A Tournament at Midsummer

"Don't ever change, my lady," Vesian sighed and went past her toward the staging area.

"I wouldn't dare," she called from behind him. Vesian only shook his head. Inside waited his stallion, saddled and ready. Thibault handed over a new shield, freshly painted, and his heavy frog-mouthed helm.

"Wait!" cried a voice, and Vesian turned to see Adeline hurry into the staging area. She held in her hand a fresh scarf. "Don't go without your lady's favor."

Thibault lowered a lance so that she could tie it around the head and Vesian smiled. Adeline smiled back at him, then stood up suddenly on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

"For luck," she whispered, and then fled back to her father's side.

"Damned fool..." Thibault muttered, but Vesian could only laugh. He swung himself into the stallion's saddle and took his lance from Thibault.

"Ready?" the squire asked. Vesian nodded and settled the heavy helm on his shoulders.

"As I'll ever be. Let's do this."

Heralds sounded their trumpets and Vesian emerged from the staging area astride his steed. At the opposite end, Sigismund rode onto the pitch as well. He wore armor of black steel, with a red enamel dragon on his chest. His visored helm was decorated with dragon wings and a long-necked serpentine head atop its crown. Even from this distance, Vesian could see its ruby eyes glint in the sunlight.

At his entrance, the crowd gasped in awe, rising to their feet as one with eyes fixed upon the duke. Vesian found his own eyes drawn to him, for he looked every inch the conquering hero. Even from beyond the grave, the sorcerer's spell held the assembled in awe. He might succeed in his plot despite his death, Vesian realized.

The two riders stopped before the royal box. Vesian turned a side eye to the duke, who stared ahead imperiously as if Vesian was beneath his notice. The duke's face fell for the briefest moment when he espied his niece sitting beside the king, but he almost instantly regained his composure. Vesian could not helped but be impressed. He leaned slightly toward the duke for an aside.

"Quite the enchantment you have on you," he whispered as the heralds read out their names. "Your sorcerer knows his work. Well, knew his work. Shame about that."

Slowly, Sigismund turned to look down on him. The duke's destrier was perhaps a hand taller than Vesian's borrowed charger and the sorcerer's spell seemed to make that difference in height grow threefold. Beneath his helm, Vesian could see the duke's handsome face break out in a sneer.

"You will regret that." His voice, clipped with contempt, echoed with authority even in his hushed tones and Vesian felt an urge to bow before him. He looked hurriedly away to Princess Adeline in her chair. The princess gave him a thin smile of encouragement and he felt his strength returning.

The king stood up.

"Welcome to you both, Sir Vesian, my dear brother. I offer to you my most hearty congratulations on your success so far. You now tilt for the title of grand champion of the tournament! Fame and riches await the winner, so let's not delay any longer. Heralds, blow the trumpets and let us have ourselves a grand finale!"

"Riders, to your places!" cried the judge, and the crowd roared with eager anticipation.

"Good fortune to you, your grace," Vesian called over his shoulder, but the duke did not respond. Hooves beating beneath him, Vesian took up his mark by the entrance to the staging area. Thibault waited just beyond the edge of the pitch, tense and gripping a spare lance in white knuckles. Vesian gave him what he hoped was a reassuring nod. On the far side of the lists, the duke's destrier pawed the dried mud impatiently.              

The heralds stood up in their perches, flags raised high. Trumpets sounded. Vesian stared straight ahead, his mind focused on the duke and the red dragon on his shield. It called to his lancepoint and Vesian intended to bring them together.

The flags dropped, and both riders spurred their steeds to a gallop. Hooves beat over the roar of the crowd and Vesian steadied himself in the saddle against the awe-inspiring figure that drove down on him. He leveled his lance, fighting to keep it steady. The duke had no such trouble, and his lance remained perfectly still. It stared straight at Vesian with cruel intent on its hammered iron face.              

The last yards fell away and Vesian tilted his head, closing the final distance blind. He jolted in the saddle as they came together. His lance cracked and burst asunder. shield took the brunt of the blow but did not split apart. Not yet. He felt himself twist away from the point of impact and his left foot slipped out of the stirrup. He slipped in the saddle, his foot flailing about to find the stirrup again. He heard the crowd gasp in anticipation of a fall, but then his toe caught the stirrup and he slid himself back into position.

