A Tournament at Midsummer

A Tournament at Midsummer

Vesian III

Hooves thundered above the roar of the crowd, and Vesian lowered his lance. Beneath him, his loyal steed Zephyr churned his legs faster, tearing up clods of the tournament pitch. Vesian stared ahead through the vision slit of his helm, eyes locked onto his opponent. From the other end of the lists, a knight quartered in blue and red, his tabard emblazoned with a white Pegasus, hurtled toward him atop a red-haired steed. The lance heads gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, splayed to divert the force of the impact but still a deadly weapon in an expert's hands.

Vesian tried to shut out the raucous cheers of the crowd, tried to forget that the king and all his family were watching, and concentrate on landing his lance blow against his opponent. Both lance heads bobbed in the air before the riders with each rise and fall of the horses. Vesian gritted his teeth for the impact, peering out the frog-mouthed helm as the distance narrowed. He steadied his lance and held it firm until the last moment. The crowd roared in anticipation.

The two knights came together in a crash. Vesian jolted in his saddle as the lances each struck their opposites' shields. He was wrenched sideways in his high saddle, his feet twisting in the stirrups. He tightened his legs' grip around the horse and squeezed.

The lances shattered, spraying splinters across the face of his frog-mouthed helm, which he had tilted back just before the moment of impact. The cracking of wood was deafening, as was the thunderous hoofbeats of the two stallions passing. But it was the roar of an elated crowd that drowned them both out. Clapping, shouting, beating their feet on the stands, the tournament audience erupted with delight.

Vesian teetered in the saddle, discarding his ruined lance, and heard the crowd groan in worried anticipation. But he steadied himself, and regained his seat, and the groans turned to cheers. His stallion slowed as it neared the far end of the pitch, and Vesian lowered his head to look around again.

Before him stood his loyal squire Thibault, already with a fresh painted lance in his hand.

"Well struck!" Thibault cheered. Vesian nodded, his breath coming short in the excitement. Through the deadening iron of his helm, he heard the tournament judge cry out over the noise of the crowd.

"One point for Sir Vesian de Surrac! One point for Sir Eremund de Baltrier! The riders will tilt again!"

Thibault passed the lance to Vesian, who took it up and steadied it on his armored toe.

"The crowd seems to like you," he offered, and Vesian nodded as best he could under the heavy helm.

"They love a knight errant," Vesian replied easily. But through his vision slit, he turned his eyes to the royal family's box, where the king sat beneath a gold-trimmed canopy of crimson silk. The king looked from Sir Eremund to Vesian, giving each of them an approving nod, then gestured for the tournament judge to continue. But Vesian barely heard him, his eyes instead going to the young woman seated to the king's left. Princess Adeline was a slender young beauty, delicate in form and face, her long, dark brown hair flowing out from beneath a double-pointed hennin of blue velvet. But most importantly to Vesian, she was looking his way. Another woman in a saffron dress leaned in, whispering something in her ear, and the princess covered her mouth with a gloved hand, though behind it, Vesian could tell she was laughing. He gave her a respectful nod, and Adeline turned her head to confide in her maid.

"Well ridden, Sir Vesian!" called a voice from the lists. Vesian turned to face Countess Tiburge, a longtime friend of the Order. The countess wore a dress of deep green, trimmed with gold lace, and an elaborate headdress studded with gilded birds. Three great pearls on a golden chair rested on her exposed bosom, shining in the sunlight. She was ten years his senior, but with the carefree and jovial attitude of a widow enjoying her freedom that made her irresistible. Vesian nodded back to her in acknowledgement.

"I thank you, my lady. I always aim to impress you with my lance."

"And you always succeed. I know my lances, just as I know a good ride when I see one," she replied with a saucy wink. She waved her goblet in his direction and a few droplets of dark red wine splashed out to fall on her bodice.

"I could have unhorsed him, had you let me wear your favor," he called back. Tiburge laughed, a goblet in one hand and a stuffed sparrow in the other. She lifted the drink to her lips and tilted it back.

"My favor was already spoken for, I'm afraid. But find me after the tilts, I have business with the Order I'd like to discuss."

"I do so love to discuss business with you, my lady," he replied, and the countess broke out into delighted laughter with her maids. Trumpets sounded behind Vesian.

"Riders!" called the tournament judge, "Make ready!"

