Surely tomorrow. This Sir Gabriel Androctus will find his match in Sir Orban of Kern. There was a time when Orban’s lance was known from here to Tarsi’s.
Sir Robert sleeps fitfully, hoping that the time of Orban’s lance is not over.
It is the fifth contest of the next day, according to the lots drawn from the golden helmet. Sir Robert is surly in impatience, this morning having scolded the Lady Enid virtually to tears (his own tears, mind you, for when scolded, the Lady Enid scolds back!). It is even rumored that on his way to the lists he slapped a dawdling servant.
It is as though a cloud has spread over the fields of contest, as Sir Robert di Caela sits sullenly, anxiously in the viewing stands through four lists he does not care about, waiting for the moment in which Sir Orban and the dark Gabriel Androctus break lances.
It comes at last, in the middle of the afternoon. The champions mount their destriers at opposite ends of the grounds, and their squires walk to the front of the viewing stands to present the champions’ regards to the host of the tournament. Sir Orban’s squire is a handsome, dark-haired lad inclining to heftiness, the nephew of Sir Ramiro of the Maw, who was defeated by his own wine and by Sir Prosper Inverno on the first day of the tournament. Ramiro, escorted by some unidentified young woman, now sits in the audience next to Sir Robert. They all are applauding the manners of this portly nephew.
Sir Gabriel’s squire, on the other hand, is as great a mystery as his protector. A slight figure hooded in black, he had not attended the first day’s contest; indeed, everyone thought that Sir Gabriel had arrived alone. No matter who he is or where he comes from, the squire is proficient: he recites the ceremonial words flawlessly and without warmth, returning at once to the side of his protector. Now slowly the squires lead the horses to the spots where visors close, where lances are proffered.
Again, Sir Gabriel Androctus makes a point of switching his lance from the left hand to the right. Sir Robert di Caela swears a most un-Solamnic oath under his breath.
The villain is saying he can beat him with the off hand, Sir Robert thinks. And wonders if Sir Gabriel Androctus will make good his boast.
The first pass goes better than yesterday’s, Sir Robert thinks, as the Knights cross paths, each splintering his lance against the other’s bulky shield. Both Knights rise in the stirrups at collision, and Sir Robert’s teeth grind, his shoulder wrenches with the remembered pain of tournaments long past.
Each of the Knights turns his destrier about and reaches out his hand for another lance. The charge begins again at a signal from the marshal. The horses lurch forward like huge, ungainly wagons, and the Knights lean forward in the saddles, lances proffered and menacing.
On the second pass things change, profoundly and terribly. With a crash and the shrieking sound of metal scraped and twisted, Sir Gabriel’s lance strikes Sir Orban’s shield full on, and the sheer impact drives the weapon through the layers of metal and leather, then again into metal as the lance-head dives into Orban’s breastplate.
At once Sir Robert and Sir Ramiro are on their feet, calling foul. For no doubt the Hooded Knight’s weapons had been sharpened beforehand, arms extreme instead of arms courteous—not blunted and padded, as the tournament rules had demanded.
All of this makes no difference to the downed Sir Orban. Twice he tries to rise, and the second time, with a great and painful groan, manages to climb to his knees. There, covered in dust and earth, blood beginning to trickle from the tattered dent in the breastplate, blood trickling also between the vents in the visor as he coughs and coughs again, Sir Orban reels on his knees and falls face first just before the attendants reach him. His hefty squire, drawing strength from his outrage and panic, turns the armored body onto its back with a quick, smooth movement.
He opens the visor and bursts into tears.
“Receive his soul to Huma’s breast,” whispers Sir Ramiro.
Sir Orban’s parrot shrieks as though it is on fire.
Strong arms seize Gabriel Androctus, who opens his visor and stares with bloodless anger at the sorrow and commotion on the tournament grounds. He smiles faintly once: that is when the head of the lance is drawn from the breastplate still bearing, to the astonishment of everyone, the padding wrapped tightly about it.
“Arms courteous” he says. “By your rules, di Caela.”
By sheer force, unaided by blade or point or sharpened edge, he has driven his wooden lance into an armored opponent.
The marshals loosen their hold, out of astonishment. Androctus, not bothering to dismount, rides his destrier from the tournament grounds to his tent beyond the western edge of the encampments. His opponent for the next morning withdraws from the lists. It is a Knight from Ergoth, Sir Lyndon of Rocklin. The Knight and his host stand in the great hall of Castle di Caela. A chair lies in fragments in front of Sir Robert, where he has dashed it to the ground in his fury.
To his outraged host, Lyndon explains:
“I know how this looks, Sir Robert, and how it reflects ill on me. But despite the hooded gentleman’s assertions, despite the padding found upon the broken lance, something is surpassingly wrong here, surpassingly unfair in the doings of that black-garbed man.”
“I know, Lyndon, and by Huma we’ve done our damnedest to find him out. We have given that lance the once-over . . . the twice-over! Unless my eyes are bad, unless the marshals themselves are blind, Sir Gabriel has done nothing visibly unlawful. Terrifying, yes, in its clean and blind . . . brutality. But not unlawful.”
“Nonetheless,” maintains Sir Lyndon, “not the Lady Enid nor her considerable inheritance is enough to compromise my honor. And compromised it would be, were I to tilt against one who had advanced unfairly through the ranks of the tournament, killing a most admirable Knight in his treachery.”
“Do not confuse honor with fear, Sir Lyndon,” booms a voice from the entrance to the hall. It is Prosper Inverno of Zeriak, come to the great hall of Castle di Caela after his victory in the lists against Sir Ledyard.
“Impressive show of arms today, Inverno,” Sir Robert manages to say, drawing his anger under control at the arrival of his honored guest.
“I thank you, Sir Robert,” Sir Prosper replies cheerily. “Had I not unhorsed Sir Ledyard, he would have stood here instead of me. Indeed, I bear more bruises than he does, but he bears a large bruise, I am sure, where it will make it most uncomfortable for him to sit horse tomorrow. The fall was comical, and like a true Knight, he took it with laughter.”
Laughing softly and wearily, Sir Prosper walks to the center of the room. His dark green tunic is torn at the right shoulder, where Ledyard’s lance has battered against the incomparable translucent armor. Prosper seats himself gingerly, slowly. His legs ache from grasping the huge sides of the destrier.
“So, Lyndon. You’re about to withdraw and leave this . . . Grim Reaper to me?” He smiles, leans back in the chair, and crosses his legs painfully.
“The least you could do is bruise him a little this morning—soften him up for the afternoon’s joust against me.”
“B-but, Sir Prosper!”