“I am glad Count Adhemar was not the man you faced after Sir Hector died,” said Roland, “You wouldn’t have a head on your neck again if he was.”

“Speaking of heads,” Wat began, hotly. “Don’t you think his is fast becoming a weakness? Every time he’s lost, it is always to a blow to the head.”

“Would you have me take it off, Master Fowlehurst,” asked William, holding a towel to his right eye.

Wat chewed at the air at this. “What? Why is everyone staring at me?”

“We’re just wondering what you were thinking going after Sir Adhemar like that,” said Roland. “But for Geoffrey who pushed you back, you were going to jump over the fence and do what? Hit a knight? A warlord!”

“What’s wrong with hitting a warlord?” asked Wat, honestly.

Roland swelled visibly. “Rise William, it’s time to receive prizes and for me to stay away from Wat. Next thing he’d be asking why fires burn.”

The award presentation took place at the noble stand. It always does. The event host was standing with the awards for various tournaments in hand, the greatest of them being the prize for jousting.

“… For long spear on foot, Sir Paldofo Maletesta!” the tourney record keeper, a bald thick man, announced. A cheer and applause erupted from the crowd and Sir Paldofo came forward to receive his prize; a miniature golden chest handed over by the lady of Rouen.

“For sword on foot, Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein!”

There was an outburst among the crowd. Loud cheers and thunderous applause spread across the whole stands as William stepped forward to receive his prize. A miniature statue of a golden swordsman holding his blade above his head.

The noise quieted and the record keeper continued. “And for the joust, the winner is Count Adhemar of Anjou!”

A loud outburst of cheers and whistles and whatnot broke forth among the crowds, alongside chants of Adhemar! Adhemar!!

Count Adhemar received a statue larger in size than both Sir Paldofo and William’s. He was given a horseman holding a lance in his left hand.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you your champions!” the man boomed and the crowd joined their hands together in appreciative applause.

The champions waved at the cheering crowds.

William stepped closer to Count Adhemar. “Next time we meet,” said he to the Count. “You will look up at me from the flat of your back.”

A daring thing for a Knight to say to a Count.

“Please,” said Count Adhemar, as though telling a stubborn child off for the last time. “You have been weighed, you have been measured, and you have been found wanting.”

And so saying, the Count left William feeling as wrathful as a snake with a rapped tail.

“We did it!” Roland, Geoffrey and Wat shouted with glee, behind William. They ran up to him and put their hands on his shoulders, but he merely shrugged them off and started in direction of their camp.

“Keep winning the sword and we’ll be rich!” said Roland, oblivious to the indignation boiling through his pal.

“I won’t compete in the sword tournament again,” said William.

“What?!” he gawked. “But it’s your best event!”

“Exactly,” said William, turning around to face them. “I will concentrate on the joust. I will be tournament champion or nothing at all.”

“Listen, it’s the devil telling you what you’re thinking right now,” said Geoffrey, “Your ability to handle the sword is nothing like I’ve seen before.”

“Easy for you to say,” said William, scoffing. “How many tournaments have you been to?” he turned around and resumed his determined march through the excited crowd.

“Do you realize that I am a writer? I’ve attended more fights than you’ll ever live long enough to compete in,” Geoffrey snapped.

“Stop, William,” said Roland, spinning William around with such force.

“What?” William barked, eyes flashing white anger.

“Why are you dropping the sword fight? Is it because you want to or because you want to beat Count Adhemar so badly?” asked Roland.

William wiped the cold drops of sweat that had formed across his forehead.

“That’s… well… yes, and so what?” said he. “Do you know how I feel right now? I just lost to that arrogant fellow.”

“But he’s fought more than twenty tournaments, this is your first,” said Wat.

“You seem to forget he’s won them all,” said William, “Including his first. And this is not Sir Ulrich’s first tournament.”

“We didn’t come here because we supported Sir Ulrich,” said Wat, his red hair blazed brightly like flames on his head. “I wouldn’t give my lunch to Sir Ulrich no matter what that makes me. But for William Thatcher, I was willing to do everything.”

“Sir Ulrich is William Thatcher,” said William, before stomping off.

“No,” said Roland, yelling behind William. “William would never give up his dreams and hopes for personal vendettas, maybe Sir Ulrich will.”

William froze at this. He stopped walking and allowed those passing brush him past.

“Alright!” he said, turning around. “I won’t drop the swordfight. But we must hurry to the next tournament.”