As William’s lance shattered on his opponent’s lance, the crowd in the stands burst into a loud cheer. Some even called the name out, crying “Sir Ulrich! Sir Ulrich!!”

 

Roland watched with keen eyes as the William pulled his horse around.

 

“He improves with every pass,” said Wat aside.

 

Roland bobbed his head, yes. “He’s a natural at the game now, and then there’s passion to be better. Those two are important ingredients for a genius.”

 

“And he has mercy, it takes genius to show mercy in a case like mine,” said Chaucer.

 

The joust judge raised three flags over William’s crest, indicating he had won the round by three points to nil.

 

While the three men stood, just before William reached them, a certain herald came from among the stand, dressed in clothes that’d have rivaled even William’s tunic. His hair was sleek and combed neatly to stop above his shoulders, there was a smile on his face, and two red prints on his right cheek.

 

“Chaucer, fellow herald,” he hailed when he arrived, beaming full smiles.

 

Roland and Wat turned to look Chaucer who caught their stares and frowned, knowing fully well what they meant.

 

“And who are you?” Chaucer asked, almost in disgust.

 

“I am Germaine, herald to Count Adhemar, and a poet of no small fame,” said Germaine, bowing slightly. “This your lord, Sir Ulrich, I have never heard anything of him before now.”

 

“He’s never heard anything of you till now,” Chaucer retorted. “And now, I must take leave of you. But if you listen, you might learn a thing or two.”

 

Germaine looked as though he’d been fed something bitter and distasteful. Yet, he smiled as Chaucer walked past him, raising his head haughtily at Roland and Wat who looked as though he’d wanted to punch Germaine.

 

Chaucer leapt forward with glee, bursting into the list. He jumped on the divider that separated the two runways and spread his arm at his sides.

 

“Behold my Lord Ulrich, like a wind from Gelderland he sweeps over Rouen. Blown far from his homeland in search of glory and honor!”

 

The host at the stand burst into a din of cheer, although the nobles did manage keep their faces tight like guitar strings.

 

“Did you catch that? And I do hope that you learned a thing or two about heralding, Poet,” Chaucer asked Germaine when he returned. The latter reddened considerably, and left swollen like a venomous frog.

 

Later that day in the ring, all the crowd would chant is Sir Ulrich! Sir Ulrich!! And not once did he fail to deliver. White flags of scores would shoot up over his banner with the speed of arrow leaving its bow.

 

William and his companions trudged to their tents later that night. And from their bellies, one can the clapping of thunder, the rumbling sound of a barrel tumbling down a rocky hill. Their lips were dry and white, shoulders slumped.

 

“We have a penny left,” Roland declared. “That’s enough money to buy food for one of us.”

 

“Then he who gets the food should be the one who needs the strength the most,” said Wat, putting his hands on his waist.

 

“Oh,” said William, jokingly. “You mean me?”

 

Wat scoffed. “I meant the horse! As for us, we’re all going to starve tonight. And you’ll die in the ring tomorrow for sure.”

 

“Oh, if I’m served in my dreams, then I shan’t ever wake up,” said Geoffrey.

 

They got a barrel of oats and when they were not too far from their tent, a young squire approached them.

 

“Excuse me, are you Sir Ulrich,” asked the sallow faced youth.

 

William bobbed his head drunkenly. “Ulrich I am. What have I to do with thee?”

 

“My liege, Sir Dumbleton, has invited you to his tent for dinner,” said the squire. “He asks that you grant him the pleasure of your honorable presence.”

 

William sighed. “Grant him we shall.”

 

It was a fine meal they had that night, chowing down on meat and fruits, drinking as much as their bellies allowed.

 

“I’m beginning to like the idea of mercy more,” said Wat, picking his teeth with a broomstick when they were back in their tent. “Show more knights mercy and we’d never starve again.”

 

“What if the knight is equally starving? Shall I deny him mercy then?” asked William.

 

“Well… I think I better go to sleep,” said Wat.

 

“You should, Wat,” said Geoffrey, “your belly is beginning to think for you. Not that there was ever a time it didn’t.”

 

“Did you hear that!” Wat cried out in fury. “Did you hear that bag of shite? I’ll fong you in the arse tomorrow.”

 

“No, you won’t,” Geoffrey declared. “There’ll be a feast in your dream, and you’ll never wake up again.”

 

“What? You! I’ll – ah!”

 

“Let it go Wat,” said William, drowsily. “Let it go.”

 

The first event of the next morning was jousting. William held his lance steady in his hand, and the second the flag from the pursuivant came down, kicked the horse into action.

 

The usual crashing sound of lance breaking on the armor of knights sounded. Both William’s and his opponent’s lance had been broken, but William had won anyways by two lance to one.

 

However, one more thing had been broken about William. Right across his right breastplate was a crack that compromised the integrity of the armor.

