It Was an English Lady Bright.

The Jousting Tournament was well underway on the unusually sunny spring day in the north of England, not too far from the fluctuating Scottish border. Oftentimes in previous years, raiders from either side would cross into the other's territory, stealing cattle, sheep, horses, crops or anything else that could be moved away quickly. Even the border itself moved as one side or the other gained control of land. For the brief time of the past few years, however, the raids had been few, not many participated and the border seemed stable for the time being. Knights from both countries now traveled freely to and from the gaudy jousting tournaments held in the warmer months. These relatively safe tournaments were meant to take place of deadly combat and give the Knights practice for war or crusades.

In a broad field outside the walls of Carlisle Castle, a large spectator stand was erected with a small central platform and shade covering for Baron John and his attendants to comfortably watch his youngest son Sir James and the other Knights participate in the non-lethal combat. A low wooden fence or tilt ran the length of the field to keep the jousting Knights from crashing head-on into each other. Later on in the sword-fighting event, it would be used as a barrier to fight over, protecting the Knights' legs and keeping any combatants from rushing their opponents as they sparred with blunted swords. Brightly colored banners and pennants on the stands lazily stirred in what little breeze that happened by, often carrying the recognizable aroma of the nearby brew houses, bakeries and meat roasters.

The heralds announced the next two Knights to joust in the tournament and they took their places at either end of the tilt.

Sir Duncan MacBeadh, a visitor from north of the border, was one of the young knights thought to have a good chance of winning the day. Despite his youth he had a natural athletic ability and a good four years experience in the tiltyard, having run his first joust just before his sixteenth birthday. He was so far undefeated in this tournament, but he had yet to face the other favorite of the day, the Baron's son Sir James. In this bout, Duncan was set against an older knight, well experienced yet not highly rated in the tournament.

At the marshal's signal the two knights couched their blunt-tipped lances, setting the hardwood shaft tightly under the right arm. Spurring their eager horses forward along the length of the tilt, each hunched behind his large, flatiron-shaped shield to present less of a target to his opponent. The two knights met with the distinctive crash of a joust and the sound of fracturing wood. Sir Duncan's aim remained true, catching the older knight on the inner portion of the shield, close to the center of his body. The force of the impact literally lifted him over the cantle of his saddle and deposited him in a clattering heap on the ground.

Sir Duncan, seemingly untouched by the other's lance save for a shallow scrape across the leather outer covering of his wooden shield, wheeled his horse around end of the tilt to check the condition of his opponent. Seeing the unfortunate knight struggle to his feet, Duncan dropped his cracked lance, pulled off his thick barrel-shaped helm and grinned as a few of the crowd cheered. Even though he knew that Scots weren't well liked here, many of the spectators had doubtless placed wagers on his skill based on his past performance in the jousts. Without the helm it was easy to recognize the young man as a Scotsman. His fair hair hung shoulder-length in the Scots fashion instead of being cropped close in the Norman-style bowl cut popular in England.

Duncan rode slowly along the stands toward his tent in the waiting area, waving back to those who dared wave to him and winking at the pretty maidens with their shy smiles and giggles. He had found that a pretty southern maid could often be charmed by his natural good looks, unusual manners and strange accent. Scotland was still considered an exotic foreign land, somewhat taboo because of the recent border troubles. This made the handsome young Scotsman almost irresistible to some girls and Duncan had no lack of warm cuddles on a cold evening, stolen kisses, and sometimes more.

Passing the central covered platform, Sir Duncan stood in his stirrups and solemnly bowed to his host, the Baron. But just as he rode past the Baron's chair, his attention was captured by a slender young Lady. Her dark, wavy hair was unbound proclaiming her unmarried and hung in dark, shiny waves to her supple waist. Her expensive light-blue dress showed that she was well to do. Finally the thin silver circlet set above her brow advertised her status as noble born. Her heart-shaped face was fresh and well formed, her eyes so dark as to be mysterious. Sir Duncan openly stared for a moment and she stared back, her mouth partway open in surprise. But she had enough self-control to sit quietly, almost defiantly, while the young women around her, likely her friends and servants, giggled and whispered.

