Queen Of Knights (20 page)

"I understand," Gwendolyn had told him, and she did.  She knew well the history of the tournament.  It was a Norman tradition, used to train their knights for battle.  Only rarely was there a tournament such as Miles and Morgan had fought, when only one knight faced another.  Most were like the one today, a melee.  There would be two sides-two armies-who would fight each other.  And, as the losers fell, the victors would ride again, and again, until there were but two knights left to face each other.  At the end of the day, only one out of three hundred would be the winner.

And then it would begin again the next day, and the day after, until all methods of fighting had been used, and there was but one knight who stood above the rest.

"You must concentrate.  You must pick your first opponent, and your concentration must not be broken by anything.  Look neither right nor left when you charge.  Pick your knight and picture him unseated.  That is the way of victory," Miles had declared heatedly.

"I shall, my teacher, I shall," Gwendolyn had whispered.

Then she had gone into his arms and drawn from his strength all the security and confidence she needed.

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The trumpets signaled a fanfare, pulling Gwendolyn from her thoughts.  The crowd stilled, and King Richard, resplendent in a long red mantle, moved forward on the specially erected platform.  A narrow gold crown rested on his head, and his shoulder-length hair sparkled in the sunlight.  He raised both hands high, and when he did, the Archbishop of Canterbury stepped forward.

The archbishop lifted his gold-encrusted staff, and the blessings of the tournament rolled smoothly from his tongue.  When he finished his benediction, he stepped back to the carved wooden chair next to the king's and waited.

Richard stepped forward, and the crowd began to cheer again.  "For the glory of England, for the love of God, and under the code of chivalry, I hereby order this tournament begun."

From a thousand throats came a loud, animal-like cry.  The knights lined up before Richard and lifted their swords high before wheeling their mounts around and racing to their squires.

Gwendolyn felt a surge of energy race through her when she spurred the stallion toward James.  Excitement made her nerves hum tightly.

Reaching James, she dismounted and let her squire help her to mount Miles's heavy charger.  When she sat in the special saddle Miles had designed, which would hold her securely against the hard thrusts of a lance, she gazed across the field to survey her opponents and felt the full impact of Miles's earlier words.  Across from her, the opposing knights were gathering and the wall they created sent a chill racing along her spine.

No specific knight would face off against another until the field was narrowed down.  Because of the great amount of entrants, the full numbers of knights could not participate at the same time.  So, the marshal of the tournament had declared there be two opening jousts.  One hundred and fifty knights, seventy-five to each side, would battle.  When this first wave of jousting ended—and it would end only when there were but seventy-five survivors—the next hundred- and-fifty knights would take the field.  Again, only when there were seventy-five victors, would the knights of the first wave face those of the second.

Gwendolyn was in the first wave, which she was pleased about, and as she looked across the field, she saw that Morgan was not mounted and would be in the second wave.

Glad to postpone what she knew would be the inevitable, Gwendolyn accepted the lance James handed her.  "Be aware of the riders on both sides," James cautioned.  "They may put you off-stride."

Gwendolyn adjusted the shield on her left arm and used her spurs to move the heavy charger forward.  Concentrating on the line of knights thirty yards across from her, Gwendolyn prepared her body for the first assault.

The trumpets signaled, and the sounds of hooves rose in the air.  She braced herself in the saddle and charged for- ward.  Her body moved as one with the horse, and the weight of her armor added to her comfort and confidence.  As the two lines closed, she picked her opponent and dipped her lance once.  Then only ten yards separated them, and the tip of the other knight's lance grew large.

Her body tensed, but she forced the tightness away as she heard Miles's voice in her mind.  "Do not tense.  Do not wait.  Attack and believe your opponent unseated." And she did.  Sir Eldwin, with her lower back braced and her shield held firm along her left side, met her first opponent.  A bare second before their lances reached the shields; she saw his eyes go wide in warning and braced her arm.  The sound of her own lance hitting his shield came at the same time as she felt the jarring impact upon her leather-covered shield, and a wave of unexpected pain raced through her shoulder.

