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. They entered the gate, 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 was 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 cared to discuss only the losers. Danbury questioned Hadrian after each fight, asking what the defeated knight had done 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 had 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 even for injuring a competitor’s horse. Hadrian had found that strange. Even after his father had 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 of the purple section, shouting to those assembled: “… is the chief knight of Alburn and 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 to 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.