The fanfare of horns rose far and high into the warm golden sky.

 

On one side of the stand, the crowd swelled and burst into a roar of excited cheer; women and children screamed their lungs out. The men stomped their feet rhythmically, their clothes – wet and damp with sweat – clung tightly to their skin.

 

On another side of the same stand, there’s a group of people with different temperaments. They’re seated under shade in the stands with their legs crossed and a bored expression on their faces. Their clothes are not clinging to their skins like jealous wives because on either side is someone with a large fan blowing the heat away.

 

William Thatcher stared at the crowd from afar with wonder in his eyes. He imagined himself on a white steed with a lance in one hand and the horse rein in another, riding down the list like God’s own angel of vengeance.

 

“William!”

 

William snapped out of his reverie and hurried in the direction of the voice. One of the two rags he fixed in his nostrils threatened to fall off and he pushed it back inside.

 

“Yeah?” he said, squeezing his face as he drew near. “Roland, is Sir Ector done shitting? I expect he’ll soon be summoned to the list.”

 

“No, he’s not,” said Roland, “should we help him?”

 

William looked at the knight in old armor some five feet away. The man was behind a tree and from where William stood, he could only make out the side of the knight’s armor.

 

“He asked not to be disturbed,” said William, sighing. “Not even should the trumpets blow and the rapture occurs.”

 

A trumpet sounded and both Roland and William glanced at each other. It was followed by a loud groan of disappointment from the crowd in the stand.

 

“Did you hear that?” said another young man, running over to them with anxious eyes and pale face. “It’s the trumpet!”

 

“It’s a summon trumpet, Wat, even the dead will hear it,” said William, wincing as a pungent odor permeated from the Knight’s direction.

 

“I know that mercy resides in the bowels, but this is enough grace for three nations to share,” said Roland, spitting.

 

A shuddering moan came from the knight behind the tree and the three men looked away from the direction.

 

“That’s a horrible smell,” said Wat, “do you think this is a knight thing?”

 

William shuffled his feet. “In five minutes, he has to be in the lists or forfeit the match.”

 

Roland exhaled. “Hey, lend us those,” he said to William, gesturing towards the rags in the latter’s nose.

 

William pulled the rags from his nose and handed them over to Roland who nodded and shoved them into his own.

 

Roland shook his head and screwed his face more bitterly. Despite the linens protecting his nose, the horrible smell emanating from the knight was too much to bear.

 

Roland knelt behind the tree where Sir Hector was having his business. His vision dimmed from the nauseating stink oozing from the other side of the tree.

 

“Sir Hector?” he called. “Sir Hector? We must return to the list in five minutes or forfeit.”

 

Silence.

 

“Sir Hector?” Roland stood up and went round the tree. Sir Hector was sitting with his back against the tree trunk, his head had fallen on his breast as though he was a drunk who’d fallen asleep.

 

He nudged the knight on the shoulder. “Sir Hector?”

 

Roland sighed, his belly growled. His belly had been growling like a wild animal for the past three days.

 

“Sir Hector, we must—” Roland bent over and lifted Sir Hector’s hand, but when he dropped it, it fell limply to the knight’s side.

 

His eyes shut themselves and he turned back to his companions; the ones that weren’t sitting dead on their own shit.

 

Wat and William were still standing with their backs against Roland, both men had their arms akimbo in impatience.

 

Roland cleared his throat as he came up to them from behind.

 

Wat was beaming when Roland arrived. “Two scores to one after two lances is not bad at all,” he said to both men. “All Sir Hector has to do is remain on his horse and he’d win the tournament.”

 

“He’s dead,” Roland said quietly.

 

Wat looked like he had been struck by lightning the red of his hair. The smile on his round face faded slowly into an expression of confusion while William simply shut his eyes and groaned.

 

“What do you mean “he’s dead?”” asked Wat, perplexed.

 

“The spark of his life is smoldered in shit, his spirit has left him but the stench remains. Does that answer your question?” Roland exasperated, sighing dejectedly.

 

Wat shook his head slowly. “No,” he said, “he sleeps, rouse him.”

