Adhemar's POV ***

 

Count Adhemar sucked his belly in as Germaine latched the laces of his armor from behind. He flexed his fingers in the gauntlet to see how they felt.

 

Good, he thought.

 

He could hear the world outside his royal tent; the world of cheers, horses, sand, lances and honor. Adhemar ran a wet tongue over his lower lip and clicked at the roof of his mouth.

 

“Ensure it is as tight as can be, Germaine,” said Adhemar, “if it comes off during the joust, know that your son’s head shall come off his neck. Damn! I didn’t ask you to suffocate me, you moron!”

 

“Forgive me, my lord,” Germaine whimpered behind Adhemar.

 

“You should know by now that I don’t forgive,” said Adhemar. “All offending fingers should be cut off immediately, that’s how they don’t offend again.”

 

“My lord,” said Germaine, “do you intend to take lady Jocelyn as your wife?”

 

“No,” Adhemar replied, simply.

 

Germaine froze. “But… you went to see her father the night before.”

 

“I mean to raise his hopes up to the clouds, then turn his bluest skies the darkest grey with disappointment,” Adhemar said. “The marriage will make me stronger, no doubt, but it will save his family from sure ruin. And you know how much I hate the weak. Get me my helmet.”

 

The squire hurried over to a corner of the tent and roof off the helmet from a wooden pole. He hurried over and handed the metal to the count with shaky hands.

 

“Have you come up with a fine opening to announce me, Germaine?” asked Count Ahemar, standing before the mirror to adjust his collar. He smoothed his cheeks with the back of his hand, feeling for any surviving hair.

 

“Uh, yes – yes, I came up with something elaborate,” said Germaine.

 

The count hissed. “See why we should not allow the poor make it up to the blessed? They break into the circle of the rich and content, and bring in their new cultures. Since when did announcing a knight have to be elaborate? Yet, you must make it so, I will not have this peasant take all the glory this time.”

 

“Yes, my lord,” said Germaine, bowing beside the count.

 

“Who do you reckon will win the tilt?” asked Count Adhemar.

 

“You, my lord,” said Germaine before the question was even landed.

 

“Do you speak this out of fear?” asked Count Adhemar.

 

“I fear you, my count,” Germaine admitted earning a raised brow from his master. “But,” the herald quickly continued. “your record is spotless. No one has ever defeated you since you took to the lists, this wild horse is good, however I don’t believe he stands a chance against you.”

 

Count Adhemar cleared his throat to keep down the smile forming on his face. “You have spoken well, Germaine,” said the Count. “Now, there’s just one last errand for you to run this morning.”

 

“Germaine is at your service, my lord,” said the squire, falling on one knee.

 

“Go to the section of the market used by blacksmiths and ask after a man called Dory. Tell him you’re from me and he’ll give you coronals for the lances.”

 

A look of perplexity covered Germaine’s features. “My lord, the tournament host already provides enough coronals for the competitors.”

 

“Yes, and I say that they do not hit hard enough,” Count Adhemar said, “go to the blacksmith and get me the coronals I asked you to.”

 

Germaine rose to his feet and scurried out of the tent. Count Adhemar examined himself in the mirror one last time that cool morning; there was a rush in his veins, a rush that reminded him of the thrill of battlefield, the one place where it didn’t matter how skilled you were, luck was all that mattered.

 

“Be quiet,” he growled at his reflection.

 

The thought of relying on luck or anything else struck him as distasteful. That was one of the reasons he loved the joust, everything was depended on your calculation and it was just you and the man galloping from the other side of the track – no stray arrows from a lucky archer, no backstabs from cowardly soldiers.

 

He patted the soft thick curls of his auburn hair and stepped out of the tent with his helmet under his left arm. A younger squire was waiting for him outside with his steed, a fine brown monstrosity that had tasted the iron of blood and the chill of deathly battlefields.

 

The squire holding horse’s hurried to the side of the horse and knelt on one knee. Count Adhemar then climbed on the other knee on to his horse.

 

“Let’s go, Fury,” said the count, “patting the horse on the neck. Let’s go for one more victorious ride.”

 

The horse bobbed and started slowly. Trudging on with its head high like the man seated on it.

 

“Let’s cleanse the world of its filth.”