 

“That looks bad,” Roland said, grimly.

 

“We should have kept that penny for the blacksmith,” said Geoffrey.

 

“And starve the horse? Have you ever ridden a starved horse?” asked Wat. “Not only will his breastplate crack, but his neck will be snapped in two as well.”

 

“Oh,” said Geoffrey.

 

“We waste time talking. Let’s go find a blacksmith,” said William, before pulling Geoffrey aside. “Have you ever ridden a starved horse?”

 

“No,” said the herald.

 

“Then how do you suppose he meant I’d have broken my neck?”

 

“A writer’s greatest weapon is his imagination, but even I can't begin to imagine the moronic fantasies that raging dullard utters. Look, the rest are far off.”

 

The blacksmiths took a section of the market to themselves. It was almost like a blacksmith village, with hammers pounding on hot blades and armors, flames blazing from their furnaces, and the sizzling sound of hot steel sinking in cool water.

 

William hurried towards the first man he saw. “I’d like to have my armor repaired,” he declared to the man.

 

The blacksmith took the broken breastplate from him and turned it this way and that way.

 

“That will cost you two pennies,” said he.

 

William folded his arms across his chest and rubbed his chin. “Not a problem,” he said. “But you’ll have to do it now and get paid later, I will win the tourney for sure.”

 

The blacksmith stared at William as though the latter just suggested treason against the Royal crown.

 

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said the blacksmith, handing the breastplate over.

 

“You can’t fix a breastplate?” asked William.

 

“My lord, I’d fix the world if it was made of steel,” said the blacksmith. “I can’t work on credit.” The blacksmith returned to his task, a sign prodding him any further would yield nothing productive.

 

William hurried on to the next blacksmith, who having overhead William’s discourse with the first said, “It’s coin first, no promises.” Even before William had said a word.

 

“You might try the Hephaestus,” said the third blacksmith without sparing William a glance.

 

“Who’s that?”

 

“Let’s leave here,” Geoffrey said, holding William above the elbow. “That’s the god of blacksmiths.”

 

William stepped out with his shoulders slumped, crestfallen. The rest of his entourage trailed behind him like the tail of a wet stray dog. They stood against a wall and watched the blacksmiths sweating like the rods they were melting.

 

“Can’t he use it anyways?” asked Wat.

 

“Yeah, we could,” Geoffrey replied, snappishly. “Then we’d need a blacksmith and a doctor to fix William’s broken ribs.”

 

“Or… I could just help you with it.”

 

They all turned at once to see who it was, and joy radiated on their faces like the sun on a silver disk.

 

The man had an apron, and a hammer in his hand. His face and clothes were stained with black from coal and brown dirt from iron. He had a round stern face, powerful hands and scraggly beards.

 

“Come with me, I'll fix your armor.” he said to them.

 

William and the rest followed behind, silent like the sailors called to their entranced deaths by the singing voice of the sea.

 

“Hand the armor over,” the man said when they arrived at his workshop.

 

There was someone deep inside the workshop, hammering rhythmically on some iron work inside.

 

“God be praised,” William said, breathing out relief. “It didn’t seem like I was going to find anyone to work on promise. I assure you your payment will be made as soon as the tournament is over.”

 

“What if you die before the tournament is over?,” said the man, raising the armor for examination. “No sir, I don’t work on promises.”

 

“Even sincere ones?” asked Roland.

 

“And how do we know a man is sincere?” asked the blacksmith. “For all I know, your current humility might be as a result of your circumstance. Men are drastically different when they have money and power.”

 

William frowned and exchanged glances with his friends. “If you don’t work on credit, then why are you holding the armor? We have no money to give you.”

 

“I am in your debt, Sir. My wife there says you were her savior in a past not far away.”

 

“Your wife?” Wat blurted.

 

“Why? Kate?”

 

The fellow working in the workshop stopped the hammering and came out. Sure enough, it was a woman in apron; hammer in one hand, horseshoe in another. She wiped the sweat off her face with the back of her hand.

 

“You didn’t tell me your name then,” she said, smiling. “My name is Kate Farris, and this is my husband, Ralph Farris. You saved me from a group of barbarians some two three days ago.”

 

William remembered her; it was that time when he was hurrying to the swordfight ground.

 

“I do remember,” said William, “my name Ulrich von Lichtenstein.”

 

“Never heard the name,” said Ralph, Kate’s husband. “And I’ve heard lots of names.”

 

“That’s because he’s from Gelderland,” said Geoffrey, quickly. “And Gelderland is very far away from here. Now, when should we return for the armor?”

 

Ralph raised a brow and eyed Geoffrey. “I’ll have it ready before nightfall.”

 

“We will be back by then,” said William, “And thank you, Kate. I’ll never forget this.”