-pointed hennin of blue velvet. But most importantly to Vesian, she was looking his way. Another woman in a saffron dress leaned in, whispering something in her ear, and the princess covered her mouth with a gloved hand, though behind it, Vesian could tell she was laughing. He gave her a respectful nod, and Adeline turned her head to confide in her maid.
"Well ridden, Sir Vesian!" called a voice from the lists. Vesian turned to face Countess Tiburge, a longtime friend of the Order. The countess wore a dress of deep green, trimmed with gold lace, and an elaborate headdress studded with gilded birds. Three great pearls on a golden chair rested on her exposed bosom, shining in the sunlight. She was ten years his senior, but with the carefree and jovial attitude of a widow enjoying her freedom that made her irresistible. Vesian nodded back to her in acknowledgement.
"I thank you, my lady. I always aim to impress you with my lance."
"And you always succeed. I know my lances, just as I know a good ride when I see one," she replied with a saucy wink. She waved her goblet in his direction and a few droplets of dark red wine splashed out to fall on her bodice.
"I could have unhorsed him, had you let me wear your favor," he called back. Tiburge laughed, a goblet in one hand and a stuffed sparrow in the other. She lifted the drink to her lips and tilted it back.
"My favor was already spoken for, I'm afraid. But find me after the tilts, I have business with the Order I'd like to discuss."
"I do so love to discuss business with you, my lady," he replied, and the countess broke out into delighted laughter with her maids. Trumpets sounded behind Vesian.
"Riders!" called the tournament judge, "Make ready!"
Vesian exchanged another look with the countess through his narrow vision slit. She seductively raised the golden goblet to her lips and met his eyes. One delicate eyebrow arched at him.
"Tsk!" Thibault snapped his fingers before him. "Maintain your focus! This joust is yet to be won. The ladies love a winner, and if you win this, you can go into the night's festivities as one. Though you'll be lucky to make it through tomorrow morning with this attitude."
"Calm yourself, Thibault. There's hardly a man in the kingdom more skilled with the lance than I am."
"Aye, but they're all here. The king knows how to draw a crowd," he remarked, looking around the brightly colored sea of spectators and fluttering pennants. High above the canopied stands rose the king's castle of Chateau d'Argent, a gray-walled bastion surrounded by idyllic fields and woods. All the kingdom's finest had come out for the occasion, and Vesian had found the competition stiff.
"Good. It will make victory all the sweeter. Now step aside, I'd hate for you to get trampled."
Thibault did as told, but not without an exaggerated roll of his eyes. As his squire scampered away to the racks of lances, Vesian focused himself on the task ahead of him, trying to put thoughts of Tiburge and Princess Adeline from his mind. At the far end of the lists, Sir Eremund was sitting stoicially atop his horse. He rested the butt of a green and white striped lance atop his toe and gave Vesian a slight nod of his helm.
The heralds raised their flags and trumpets blasted. The trumpets sounded again, and they were off. The crowd roared and Vesian spurred his horse into motion. Hooves beat on the tournament pitch like war drums and the distant Sir Eremund grew in Vesian's vision. He leveled his lance, aiming for the pegasus emblazoned at the center of his opponent's shield. Somehow over the din, he thought he heard Tiburge cry out to him.
They came together in a crash again, and Vesian turned with the impact against his shield, swinging his full body into his own lance blow. His lance bent upwards in the collision, but carried his driving force enough to wrench his opponent from the saddle. Sir Eremund's lance fell from his grasp, he teetered in the saddle, and the crowd gasped in excitement.
They thundered past each other, and Vesian heard only the roar of the crowd behind him. He reached the end of the pitch and wheeled his horse around.
Sir Eremund lay prone in the dust, his horse trotting to a halt at the far end of the pitch. The crowd erupted. Thousands leapt to their feet as one. The wooden stands groaned underneath them, but they beat their feet against it anyway. The cheers reverberated through Vesian's armor, echoing inside his frog-mouthed helm and he felt himself break out in a broad smile. He was victorious.
Servants emerged from beneath the king's seating section to help Sir Eremund to his feet. He staggered to his feet and shakily removed his helm, his shoulder-length blonde hair spilling out from beneath. Eremund bowed before the royal box and, supported by a servant and his squire, made his way off in the direction of his horse.
In his wake, Vesian rode forward. He felt the eyes of all in the crowd upon him, and spied Tiburge watching approvingly from her seat as a servant refilled her goblet. Vesian hid his amusement beneath his helm. Slowly, basking in the adulation, he approached the royal box and stopped before it. The tournament judge, a well-respected count by the name of Theobald de Veziers rose from his pulpit and quieted the crowd with a raised hand.
"Sir Vesian de Surrac has defeated Sir Eremund de Baltrier by unhorsing! I declare him the victor!"
On cue, the crowd broke out into rapturous applause. Thibault appeared at Vesian's side and took the lance from him. His hand freed, Vesian reached up and removed his helm, a heavy piece made heavier by the thick azure cloth wrapped around its brow and the painted wooden griffon statue atop it. His fair hair spilled out from beneath and he let it fall to his shoulders. He felt the warmth of the midsummer sun on his ruddy face and smiled broader as he bowed in the saddle before the king. Holding the helm in the crook of his arm, he looked up at the king as he rose from his heavy throne of carved and polished elden oak.
King Guntheric was a middle-aged man, though graying early. He was not a tall man, which made his wide waist seem even wider than it might otherwise. But the king loved his feasts and loved his wine, requiring his clothiers to work even harder to keep up. Today, he wore a snow-white doublet with his personal crest of a red lion rampant on the chest and a cloak of ermine beneath his heavy, golden crown. The lion rippled like a flag in the wind with each breath the king's fat body took. Nevertheless, he looked the image of a king as he lumbered to the railing and looked down to Vesian.
"I offer my most hearty congratulations, Sir Vesian!" he boomed, and the crowd cheered again in response. "You are the last of our competitors to win his tilt for the day, and as such will have the honor of opening the lists in the morning. May your good fortune hold that long!"
As the crowd cheered once again, Princess Adeline stepped up next to her father, and her uncle Duke Sigismund de Beaufort appeared on the other side. In contrast to his obese elder brother, the duke cut a handsome figure that had carved a path through lists earlier in the day. The duke had since doffed his armor and now wore a sable brocade with his crest of a red dragon rampant on his chest.
"And may it continue to hold if you should meet my brother," the king roared with laughter. He slapped Sigismund on the back and the duke grimaced under the weight of the blow. He looked down at Vesian with a thin smile.
"Well done there, Sir Vesian," he proclaimed just above the cheers of the crowd. "I will study you closely in anticipation of our inevitable meeting."
"You do me a great honor, your grace," Vesian replied, but his eyes went quickly to Princess Adeline. "Princess, I am honored to joust before you today. I hope that my display of martial prowess was satisfactory."
"You performed most admirably, Sir Vesian," Princess Adeline replied, her cheeks turning the slightest bit rosy. "I am delighted by the displays of all the knights today. I look forward to seeing more of you tomorrow."
Vesian smiled and made to reply, but King Guntheric cut him off. "Three cheers for Sir Vesian de Surrac!"
