“We should get you another armor,” said Roland and he held the sides of William’s armor in place while Wat did the latches from behind.

 

“Yes… you should,” said William, in a strained voice. “if I have to endure this antediluvian trinket again, I’ll die of mortification and suffocation.”

 

“What is antediluvian?” asked Wat.

 

“It means something so ancient, Noah of the old world might have worn it while he stepped out of the ark,” Geoffrey suggested.

 

“I didn’t ask you, I knew what he meant,” Wat snapped at Geoffrey.

 

“Fine, fine,” said Geoffrey, raising a hand in surrender.

 

William and Roland chuckled at this.

 

“What do you think will happen if the armor falls off while I joust?” asked William.

 

“What? We were all born without tunics and armors,” said Geoffrey.

 

“Easy for you to say,” Roland said, pulling a stick out of William’s hair. “You’ve trudged without clothes twice, us never. Pray it doesn’t happen, William, the lady will never spare you a glance afterwards.”

 

William sighed and allowed his eyes fall into a dreamy stare.

 

“Excellent of you, Roland,” Wat barked. “You’ve gone on to remind the hopeless romantic about the lady.”

 

“Yes,” said Roland, without remorse. “And I should remind him she’s not going to spare him a glance if he loses the joust either. Women like men that win, not the ones that get lanced off their horses.”

 

William raised his head to the roof of the tent. The patches and holes and window in it might be beauties at night, but that morning they were nothing short of hideous and disgraceful.

 

“Do you think they’ll name this place after us?” asked William, staring at the holes in the roof. “Street of the tattered tent?”

 

“No, they’ll forget about us when a poorer man comes along,” said Geoffrey, “Although street of the tattered tent is such a poetic name.”

 

“Fetch the horse, Wat,” Roland grunted while the redhead bolted out of the tent.

 

“Roland,” William began, “you’re a master of the game. What do you suggest I do while fighting Adhemar?”

 

“I only saw Adhemar fight once,” said Roland, “it was at a tour Sir Hector and I ventured on long ago. Sir Hector would have won the tournament but for Adhemar, and till date, only Sir Colville comes close to Adhemar’s fine technique.”

 

“Don’t worry about it too much,” said Geoffrey, patting William on the shoulder. “No one knew you’d make it this far anyways, and yet, we’re on course for gold.”

 

“How’s my hair, Roland?” asked William.

 

Roland stared long William’s blond, thick curls. “It’s… well… I think it’s perfect.”

 

Geoffrey coughed.

 

“How does it look?” said William, turning to Geoffrey.

 

The writer put two fingers to his lips and winced. “Like frozen spaghetti mixed with dried thyme.”

 

“I appreciate your honesty,” said William, heading out of the tent. “Add a mirror to the list of things we need.”

 

The horse was standing outside, black, strong and due for retirement. Wat gleamed a smile at William when he emerged.

 

“Come, let me help you up the horse,” Wat said, going down on one knee.

 

“I can get up the horse, Wat,” William grumbled. “You’re not my servant.”

 

“No, I’m not your servant,” said Wat, “I’m doing this because I want to. And besides, how’re you going to get up the horse after all the fix we’ve done on the armor?”

 

William sighed, and climbed up the horse from Wat’s leg. “I won’t ever forget this, Wat,” he looked up at Roland and Geoffrey. “I won’t ever forget any of the sacrifices you have made for me.”

 

“You won’t,” said Wat, “because we’re going to be with you all the way. Now go win us some gold, I can’t wait to have a decent meal.”

 

William bowed at his company, and they returned with the same honorable bow. Some actions are minute and yet, far more significant than given credit for. In that moment, all four men had committed themselves to the oath of eternal friendship without saying a word of swear. But somewhere deep in their souls, a new covenant had that held them together like planets in their orbits had formed.

 

William noticed that he, Sir Ulrich, had more eyes than was norm staring at him. As he walked through the crowd in the city of Rouen, he noticed how everyone in the way cleared for him. He assumed it was because he was riding a horse until a rider stood aside for him to pass by. The rider bowed to William and the latter returned the gesture.

 

“What you see now, Sir Ulrich, is called fame,” said Roland. “It’s good, but don’t let it get into your head. Honor earned by winning all the time is hardly worth relying on.”

 

“Why do you say so, Roland?” asked Wat.

 

“Because it disappears the minute you earn your first loss,” Geoffrey replied. “How can you not know that much, Sir Fowlehurst.”

 

Wat gritted his teeth. “Shut up.”

 

The heat was excessive that morning, and it was almost noon by the time the list was to commence. The tourney grounds felt different that morning; charged like there was electricity in the air. Children in the peasant stands had their faces painted the yellow and green of Sir Ulrich’s phoenix insignia. Toy samples of his aged visor was donned by the adults. His eyes strolled over to the nobles stand, there was no such thing as the slightest sign of excitement, although William thought some wore the closest colors to yellow and green.

 

A terrible ache filled his chest when his eyes fell on the woman in the stands.

 

William resisted the urge to mention anything about her to his companions. He got off his horse to give it one last inspection, and as he did, Count Adhemar emerged with his entourage. Entourage because there was a trumpeter ahead of him herald blowing noise and announcing his presence.

 

William squinted his eyes in the merciless sun. Jet black armor on horse and rider, he thought Count Adhemar looked more like a messenger of hades than a knight.

 

“Count Adhemar…” he said aside to Roland. “The man who has never lost.”

 

Roland turned to face William and fumbled with the latch around his armor. “Defeat him and you’ll see it firsthand.”

 

“My liege,” William heard someone call, but it was one of those times when he heard words though they made no sense whatsoever to him.

 

“Sir Ulrich!”

 

This time, the call was followed by quick knocks on the small shield about his left arm.

 

William was startled visibly by this. He frowned when he saw it was Geoffrey and bit his tongue when he noticed the woman behind the herald.

 

“This is Christiana,” said Geoffrey, gesturing at the lady.

 

Christiana was slender and fair and clad in a blue tunic with a cost of lighter shade. She had her burnt brown hair done in two long, straight fashion so that it nearly reached her waist on the front.

 

She bowed to William who returned the greeting with skepticism. His response, however, seemed to have intrigued the lady.

 

“My lady bids you to wear this token,” she said, holding out a white, transparent scarf with golden embroidery around the edges.

 

“Of course,” said William, taking the scarf from her.

 

“She also says to tell you, that her name…”

 

At this juncture, Wat, William, and Roland were all looking forward with curiosity etched heavily on their faces, only Geoffrey looked unimpressed.

 

“…is Jocelyn,” Christiana said at last.

 

“Jocelyn…” William murmured softly.

 

“Au revoir,” Geoffrey said to Christiana as she bowed and took her leave.

 

Meanwhile, Roland and William had their mouths half open in awe. Geoffrey pushed Roland’s jaw shut and the latter patted William on the back. “Concentrate. It is time.”