 

“I’m sorry,” said Roland.

 

“You’re sorry? We’re only two minutes away from victory and I haven’t eaten in three days!”

 

“None of us have, Wat!” shouted William.

 

Wat shot him a glare. “Oh, but Sir Hector has. Where do you think all that shit comes from? Eating air and drinking saliva?”

 

Roland tutted pensively. “We need to fetch a priest,” he said.

 

“What? No!” said Wat, “he’s not dead, and I’ll wake him up even if it means I have to fong him up the hole of his arse.”

 

Wat grunted and brushed past Roland and William, he stumbled over an extruding root but made it to Sir Hector, alive.

 

“Wake up, Sir,” he said, to the man in not so shiny armor sitting at the foot of the tree. “Wake up or I’ll fong you.” He kicked the dead man. “Wake up, you stupid piece of shite!”

 

William and Roland turned away from the scene of Wat kicking late Sir Hector.

 

Roland sighed, but William kept a grim and resolved expression on his face.

 

“Someone’s coming,” said William, standing straight.

 

Roland did the same. Sir Hector and Wat behind were blocked from view of the approaching man.

 

“King-of-arms,” said Roland, chuckling nervously. “What brings you here?”

 

“Hoy, squire!” said the lanky man in huge, colorful robes fitting for a man thrice his size.

 

William moved closer to Roland to block out the scene of Sir Hector being kicked from dead to dead behind them.

 

“Sir Hector must continue immediately or forfeit the match,” the King-of-arms said, looking from Roland to William.

 

Roland sighed and raising a hand. “Uh… about that,” he said as he began to turn around.

 

William quickly grabbed Roland’s hand and forced it down, holding the squire in place.

 

“He’s on his way!” William said to the King-of-arms.

 

The man narrowed his eyes to slits and looked from William to Roland, cleared his throat, and turned away from them.

 

Once the King-of-arms had disappeared, William rushed over to Wat who was still kicking Sir Hector’s corpse.

 

“Stop kicking him and help me strip his armor,” said William, “I’m riding in his place.”

 

Roland’s mouth dropped behind William. He watched as William and Wat began to strip Sir Hector’s remains of its armor.

 

“What’s your name?” he said, “Answer me, William, what’s your name? I’m asking you William Thatcher to answer me with your name!”

 

William paused and stared at Roland with incredulous eyes.

 

Roland spat aside. “It’s not Sir William, it’s not Count or Duke or Earl William, and as sure as the heavens are above the earth, it’s certainly not King William either!”

 

“I’m aware of that,” said William, shrugging. He returned to his task of stripping Sir Hector of his armor.

 

“Are you an idiot?” Roland snapped. “You have to be of noble birth to compete!”

 

William sighed and glanced up at Roland. “A detail. The landscape is food, do you want to eat or not?”

 

“Have you gone mad?” Roland squeezed between gritted teeth. “If the nobles realize who you are, there’ll be the devil to pay.”

 

William chuckled. “Let’s hope that’s not the case,” he said.

 

“And you’re what sixteen? Have you seen your opponent? He’s about twice that age minimum.”

 

“You’re nineteen, same as Wat, and I don’t remember Sir Hector treating us like children,” said William.

 

“He does treat Roland well, though,” Wat remarked.

 

“Roland is his adviser, as much as he hates to admit it. Certainly not me, his target man,” said William, grunting as he strapped the pauldron to his shoulder. “I’ve faced Sir Hector, and he’s about three times that age,”

 

“In practice, William, it’s different,” said Roland.

 

“Oh, well,” said William. “He uses a real lance and strikes to kill me. It’s a wonder I’m not crippled already.”

 

William took off Sir Hector’s helmet and put it on his head. He gave the dead man one last stare; black hair with graying ends, fierce and thick beards that hid his double chin from view, and an obese body that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the man he was in his youth.

 

“William,” said Roland, one last time. “If the nobles discover your folly, hell will rain from on high.”

 

William slapped Roland on the shoulder. “Then pray… they don’t.”

 

Roland cupped the side of William’s face and smiled, sadly. “God love you William.”