She was lifted in the saddle, but did not loosen the grip on her lance.  Suddenly, there was no more resistance, and she rode past the now riderless horse of her opponent.

It had ended faster than she'd thought possible.  She had won her first joust, and the thrill of her victory raced headily through her mind.  Wheeling her mount around, she gazed at the fallen knight.  She did not know him, but he stood proudly before her and bobbed his head in salute.  Gwendolyn rode close to him and returned his chivalrous compliment by dipping her lance in his honor.

Then, with the cheers of the crowd dwindling, Gwendolyn rode back to James and, with his help, dismounted from the ungainly charger.

"You did well, my lord," James stated proudly.  "You defeated Simon of Northumber, a worthy knight."

Gwendolyn nodded, the only form of communication she could use while attired as Sir Eldwin, and watched the continuation of the first wave of jousts.  A third of the knights of the first joust had been unseated, but until there were no more opponents, the second wave would not begin.

The horses charged, and the joust continued.  Gwendolyn surveyed the crowd for a moment before glancing toward Richard.  Seated around Richard and the archbishop was his military council, and among them, she saw Miles.

She wanted to go to him, but knew she could not, and only hoped be was as proud of her as she was of him.  Knowing she must keep her attention focused on the fighting, Gwendolyn drew her eyes from Miles's form and concentrated on the men in the field.

Another hour passed and the first wave was ended.  The survivors of the joust rested now, preparing for their next fight while the second wave mounted and rode onto the field of combat.

Gwendolyn glanced quickly to where Miles sat and saw his eyes fixed on Morgan.  She, too, looked at the wide-set knight and felt the old familiar shiver of disgust when she saw his smiling lips.

Then the trumpet sounded and the horses charged.  She watched Morgan's lance go level and saw him spur his horse harshly.  The two lines met in a loud crashing noise.  The sound of shattering lances echoed, and the screams of one knight ripped through the air.

The dust settled, and Gwendolyn gazed at the seated victors.  Morgan sat on his horse proudly, but his lance was gone.  Then Gwendolyn looked at the ground and saw Morgan's opponent writhing in pain, a piece of the lance's shaft protruding from his chest.

Revulsion filled her, and she tasted the bitterness of bile in the back of her throat.  Death was no stranger to tournaments, but she still despised this senseless need to kill.  When she looked at Morgan's face, she realized that death was the only thing he sought when facing an opponent, whether on the game field, or on the battlefield.

"You shall not win," she promised, but the words did not pass her lips; they only echoed in her mind.

By the time the sun passed its zenith, the first rounds of the joust were over, and the second had begun.  This jousting would differ from the morning's in only one way.  Half the knights had been eliminated, and there would be but one initial wave.  This joust would continue, no matter how long it took, until the final two surviving knights faced each other.  And, Gwendolyn was determined to be one of them.

Gwendolyn sat astride Miles's charger and gazed across the field.  She had purposely chosen a spot diagonally across from Morgan, not because she feared him, but because she wanted to face him later.

The trumpet sounded, and again Gwendolyn's skin rippled with excitement.  One hundred and fifty lances fell to the horizontal and the horses rushed forward.

Forcing her body to relax, Gwendolyn braced herself in the saddle.  She met her opponent, and the loud cracking of lance on shield sounded in her ears.  But this time she was not lifted from her saddle as her opponent's lance shattered at first impact.  Her own lance shattered as well, and when she halted the charger, she turned to face the other knight.  They bowed their heads and raced off to their squires to retrieve new lances, and Gwendolyn renewed her concentration and determination to be victorious.

