The noise was just as Sir William remembered it to be; loud, wild and exhilarating. The voice of ten thousand spectators eager to watch men crush each other off the horse. His eyes went to the boxes on the noble stand, and he bowed to King Edward. He looked around for someone else…

 

Adhemar's POV ***

 

Count Adhemar couldn’t believe his ears when he heard Sir William was competing again, and that he was doing so in the capacity of a knight. Not until that moment when he was standing across the recalcitrant devil.

 

“He refuses to die,” Count Adhemar growled. “He keeps coming back like a fly to dump.”

 

“But he can die, my lord,” said one of his varlets. “Accidents happen.”

 

“He has the body of an ape, how am I supposed to kill him with a lance?” Count Adhemar snapped at them.

 

“With a lance designed to kill, my lord,” said the varlet, chuckling. “Myself and the rest have come up with this lance that kills flies as Sir William there.”

 

“Don’t call him ‘Sir’ beside me,” Count Adhemar warned.

 

“Yes,” said the varlet, handing over a lance to Count Adhemar. “This is the special formula for his defeat or demise.”

 

Count Adhemar took the lance and examined it. “Are you sure?” he said, scrutinizing the lance.

 

“Aye,” replied the varlet. “The tip is nothing but spun sugar and boot black.”

 

Count Adhemar scowled; if the tip was weak, then it meant it was only covering something. He wrapped his fist around the coronal and squeezed. Behold! The coronal shattered to dust and beneath it was the sharp point of a spear.

 

Count Adhemar chuckled. “Interesting, bring me another,” he said, before mounting his black horse. His eyes went to Sir William, and just before he lowered his visor, a smile spread across his face.

 

William's POV ***

 

It took Ralph and Wat to get Sir William onto his horse, and even at that, he couldn’t stop wincing in pain. By the time he was on the horse, he was already breathing as heavily as a mule after plowing.

 

“It’s a small target, and I wonder if there is one there at all,” said Geoffrey, handing Sir William his lance. “But aim for his heart.”

 

The match official ran to the middle of the list with a white flag in his hand raised up. He glanced at both competitors, looked in direction of the king and bore the flag down.

 

Both men kicked their horses into action, galloping to the point where they’d crash their lances into each other’s armor.

 

As Sir William rode, his eyes blurred and the images in his sight doubled. When the knights met, Sir William’s lance bounced off Count Adhemar’s armor for lack of power, however, Count Adhemar’s struck into Sir William.

 

But that was not all.

 

Rather than bounce off him, Count Adhemar’s lance had penetrated Sir William’s shoulder and no less than two feet of splintered wood was sticking out of his body. He let out a loud howl like a wounded wolf and tilted heavily to the left.

 

One flag shot up to record a point for Count Adhemar while there was none for Sir William. It was a wonder he did not fall off his horse, for he bore this way and that way like an absolute drunk.

 

“William!” cried Wat and Roland as they ran up to catch him halfway. The broken lance was still sticking out from him like a sword.

 

“Let me go fetch a surgeon, Will,” said Roland, making to leave.

 

“No,” Sir William said, groaning. His face was red and covered with sweat. “You are the surgeon now. Be quick.”

 

Roland gulped saliva and looked at Wat who gave him a sympathetic sigh. He reached up, grabbed the end of the stick and pulled it out at once. Sir William screamed into his hands and Ralph had to hold Kate because she wanted to rush to count Ademar.

 

“Dirty, cheating, lying, sneaky…” Roland droned angrily as he held the sharp point up. It was obvious the point was no accident, nay, it was far too well done to be a splinter.

 

“I will be back,” said Ralph, running out of the tourney ground.

 

They didn’t have the time to ask Ralph where he was headed, for as they glanced behind them, they saw Count Adhemar was already at the starting point, ready for the second tilt.

 

“Take me to the starting point or I’ll be withdrawn,” Sir William groaned.

 

Roland led the horse to the starting point. Wat hurried and handed the lance over to Sir William, but when the latter tried to grip it, it fell from his hands.