Duncan favored her with a slight bow before he moved on, back to his tent to wait for the herald to call his name again. He didn't have long to wait. Two jousts later, he heard his name announced as facing the Baron's son, Sir James of Carlisle. Duncan fastened his helm and took his place at the end of the tilt. Oftentimes the younger knights taunted each other before meeting in tournament.

"Well met, Sir James I hope you've been practicing since our last bout!" Sir Duncan shouted at his opponent waiting at the opposite end of the tilt. "Perhaps you'll stay in your saddle this time."

Sir James snorted and did his best to ignore the words of his rival. The young Scotsman had been besting the young Englishman since they first met in a tournament nearly two years ago. Sir James always vowed to teach the Scot a lesson, but often turned out to be the student. It rankled James that a barbarian from north of the border should be allowed to enter civilized tournaments. His anger was all the more bitter that the Scot always seemed to win.

Duncan's practiced eye noticed that James' horse was a bit nervous and hoped that would work to his advantage. The Marshal gave the signal and the two Knights spurred their mounts forward, lowering their blunted lances into position. They met at the center of the field with a greater crash than usual. The Englishman's lance hit the upper corner of the Scot's shield, breaking off a chunk of the wood under the leather covering and leaving a deep gash along the leather surface. The tip of his lance narrowly missed Duncan's helmet but the Scotsman kept steady in his saddle. The Scot, however, kept his aim true. The flat tip of his tournament lance just missed the edge of James' shield and impacted full force into the upper part of James' barrel helm, snapping his head back. The Englishman reeled in his saddle, using all his riding skill to narrowly keep his seat, but dropped his lance in the struggle counting the joust as his loss.

James dismounted and tried to retreat to the solitude of his tent, but Duncan had wheeled his horse back along the tiltyard and caught up with him.

"Sir James, who is that bonnie young lassie in the light blue dress near your sire's platform? Never have I seen such a beauty."

"That's my little sister, you barbarian. Go near her and I'll have your head." James hissed at the Scot, then turned his back and stomped into his tent. He didn't emerge until the herald announced the main tournament over and the field now open for challenges. He headed straight for Sir Duncan's encampment where MacBeadh was lounging on a folding camp chair to watch the various challenge bouts.

"You'll not best me again!" Sir James sneered as he loudly thumped the shield hanging in front of the Scot's tent, the traditional issue of a jousting challenge. "I'll teach you not to raid our cattle or even dare look at a civilized lady."

"Care to set a wager on that, wee bairn?" Sir Duncan grinned at his challenger as he picked up his helm.

Duncan was hoping to anger him into making a foolish move on the jousting field by calling him an infant, even though James was the older by a couple of months. Duncan fastened his helm in place without waiting for an answer and prepared to mount his horse.

"The usual wager will do, Scot." Sir James tossed a small pouch of coins at a waiting attendant to hold for him as he spun on his heel, heading back toward his horse.

The Scotsman likewise surrendered his coins to the attendant. Then he mounted up, tightened his helm strap, adjusted his shield and waited patiently for a chance to enter the lists field. It just happened that they were the last challenge of the day. With the field finally clear, he picked up a lance off the weapons rack, calmly walked his horse to the edge of the tilt and stared at his opponent. Sir James' horse looked nervous, pawing the ground and snorting while Duncan's horse stood as still as a statue with an occasional flick of his tail as the only motion. When James lowered his lance into position, Duncan spurred his horse forward and couched his lance in one smooth motion as his mount gathered speed. The two Knights met with a resounding noise, James' horse slightly breaking stride. It was a small movement, barely enough to notice, yet it was enough to throw off the Englishman's timing. James' lance skittered off Duncan's shield with no effect. The Scot's lance however, caught James squarely on the inside edge of the shield, mashing it back into his body. The force of the impact was so great it shattered the wooden lance to splinters and caused James to lose his grip on the stirrups. Sir James found himself whisked off the crupper of his horse and dashed to the ground with a loud thud.

Duncan rode back along the tilt without dropping the remains of his lance, but pausing to be sure that Sir James was able to rise and stalk off to reclaim his horse. Before Duncan could return to his tent, the herald had taken his place in front of the central platform of the stands and was announcing the winners of the day. Duncan peeled off his helm just in time to hear his own name. He turned his horse again and stopped in front of the Baron's platform, saluting the nobleman with the stump of his broken weapon.

