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.