Jocelyn's POV ***

 

The tournament, like time that waits for no man, continued on the morrow of the next day. Nothing much different about the streets of Rouen than the faces of the passers-by gaping at the knights upon magnificent horses; steeds tall, strong and built like a creature cut from a fairy tale.

 

There’s a voice of one crying: “Dried beef, dried beef!” even if the said beef was in fact, a snake.

 

At the jousting grounds knights take up their positions on the list, ready to smash into each other. Their steeds breath out fury and anger, snorting in excitement and maybe… fear. At flag down, the horses would lunge forward at tremendous speed, their hooves digging into the dirt and a short while later, the crashing sound of lance kissing armor would ricochet through the grounds.

 

As always, one side of the stand would burst into an unrestrained cheer and jeer; jumping and screaming their lungs. The other side of the stand would yawn at the very most, their eyes rolling in slow bored movements.

 

Knights would pass before this bored side of the ground, turn their heads in direction of a specific box and bow.

 

“My lady, I give you my word, I shall win this tournament for you,” this knight in shining armor would say.

 

“Nay!” another would yell from behind. “Have no fear, my lady for I shall win this tournament for you.”

 

And the lady in question, dressed in milk white dress and a hat, would smile and nod her head. For every knight that came her way with a promise to win the tournament and earn her admiration, she spared a nod and a smile.

 

“Isn’t this wonderful, Christiana,” she said to her handmaid seated beside her in the box. “Every knight that has passed has promised to win this tournament for my sake. I’m afraid we’ll have too many winners at the end.”

 

The handmaid put a hand to her mouth and stifled a giggle.

 

“Here now,” said Germaine, appearing right beside the lady. “Lady Jocelyn, allow me to introduce my lord to you. Count Adhemar, overlord of fort Anjou of the Messers country. Three times winner of the Messers tournament, two times winner of the Welk championship, and undefeated champion at Borish World contests.”

 

The lady in question raised her looked in direction of the herald, then nodded in direction of the Count Adhemar.

 

His hair curly thick hair was his most notable feature. He wore a black tunic, and smelled like roses. A sly smile spread across his smooth, clean-shaven face.

 

“Lady Jocelyn,” said Count Adhemar, “the fairest of all women in Borish and the lands beyond.”

 

“Count Adhemar,” said Lady Jocelyn with a bow.

 

“I see you’re enjoying the tournament,” said Adhemar, smoothing his shirt though there be no need for it.

 

“Maybe. Tell me Count, do you only pretend to fight,, or do you wage real war as well?” asked Jocelyn.

 

Adhemar shrugged. “I am leader of the Free Companies,” he said. “My army is in Northern Messers for the moment.”

 

Jocelyn nodded at this and said nothing more.

 

“Lady Jocelyn, what do you think of the joust?” asked Count Adhemar, leaning against a wooden pole. His arms were folded across his chest, his deep-sunken grey eyes affixed on the lady.

 

“It’s very… abrupt,” she said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand the rules.”

 

Adhemar bobbed his head. “Then I shall educate you,” he said, taking a seat beside Jocelyn.

 

She raised a brow and winced, but said nothing.

 

“A match is three lances,” Adhemar began, “one point is awarded for breaking a lance on a man between the waist and neck, two points for breaking on the helmet. It’s rather difficult; the head sweeps back and most blows glance to left or right, leaving the lance unbroken.

 

“And finally, three points are awarded for bearing the rider to the ground. Also, should you bear the rider to the ground, you win his horse. You can ransom it back to him or keep as you see fit.”

 

“And do men die in joust,” asked Jocelyn.

 

Count Adhemar wrinkled his nose. “The Lance points are tipped with coronal, which blunts them. Of course, accidents happen.” The count cocked his head. “I myself have never been unhorsed.”

 

“Nor have I,” said Jocelyn, smiling.

 

“As a matter of fact, I have never tasted defeat in all my years of competing,” Count Adhemar continued.

 

Jocelyn opened her mouth to talk but never got the chance to, for a voice all too familiar interrupted her train of thoughts.

 

“Your name lady, I still need to hear it,” said the voice; male, strong, youthful and full of confidence.

 

Jocelyn turned away from the Count beside her to see who it was, and sure enough, it was the knight from the church seated on his black warhorse, clad in armor, and confidence so strong it was almost reckless.

 

A smile flitted across her face like the sun glistening over the face of still waters.

 

“What’s in a name, valiant knight?” she said, smiling imperceptibly.

 

“Perhaps angels have no names, only beautiful faces,” said the knight.

 

Jocelyn smiled at this, flashing her dentition. She leaned back into her seat and saw from a corner of her eye the black anger that had gathered all over Count Adhemar’s visage.

 

He cleared his throat. “And you are?” he said to the knight.

 

“I am, um…”

 

“Have you forgotten?” asked Count Adhemar in a cold, merciless voice. “Or your name is Sir “Um”?”

 

“Ulrich von Liechtenstein from Gelderland,” said the Knight, red-faced.

 

Count Adhemar sniffed and pushed at his nose. “That’s quite a mouthful,” he said, “I’d forget it as well.”

 

Jocelyn winced at this and looked away, preferring the face of her handmaid to the bloodless battle running beside her.

 

But Count Adhemar wasn’t done pillaging the knight’s honor. Nay, he was only just beginning; like a magician pulling a hand from a hat, it was too early to say if a rabbit, dove was coming out, or perhaps, a dragon spitting venom and fire.

 

“Your armor, Sir,” said the Count, coolly.

 

“What about it?” asked Sir Ulrich, without examining himself.

 

Germaine, Count Adhemar’s herald held a plate of red berries before the Count who picked one, sank his teeth in it, chewed slowly and swallowed.

 

“How stylish of you to joust in an antique,” the count said at last, wiping his hands with a silk napkin. “You’ll start a new fashion if you win. My grand father will be able to wear his in public again, maybe that is even too early. Your armor looks like a washed up relic from the antediluvian age.”

 

Germaine sniggered beside his master, laughing louder than the rest nobles.

 

“And a shield,” said Adhemar, “how quaint.”

 

Jocelyn swallowed. Her own ears reddened at this, and in that moment, she risked a glance at Sir Ulrich and found him with steely eyes and clenched jaws.

 

Sir Ulrich tugged the reins of his horse and kicked it into trot.

 

“And off he goes,” said Count Adhemar, wistfully. “Some of these poor country knights, little better than the peasants we are, luckily, separated from.”

 

“”Luckily” you say?”

 

“Yes, luckily,” said Count Adhemar, raising a side of his mouth in a smile. “One time I fought against a walled fortress in the arid lands of the Middle East. When we got there, the lord of that fort threw out their lepers to us, hoping that we might catch their disease.”

 

“And the peasants are like those lepers?” asked Jocelyn.

 

“Worse,” said Count Adhemar, “the lepers can be cured by a miracle and they’ll be with the skin of a baby. But poverty, oh, a part of the peasant always remains poor no matter how much money he has.”

 

“Oh, is that so?” asked Jocelyn.

 

“It is,” said Count Adhemar. “And it is for that reason that the rich must always marry the rich, and the poor, themselves. Tell me, Germaine, will I ever have to dishonor my lance on that peasant?”

 

“Oh, if he beats his opponent, then yes,” said Germaine, before adding. “But then, I doubt he has much of a skill. Dressed in a rusty old armor like that, what can he possibly do?”

 

“Be silent now, Germaine,” said Count Adhemar, watching Sir Ulrich as he cantered away. “if he made it this far in the tournament, there’s no saying what else he can do.”