Wintertide (The Riyria Revelations #5)

“Get aboard,” Hadrian told the boy who grinned and scrambled into the high-backed saddle. Hadrian handed him a practice lance and the shield with green and white quadrants, which the regents supplied.

“Lean forward and keep the lance tucked tight against your side. Squeeze it in with your elbow to steady it. Now ride in a circle so I can watch you.”

For all his initial enthusiasm, the boy looked less confident as he struggled to hold the long pole and guide the horse at the same time.

“The stirrups need to be tighter,” Sir Breckton said as he rode up.

Breckton sat astride a strong white charger adorned with an elegant caparison of gold and blue stripes. A matching pennant flew from the tip of a lance booted in his stirrup. Dressed in brightly polished armor, he had a plumed helm under one arm and a sheer blue scarf tied around the other.

“I wanted to wish you good fortune this day,” he said to Hadrian.

“Thanks.”

“You ride against Murthas, do you not? He’s good with a lance. Don’t underestimate him.” Breckton studied Hadrian critically. “Your cuirass is light. That’s very brave of you.”

Hadrian looked down at himself, confused. He had never worn such heavy armor. His experience with a lance remained confined to actual combat, where targets were rarely knights. As it was, Hadrian felt uncomfortable and restricted.

Breckton motioned to the metal plate on his own side. “Bolted armor adds an extra layer of protection where one is most likely to be hit. And where is your elbow pocket?”

Hadrian looked confused for a moment. “Oh, that plate? I had the smith take it off. It made it impossible to hold the lance tight.”

Breckton chuckled. “You do realize that plate is meant to brace the butt of the lance, right?”

Hadrian shrugged. “I’ve never jousted in a tournament before.”

“I see.” Sir Breckton nodded. “Would you be offended should I offer advice?”

“No, go ahead.”

“Keep your head up. Lean forward. Use the stirrups to provide leverage to deliver stronger blows. Absorb the blows you receive with the high back of your saddle to avoid being driven from your horse.”

“Again, thank you.”

“Not at all, I am pleased to be of service. If you have any questions, I will be most happy to answer them.”

“Really?” Hadrian responded mischievously. “In that case, is that a token I see on your arm?”

Breckton glanced down at the bit of cloth. “This is the scarf of Lady Amilia of Tarin Vale. I ride for her this day—for her—and her honor.” He looked out at the field. “It appears the tournament is about to start. I see Murthas taking his position at the alley, and you are up first. May Maribor guide the arm of the worthy.” Breckton nodded respectfully and left.

Renwick returned and dismounted.

“You did well,” Hadrian told him, taking the squire’s place on the charger. “You just need a bit more practice. Assuming I survive this tilt, we’ll work on it some more.”

The boy carried Hadrian’s helm in one hand and, taking the horse’s lead in the other, led the mounted knight to the field. Entering the gate, they circled the alley and came to a stop next to a small wooden stage.

Ahead of Hadrian lay the main arena, which an army of workers had spent weeks preparing by clearing snow and laying sand. The field was surrounded by a sea of spectators divided into sections designated by color. Purple housed the ruler and his immediate family, blue for the ranked gentry, red for the church officials, yellow for the baronage, green for the artisans, and white for the peasantry, which was the largest and only uncovered section.

Hadrian’s father used to bring him to the games but not for entertainment. Observing combat had been part of his studies. Still, Hadrian had been thrilled to see the fights and cheer the victors along with the rest. His father had no use for the winners and only cared to discuss the losers. Danbury questioned Hadrian after each fight, asking what the defeated knight did wrong and how he could have won.

Hadrian had hardly listened. He was distracted by the spectacle—the knights in shining armor, the women in colorful gowns, the incredible horses. He knew one knight’s saddle was worth more than their home and his father’s blacksmith shop combined. How magnificent they had all seemed in comparison to his commoner father. It never occurred to him that Danbury Blackwater could defeat every knight in every contest.

As a youth, Hadrian had dreamed of fighting at Highcourt a million times. Unlike the Palace of the Four Winds, this field was a church to him. Battles were respectful—not to the death. Swords were blunted, archers used targets, and jousts were performed with the Lance of Peace. A combatant lost points if he killed his opponent and could be expelled from the tournament for even injuring a competitor’s horse. Hadrian found that strange. Even after his father explained that the horse was innocent, he had not understood. He did now.

A large man with a loud voice stood on a platform in front the purple section, shouting to those assembled, “…is the chief knight of Alburn, the son of the Earl of Fentin, and he is renowned for his skill in the games and at court. I give to you—Sir Murthas!”

The crowd erupted in applause, drumming their feet on the hollow planks. Ethelred and Saldur sat to either side of a throne that remained as empty as the one in the banquet hall. At the start of the day, officials had announced that the empress felt too ill that morning and could not attend.

“From Rhenydd he hails,” the man on the box shouted as he gestured toward Hadrian, “only recently knighted amidst the carnage of the bloody Battle of Ratibor. He wandered forest and field to reach these games. For his first tournament ever, I present to you—Sir Hadrian!”

Some clapping trickled down from the stands, but it was only polite applause. The contest was already over in the eyes of the crowd.

Hadrian had never held a Lance of Peace. Lighter than a war lance, which had a metal tip, this one was all wood. The broad, flared end floated awkwardly but it was still solid oak and not to be underestimated. He checked his feet in the stirrups and gripped the horse with his legs.