Yet despite his own troubles, he had struck the duke a solid blow. When he lowered his head to look out his visor, he saw the crowd standing with concern. He craned his head back to see the duke settling himself back into the saddle. In nearly being unhorsed, he had nearly unhorsed his opponent as well.

"One point for Duke Sigismund d'Aquitaine! One point for Sir Vesian de Surrac! The riders will tilt again!" the heralds cried. Vesian breathed a sigh of relief. He had survived the first tilt. It had to get easier from here.

His steed slowed to a trot, and they rounded the end of the lists together to begin the return to their starting positions. The crowd spared him little mind as he passed by, though some stopped to jeer or sneer at him. Vesian had no illusions about being the favorite. It will only make victory all the sweeter, he told himself.

The duke neared, his face a barely restrained mask of fury beneath his helm. Vesian gave the duke a jaunty nod and a mocking smile, which did little to improve his demeanor. He reached the staging area again and was greeted by Thibault with a fresh lance.

"Shame to leave the princess' favor in the dirt after just one tilt," Vesian complained as he took the lance.

"Let's hope it did its job," Thibault replied.

"Which was what?" Vesian countered, and Thibault could only shrug.

"You're making him angry, right?" the squire asked, and Vesian nodded. "Good, that can only hurt him."

Trumpets sounded again and Thibault retreated. The duke waited impassively; his anger hidden by the distance. Vesian took a deep breath as the flags fell again and he spurred his stallion into a charge.

They thundered down the pitch toward each other again, the crowd roaring and their armor clattering. Vesian gritted his teeth for the clash, as both Duke Sigismund and Adeline's fallen favor drew nearer and nearer. The duke grew in Vesian's vision until his trained jousters reflex tilted his head back just before the clash.

The impact jolted him violently again, moreso than the first time, and both his feet flung out of their stirrups. The crowd cheered as he flailed about, his broken lance flying from his grasp, and his legs tightened about the horse's chest. Discarding his lance, he grabbed for the horse's mane and caught it in his hand. The stallion slowed to a trot and Vesian steadied himself. His feet found the stirrups and he regained his seat.

He turned to look for the duke, and saw him riding away, his shield cracked and broken on the ground. Vesian looked to his own shield, only to see a great rent in it. Sighing with disappointment, he pulled it off his arm and threw it away.

He heard the heralds cry out from their perches as he rounded the end of the lists and turned back to the start.

"Three points for Duke Sigismund d'Aquitaine! Three points for Sir Vesian de Surrac! The riders will tilt a third time!"

Still evenly matched, he told himself. it must break my way soon. The duke was nearing and Vesian prepared a barb as they passed.

"Be careful about your knees as we come together," Vesian taunted. "I should hate to cripple two knights in one day."

Sigismund fixed him with a baleful stare, his dragon-winged helm staying locked on him even as Vesian passed behind him toward the far side. He could feel the hate of his gaze even on his back. Strange, Vesian thought, I don't feel the awe anymore.

"You've got him angry," Thibault encouraged as he handed over another lance. Vesian took it and balanced it on his armored toe as Thibault crossed to his other side to fit him with a new shield. "He will put everything he has into unhorsing you now, so hold firm and exploit his lack of balance."

Vesian knew more about jousting than his squire could ever hope to, but he appreciated hearing the advice out loud. He took another deep breath, steeling himself for the third tilt. Thibault fitted the shield to his gauntlet and gave it a heart slap.

"Alright, you're all ready. Go win this!"

Flags were raised again. The trumpets sounded a third time. The crowd was on its feet, cheering wildly at the grand spectacle unfolding for the final tilt. Vesian made a meaningless adjustment to his helm; anything to calm his nerves. The duke sat seething and motionless in his saddle, with a fresh lance and shield ready for the next clash.

The heralds dropped their flags and Vesian dug his spurs into the stallion's flanks. To the enraptured roar of the crowd, the two of them hurtled down the lists again. Vesian crouched forward in his saddle, peering out the narrow vision slit of his helm. This time, he decided, he would not look away. The danger of splinters was a risk he would accept in exchange keeping his eyes on his foe all the way to the impact.