Vesian exchanged another look with the countess through his narrow vision slit. She seductively raised the golden goblet to her lips and met his eyes. One delicate eyebrow arched at him.

"Tsk!" Thibault snapped his fingers before him. "Maintain your focus! This joust is yet to be won. The ladies love a winner, and if you win this, you can go into the night's festivities as one. Though you'll be lucky to make it through tomorrow morning with this attitude."

"Calm yourself, Thibault. There's hardly a man in the kingdom more skilled with the lance than I am."

"Aye, but they're all here. The king knows how to draw a crowd," he remarked, looking around the brightly colored sea of spectators and fluttering pennants. High above the canopied stands rose the king's castle of Chateau d'Argent, a gray-walled bastion surrounded by idyllic fields and woods. All the kingdom's finest had come out for the occasion, and Vesian had found the competition stiff.

"Good. It will make victory all the sweeter. Now step aside, I'd hate for you to get trampled."

Thibault did as told, but not without an exaggerated roll of his eyes. As his squire scampered away to the racks of lances, Vesian focused himself on the task ahead of him, trying to put thoughts of Tiburge and Princess Adeline from his mind. At the far end of the lists, Sir Eremund was sitting stoicially atop his horse. He rested the butt of a green and white striped lance atop his toe and gave Vesian a slight nod of his helm.

The heralds raised their flags and trumpets blasted. The trumpets sounded again, and they were off. The crowd roared and Vesian spurred his horse into motion. Hooves beat on the tournament pitch like war drums and the distant Sir Eremund grew in Vesian's vision. He leveled his lance, aiming for the pegasus emblazoned at the center of his opponent's shield. Somehow over the din, he thought he heard Tiburge cry out to him.

They came together in a crash again, and Vesian turned with the impact against his shield, swinging his full body into his own lance blow. His lance bent upwards in the collision, but carried his driving force enough to wrench his opponent from the saddle. Sir Eremund's lance fell from his grasp, he teetered in the saddle, and the crowd gasped in excitement.

They thundered past each other, and Vesian heard only the roar of the crowd behind him. He reached the end of the pitch and wheeled his horse around.

Sir Eremund lay prone in the dust, his horse trotting to a halt at the far end of the pitch. The crowd erupted. Thousands leapt to their feet as one. The wooden stands groaned underneath them, but they beat their feet against it anyway. The cheers reverberated through Vesian's armor, echoing inside his frog-mouthed helm and he felt himself break out in a broad smile. He was victorious.

Servants emerged from beneath the king's seating section to help Sir Eremund to his feet. He staggered to his feet and shakily removed his helm, his shoulder-length blonde hair spilling out from beneath. Eremund bowed before the royal box and, supported by a servant and his squire, made his way off in the direction of his horse.

In his wake, Vesian rode forward. He felt the eyes of all in the crowd upon him, and spied Tiburge watching approvingly from her seat as a servant refilled her goblet. Vesian hid his amusement beneath his helm. Slowly, basking in the adulation, he approached the royal box and stopped before it. The tournament judge, a well-respected count by the name of Theobald de Veziers rose from his pulpit and quieted the crowd with a raised hand.

"Sir Vesian de Surrac has defeated Sir Eremund de Baltrier by unhorsing! I declare him the victor!"

On cue, the crowd broke out into rapturous applause. Thibault appeared at Vesian's side and took the lance from him. His hand freed, Vesian reached up and removed his helm, a heavy piece made heavier by the thick azure cloth wrapped around its brow and the painted wooden griffon statue atop it. His fair hair spilled out from beneath and he let it fall to his shoulders. He felt the warmth of the midsummer sun on his ruddy face and smiled broader as he bowed in the saddle before the king. Holding the helm in the crook of his arm, he looked up at the king as he rose from his heavy throne of carved and polished elden oak.

King Guntheric was a middle-aged man, though graying early. He was not a tall man, which made his wide waist seem even wider than it might otherwise. But the king loved his feasts and loved his wine, requiring his clothiers to work even harder to keep up. Today, he wore a snow-white doublet with his personal crest of a red lion rampant on the chest and a cloak of ermine beneath his heavy, golden crown. The lion rippled like a flag in the wind with each breath the king's fat body took. Nevertheless, he looked the image of a king as he lumbered to the railing and looked down to Vesian.

