Over the years, the celebration grew. Instead of merely proving their honor, the combatants also fought for glory and gold. Knights from across the nation came to face each other for the most prestigious honor in Avryn: Champion of the Highcourt Games.
Adorned in the distinct colors of their owners, richly decorated tents of the noble competitors clustered around the fringe of the field. Squires, grooms, and pages polished armor and brushed their lords’ horses. Knights entered in the sword competition limbered up with blades and shields, sparring with their squires. Officials walked the line of the carousel—a series of posts dangling steel rings no larger than a man’s fist. They measured the height of each post and the angle of each ring, which men on galloping horses would try to collect with lances. Archers took practice shots. Spearmen sprinted and lunged, testing the sand’s traction. On the great jousting field, horses snorted and huffed as unarmored combatants took practice rides across the course.
Amidst all this activity, Hadrian braced himself against a post as Wilbur beat on his chest with a large hammer. Nimbus had arranged for the smith to adjust Hadrian’s borrowed armor. Obtaining a suit was simple, but making it fit properly was another matter.
“Here, sir,” Renwick said, holding out a pile of cloth to Hadrian.
“What’s that for?” Hadrian asked.
Renwick looked at him curiously. “It’s your padding, sir.”
“Don’t hand it to him, lad,” Wilbur scolded. “Stuff it in!”
Embarrassment flooded the boy’s face as he began wadding up the cloth and shoving it into the wide gap between the steel and Hadrian’s tunic.
“Pack it tight!” Wilbur snapped. He took a handful of padding and stuffed it against Hadrian’s chest, ramming it in hard.
“That’s a bit too tight,” Hadrian complained.
Wilbur gave him a sidelong glance. “You might not think that when Sir Murthas’s lance hits you. I don’t want to be accused of bad preparation because this boy failed to pack you properly.”
“Sir Hadrian,” Renwick began, “I was wondering—I was thinking—would it be all right if I were to enter the squire events?”
“Don’t see why not. Are you any good?”
“No, but I would like to try just the same. Sir Malness never allowed it. He didn’t want me to embarrass him.”
“Are you really that bad?”
“I’ve never been allowed to train. Sir Malness forbade me from using his horse. He was fond of saying, ‘A man upon a horse has a certain way of looking at the world, and a lad such as yourself should not get accustomed to the experience, as it will only produce disappointment.’ ”
“Sounds like Sir Malness was a real pleasant guy,” Hadrian said.
Renwick offered an uncomfortable smile and turned away. “I have watched the events many times—studied them, really—and I have ridden but never used a lance.”
“Why don’t you get my mount and we’ll have a look at you?”
Renwick nodded and ran to fetch the horse. Ethelred had provided a brown charger named Malevolent for Hadrian. Bred for stamina and agility, the horse was dressed in a chanfron to protect the animal from poorly aimed lances. Despite the name, he was a fine horse, strong and aggressive, but not vicious. Malevolent did not bite or kick, and upon meeting Hadrian, the horse affectionately rubbed his head up and down against the fighter’s chest.
“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 had 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, in which 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 was confused for a moment. “Oh, that plate? I had the smith take it off. It made it impossible to hold the lance tight.”