By mid-afternoon there was not a part of Gwendolyn's body that did not hurt.  It had taken four runs to finally unseat her first opponent, and only her own self-confidence had helped her to win.  Five more times she had ridden against other opponents, but none, save the first knight she'd faced, had survived her first charge.  Gwendolyn, her mind blank except for her purpose, had become not only an extension of her charger, but had become as one with the lance.  She had fought unmercifully, charging across the green swarth to hit her opponent's shield, and to be rewarded by the sound of a clean hit against the onrushing knight.

She had thought not about anything, but had concentrated solely on her immediate opponent.  And, when the seventh knight who faced her had been dismounted, and she had returned to James's smiling face, she breathed a sigh of relief.  She saw in his face that she had done what most would consider impossible.  She had survived to the very end.  But her taste of victory and relief was short-lived when the cheers of the spectators grew louder.

Turning, she froze.  There was but one knight left to face, and recognition burned tightly in her chest.  Morgan of Guildswood sat astride his charger, his shield lowered to his side, awaiting a new lance.

Gwendolyn thought of her sword, and of the powers it contained to help heal her, but even before the thought fully formed, she chased it away, as Miles's face floated before her eyes.  "Do not waste the power.  Your body is strong; rely on it."

I will, she thought, taking the new lance from James and riding to the center of the arena.  The crowd quieted, and their silence made Gwendolyn's nerves grow tighter.  Then Morgan rode up to her and stared at her masked face.  A ripple of fear tugged in her mind that he might see through her mysterious facade and know whom he faced, but with his first words, that fear dissolved.

"Are you so ugly you cannot show yourself!" he asked.  Gwendolyn stared at him through the eyeholes for a long second before she turned her head toward the king.

Richard was standing, his arms again upraised.  In one hand he held the scarlet sash of victory.  "Let the joust be joined," he intoned.  Both Gwendolyn and Morgan bowed their heads to him and turned their horses to face each other's.  Gwendolyn dipped her lance in salute, and Morgan replied in kind.

But before she could spur the charger away, Morgan spoke again.  "I will be the victor today, faceless one, and you shall lie broken at my feet in the place of your master, the coward who is too afraid to meet me on this field of honor." With that, Morgan spurred his charger across the field, accompanied by the cheers of his men-at-arms.

Yet Gwendolyn, upon hearing his words, felt no fear.

Instead, a searing anger filled her, making her want nothing else but to defeat Morgan quickly and decisively, to pay him back for his cruelty, deceit, and hatred.  She urged her mount across the field, but refused to force the now-tired horse into a run.  She rode regally, and in response to this show, the crowd called loudly to her.

Gwendolyn stopped the charger at the gate and turned to face the crowd.  She stood tall in the stirrups and dipped her lance once again to Richard.  Then she sat deep in the saddle, hefted her shield, and lowered the lance.

As she did all this, she opened that special channel in her mind to draw upon its warmth and comfort, but did not call for its ethereal aid, nor ask for its help in defeating Morgan.  Today was her first test, and Gwendolyn knew that she must win this joust by herself, for both herself and Miles.  She let the light fill her, soothe her nerves, and shore up her determination.  Her eyes focused on Morgan across the field, and she was suddenly aware of a dark aura surrounding him.  She realized then that he was evil, that all about him radiated a black visage which could not be denied.

The trumpet sounded, and her highly trained instincts took over.  Closing her mind to the light, she charged forward, the blackness surrounding Morgan also dissolving.  All that remained was his bulky countenance.  Then there was nothing left in creation, save the muscular horse beneath her, and the oncoming knight.

Adjusting her shield as she rode, she moved it a fraction to her left so that when their lances met, his would follow the curvature of the shield and be deflected properly.  Suddenly time slowed, and it seemed they would never meet, as everything around Gwendolyn took on otherworldliness.

Morgan grew larger, wider than before.  The helmet he wore was stained dark, and the crossed nasal bar looked like a scar rather than metal protection.

Gwendolyn was aware of everything about him, including the point of the lance that suddenly dropped lower. 
No!
she screamed silently when she saw his intent.  He was going after her horse.  It was a legal move, but one that was frowned on.