Chapter 2 – A Song of Shepherds #7
“So that leaves Sir Edemir, Sir Auber, and Sir Bertin,” she said, sitting back down as Sir Osinot made his way off the field. “Will they all fight each other? ”
“Yes, with total points to determine the winner.”
“Who do you think will win?”
“I’m not telling,” he said, glancing at her with a glint of humor. “Are you enjoying your first tourney?”
“Yes,” she said fervently, flicking out her fan and feeling as if she rather needed it. It was the most exciting thing she had ever seen.
Until Sir Bertin and Sir Auber rode against each other.
Really, that was the closest contest of the day.
Ophele had no gauge at all for jousting and no idea whether she was watching something ordinary or extraordinary, but Remin certainly seemed impressed as the men swayed out of the path of the lances again and again, doubly remarkable in heavy armor.
It was meant to be the best of three passes, but neither struck a blow, and then both did at once, wooden splinters flying every which way.
“They both have to be steady to land a strike,” Remin explained, his face intent on the pair. “They’re good. They have a moment to see the other one squaring up and aim, a split second where they’re steady enough to be a target. They’re very good.”
“Better than you?” she asked curiously.
“They might take a few points from me,” he said, with a gleam in his eyes that was really no answer at all.
Six rounds later, the score remained resolutely tied as the two knights shattered lance after lance, so evenly matched that every clash was more nerve-wracking than the last. Finally, Sir Miche appeared, his damp golden hair darkened to the color of honey, and swept his usual extravagant bow to Ophele.
“Lovely lady,” he said, and cut his hazel eyes over to Remin. “Honored lord. Bram sends me to say we are almost out of lances. Edemir says he doesn’t mind conceding the field.”
“If it’s a draw, it’s a draw,” Remin said with a shrug. “Let them have a last try. Tell them to make it count.”
Miche nodded and turned, signaling to Sir Bram on the far side of the field with a single finger, and then sliced the finger over his own throat in a gesture that likely meant tell them to finish it but Ophele fancied could also be the old Imperial signal for fight to the death.
The blond knight flopped into the lower chair on the dais with an exaggerated sigh .
“That was exhausting,” he said to the world in general. “Are you still determined to have your test, Rem?”
“Of course.”
“He thinks there will be soldiers willing to go through Remin Grimjaw to be your guard, my lady.” Sir Miche turned toward her to confide this information in an exaggerated whisper, as if Remin weren’t sitting right there listening.
“I told him they’d sooner head to Hara Vos for another dragon expedition. ”
“You’re making my guards fight you?” Ophele badly wanted to ask about the dragon expedition, but first things first. Remin had hinted that there was some selection process underway, but she had imagined something more…administrative.
“Your prospective guards,” Remin corrected. “I’ll take your bet, Miche, if you want to put money on it.”
“Only a fool bets with the participants,” the knight said, waving negligently. “Though I will put money on Auber for the last pass, if you’re set on wagering.”
“That’s where I’d place my own bet,” Remin replied, sitting forward as the two knights on the field moved into position for their final contest.
So, they were just going to pretend that no one had said anything about her guards fighting for the privilege. Ophele was torn. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to, unless there were some other significant incentives, and if there were…Remin was planning to fight all of them?
She was so distracted, she almost missed the end of the joust. Her head jerked up at the pounding of hooves, closing the distance so fast, and Ophele felt the breathless instant when the knights hung in the air, almost seeming to fly, braced up in their stirrups as they turned to drive their lances home.
Distantly, she heard Remin and Sir Miche shouting, almost drowned out by the screaming of the crowd.
Helmets turned, finding their targets. And since both Sir Miche and Remin were betting on Sir Auber, Ophele was watching as his body swiveled, the point of his lance circling to thrust Sir Bertin’s lance out and away and slamming into his shoulder to nearly knock him from the saddle.
The horses’ hooves struck the earth in ringing silence.
Sir Auber threw his broken lance down .
The field exploded with cheers. Ophele didn’t even realize she was on her feet, clapping and shouting, bouncing on her heels and applauding until her hands stung.
“He parried it!” she exclaimed, looking up at Remin with glowing eyes. “Didn’t he? As if it was a sword!”
“Yes, exactly.” His big hand squeezed her shoulder in his excitement. “Did you like it, wife?”
“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “I wish we could give them both prizes, they were so good!”
“You can tell them that,” he said, gesturing to the approaching knights. “Bertin will appreciate it. Tell them they both fought hard.”
“They did,” she agreed, and she did tell them as they came to kneel before the dais, battered and dusty and disheveled, but pleased.
This was a side to the mild Sir Auber she had never imagined, and she was so glad for him that his family was here to see it, hugging each other rapturously a short distance away.
“Thank you both,” she said, so impressed with them that she forgot all about the watching crowd. “It was such a close match, I’m so glad this was the first joust I ever saw. Oh, the prize,” she remembered, turning to take it from Sir Miche. “Sir Auber. Congratulations on your victory.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Bowing, he accepted the plain golden cup.
“It’s also the valley’s first tournament,” she added impulsively, glancing at Sir Edemir behind them. “The first tournament in the duchy, ever. And all of you were the first to compete in it. His Grace’s first champions.”
“We will record it,” Sir Edemir agreed, meeting her eyes with surprise and appreciation.
It was something to think about. This might be a humble beginning compared to tourneys she had read about in books, with hundreds of combatants from dozens of noble houses, and prizes that were masterpieces of gold and gems, enough to make the fortune of a family.
But one day House Andelin would be anything but humble.
She knew it because she knew Remin, and Remin built on bedrock.
Though she had a few misgivings about the next event.
“You’re really going to fight all of them?” she asked him a little faintly as a line of armored men took the field, anonymous in their helmets and formidable-looking. “By yourself? ”
“They’ll just get in each other’s way,” he assured her cheerfully, and brushed her fingers with his hand. “Don’t worry, wife, it’ll be all right.”
Vaulting onto the field, he strode toward the waiting combatants, to make his own little bit of history.