William walked with strides of a man trying to cross the ocean in one leap. His jaws were clenched, brows down, eyes hard as a magnet.

 

Geoffrey Chaucer was trying to keep up with William’s blistering pace and at the same time, pull his tunic over his head. Wat and Roland followed not too far behind, silent.

 

“Why didn’t you tell us the truth?” William asked, unable to contain his fury anymore. He pushed past a peddler, hurrying to make the sword arena before his match was declared a forfeiture.

 

“Would you have pitied a gambler?” asked Geoffrey. “I was trying to engender pity.”

 

“You lied!” William exasperated.

 

“Of course, I did! What writer does not?!” Geoffrey said.

 

If glares killed men and stares left them without tongues, then Geoffrey would have both lost his tongue and died after William’s stare.

 

Three men were surrounded a woman, tossing her around between them.

 

“Let me go,” she said, swinging a hammer at them. But they only took a step back and returned again, sneering at their quarry. The crowd around seemed to be quiet about it, and no one acted as though they saw what was happening.

 

“We don’t stop,” Geoffrey said, noticing the hesitation on William’s steps. “We don't have time. Not to mention they must be one of those powerful people around here, see as everyone is looking the other side?”

 

“Away from me, you pigs!” the woman said again, swinging her hammer wildly.

 

One of the men grabbed her wrist and wrung the hammer from her grip.

 

“Now, we’ve got you,” one said, flashing yellowish teeth.

 

William took six steps away from the incident before he stopped abruptly in his track and turned around.

 

“Oh no,” said Geoffrey.

 

“Oh yes,” Wat snapped. “A twat like you can be saved but we should look the other way for her?”

 

Geoffrey bit his lower lip. “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. The streets of Rouen are unfriendly.”

 

“I’m not taking your warning,” William said to Geoffrey. “But I hope they take mine.”

 

He spun around and stormed to the scene. Two of the men held the woman by the hands, while a third one stood before her.

 

“What has she done?” said William.

 

The sole man turned around slowly, ran his eyes up and down over William and stood in the knight’s face.

 

“We want her and her husband away from Rouen,” said the man.

 

“Why? Do they owe you money?”

 

The man chortled. “No, they don’t,” said he, “But I speak on behalf of all the blacksmith here. Women should not be allowed to do this trade, but her husband has dishonored us by teaching it to her.”

 

“And you plan to dishonor her by hitting her in public?” asked William.

 

The man twitched nervously while those behind stole glances at each other.

 

“No, but, we plan to send a warning to her husband, through her,” said one of the men.

 

“Take your hands off her,” William ordered.

 

The men looked at each other and then slowly took their hands off the woman.

 

“We’ll see again,” they promised the woman before joining the crowd.

 

“Thank you for saving me. My name is Kate, what shall I call you, my lord?”

 

“Sir—” Wat began but William cut him off.

 

“Nothing. No one. Who I am is not important, so take your mind off a recompense.”

 

William bowed to Kate after this. “Now,” he said to his companions. “We are later than ever.”

 

They arrived at the edge of the roped off sword ring. Roland handed over a blunted sword to William.

 

Geoffrey jumped the ropes into the ring. “Behold my lord Ulrich von Lichtenstein! Son of—"

 

“Too late! Too late! He’s been announced,” the official in charge of the sword duel snapped before turning to the crowd. “Ten strikes by the sword! Sir Ulrich shall receive first.”

 

“God be with you William,” Roland said, just as William lowered his visor.

 

William’s opponent wasted no time whatsoever; the minute William turned around, he was on him like fly on a wound. But William was equally up to the task, and he parried, warded off blows from the knight, and blocking only; as it was his turn to receive blows from the knight.

 

The four sword strikes his opponent delivered were blocked. On the fifth, William deflected the knight’s strike, but the sword glanced off his shoulder and a judge immediately signified it was a strike.

 

“That was a deflection!” Geoffrey screamed, pulling at his hair.

 

The sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth strike were defended successfully by William and on the tenth, the frustrated knight feinted left, before landing a strike William sidestepped, sending the sword into the dirt for all it was worth.

 

“One strike for Sir Dumbleton,” the official announced. “Sir Ulrich, your turn. Ten strikes.”

 

William took on deep breaths to slow his raging heart. Then… he was ready.

 

He circled the ring with Sir Dumbleton mirroring him. “Are you ready?” he asked the knight.

 

“Aye, aye,” Sir Dumbleton replied behind his visor.

 

“Fine,” said William.

 

He sprinted at Dumbleton and raised his sword almost lazily. The first three blows William landed were easily blocked by the knight, but it was equally easy to see how tiring it was to block them. It was almost as though it was an axe, rather than a sword that William was landing his blows with.

 

He stepped back from Dumbleton by two paces as though to access the damage done. Then he flew into attack again, feinting to the right, he cut on Dumbleton’s left. He feinted left, then landed another on the knight’s right, the third strike was a broadside on the knight’s head.

 

The judge raised three flags in quick succession. William gave the knight one blow on the leg, sending him to his knees.

 

“I yield the final three blows,” said William. He went over to the Dumbleton and offered him a hand up.

 

“That’s my knight!” Geoffrey bellowed from the other side of the ring.

 

“Very well,” the match official began. “Sir Ulrich yields his final three strikes and has won four blows to one.”

 

Geoffrey leapt over the rope that kept spectators from spilling into the ring in their excitement. He grabbed William’s right hand and lifted it up.

 

“Behold my Lord Ulrich,” he boomed. “His sword is swift and powerful, yet mercy preceded every swing of it. Chivalry has left the hearts of men and walks among us here in Sir Ulrich!”

 

An awkward silence fell over the sword arena after Geoffrey’s speech. It was almost as though he delivered an oral in a party for people with hearing disability.

 

It was not until Roland lifted a side of his mouth and said, “Yeah!” And from then on, it was cheers from the crowd.

 

“You fought bravely,” Roland said to him later that night as they lay to rest in their tent. Under the torn roof that leaves room to glance at the night, star-sprinkled sky above.

 

William shrugged, his hands under his head, eyes on that little tear in the roof.

 

“Thank you, Roland,” he said, “but I had people who denied themselves a journey home and a full belly to get me here.”

 

“I have a question though,” said Wat from where he slept. “Why did you give up your final strikes?”

 

“The fight was over already,” said William, “At two strikes, I already won the duel. But I went on land four more blows on him, and that was enough. Any more and I would have been trampling of the man’s honor, not seeking a win.”

 

“So you show him mercy,” said Geoffrey, resting his head against a sack of hay.

 

“He’s already lost the duel, why should he his honor?” William replied.

 

“Beware people,” said Roland, “Beware of the sword that cuts with mercy. It breaks no bones and slashes no skin, but it reaches right into the heart.”