William was still excited when they arrived back at the tent. And sure enough, Simon, the Summoner and Peter, the Pardoner, were waiting right outside for their credits to be paid. Alongside Ralph, the blacksmith holding a metal shear and his wife.

 

“Congratulations, Sir Ulrich,” said Simon, the Summoner, “we heard the tourney was fair to you after all.”

 

William looked from one creditor to the other. He grabbed his sword and cut a part of the prize he got from swordfight, and gave it to the duo.

 

“Ten silver florins you said,” said William, “that should be enough.”

 

Simon took the gold in his hand, weighed it in his hand and bobbed his head in satisfaction.

 

“It’s six and sevens tonight, Chaucer,” said Simon to Geoffrey, “feeling lucky?”

 

“Do you wear enough clothes?” Peter quipped, a mischievous grin on his face.

 

Geoffrey knitted his thick sandy-colored eyebrows together and looked about him. Sure enough, William, and the rest were looking at him to see his reaction.

 

“Begone,” he said, waving them away. “I’m through with you.”

 

Simon and Peter sniggered like two overgrown bullies and turned away.

 

“Except of course to deal with you,” Geoffrey landed, standing arms akimbo.

 

Peter and Simon froze in their tracks and turned about very slowly, a corner of their mouths raised in utter dare.

 

“And what could you possibly do to us?” asked Simon, the smallest of the pair.

 

Geoffrey walked close to them so only inches separated them.

 

“I will eviscerate you in fiction,” said Geoffrey, looking from Peter to Simon back and forth. “Every pimple, every last character flaw. I was naked for a day, you shall be naked for eternity.”

 

The men merely chuckled at this.

 

“I have a feeling we will meet again very soon,” said Simon, ominously as they departed.

 

William sighed in relief. “Here, Ralph,” said he, throwing the prize at the blacksmith. “Take what we owe you.”

 

Ralph took the statue and was halfway cutting it when he raised his head up suddenly.

 

“The armor you wear,” he began, “it was not made for you, was it?”

 

A wave of panic struck William and he glanced at his cohorts. Of course, it was not made for him, the original owner died taking a dump at the foot of a tree.

 

“So, what of it?” asked William, warily.

 

“I can make you a finer armor, strong and fit for royalty,” said Ralph, passionately.

 

William bobbed his head, remembering someone had called his armor ‘quaint’. “And what’s the price for that?”

 

Ralph’s face grew animated at this. “Take me and my wife with you,” said the blacksmith. “We want to be a part of this.”

 

“Part of what?” asked William. “We are nothing Ralph Farris. Take your gold and leave.”

 

Ralph grunted, took the statue and sheared off what he considered was his service worth. More interesting was when he threw what was left of the statue at William before marching off with his wife.

 

William swirled around and the rest flinched backwards. He threw the nearly diminished statue and threw it at Roland. “Get what you can from what's left, the rest of us will pack camp.”

 

“Pack camp?” Wat repeated, a perplexed expression on his face.

 

“We’re leaving,” said William, loading their baggage onto their cart. The same cart they had used when William was still training in the forest. “The tournament at Dugbe starts in a week. If we leave now, we can walk most of the way and spare the horse.”

 

“No, we are not!” said Geoffrey, unloading the cart. “What about the banquet tonight? The dance? You won the sword, you have to make an appearance!”

 

“So Adhemar can have another laugh at me?” said William, snorting. “I think not.” And on that note, he began to load up the cart again, starting with the horse saddle.

 

“No,” said Geoffrey, unloading the horse saddle from the cart. “You must go to the banquet, you have to dance and have to make an appearance.”

 

“No,” said William, loading the saddle back on the cart.

 

“Yes!” Geoffrey said, unloading the cart.

 

“No!”

 

“Yes!”

 

And while both men screamed back no and yes between themselves like two kids fighting over a sea horse, Roland was clearing his throat to gain their attention. It was not until Wat intervened that they stopped their bickering, fortunately, long enough to see the woman standing before Roland. They quickly disengaged, cleaning their hands on their bodies as though to wipe their crimes off their hands.

 

“My lady would know the color of your lord’s tunic tonight,” said Christiana.

 

“His tunic?” asked Roland.

 

“Yes,” said Christiana, bobbing her head. “So that she can dress to match him.”

 

William and Geoffrey stole glances at each other, and immediately, William’s eyes widened at the mischievous grin that spread across the writer’s face.

 

“Ahem!” Geoffrey began, picking up the saddle from the ground and loading it in the cart. “We regret to inform your lady but Sir Ulrich won’t be attending—”

 

“Herald!” William snapped. “Do not answer questions you do not know the answer to.”

 

Geoffrey gave a mock bow and looked away.

 

“Squire?” William said to Roland. “Answer her. What… ah… is the color of my tunic tonight?”

 

A blank expression eclipsed Roland’s face; just a short while ago, he was trying to convince William to join the banquet, now he was to select the tunic’s color. He smiled nervously at Christiana and cast a quick glance at his environment. There was nothing much but tents and… tents!

 

His face lit up. “G- green with a kind of wooden toggles.”

 

Christiana curtsied and took her leave after a bow.

 

William immediately slapped his forehead with a palm. “Oh,” he said, groaning. “This is such a disaster!”

 

“Why?” asked Roland, who was already fantasizing about the design he would make for the tunic. “It’ll tunic up nicely.”

 

“No, that’s not the disaster,” said William, pulling at his face. “I can’t dance!”

 

“Oh!” Roland, Wat, and Geoffrey chorused at once.