Across the sand-strewn alley, Sir Murthas sat on his gray destrier. His horse was a strong, angry-looking steed cloaked in a damask caparison covered in a series of black and white squares and fringed with matching tassels. Murthas himself held a lozenge shield and wore a matching surcoat and cape of black and white diamonds. He snapped his visor shut just as the trumpeters sounded the fanfare and the flagman raised his banner.
Mesmerized by the spectacle, Hadrian let his gaze roam from the stands to the snapping pennants and finally to the percussionists beating on their great drums. The pounding rolled like thunder such that Hadrian could feel it in his chest, yet the roar of the crowd overwhelmed it. Many leapt to their feet in anticipation. Hundreds waited anxiously, with every eye fixed upon the riders. As a boy in the white stands, Hadrian had held his father’s fingers, hearing and feeling that same percussive din. He had wished to be one of those knights waiting at their gates—waiting for glory. The wish had been a fantasy that only a young boy who knew so little of the world could imagine—an impossible dream he had forgotten until that moment.
The drums stopped. The flag fell. Across the alley, Murthas spurred his horse and charged.
Caught by surprise, Hadrian was several seconds behind. He spurred Malevolent and lurched forward. The audience sprang to their feet, gasping in astonishment. Some screamed in fear. Hadrian ignored them, intent on his task.
Feeling the rhythm of the horse’s stride, he became one with the motion. Hadrian pushed the balls of his feet down, taking up every ounce of slack and pressing his lower back against the saddle. Slowly, carefully, he lowered the lance, pulling it to his side and keeping its movement in sync with the horse’s rapid gait. He calculated the drop rate with the approach of his target.
The wind roared past Hadrian’s ears and stung his eyes as the charger built up speed. The horse’s hooves pounded the soft track, creating explosions of sand. Murthas raced at him, his black and white cape flying. The horses ran full out, nostrils flaring, muscles rippling, harnesses jangling.
Crack!
Hadrian felt his lance jolt, then splinter. Running out of lane, he discarded the broken lance and pulled back on the reins. Hadrian was embarrassed by his slow start and did not want Murthas to get the jump on him again. Intent on getting the next lance first, he wheeled his charger and saw Murthas’s horse trotting riderless. Two squires and a groom chased the destrier. Hadrian spotted Murthas lying on his back along the alley. Men ran to the knight’s aid as he struggled to sit up. Hadrian looked for Renwick, and as he did, he noticed the crowd. They were alive with excitement. All of them were on their feet, clapping and whistling. A few even cheered his name. Hadrian guessed they had not expected him to survive the first round.
He allowed himself a smile and the crowd cheered even louder.
“Sir!” Renwick shouted over the roar, running to Hadrian’s side. “You didn’t put your helm on!” The squire held up the plumed helmet.
“Sorry,” Hadrian apologized. “I forgot. I didn’t expect them to start the run so quickly.”
“Sorry? But—but no one tilts without a helm,” Renwick said, an astonished look on his face. “He could have killed you!”
Hadrian glanced over his shoulder at Murthas hobbling off the field with the help of two men and shrugged. “I survived.”
“Survived? Survived? Murthas didn’t even touch you, and you destroyed him. That’s a whole lot better than just survived. Besides, you did it without a helm! I’ve never seen anyone do that. And the way you hit him! You punched him off his horse like he hit a wall. You’re amazing!”
“Beginner’s luck, I guess. I’m all done here, right?”
Renwick nodded and swallowed several times. “You’ll go on to the second round day after tomorrow.”
“Good. How about we go see how well you do at the carousel minor and the quintain? Gotta watch that quintain. If you don’t hit it clean, the billet will swing around and knock you off.”
“I know,” Renwick replied, but his expression showed he was still in a state of shock. His eyes kept shifting from Hadrian to Murthas and back to the still-cheering crowd.
Amilia had never been to the tournament before. She had never seen a joust. Sitting in the stands, Amilia realized she had not even been outside the palace in more than a year. Despite the cold, she was enjoying herself. Perched on a thick velvet cushion, she draped a lush blanket over her lap and held a warm cup of cider between her hands. Everything was so pretty. So many bright colors filled the otherwise bleak winter world. All around her the privileged were grouped according to their stations. Across the field, the poor swarmed, trapped behind fence rails. They blended into a single gray mass that almost faded into the background of muddied snow. Without seats, they stood in the slush, shuffling their feet and stuffing hands into sleeves. Still, they were obviously happy to be there, happy to see the spectacle.
“That’s three broken lances for Prince Rudolf!” the duchess squealed, clapping enthusiastically. “A fine example of grand imperial entertainment. Not that his performance compares to Sir Hadrian’s. Everyone thought the poor man was doomed. I still can’t believe he rode without a helm! And what he did to Sir Murthas… Well, it will certainly be an exciting tournament this year, Amilia. Very exciting indeed.”
Lady Genevieve tugged on Amilia’s sleeve and pointed. “Oh, see there. They are bringing out the blue and gold flag. Those are Sir Breckton’s colors. He’s up next. Yes, yes, here he comes, and see—see on his arm. He wears your token. How exciting! The other ladies—they’re positively drooling. Oh, don’t look now, dear, they’re all staring at you. If eyes were daggers and glares lethal…” She trailed off, as if Amilia should know the rest. “They all see your conquest, my darling, and hate you. How wonderful.”
“Is it?” Amilia asked, noticing how many of the other ladies were staring at her. She bowed her head and kept her eyes focused on her lap. “I don’t want to be hated.”
“Nonsense. Knights aren’t the only ones who tilt at these tournaments. Everyone comes to this field as a competitor, and there can only be one victor. The only difference is that the knights spar in the daylight, and the ladies compete by candlelight. Clearly, you won your first round, but now we must see if your conquest was a wise one, as your victory remains locked with his prowess. Breckton is riding against Gilbert. This should be a close challenge. Gilbert actually killed a man a few years ago. It was an accident, of course, but it still gives him an edge over his opponents. Although, rumor has it that he hurt his leg two nights back, so we shall see.”
“Killed?” Amilia felt her stomach tighten as the trumpet blared and the flag flew.
Hooves shook the ground, and her heart raced as panic flooded her. She shut her eyes before the impact.
Crack!
The crowd roared.
Opening her eyes, she saw Gilbert still mounted but reeling. Sir Breckton trotted back to his gate unharmed.