A fury cold and bitter spread through Count Adhemar like black poison. His hands shook round the unbroken lance like thin reeds at the mercy of the winds.

He glanced up to see his lance, the black fist at the tip unbroken, pointing to the blazing sun overhead. His eyes went to the scoreboard and he saw that two flags had been added to Sir Ulrich’s shield and only one to his.

And… the next pass was the last pass. To beat Sir Ulrich, he needed two points at the least.

“My lord,” Germaine bowed before him. “Are you alright?”

“Get away from me,” he snarled, before slapping his visor shut.

The first pass had hit him with such force as never before. A splinter from Sir Ulrich’s lance had struck him inch deep in the area between his arm and his body.

Count Adhemar dared to glance at young Jocelyn’s way and he saw that her eyes were fixated on his opponent. All the while, she spared not one pity glance at his direction. Jealousy fueled hate, and a roaring fire of wrath blazed within his heart.

He closed his eyes and took in deep breaths. The shake around his hands stopped as though by command, he stopped moving, as did his horse. When those grey, deep eyes opened again, there was a wicked resolution that would have brought shudders down the soul of any man in them.

Count Adhemar urged his horse around and prepared to run the track one last time. This was the decisive pass, if he lost it, then it was over.

He stamped the base of his lance on damp earth and prepared to attack. Never had he lost a battle before, or a tilt, and he had no plans to do it against a knight as unrefined as Sir Ulrich.

The flag for the list pass was raised and he braced up. His target also before him, stiffened and ready to charge down the list.

Down came the flag.

Count Adhemar did not hurry as the other times when he charged against Sir Ulrich. For the plan in his head to work, he needed balance, not speed. Every warrior he’s ever met had everything they needed to survive, what they all forgot to work on was their decision making skills, and he just about excelled at that.

His horse galloped, quick but steady while Sir Ulrich rushed forward like a wave of wild locusts.

Inch by inch they neared each other, Count Adhemar’s lance aimed at Sir Ulrich’s right shoulder even if it was not his target.

His target was, Sir Ulrich’s head.

Once the distance between them was no more than six feet, Count Adhemar aimed at the left shoulder, but it was only a feint. He knew Sir Ulrich would be braced for a hit on the body, but the head? No.

At three feet, Count Adhemar swayed his lance upwards as he’d done so many times before then. But for the helmet, he was certain he’d have seen shock evident on Sir Ulrich’s visage.

Count Adhemar’s lance smashed into Sir Ulrich’s face, knocking the helmet off the knight’s head entirely. He rode past with a wicked smile on his face. The smile of a man who’d just gained two points instead of one.

He pulled his horse to a halt and returned to the list. There was a white scarf on the floor, the same scarf he was certain Jocelyn’s handmaid had come to deliver to Sir Ulrich just before the tilt began. Count Adhemar picked it up with what was left of his lance and cantered towards Sir Ulrich who was surrounded by his squires of equally disreputable appearance.

“Gelderland must be short on warriors to have sent a man like you,” he said, pulling his visor up. “Gain more bearing, Sir Ulrich. Come see me again when you’re worthy.”

He scoffed and continued his victorious canter towards the noble stands where Jocelyn sat.

“I believe this is yours,” he said, stretching the lance so she could take the scarf off it.

The lady snatched up with cloth and folded it away, blushing to a painful red as she did so.

“Trophies are for winners,” he said to her. “And I never lose whatever game I play at.”