William never knew the armor to be as hot as it was that day. And that was not even the first time he would be putting it on so he would know how it felt. Sometimes, Sir Hector would ask William to clean it up and he’d take the opportunity to see how well a knight’s armor fits.

 

He had dreamt of that day many times before it even came. He, William Thatcher, sitting on a horse before a roaring crowd, riding to change his stars.

 

William saw the host of the tourney, Duke Farer and his bride, sitting with their chins up in a box on the grandstand. Their box was flanked by people dressed in purple, silk, fine linen, and imported cotton.

 

Cool hell on the right occupied by nobles, hot heaven on the left, occupied by the peasants, people like him, people who hoped to one day change their stars.

 

The jousting field ran nearly a hundred yards long, and it was divided into two lanes by a thick wooden barrier that ran nearly the whole length of the field.

 

The result was two well trodden runs with two horses facing each other from opposite ends of either runway.

 

William could see his opponent and his team on the opposite end of the other runway.

 

Wat was beside him, patting the horse and muttering words to its ears. Roland was checking the rein and buckles of William’s horse, which was also late Sir Hector’s. But the dead have no use for horses, so William’s it is.

 

The King-of-arms got down from the grand stand and the trumpets martial tunes with the noble air of accomplished musicians.

 

Once the music was over, the king-of-arms cleared his throat and said in a shrill voice to the quiet crowd:

 

“The score stands at two lances to none in favor of of Sir Hector, second son of Henry Earl of Surrey, liege knight to Duke Robert of Essex.” He turned to the second competitor. “Lord Philip of Aragon, first son of Lord Nicholas of Aragon, are you ready?”

 

Lord Philip nodded and slapped down the visor on his helmet. There was a lion drawn on the arm of his chest.

 

William sighed. He could see the world of banners, knights, sweating crowd, and pompous nobility through the small windows of his visor.

 

Roland nudged him on the thigh and Wat handed the lance over to him.

 

The lance was twelve feet long with a cupped shield three to four feet away to protect the arm and hand on one end. On the other end, there’s a sharp end blunted by coronal at the tip. Thus, save a few broken ribs and splinters that can ruin the eyes, the lance in itself poses no harm to the competitors.

 

“Are you ready?” asked Wat.

 

William sniffed. “Of course, I’ve tilted against Sir Ector before.”

 

“I wouldn’t call it tilting against,” said Wat, “It was in the practice list, and you were never allowed to strike him back.”

 

“Don’t bug my head with all those stories,” William snapped, causing his horse to snort uneasily.

 

“Remember,” said Roland to William. “All you need to do is stay on the horse. Your opponent needs all three points to win, and a broken lance won’t cut it for him.”

 

“I know how to score,” William retorted, fixing his eyes on the opponent ahead. “And I’ve waited all my life for this moment.”

 

“You’ve waited all your life for Sir Hector to shit himself to death?” Wat added.

 

William and Roland both glared at Wat. “Shut up!” they said at once.

 

A pursuivant bearing a white flag with the insignia of the hosting Duke walked from the stands and stood halfway of the list with the flag raised up…

 

William braced, grabbing the reins of his horse tighter. His right hand gripped the lance tight till it hurt from the tension.

 

…the flag came down. The crowd roared.

 

“Hiyahhhh!” William heard Lord Philip roar as his big white horse lurched forward.

 

“Hiyah!” William roared, urging his black steed forward.

 

The horse neighed and charged.

 

Roland and Wat ran after the William till nearly half the list, slapping his horse on the hind.

 

William saw Lord Philip aim his lance at him and get in the cradle. He tried to aim his lance at the approaching knight as well but miscalculated and swung far wide.

 

Both horses raced towards each other at frightening speeds, lances pointing forwards.

 

William moved the lance back as his horse galloped over trodden sand, and aimed at the approaching knight. When he looked up, the coronal of Lord Philip’s lance was directly in his face.

 

There was the sound of wood cracking and splintering into a thousand tiny fragments.

 

William’s lance was still whole, as good as new; a sign he had hit nothing but empty air. However, Lord Philip’s lance had drove right into his face, pressing the visor of his helmet hard into his face.

 

“William!” he heard someone call, although it felt like he was under water.

 

“William.”

 

He was six years old the first time he saw a knight parading down the streets of the Borish capital. The crowds had gathered on either side of the road to allow the noble and armored procession to pass through.

 

Six-year-old William had ran up to his father who lifted him and set him on the elevated grounds of a pillory. There was a man with a bald head, dirty face, and toothless mouth in the pillory.

 

Young William’s eyes were wide with wonder. He put a small hand on his father’s strong shoulder.

 

“Oh,” he said, “one day, I shall be a knight.”

 

The man in the pillory snorted at this, then burst into a cackle fit for a hyena.

 

“You?” asked the man with all the scorn in the world. “The son of a thatcher, named after a Thatcher? A knight?” he burst into that mocking cackle again. “You might as well try to change the stars.”

 

A pained red spread over William’s young face and he looked down at his father. “Is it impossible, father? Can’t a man change his stars?”

 

His father grinned up at him. “Listen to me, William,” he said, earnestly. “A man can do anything if he believes in his heart. You understand?”

 

Young William nodded and returned his eyes to the procession of knights on giant horse and their lieges walking beside, bearing lances and flags of the noble houses they were bringing honor to.

 

“William!”

 

This sound came like the breaking down of a wall. And William found himself being dragged through a veil in time. He was no longer a six year old staring wide-eyed at Knights passing. He was…

 

“William!”

 

William shook his head to lose the dizziness and grabbed the reins of his horse tighter. He found he was slipping off the beast, and Roland was by the side of his horse, looking up with frightened eyes.

 

“William, are you alive?” asked Roland, quietly.

 

“Yeah?” William breathed. “But I think my face is broken.”

 

His helmet had been pressed into his face by the blow of the lance.

 

“We won!” said Wat, leaping around like a frog in heat. “We’ve done it!”

 

The trumpets blew again and the crowd cheered loudly. All the winners of the various events in the tournament were called to stand before the Duke and his wife.

 

William breathed in his deformed helmet, staring at the prize of his joust or Sir Hector’s. It was a golden feather sitting proudly on a red velvet pillow.

 

The Duke cleared his throat. “Sir Hector, step forward to receive your prize.”

 

William stepped forward.

 

The Duke frowned and cast an irritated glance at the king-of-arms. The latter hurried forward. “Take off your helmet, Sir Hector.”

 

From the stretched corner of the visor’s slits, William saw Roland and Wat take a step back. Wat was especially beginning to tremble at the lips.

 

“My lord,” said William. “I’m afraid the blow I took to the face has malled the helmet onto my head.”

 

He then made a show of trying to open the visor and showing it to be too stiff.

 

The King-of-arms glanced back at the Duke and the latter nodded his understanding.

 

The Duke took the feather from the velvet pillow and handed it to William.

 

“People,” the Duke said to those in the stands. “I present to you, your champion.”

 

A feeling of elation filled William’s heart as he watched the crowd rise to their feet in applause and cheer.

 

Maybe a man can change his stars after all, thought William.