"I offer my most hearty congratulations, Sir Vesian!" he boomed, and the crowd cheered again in response. "You are the last of our competitors to win his tilt for the day, and as such will have the honor of opening the lists in the morning. May your good fortune hold that long!"

As the crowd cheered once again, Princess Adeline stepped up next to her father, and her uncle Duke Sigismund de Beaufort appeared on the other side. In contrast to his obese elder brother, the duke cut a handsome figure that had carved a path through lists earlier in the day. The duke had since doffed his armor and now wore a sable brocade with his crest of a red dragon rampant on his chest.

"And may it continue to hold if you should meet my brother," the king roared with laughter. He slapped Sigismund on the back and the duke grimaced under the weight of the blow. He looked down at Vesian with a thin smile.

"Well done there, Sir Vesian," he proclaimed just above the cheers of the crowd. "I will study you closely in anticipation of our inevitable meeting."

"You do me a great honor, your grace," Vesian replied, but his eyes went quickly to Princess Adeline. "Princess, I am honored to joust before you today. I hope that my display of martial prowess was satisfactory."

"You performed most admirably, Sir Vesian," Princess Adeline replied, her cheeks turning the slightest bit rosy. "I am delighted by the displays of all the knights today. I look forward to seeing more of you tomorrow."

Vesian smiled and made to reply, but King Guntheric cut him off. "Three cheers for Sir Vesian de Surrac!"

"Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!" roared the crowd. The king smiled before continuing. "That concludes the jousting for today. Now, let us not linger here any longer than necessary. It's time for a feast!"

The king, his brother, and the princess turned and exited the royal box, and Vesian turned toward the staging area where Thibault waited for him. Behind him, the crowd began to filter out of the stands and back to the tournament grounds, several acres of brightly colored tents, stalls, and pavilions on the grassy field before the castle.

Vesian stopped his courser beside a rack of lances and swung himself from the saddle. Thibault received his helm and handed it off to a page. His squire looked up to him from his shorter height through clear blue eyes and frowned.

"I fear you forget yourself," Thibault cautioned as the page scurried away. "You are a knight errant, and the princess is a princess."

"A little flirting never hurt anyone," Vesian replied with a laugh. "You saw her, she finds me handsome."

"No doubt. But I also saw the king interpose himself. He's a jovial man when he's drunk, but I'd rather not give him reason to be angry."

"You always worry, Thibault. Yet your worries are so rarely justified, are they?"

"I told you that man was a bandit," Thibault reminded him. "And that the riverboat was leaky. I was the first to suggest that the Baron Montague was enchanted by a witch, the one who told you what griffon droppings looked like, the one who---"

"Yes, yes, alright. You've made your point. But we survived all of those. A little teasing with the princess is nothing compared to that."

"It never stops with just teasing."

"I know," Vesian replied dreamily. Thibault sighed.

"In any case, the countess wants to see you in her chambers. To discuss 'business,' she says. Perhaps it will take your mind off the princess."

"Perhaps it will," Vesian mused, handing over the reins. "I should go see to this business at once."

Vesian soon found himself on his back, with the naked countess riding his cock. She sat in his lap, imperiously peering down her nose at him as she bounced up and down, her buttocks slapping against him with each descent. Vesian held her by the hips, feeling the embrace of her experienced sex around his shaft, and pawing at her breasts with one hand. Tiburge leaned over him, her golden hair falling in coiled locks around her beautiful face.

"Your swordsmanship never disappoints, Sir Vesian," she whispered. He raised an arm and laid it about her shoulders to pull her close for a kiss.

"I am always at your service, my lady," he replied, and she batted playfully at him. They kissed, lips locked and tongues tied, as Vesian thrust himself into her. The countess smelled of rich perfume, which he found as intoxicating as the wine she had served him upon his arrival. He squeezed her tighter, feeling her hard nipples press against his chest, and felt about to come inside her.

She felt it too, for she broke his embrace and sat up, the pace of her riding slowing.

"I'm not done with you yet," she chuckled. Her hands clutched at his chest and pinched his nipples between her fingernails. Vesian gasped in pain, and Tiburge laughed.

"I had thought you more inured to pain. You've certainly got the scars of a seasoned warrior."