Sigismund made the same bargain. They crouched low atop their steeds with lances projecting forward like the horns of unicorns. Vesian held his breath as the final yards disappeared beneath their horse's hooves and the bone-crunching clash awaited.

They struck each other square in their shields and Vesian felt himself come to a complete halt. He toppled heels over head off the rump of his horse to crash into the dirt. Vesian came up choking on dust of his horse, his helmet twisted around so that he could barely see. It had taken splinters from the lances, but none had passed through the vision slit. Not that it left Vesian in any less pain. His back was aflame. He ached everywhere, but most of all on his left side where he had borne the brunt of so many blows of the lance.

Vesian staggered to his feet, stunned by his defeat. The crowd had fallen silent, or perhaps he could not hear through his helmet? He tore the heavy thing off and threw it into the dirt. The sunlight pierced his eyes and he squinted in the fresh light.

The duke lay beside him in the dirt. Vesian stood stupid a moment, so surprised was he at the result. He turned to the royal box, where all within leaned forward in great interest.

"The riders..." the heralds were shocked, "have unhorsed each other! We have a tie!"

Surprise and consternation rippled through the crowd. The duke staggered to his feet and looked around. In his pulpit, the tournament judge stood up.

"It is indeed a tie," he declared. "This must be resolved on foot, with swords or their weapons of choice."

"Swords!" Sigismund snarled. "Squire! My sword!"

"Thibault!" Vesian called, though he saw that his loyal squire was already running toward him, sword in hand. Vesian extended a hand to receive it, and as he did, he saw Adeline's favor lying in the dirt amid the ruin of his shield. He bent to retrieve it and tied it about his arm.

Thibault reached him and knelt theatrically with the hilt of his sheath longsword thrust up high. Vesian smiled, appreciating his squire's taste for flair. The duke was less understanding and tore the blade from its scabbard before banishing his squire with a furious shout. He vaulted the barrier between them before the heralds could even signal to begin.

The duke's fine steel longsword whistled through the air and Vesian threw up his own blade in a desperate parry. Blades clashed, sparks flew, and the crowd gasped in awe. Behind him, Vesian heard the tournament judge stammer "Let the duel begin!"

Vesian retreated from his foe's reach to gather himself, but the duke allowed him no respite. He came on in a rage, his sword flashing the sun. Vesian parried, then riposted but was himself defeated. He gave ground, keeping his opponent just a half-step too far away for a proper strike as he waited for the duke to tire.

But the duke's stamina did not wane. Instead, his rage only increased his furor and drove him forward in a frenzied assault. Vesian's arms whirled before him, blocking and deflecting a hurricane of strokes that his mind could barely follow. Only a decade of errantry experience kept him from defeat until at last, the duke began to slow. Vesian seized his moment, and threw his shoulder forward. He connected squarely with the duke's chest, and Sigismund staggered backwards. Vesian lunged for him, striking with his sword even as he grabbed with his free hand and caught the duke's crimson surcoat.

They tangled together, and Vesian seized his foe's blade in his mailed fist. Sigismund pulled back in surprise as he tried to wrest his sword free again, but Vesian held firm. He pulled, and the sword flew from the duke's grasp. Disarmed, the duke lunged for him, and they tumbled to the dirt. Vesian came up on stop, sword going for the throat, but Sigismund knocked it aside and flung a handful of dried mud in his face.

Crying out in surprised dismay, Vesian turned aside, and the duke slammed his helm into Vesian's chest. He toppled over backwards as the duke rose above him. For a moment, the duke prevaricated between pressing his advantage and going for his discarded sword. He chose the latter, and that afforded Vesian the time to stand up himself.

He met the duke's incoming blow square on, and the crowd rippled with delight at the ringing of steel on steel. Their blades screeched along each other until they came to a halt, staring into each other's eyes through crossed blades.

"I'll make you pay for this," the duke snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. Vesian only smiled... and punched him in the face.

The duke staggered backward, and Vesian pressed the attack. He swung his blade overhead in a tall arc that came down on the duke's sword hand. He cried out, and the sword fell once again. Vesian stepped closer and threw and elbow into the duke's chest. He connected with the cuirass, and feared he had hurt himself more than the duke, but he kept his foe off balance long enough to kick his foot out from beneath him and seize him by the collar of his surcoat. The crowd gasped in shock, sensing the end was near.

