“Aspirants!” shouted Captain Gildmane. Jael snapped back to the present—another spasm—Trey continued, “You have a quarter hour. Anyone insufficiently horsed, armed, and armoured before the second blast will be invalidated. In the melee, lose your horse, your helm, or your sword, the same is true. Begin on my mark!” He raised an arm high and started toward the gatehouse. A moment passed, and he glanced at Jael, then again at the gate. His arm fell.
Brr-UMM!
The five remaining aspirants bolted apart, Sylvertre, Leonhardt, and Diamont for the armoury while Harpe and Blackheart darted for the horses. If one of the two were to mount the wild destrier, she hoped it would be Brandon. He reminded her of what a knight should be, kind and tall and fair-haired with ginger eyes—skinny perhaps, but a thousand times more gallant than Harold of Duskhall. A brute, she thought of his heavy brow and fat cheeks, his sweaty narrow forehead, and his eyes, deep and droopy. Though at least he was a man. The aspirants racing her to the armour cart made a queer pair of children. She knew little of what to make of Alexander who to her looked half a man, half a boy, and half a maiden in his flamboyant clothes. But Ogdon, she thought, was undoubtably the worse of them. Shameless. It was obvious to everyone that his lord father had made arrangements for the Struggle. Sylvertre’s hauberk did not look so heavy as the others’, and his answer to the second trial he’d memorized—meaning he’d been told what to study in advance. And he had the gull to offer her help. She wished now that her refusal had not been so gentle.
She’d have her chance, she thought, her hands sorting through the haphazard piles of linen and iron. Sylvertre would be the first one she’d take out—if he qualified. She watched as he tossed aside bit after bit of rusty armour, always looking for a better fit, never satisfied. And Diamont was much the same, like a lady at the tailor. Jael rolled her eyes and pulled on the smallest gambeson she could find. Over that went a maille shirt rusted away at the waist, then an old leather cuirass and a helm with an open face.
The others were still fiddling with their spaulders and gauntlets when Leonhardt stole for the stables. Half way there, however, she saw that one of the aspirants was already gone and that he who remained was fighting to rein in the wild destrier. The whole stable became a Hell-house. There was kicking and snapping and panic from the animals—one was even screaming on the ground, its leg broken. Jael turned for the weapons instead. She found Brandon Harpe departing as she arrived, riding a pony with an extra lance gripped his shield hand. It hadn’t occurred to her to take a spare. Tourney lances were made to break, so carrying a second would grant some advantage, if only I had the strength.
Now Leonhardt was armed, though it was all backwards—her sword arm with a shield, her shield arm with a lance, and a wooden blade tucked underarm as she ran for the stables. They were nearly empty, just a few beasts left, the rest taken or loosed or injured by the destrier—yet that the mad horse was gone did nothing but relieve Leonhardt as she entered. She picked out a mount that reminded her of Troy, a dusty brown mule slightly shorter and more docile than her father’s draught horse. He responded well as she pressed in with her heels. He turned quickly and obediently, gained speed in the field, and gave Jael a confidence in spite of prior feelings. She was smiling, she realized as a strange knight approached wearing the enameled plate of the Saint’s Cross.
“Greetings, my lady,” spoke stranger through the visor of his helm as he rode alongside Leonhardt on his towering, white charger. He had a lance in his hand and a fervor in his voice. “I pray that God blesses you on the field today.”
Jael started at him, confused.
“What is it, my lady? Is something amiss?” Then suddenly the knight realized something, and a grunt of laughter erupted from his helm. “Gildmane forgot to tell you, didn’t he? It’s a tradition that at least one paladin joins the melee. Heh, heh,” he laughed as the other aspirants rode closer.
Jael’s heart sank. She shouted, “Get back!”
Brr-UMM!
Their time was up. The melee had begun.
Leonhardt tore away from the enameled knight as fast as she could, shouting to the others, but they would not hear her. They were two busy battling to see the stranger rounding the field, straightening out by the stables where Alexander and Ogdon were failing to land their lances. The stranger had no such trouble. He caught Diamont unaware, striking from the blind spots of the merchant’s son’s great helm. Ash splinters scattered through the air. The aspirant tumbled to the ground, and there he stayed.
“Leonhardt!” Jael heard from across the field. She turned to see Harold Blackheart charging on the back of the chestnut destrier. Brandon rode behind him, lance forward, but his pony couldn’t keep pace with the enormous warhorse. Neither could Jael maneuver her mule in time, so rather than evade the strike, she let her lance fall and brought her shield to bear, braced in her stirrups, and felt the impact glide across the surface of the steel. Blackheart galloped passed, cursing, while Harpe turned up his lance and reined in beside her. Jael offered him her thanks, but his focus was given to the paladin rounding the racks to retrieve a fresh weapon.
Ogdon would be next, thought Leonhardt. He was the most vulnerable—unable to control his panicked animal and hanging helplessly around its neck. Yet the enameled knight decided differently. He set his spurs for the wild destrier, and Harold dared to meet his attack. For a moment, Jael imagined this was what