The Marshal of the day held up the slim wreath of flowers for the winner, the colorful ribbons hanging from its edge trailed over his arm.

"Take this wreath Sir Knight and as champion you may bestow it upon any lady who has inspired your fighting prowess this day." He announced and slid the wreath over the jagged end of what was left of the Scot's lance.

Duncan slid his shield around to his back on its guige strap, plucked the wreath off the stump of his lance and discarded the broken weapon before riding to the far end of the stands with the beribboned wreath in his sword hand. Deftly turning his horse without using the reins, he rode slowly along the line of eager young ladies until he paused at Sir James' dark-haired sister. Gazing at her for a moment, still captivated by her dark eyes, he slowly extended the wreath that would declare her as the Queen of Love and Beauty for that tournament. The young Lady stared back, hardly moving, her eyes wide in surprise and dropping her needle and strip of embroidery to the bench beside her.

"Sir Knight?" She seemed unsure what to do.

"Duncan MacBeadh, ever at your service my Lady. Pray you, take the wreath for I am smitten with your beauty." Duncan leaned closer to the girl. He could see that she was just into her first bloom of womanhood, about seventeen or eighteen years old, certainly of marriageable age. She was not as stunning as many of the other maidens in the spectator stands, but she had a certain air about her, a deeper beauty of spirit that was more attractive to Duncan than any mere superficial good looks could be.

"Sir Duncan MacBee?" she asked, not quite getting the Scottish name right.

"MacBeadh, there's a wee breath through your teeth at the end." Duncan gently corrected her. "Try it again lassie."

"MacBeaths, MacBeathe, MacBeadh." She smiled as she tried to get his name right.

Duncan's heart melted at hearing his name on her lips. He moved his horse as close as the wall of the spectator stands would allow.

"That's it." Duncan nodded in approval. "But please, call me Duncan. And take this wreath from me before I perish from the radiance of your bonnie smile."

She finally recovered her senses enough to lean forward and reach for the wreath. However, Duncan subtly pulled it back towards him so she had to lean even further, to the point of being precariously balanced on the edge of the bench. As she grabbed the wreath, Duncan caught her hand with a quick move and brought it to his lips. She gasped at his touch but didn't pull back and kept hold of the wreath.

"Why does he set me off, why is my heart beating so?" She thought silently to herself as she felt the blood rush to her cheeks. "I've kissed boys before, even on the lips. One of Father's squires squeezed my bum while we kissed and I wasn't this excited. How is he doing this?" She cast her eyes downward, swallowed hard and finally regained her composure after Duncan released her hand and waited for her to move. Janet realized that she still had her hand out at arm's length and the Knight was waiting for her to do something. She pulled her arm back as sedately as she could, hoping that he couldn't see how her hands were shaking as she set the flower wreath on her head. Her friends and attendants noticed, however and stifled their giggles behind kerchiefs or hands.

"Thank you Sir. Sir Duncan MacBeadh for honoring me this day. Uh.I, uh. Oh. Please accept this token as my favor." She snatched up the nearly forgotten strip of unfinished embroidery, a half-done cross and lion emblem of Carslie, remembering to at least remove her needle before offering it to the Scot. He took it gently and kissed it before tucking it though his belt.

"I'll carry it from now on to inspire me to greater feats of arms. But might I know your name, bonnie lassie?"

"It's Janet, daughter of Baron John of Carlise."

"Then Lady Janet, I'll hope you'll forgive me for unhorsing your brother, Sir James." Duncan grinned at her.

"James? Oh, yes James will get over it soon, it's mostly his pride that's hurt. He tries so hard to be as good as our oldest brother William." Baron John suddenly interrupted the proceedings, leaning towards them as far over the rail of the central platform as his bulk would allow. His voice seemed to have lost a bit of its usual jollyness.

"Sir Duncan, my little girl seems to have taken a fancy to you." He rumbled in his bass tones. "Join us for the feast tonight. We need to talk."

Duncan bowed to the young lady, then her father and rode away ignoring the titters and whispers father back in the stands.