Vesian threw him to the ground and thrust his sword point against his throat.

"Yield!" he cried, but the duke did not. Instead, he stared up at Vesian in a fury, his face twisted in a red rage. Vesian pressed the point of his sword against his neck. "Yield," he snarled. The duke seemed to shrink before his eyes. The commanding aura that had enshrouded him waned and broke, the crowd rose to its feet and cheered, but not for the duke.

"Sir Vesian!" they cried, beating their hands on the railings and their feet on the risers. They hailed him as champion and the duke at last raised his hand in surrender.

"I yield," he hissed, barely audible over the thunder of the crowd.

"Sir Vesian de Surrac is the winner!" cried Count Theobald. Vesian looked to the royal box and saw the king standing, looking down on his fallen brother with suspicion. He was far from the only one. The duke's sudden rise in popularity has not gone unnoticed.

"Your majesty," Vesian called out above the crowd. "You are deceived no longer. Your brother has conspired with a sorcerer to usurp your rightful authority. He has been under an enchantment that makes him seem more than he really is. With each victory in the tournament, his aura of majesty grows. Had he won, he could command anything. But now that he is defeated, the spell is broken and you can see with your own eyes what a man he is."

King Guntheric turned a suspicious eye toward Vesian. The crowd continued to cheer, largely oblivious to the scene unfolding before the royal box. "They are grave accusations. I hope you do not speak carelessly, Sir Vesian."

"I do not, sire. I have been to the sorcerer's tent in the tournament grounds and found his correspondence that proves my accusations are true. In the inn in town, you will find his sorcerer, dead, along with Sir Dagobert de Taretry, another member of the plot. Baron Tancred is another."

"It's true, Father," Adeline said, coming to Vesian's aid. "My maid Tilde heard them plotting in the cellars and I came to Sir Vesian for help. Dagobert killed Tilde, but we uncovered his scheme anyway. They caught me by the inn and held me in the cellar. Here are the letters that Sir Vesian and I found in the tent of the sorcerer."

"Lies!" Sigismund cried. The crowd had begun to quiet down and turn their attention to the unfolding drama. "This is another trick, like when he wounded the baron. Deliberately wounded the baron! Sir Vesian is a scheming snake, a mere knight errant who envies the wealth and power of his betters. He is lying to you, Guntheric! He has seduced your daughter and secured the naïve girl's word for his own designs."

"I have seen a change come over you, Sigismund. A change that has now reversed itself with your fall. Guards, take my brother to his tent to recover from his defeat. I will read these letters are determine my brother's fate."

The king's men emerged from the edges of the tournament grounds and hauled the duke to his feet. Fixing Vesian with a hateful glare, he was led away.

"But now, Sir Vesian," the king continued. "It falls to me to name you champion of the tournament! My most hearty congratulations."

A page appeared by Vesian's side with a crown of laurels. Vesian knelt and received it upon his head. As the leafy branches alit upon his head, the crowd erupted in a great cheer. The cloth of gold beneath the king's box parted, and a procession of heralds emerged to fete him. The stands shook under the tramping of feet, and with great effort Thibault forced his way through the crowd to stand by Vesian's side.

The celebrations went on for some time, with the king's people lavishing gold, brocade, and even a new stallion upon him until the sun began to set. He emerged from the tourney field to find the princess waiting for him.

"Congratulations, Sir Vesian," she said, hiding a shy smile. "My father has read enough of the conspirators' letters to condemn my uncle. I thank you for your aid today, without you we would be under his spell."

"Think nothing of it, princess. I do what my duty requires and nothing less."

She made to reply, but Countess Tiburge appeared from the crowd. She marched boldly to Vesian's side and looped an arm through his.

"Well, well, well," she proclaimed, "It seems you are a victor after all. I would be honored to have such an illustrious knight escort me to the banquet. And perhaps afterwards, to my private chambers? Again?"

"It would be my pleasure, countess," Vesian replied with a bow. He turned toward Adeline with a half-apologetic look, but Tiburge spoke before he could.

"Do stop by, your highness. Sir Vesian and I would so love to get better acquainted with you."