William was staring at the box where the Queen of his heart and the devil from hell below sat side-by-side. He writhed on his horse like an angel of vengeance.

 

“William, would you please concentrate on the race?” Roland said beside him.

 

But in that moment, Count Adhemar leaned in towards the lady. It took all the self-control he had to not get off his horse and fong that egocentric rooster on the mouth.

 

Geoffrey walked up beside him and patted him on the lap. “William, you aim too high,” he said with a note of worry in his voice.

 

“Do I now?” said William, harshly. “Look at me Geoff, high is the only way I know to aim.”

 

“Concentrate on the fight,” said Geoffrey.

 

But William was staring in the direction of the lady again, eyeing the man beside her with enough hate to choke the devil.

 

“Who is he?” asked William.

 

“It matters not,” said Roland.

 

“Count Adhemar,” said Geoffrey, quickly. “He has never been unhorsed before or defeated at any tournament he’s competed in.”

 

William grunted. “Stay with me and you’ll see his back on the ground.”

 

“You should forget about him,” Roland sounded again, but Geoffrey was there once again with a contrary suggestion.

 

“What you should do is see his face on the next man that crosses your path in the list.”

 

“Oh, that man will wish he was never born,” said William.

 

“Do not fight with rage, William,” said Roland, coming up on the other side of the horse.

 

“Do what you must, but don’t lose the tilt,” said Geoffrey, “I must go announce you to the world now.”

 

A lanky herald with a narrow, beak-shaped nose walked to the center of the list and stood before the host at the noble stand. He bowed, cleared his throat.

 

“The second son of Sir Wallace Percival, third Earl of Marwig. My lord and ladies,” the herald said, putting a hand to his chest before bowing gracefully. “It is with honor that I introduce my liege, Sir Thomas Colville.”

 

Sir Thomas wore an armor fit for the Royal Knights of Borish, or even the blessed crusaders marching out for victory and glory; fine, smooth steel with gold accents at the edges. His gauntlets had golden crosses drawn with gold on them, and black smooth helmet hid his face from the glare world. Even the knight’s horse – white, powerful and armored – had every feel of wealth and prestige to it.

 

William bit his lip, desperate to even crush this one rich man he could lay his hands, or rather lance, on.

 

“You’re good,” said Geoffrey, stepping forward with the air of a magician. “You’re very good, herald,” he said to the man who announced Sir Colville.”

 

One would assume that he would be meek considering the state of his tunic, but nay, Geoffrey Chaucer had the courage of a king just returned from a successful campaign. He scanned the crowd around like a host seeking for a lucky winner.

 

“My lords, my ladies…” he bowed deep before the noble stands, and they acknowledged the gesture with a dignified nod.

 

Geoffrey then turned to the stand for the common people, ordinary it was, occupied by sweaty people in common, ragged tunic that clung like leaches to their skins. “… and everybody else here not sitting on a cushion!”

 

The crowd burst into a roar that shook the tourney grounds while Geoffrey spread his arms apart in a huge embrace. He bobbed and grinned and motioned for the crowd to die the noise.

 

“Today…” he said, still motioning for the crowd ease off the noise pedal. “…today you find yourselves equals!" he paused. "For you are all equally blessed!”

 

The crowd jammed their hands in a deafening applause, but one could see the disgruntled expression written in the faces of the nobles. Some of which threw furious hands in the air.

 

“For I have the privilege, the pride- Nay! The pleasure! Of introducing a knight sired by knights. A knight whose lineage can be traced to the age of Charlemagne!"

 

“On the day my path crossed his, he was praying on a mountain top near the holy city. He was pleading for God’s mercy for the Saracen blood on his sword. He amazed me again in Tylia when he saved a fatherless beauty from the ravishings of her uncle."

 

“In Comopot, he spent a year in silence so to better understand the sound of a whisper! And so I give you the seeker of Serenity, Protector of Virginity, Enforcer of our Lord God… Sir Ulllrrrrrich von Lichtenstein!”

 

William, Roland, and Wat were all staring at Geoffrey with their mouths open. Howbeit William’s visor kept his mouth covered, Roland and Wat’s were apt to collect dust.

 

“Did you do all that?” asked Wat, blinking.

 

William shook his head inside his helmet. “Sir Ulrich did it.” He glanced in direction of Count Adhemar. “And Geoffrey did a good job; it seems a certain noble man is puzzled his herald has never given him such worthy introduction.”

 

“It’s bad turning the nobles against you,” said Roland, “you’d be popular, but the nobles…”

 

“If I was going to worry about the nobles, I’d never come here at all. Besides, it's Geoffrey they'll be mad at not me,” said William smiling beneath his helmet.

 

Geoffrey returned hopping like a happy twelve year old with sweets.

 

“That was different,” said Roland, with a blank expression.

 

“Well, it is time we all celebrated our differences,” Geoffrey replied, patting William’s horse on the head.

 

“Just maybe not in public,” said Roland, before retreating to the rear of the horse.

 

Wat on the other hand was breathing through his mouth, letting out the ironic chuckle that precedes fury.

 

“You…” he began, breathing heavily.

 

“Yes, Master Fowlehurst,” said Geoffrey, “I am well aware a good fonging is on the way.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” said Wat, “Oh, yeah.”

 

Geoffrey kissed the horse on the head and walked up to William. “I’ve got their attention,” he said to William, “now, you go win their hearts.”

 

William nodded, although his eyes were still fixed on the box where the Queen of his heart was seated. It was her attention that mattered, and her heart that he sought to win. For every other man would leave him alone and go to their homes no matter how much they loved him, however, if she did, then it was to his home she’d be going to. Never mind that he didn’t have one yet.

 

“Lance!” he boomed.

 

The pursuivant hurried to the center of the list and raised his flag.

 

William let out a deep sigh. He could feel the adrenaline surging through him like water through a broken dam. If he failed, he would lose love and honor.

 

The white flag went down and William kicked his horse into a battle charge. The beast sensed its master’s desperation and dashed forward like a wild wind from the southern seas.

 

It was like thunder when William and Sir Thomas Colville clashed. Their lances shattered into each other’s bodies like sticks of glass.

 

The crowd bellowed. Even the unexcitable nobles could be seen gripping the arms of their seats in tension.

 

William did not look as though he had just borne the brunt of a wooden lance. He turned his horse around and returned to Wat and Roland for another lance, ready to begin the next round.

 

“Are you alright?” asked Wat, running a hand through his shock of blazing red hair. “You ought to have broken a rib or two already.”

 

“Don’t be silly, Wat,” William snapped. “Hand me the second lance. Geoff, did she see me?”

 

“What? Yes, she saw you,” said Geoffrey.

 

“Did she see me take the hit?”

 

“Yes, she did.”

 

“Was she concerned?” William pressed.

 

“Of course, her eyes welled up,” said Geoffrey, “It was awful.”

 

“He is mad,” said Wat, aghast.

 

“Of course, he is,” said Geoffrey, “everyone who has ever fallen in love is mad. But you’ve never fallen in love, so you don’t know this.”

 

“One more word and—”

 

“You’ll fong me in the arse, I get it,” said Geoffrey.

 

Roland came up to William with a worried expression on his face. “William, your strength will save you yet again. This Sir Colville has a technique as fine as his armor, your brute—”

 

“Which looks like my armor,” William suggested.

 

“—is what will save you. And yes, it looks like your armor,” Roland finished. “You’re poor, that’s why we’re here in the first place, no point denying it. Just focus on winning and we’ll afford finer outfits.”

 

“Okay,” said William, “hand me the lance.”