The Tourney

William hefted his shield and ducked down as the axe descended. He was well-braced and kept his footing as the weapon glanced off the irregular pentagon of layered wood strapped to his left forearm. Before his opponent could recover, he straightened his upper body and lunged forward, sword arm uncoiling like a whip. 

His sword lashed out, scoring a solid hit on his foe’s upper arm, making him drop the axe. Before the stunned Norseman could react, William pivoted and, after feinting low, drove his sword squarely into his foe’s armored chest – a fatal wound.

William stepped back as the crowd’s applause rolled over him. He leaned forward and removed his light helmet. The slight breeze dried the sweat on the back of his neck. The spring air was cool, but not for someone wearing chain mail over a padded under tunic. His gauntleted fingers swiped clumsily through his dirty blond hair. He didn’t want any of it hanging in his eyes for the final round of the tournament.

Trumpets pealed and a herald, resplendent as a tropical bird in his colorful plumage, announced his final opponent, a Sir ‘Morgan Gallowglass’.

William frowned as the slim figure made his way onto the tourney grounds. The surname suggested a mercenary, or one descended from such. He supposed a successful one might purchase a title, though the practice was frowned upon.

Tall and rangy, Sir Morgan dressed the part of a mercenary. Cuir bouilli, or boiled leather armor protected the chest and upper thighs. The rest was mis-matched gear for the most part, including a light summer-weight helmet similar to his own, save for the coarse grill obscuring the eyes and face. However, the weapons, a long sword and main gauche, looked very well cared for. William decided not to take his final opponent lightly.

No sooner had Milord signaled the start of the match, than William discovered the reason for his foe’s light armor. Sir Morgan immediately leapt to the attack, raining down blows like a cloudburst, and forcing William back a step.

With a hard swipe of his shield, William managed to get both sword and dagger out of the line of attack at the same instant. That was enough time for him to launch a counteroffensive, and his own sword clove the air occupied by Sir Morgan’s helm a moment earlier. The mercenary-cum-knight was forced to back-pedal as William drove forward.

William beat back two feints toward his helmet and lunged forward, his sword driving toward his opponent’s chest. He was inches from his target when Sir Morgan’s knees buckled and he spun away from the blade, his own sword lashing out under William’s shield.

William managed to catch most of the blow’s force on the rim of his shield, and the chainmail absorbed what was left. But his crouching foe’s unexpected attack had left him badly off balance. It was all he could do to throw himself back as that sword sought to reap his legs like autumn wheat. Sir Morgan rose from his crouch like a large and dangerous feline and William felt uneasy for a moment.

That comparison seemed particularly apt, because when Morgan went on the offensive again, William felt like he was being stalked by a big cat. Sword and dagger lashed out, as quick as a cat’s paws, and he was barely able to parry and block. He retreated, his boots churning the dusty soil, as he tried to regain the initiative.

He saw his chance when he ducked under a solid blow that scraped by the top of his helmet. Driving off his back leg, he swept his shield forward to block the main gauche, hoping his greater mass would force his agile foe to give ground. Unexpectedly, Sir Morgan reversed the long knife in his hand, laying the length of the blade along his forearm. He jammed the crossguard into the edge of William’s shield, pulling it outward, rather than pushing against it as he expected.

For a fatal instant, his shield was pulled out of position, and Sir Morgan’s longsword slammed into his unprotected torso. He felt the solid impact like he wasn’t wearing any armor at all and knew he was dead.

William fell to his knees with a sigh of disgust, his mind barely registering the gasps from the crowd as the odds-on favorite was defeated. He crumpled backward, lying down in the churned earth. He saw the herald, that useless popinjay, congratulate the victor. Sir Morgan removed his helmet and William almost laughed aloud.

It was not beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, but the hard-looking face with dull brown hair drawn back in a French braid was obviously female. He’d been defeated by a woman.

William grinned as he sat up and quietly removed himself from the field of honor. Some of the other participants in the Grand Tourney were glaring and muttering. Let them. He hadn’t driven all this way and camped out for two nights, only to come in second best. But he couldn’t become too angry. She’d earned her victory honestly – she was damn good. Maybe he could find out where she’d learned to move like that.

His thoughts progressed while his eyes and hands moved automatically. He loosened the straps on his shield, removed it, and carefully inspected the padded edges for signs of wear. Likewise, his rattan sword showed no signs of damage and was still safe to use. The sword went into a ‘sheath’ that was more like a sling on his belt, while the shield was easily hooked onto a loop on the back of his baldric, holding it out of the way.

Sir Morgan, accepted the “king’s” award, dropping gracefully to one knee, but the applause that generated was tepid at best. William frowned and tugged off his gauntlets, tucking the cuffs under his belt. He began clapping loudly, glaring at the silent contestants around him. If they wanted to be knights, they needed to act with a little more honor, his scowl plainly said. The applause reluctantly swelled as the victor rose to her feet, two spots of color faintly visible high on her cheeks.