"No orc or dragon has ever bitten me there," Vesian replied. He raised his hands to pinch her nipples in return. Tiburge moaned, biting her lower lip as she slid herself slowly and sensually up and down his cock. Her head craned back to stare up at the wooden ceiling, though Vesian could see that her eyes were closed. He sat up and put his mouth to her breast, suckling lustily at her pale pink nipples.

Tiburge wrapped her arms around his shoulders, tousling his hair in her fingers. "My handsome knight," she whispered, burying her face in his scalp. Vesian grabbed handfuls of her taut ass and held her in his arms, all the while his cock thrust into her.

She pushed him away and down to the bed again, where he nestled himself into the pillows to look up at her. Tiburge looked down on him with fondness, for they often found their way into bed together when their paths crossed. The countess was widowed, a regent for her young son, and an heiress in her own right, which all left her with quite a bit of freedom and means. Like so many other women of the kingdom, she adored the Knights of the Griffon, and had lavished many generous gifts on the Order over the years, when she was not taking them to bed.

"My lady," Vesian purred as he lay on silken pillows. She leaned down and kissed him again. When she pulled her soft lips away, she lingered before his eyes, her emeralds piercing his soul as his cock pierced her loins.

"You jousted well today," she whispered, her breath hot on his face. She gripped his shoulder, long fingernails digging into his naked flesh. "I should so love to see you win the whole tournament."

"I always aim to please, my lady," Vesian growled as he clasped her about the waist and fucked her vigorously.

"You would do the Order proud," she whispered. "And I would do the Order proud with another gift. Perhaps that land along the creek your grandmaster has been eyeing for years?"

"You are most generous my lady," Vesian grunted. He slapped her across the bum and saw the delight sparkle in her eyes.

"That I am, but at the moment my purse feels a bit empty. Might you do something about that? Here, perhaps I can help."

She sat up again and her white hands closed about his throat. "Fuck me, sir!" she cried, her hips driving back onto his as he fucked. Her smooth, lovely breasts shook with each motion, and he found their motion hypnotic. Vesian felt himself bite down on his own lip and his toes curled as he built to a climax inside her. Tiburge urged him on, her hands clawing and clutching at his throat until at last he groaned in release and came in her.

He gasped as his thrusting slowed, and the countess settled atop him. She patted him on the cheek and smiled. "Well done, my dear knight."

Vesian gave her a fatigued smile, and Tiburge turned quickly away. "Celia, more wine," she commanded with an outstretched hand. From the seats against the wall, her maid rose and filled a goblet with wine. Three of Tibruge's other maids sat quietly before the window, sewing while their mistress rode. Vesian had nearly forgotten them, but the countess' servants were a familiar presence when they fucked. She never liked to be far from the lap of luxury.

Tiburge took the goblet from her servant and dismounted, playing idly with his slackening cock with her free hand. Her eyes met his as she sipped the wine.

"It's been too many months since we last did this," she mused, considering the cock in hand. "What have you been doing since then?"

"Questing," he replied breathlessly. "I've been away in the north, then the south. The centaur have been moving in again, and the dwarves were grumpy about something related to trade."

"Hm," Tiburge mused. "I can't stand dwarves. Hairy, runty things always trying to get into my bed. Have you any tales of heroism? I do love those."

"Of course," he replied, propping himself up onto his elbows to look at her. She was still naked, of course, but he could see his cum dripping from her shaven sex onto the silken sheets. Celia would no doubt be changing them soon, but it would be the king's laundresses who would do the cleaning. "What would I be without tales of heroism?"

"A much less interesting lay," Tiburge replied. "Go on, do tell."

"Ah, very well," Vesian sighed. He thought a moment. Which of my war stories will she most appreciate? "Thibault and I went down to the Verge in the early spring. Dreadful time of year to go there, by the way. Swamps are miserable at any time, but especially in the spring. It's all stinging gnats, stinky bogs, and more goblins than you can imagine."

"Goblins? Oh dear, I find them more repulsive than dwarves. I hope you slew them."

"As many as I could, my lady, but there are hordes of them and they know the swamps well. But Thibault and I were down there on behalf of some merchant guild. They harvest peat from the swamp and sell it up north. Anyway, they were beset by a monster in the swamps and hired us to kill it."

"Oh," Tiburge cooed in interest. She bent her head to his cock where a trail of cum dribbled down it and slowly began to lick it all up with her long, deft tongue. "Don't mind me. Carry on with your story."