After seeing to his horse, collecting his winnings and doffing his coat of chain mail armor, Duncan watched the rest of the sword tournament from his encampment. When that winner was declared, he washed up and changed into dark baggy trews tucked into his boots and his best red bliaut tunic. Though slightly faded with use, the Norman-style clothing still looked impressive with its dark blue, bright yellow and dark red embroidered edges. He buckled his long belt over the tunic and adjusted his dagger, but left off his sword. It would be considered impolite to enter his host's hall armed for battle. Finally satisfied with his appearance, he made his way into the courtyard of the castle and was directed across to the great hall by the gate guard.

The feast was still being set up. Servants were busy at all manner of tasks, assembling trestle tables and benches, spreading fresh rushes and fragrant blooms on the floor, hanging banners along the walls of the hall and the innumerable other necessities to prepare for a feast. Duncan tried his best to stay out of the way of the busy staff and passed the time chatting with a few of the other tournament Knights.

When the Baron entered with a fanfare, Sir Duncan was surprised to be approached by one of the stewards and escorted to a seat at the high table next to Baron John. While waiting for the ladies and other guests to arrive, His Excellency wasted no time in getting to the point.

"Sir Duncan, I've been asking about you. I understand that you're the youngest son of a noble family, but without holdings of your own."

"That's partially true, your Excellency, I am the youngest son of my Laird and father. But inheritance works differently in Scotland. I have my own small fief. A wee fortified house, a brewery with its own heather fields, some cattle and a salmon pool. Not much by your standards," Duncan waved his hand around the great hall, " but enough for my simple needs. About three dozen vassals all told. All else I get by my skill with the lance."

"Hmm." Baron John stroked his gray-flecked beard in thought. "So you're not rich, but not completely without means and I know that you do come from an old and powerful family. The connections could be to my advantage. Hmm. Very well, then. You have my permission to put forth your suit for my youngest daughter. But let me warn you, she's headstrong and I'm afraid that I've over-indulged her since her mother died."

"I had no hope of more from her or you, Excellency. I'm flattered that you'd consider me at all. But I am surprised at a few things."

"What things?"

"Firstly, that you consider me important enough for your daughter. Secondly that you'd rely on her judgment in the choice of suitors."

The Baron laughed. "I told you I indulged her too much. Ah, here she is now."

Baron John, Sir Duncan and the other seated guests quickly rose at the sound of the fanfare as the ladies of the household were escorted in by the Baron's attendants. Lady Janet was on the arm of her brother, who led her to the empty seat next to Sir Duncan.

"You are in MY chair, Sir!" James growled and leaned menacingly towards the Scot, his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

"Sit over here James," The Baron cut in loudly, "our guest is in that seat by my invitation."

"He has not that right."

"But I have. This is still my hall. Sit down!"

Sir James snorted and in a huff stomped to the other side of the Baron's central chair, neglecting to seat his sister. Duncan quickly stepped into place and held the chair for Janet, relishing the brief sweep of her rich brown tresses across his hand as she sat. Duncan was pleased to see that she still wore the flower wreath from the tournament.

"Sir Duncan," Janet fixed her dark eyes on the Scot, "I've heard that you win often at jousting. Do you have plans for all your winnings or is jousting all you do?"

"Aye, lassie, uh, my Lady, I have some plans. Someday I'll widen my wee fief, but for now I just want to save up enough to go on Crusade, a pilgrimage to the Holy Land."

"Are your sins so terrible that you need to go on pilgrimage? You don't look old enough to have such a dark stain on your soul." She smiled at her own jest.

"It's not that my sins are so dark, but I was given this talent for the joust for some reason. It only seems right that I use it in service of God or for the good of the vassals that depend on me."

"How soon will you depart?"

"That depends on how much I can win or if I can find a good reason for staying here." He reached for his cup as he spoke and his hand brushed against hers as if accidentally, but Janet wasn't sure. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

"Tell me about your lands." She asked, trying to ignore her own blush.

"My holding isn't as grand as this, just a wee fortified house, an oversized cottage really, a pool with a stream to the sea where the salmon can breed and enough heather fields to run the largest brewery for a hundred miles. Oh, I wish you could see the heather when it blooms, the hillside is covered with bonnie wee flowers, all purple and pink."