 

“I can barely grip it,” Sir William cried.

 

They tried again, setting the lance into cradle but even at that, it still fell from his hands. The tourney official brought the flag down and Count Adhemar kicked into a hard gallop.

 

The crowd in the stands rose to their feet and gasped in horror as Sir William’s lance swung out of control and pitched about wildly, while Count Adhemar shattered his lance squarely on Sir William’s chest.

 

“I can’t – I can’t breathe,” said Sir William, hissing as he returned to his crew.

 

“Of course you can’t breathe,” said Kate, “the armor has bent onto your chest. Take off the breast plates.”

 

Roland and Wat undid the strap of the breast plate and took it off. The whole of Sir William’s tunic was wet and bloody on the side where Count Adhemar’s first lance had broken into him.

 

Count Adhemar strolled past Sir William with his visor pulled up and a devilish grin on his face. “If you’d like to keep your honor, I’ll ride the third pass clean so you won’t have to withdraw.” He went away laughing like a hyena after a hearty meal.

 

“Look, William,” Geoffrey cried, “She is here, and your father.”

 

Sir William raised his gaze to the box where Lady Jocelyn and his father sat and a smile broke across his features.

 

Ralph returned about the same time with a strange looking strap in his hands. “Let’s strap the lance to his arm,” he said to Wat and Roland.

 

“What is that?” asked Wat.

 

“A special contraption I designed to hold the lance to the arm in case of a broken wrist, or dead hand,” said Ralph as he did the buckles, securing the lance firmly to Sir William’s arm. “I figured the force of the smash is usually enough to crack the wrist. So, here goes all.”

 

“Listen William,” said Roland, “It is two lances to one. You must unhorse him or kill him. That is the only way to win, and it is all the strategy we have. Use your heart Will, use your intention.”

 

“Your breastplate?” said Ralph, holding the metal up.

 

“No,” said Sir William, “I can’t move in it. The arm strap is loosened, have it done tighter.”

 

“Geoffrey, go stall for time,” said Roland. “We need to fix this strap first.”

 

“You can count on me,” said Geoffrey, hurrying to the midst of the list. He stood with his arms spread apart and that got everyone’s attention. “My King! My Queen! Lords! Ladies! People! I’ve been remiss in my introduction! May I present my lord! One of your own! Born on the Salpool bridge and before you now, Son of John Thatcher! Siiiiir Williiiiam Thaaatcher!”

 

Sir William’s eyes went to his father where he sat beside Lady Jocelyn. He could see the proud look on the man’s face, happy as a lark though he be blind as a bat in daytime.

 

Wat leaned in closer and uttered, "Your father heard that William. Sir William Thatcher, that's who you are. You changed your stars just like he said you could."

 

The trumpets blew and the flag at the center of the list was raised. Everyone held their breath for the last piece of action, King Edward had to be pulled back into his seat by his queen.

 

The flag went down.

 

Sir William kicked his horse into a trot, without his armor or his helmet for that matter. Any strike would obliterate him forever, and it may very well be the last time he would ever tilt. He could hear his father’s voice in his head, telling him he could change his stars if he so wanted, Wat and Roland giving up their dreams to support him, Lady Jocelyn saying she was willing to run away with him.

 

And all of these memories became a fire that burned hell and passion in Sir William. All those sacrifices, all those expectations, all those wonderful people who gave up a part of their life for him.

 

The knights rushed at each other, lances aimed forward like the spears of a war calvary.

 

Sir William yelled as he thrust his lance forward. He crashed it squarely into Count Adhemar’s chest sending the knight flying out of his cradle.

 

Count Adhemar fell to the ground, and three flags shot up in procession over Sir William’s banner. The crowd erupted, it was madness, it was a frenzy and hot passion caged in a body too small for expression.

 

It was over, he had won three lances to Count Adhemar’s two. The fight was won.

 

Sir William leaned forward on his horse, sighed in relief and fell into a deep slumber.