by Guy Antibes
“No,” Trevor said in a low voice. “Your arm will heal?”
The man nodded. “I’m already beginning to get the feeling back. It isn’t the first time I’ve had an injury like this.” The officer saluted with his other arm. “Good luck for the tournament.”
Trevor didn’t want to say another word, not trusting his ability to mimic Boxster’s curt responses, so he just nodded and watched the man leave the tent. He was sure the man hurt in more ways than one, but his appearance at Boxster’s tent was a mark of deep respect for the master sergeant’s ability.
Win remained in the tent. “What happens next?”
“I’m confident that I can win, but Sergeant Boxster was insistent upon my not winning, and I agree with him. It has been fun, but I don’t want to remove my helmet in front of Father. My next bracket will be my last.”
“You are going to take a fall?” Win asked.
“That is a good question. I don’t want to get injured any more than I am. I’ve got archery and swords both tomorrow.”
“And then the mounted melee the day after.”
Trevor nodded. “A challenge for even me.”
The horn sounded for Trevor’s next match. He put his helmet back on, drank another cup of water, and then rode into the arena. His opponent was a very wide man. Trevor remembered him and imagined thick cords of muscle underneath his armor. Trevor had the reach, which would help with sword fighting, but that wasn’t important in jousting.
He cast his doubts aside as he rode to the other end of the arena. The flag dropped. This time Trevor was prepared for his mount to bolt ahead, but he stood there, so Trevor had to urge him on with his knees. The late start gave his opponent an ever-further advantage in momentum. By the time Trevor reached him, Trevor had decided to use another of Boxster’s techniques that he could hopefully twist into defeat.
Trevor planned to fall off the horse at the touch of the man’s lance. They closed. Everything slowed up for Trevor, even more than it had in the other bouts. His opponent crouched to make himself a small target. As they passed, Trevor was prepared to take the fall, but the man missed!
Trevor planned to touch him barely, but it was enough to knock his opponent off balance due to his crouch, and Trevor found himself in the final match. What could he possibly do? The tent looked like a jail before his execution. The first and second place jousters would receive rewards from his father, and that wouldn’t do.
He paced in the small confines of his pavilion until the flap was thrown open. Trevor looked up into Boxster’s eyes, peeking out from the hooded cloak.
“Even if it won’t fit me very well, the armor will have to do.” Boxster turned his head. “Win!”
They both worked to remove the armor, and when that was done, Trevor and Win strapped it on Boxster. It wasn’t a particularly good fit, but Trevor could tell everything was tight enough for his sergeant.
“Get out of here!” Boxster said, tossing the hooded cloak to Trevor.
After Trevor walked underneath the stands, he removed the cloak and walked to a position in the area set aside for those who liked to stand. The horn blared, calling the contestants to the field.
Trevor found a man taking bets. He handed a few coins to the agent. “I take Boxster,” Trevor said.
The man gave Trevor a scribbled receipt just before the flag dropped. Trevor ran to the rail to look on. Boxster looked fluid on the charger, and he rode with confidence. Trevor hoped his father wouldn’t notice the difference. The first clash resulted in two broken lances. Trevor guessed that Boxster shattered his lance on purpose to get a measure of his opponent. The master sergeant would have seen the man rise in the opposite bracket.
The next pass was much the same—a broken lance for the opponent and a light brush on the shield for Boxster. If the man didn’t unhorse Boxster on the next pass, the match could go on points. Trevor hadn’t seen any of the other contests going to points, so he leaned over the rail and shouted encouragement to Boxster.
The sergeant guided his horse to the fence where Trevor stood and gave Trevor a curt nod and gathered himself for the third run. His father couldn’t have missed the exchange. The flag dropped, and the horse jerked forward. It seemed the horse ran faster than at any other time, and the clash silenced the crowd. Two men turned their horses to face each other after the encounter, and in an eyeblink, Boxster’s opponent dropped from his horse.
The crowd erupted as Boxster rode back toward the pavilions without looking back. King Henry called him back before Boxster entered the preparation area, and a page directed him to face the king, mounted on the charger.
Trevor’s father stood. His face was unreadable from Trevor’s vantage point. He leaned over the rail.
“Let us see who you are,” King Henry said.
Boxster removed his helmet. “Sergeant Desolation Boxster, Your Majesty.” He even executed a perfect salute wearing his armor.
Cheering erupted in the stands. People began to jump into the field, and Trevor joined them, running to Boxster.
“That was quite a show,” Trevor said to Boxster.
“Yes, it was,” King Henry said. He gave a speech and presented Boxster with a beautiful jeweled-handled knife. “Your man proved himself on the field,” the king said to Trevor. He narrowed his eyes, and he was about to say something to Trevor, but Boxster spoke up.
“If you will excuse me, Your Majesty,” Boxster said. “I would like to remove my armor, but my shoulder is a little sore.”
The king waved Boxster away, who had to move slowly through the crowd that surrounded him.
