A formal tournament can be viewed as a kind of refinery where the slag is boiled away and only the true gold is left behind. That’s probably a very offensive metaphor to those who end up on the slag-heap, but life is hard sometimes, I guess. The winnowing-down process went on for several weeks, and eventually there were only two contenders left, a pair of Wacite noblemen, Lathan and Ontrose, who’d been boyhood friends of Duke Andrion. Baron Lathan was a big, boisterous fellow with dark blond hair, and Count Ontrose was a more studious and polished man with black hair and deep blue eyes. I’d known the both of them since they were children, and I was really quite fond of them. Frankly, I was a bit surprised that the cultured Count Ontrose had advanced so far in a competition that was largely based on brute strength.
The final jousting match took place on a breezy summer morning when white puffy clouds were skipping like lambs across their blue pasture. The spectators were all gathered around the lists and were beginning to grow restive until an extended trumpet fanfare announced that the ‘entertainment’ was about to begin. I was seated on a regal throne flanked by Andrion of Wacune, Garteon of Asturia, and the aged Moratham of Mimbre when the pair of friends, all clad in gleaming armor and with pennons snapping from the tips of their lances, rode forth to receive my blessing and instruction. They reined in side by side and dipped their lances to me in salute.
That sort of thing can go to a girl’s head if she doesn’t keep a firm grip on herself.
My ‘instruction’ was suitably flowery, but my conclusion had some un-flowery practicality to it. ‘Don’t hurt each other,’ I commanded them.
Their expressions at that point were a study in contrasts. Count Ontrose, far and away the more handsome of the two, wore a look of civilized adoration. Baron Lathan, on the other hand, seemed so caught up with emotion that his features were almost distorted. There were tears in his eyes as he looked at me.
Then, with a final flourish, the armored pair posted formally to opposite ends of the lists to do battle upon each other. The ‘list’ in a formal joust consists of a stout waist-high rail designed, I think, to keep the horses from being injured during the festivities. A joust is a simple game, really. Each knight attempts to knock his opponent off his horse with a blunted twenty-foot lance. Draws are not infrequent, and in the event that both knights are sent crashing to the ground, they both get up, get back on their horses, and try it again. It’s a very noisy affair that usually provides many business opportunities for the local bone-setter.
At the traditional signaling horn call, they both clapped down their visors, lowered their lances and charged, thundering down the lists toward each other. Their lances both struck true against those stout shields, and as usual, both lances shattered, filling the air with splinters. The jousts at a formal tourney can seriously deplete the supply of trees in a nearby forest.
They both wheeled and rode back to their original starting point.
Ontrose was laughing gaily but Lathan was glaring at his friend with a look of competitive belligerence. Baron Lathan seemed to be missing the point here. A jousting match is supposed to be a sporting event, not a duel to the death. In previous tourneys, I’d been moderately indifferent about the outcome, but this time was somehow different. My ‘knights protectors’ in the past had not really loomed very large in my life. They’d been no more than appurtenances to my station. I had an uneasy feeling this time that should Baron Lathan be the victor, he’d cause difficulties later on. Arendish literature positively swarms with improprieties involving high-born ladies and their bodyguards and Lathan seemed to be well-read. Should he happen to win, he’d clearly cause some problems. My impartiality started to slip just a bit.
The second pass with lances proved to be no more decisive than the first, and when the contestants rode back to take their places for the third, Lathan’s look of open belligerence had become even more pronounced.
This was going too far, and I decided at that point to ‘take steps’.
‘No, Pol,’ mother’s voice murmured. ‘Stay out of it.’
‘But –’
‘Do as I say!’ Mother almost never took that tone, and it got my immediate attention. I relaxed my gathering Will.
‘That’s better,’ she said.
As it turned out, Ontrose didn’t really need any help from me. Baron Lathan appeared to be so wrought up that his skill deserted him on the third pass. He seemed to be so intent on destroying his opponent that he forgot to brace his shield properly, and Count Ontrose neatly picked him out of his saddle with that long lance of his and hurled him to the ground with a resounding crash.
‘No!’ The fallen knight howled, and his voice was a wail of regret and unspeakable loss.
Count Ontrose reined in sharply, swung down from his saddle, and rushed to his friend. ‘Art thou injured?’ he demanded, kneeling at Lathan’s side. ‘Have I harmed thee?’
I didn’t exactly disobey mother, but I did send a quick, probing thought at the fallen baron He was gasping, but that would have been quite normal. Being unhorsed in a jousting match almost always knocks the wind out of a man.
Then the physicians reached the pair, and they seemed greatly concerned. Baron Lathan had taken a very nasty fall, and the steel armor in which he was encased was so dented in on the left side of his chest that he could scarcely breathe. Once the physicians had pried him out of his armor, however, his breathing became normal, and he even congratulated Ontrose on his victory. Then the physicians carted him off to the dispensary.
Count Ontrose remounted his war-horse and rode over to claim his prize – me, in this case. He lowered his lance to me, and, in keeping with tradition, I tied a flimsy blue scarf about its tip as a visible sign of my ‘favor’. ‘Now art thou my true knight,’ I declaimed in formal tones.
‘I thank thee, your Grace,’ he replied in a musical baritone, ‘and I do hereby pledge unto thee my life and undying devotion.’
I thought that was terribly nice of him.
Ontrose, now ‘the mightiest knight of life,’ was one of those rare people who excelled at everything he put his hand to. He was a philosopher, a rose fancier, a poet, and a lutanist of the first magnitude. His manners were exquisite, but he was a complete terror in the jousting lists. Not only that, he was absolutely gorgeous! He was tall, slimly muscular, and his features might have served as a model for a statue. His skin was very fair, but, as I mentioned before, his long hair was lustrous blue-black. His large expressive eyes were a deep sapphire blue, and a whole generation of young Arendish ladies cried themselves to sleep over him every night for a goodly number of years.