“Which is why I asked Mordred not to compete today,” Arthur said. He was only half-listening to them. “I want to fight Lancelot.”
All conversation was ended with the roar of the crowd. Sir Tristan let Lancelot choose first from the offerings of blunted swords. The rules were simple: First combatant to strike what would be a killing blow was the winner.
But simple did not mean safe. Dindrane nervously listed every injury that had happened during a tournament. Broken ribs were most common. Concussions. Broken arms. During the first tournament, where multiple aspirants had been trying to gain knighthood, one unfortunate combatant never woke up after a
vicious blow to his head.
Tournaments were not games. They determined the fate of a potential knight. And knights determined the fate of Camelot.
Sir Tristan and Lancelot circled each other. Sir Tristan wore his own leather armor, plated with sections of metal, and a metal helmet that left his face clear. Lancelot, much to the delight of the crowd, was fighting with mask in place.
“Do you think he is ugly?” Dindrane speculated as the fighters circled each other. Sir Tristan feinted, the blow easily knocked aside by Lancelot.
Guinevere’s heart raced as she watched, hoping. She liked Sir Tristan, but she very much wanted him to lose. “Lancelot is not ugly at all.”
“And how would you know?”
Guinevere froze. She was not supposed to have seen Lancelot’s face. As though any person would be wandering the forest in full armor and mask, all by themselves, on the off chance they would have the opportunity to rescue the queen from a wild boar.
She was saved from answering by the first true clash of swords. It was as though a spell had been broken. Fighting began in earnest. Terrible blows were blocked with such force Guinevere shuddered, imagining how even that would hurt. Every strike Sir Tristan tried was blocked. Lancelot used the space better than Tristan, dancing around him. Sir Tristan was fast and strong. But Lancelot was faster. Lancelot leaned back, dodging a huge swing and dropping to her knees. She slammed her sword upward, stopping just shy of Sir Tristan’s chin. Had their blades been sharp, she could have run a real sword through his head. Even a fake sword would have injured him at that angle.
Sir Tristan backed up and dropped his sword. He bowed. Lancelot stood, returning the bow. Then she went perfectly still, waiting the next challenge.
“That was risky,” Mordred said. His face was between Guinevere’s chair and Arthur’s.
“How so?”
“If Sir Tristan had been faster, Lancelot would have been on his knees and unable to dodge quickly again. Lancelot risked everything, counting on an opening that was not guaranteed.”
“But it worked.”
Arthur was clapping fiercely. “Yes. Lancelot is smart, but more than that, he is brave. He holds nothing back. But he also showed tremendous restraint. Most knights would have delivered an actual blow as a matter of pride. I am very glad he did not injure Sir Tristan.”
Brangien was slumped in her chair, exhausted from the strain of watching Sir Tristan fight. Guinevere patted her friend’s leg. “He is fine. He fought very well.”
Brangien nodded, wiping at her forehead with a handkerchief. “The patchwork knight is special. Sir Tristan could beat any of the other knights.”
“Almost any of the other knights,” Mordred corrected. Guinevere turned. He was examining his fingernails.
Brangien rolled her eyes, ignoring him.
“What weapon would you choose?” Guinevere asked. “Perhaps a vicious deer?”
Mordred’s eyes lit up with delight. “Oh, Lancelot is not nearly so fearsome as the Green Knight. For him, rabbits would do.”
“Sir George is next,” Arthur said, ignoring them. His leg bounced impatiently. Guinevere suspected if he could, he would leap out of the stand and take Sir George’s turn.
Sir George rode on a proud black stallion, signaling a fight on horseback. He lifted his spear and shield to the crowd. They cheered. Lancelot retrieved her horse. The crowd tittered nervously. There were groans scattered throughout. No one wanted to see the tournament ended so soon.
“Is his horse blind?” Arthur was horrified. “I would have given him one of mine!” He slumped back in his chair. “I cannot believe Sir George is going to win because of a better horse.” Arthur took a long drink of his ale, scowling as he watched Sir George prance around the field. Lancelot was still and straight on her horse. She accepted the shield and spear handed to her.
“Next time we will make rules about horses as well as weapons. I should have checked.” With a sigh, Arthur leaned forward again, resigned.
Sir George roared, galloping straight for Lancelot. He lifted his spear in the air—and with no discernable direction from her rider, Lancelot’s horse danced to the side. Sir George galloped straight past. He pulled on the reins, forcing his horse to a quick stop. But it was too late. Lancelot’s mount had turned as she moved, putting her rider in perfect position. Lancelot’s spear sailed through the air, thunking painfully against the center of Sir George’s back before falling to the ground.
Sir George’s curse echoed across the field.
The crowd erupted again. Everyone stood. Most people used the benches not for sitting, but to stand on. Arthur himself had burst from his seat, clapping and whistling.