Trevor followed. Guards kept the crowds from moving into the preparation area, but they recognized Trevor and let him follow Boxster to the pavilion.
“You were stupendous!” Win said as he helped Boxster down from the charger.
“I would hope so,” Boxster said, tossing his prize to Win. “I hope you like it.”
“For me?” Win said.
“I have other knives. Think of it as a gift from a grateful king.” Boxster smirked.
Win was about to say something unwise among the other contestants when Trevor stepped on his foot. “Inside so you can remove Sergeant Boxster’s armor.”
Win blushed and nodded. He looked at the prize, now stuffed in his waistband, and smiled as they walked in.
Out of the sight of anyone else, Trevor helped Boxster remove the armor.
“I hope you won’t be charged for the dents,” Trevor said. “If they do, I will cover the cost.”
Boxster chuckled. “I don’t lack for funds, Prince Trevor Arcwin, sir.”
Trevor nodded as he went to work. One of the dents was deeper than Trevor thought. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
“Of course I am,” Boxster said. “Might have even broken a bone.” He looked down and rubbed the tender spot. “Maybe not. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see some blood. How is your shoulder?”
“My shoulder?” Trevor asked. “Oh. I suppose it hurts.”
“Win,” Boxster said. “Find Brother Yvan and bring him here to heal both of us.”
They sat in the two camp chairs in the pavilion. Ready to discuss the match as if Trevor didn’t participate.
“My first runs got better and better, but I was surprised at the last. I didn’t expect my opponent to miss me,” Boxster said, obviously talking about Trevor’s jousting. “I’m sure you caught the techniques that I taught you earlier.”
“I recognized them right off,” Trevor said. “It looked like the most challenging competitor was in the second round.”
“The one that brushed my shoulder?”
Trevor nodded, although any eavesdroppers wouldn’t see a gesture. “That’s the one. He didn’t damage you?”
“A good bruise, that’s all. Now we can work on tomorrow’s two events so you will be ready,” Boxster said.
“I won’t need the coaching, but I could use some support.”
“I’ll consider it part of my duty,�
� Boxster said as Brother Yvan stepped into the tent.
“I shooed a page away. I expect he was listening in. Did you discuss anything interesting?” Brother Yvan said.
Trevor shrugged. “Perhaps. We were talking about Boxster’s matches.”
“Now, let me see your wounds, Sergeant.”
Boxster grimaced and pulled off his tunic. An angry red bruise was turning purple at the bottom of his rib cage. “I hope it isn’t broken.”
The sergeant grimaced as Yvan probed the wound. The cleric nodded as he pressed the flesh around the injury.
“The worst would be a cracked rib, but I doubt it. The armor stopped that from happening. However, a bruised rib can be—”
“I know,” Boxster said. “This isn’t my first rib injury.”
“And not your last?” Yvan asked.
“I see your point. Probably not my last,” Boxster said with the ghost of the grin.
Brother Yvan turned to Trevor. “Your father said you injured your shoulder.”
“How do you know? I actually injured my ankle.” Trevor didn’t want his father to know about the jousting injury.
Yvan grinned. “I was in the royal box for the last match. Although you are injured, and your opponent actually does have cracked ribs, it was an entertaining contest. King Henry sent me to see to the champion.”
“You can wrap it up a little,” Trevor said, to cover for his fake injury. “I’ve walked off most of it.”
“As you will.” Yvan wrapped Trevor’s ankle and then said, “Any other injuries that I should know about? You might have fallen out of your bed this morning.”
“Ah. I did fall out of bed and fell on my shoulder,” Trevor said.
Brother Yvan nodded. “Let me see.”
Trevor took his tunic and shirt off, looking at his wound for the first time. His bruise rivaled Boxster’s, although it wasn’t quite as large.
“Painful?” Yvan asked.
“Not particularly,” Trevor said.
Brother Yvan nodded. “I can treat that if you can move your shoulder without difficulty.”
Trevor could feel a twinge when he wheeled his arm a bit, but it was related to the bruise. His shoulder felt just a little stiff.
“I’ll be able to compete tomorrow, won’t I?” Trevor could feel a few tendrils of panic constrict his chest.
“If he warms up, he’ll be fine,” Boxster said.
“I have salve for this. A little salve wouldn’t hurt you, Sergeant.”
Whatever the cleric used stunk up the tent, but Trevor had to admit his shoulder felt better.
“A little of this before you compete in both events. The effect of the salve only lasts an hour or two,” Brother Yvan said.
“I might take a little extra,” Boxster said.
Brother Yvan had a pair of small, empty wide-mouthed pots in his bag and slathered the salve into both of them before tapping on matching cork stoppers. “A little goes a long way. Others might need a little medical or spiritual help. Whoever wore that armor banged up their competitors. I could see the talent displayed from the first match to the last, especially the last.”
“Are you a jouster?” Boxster asked.
“In my early days. My, that was a long time ago. I studied the techniques of the participants more than I took to the field. My calling is from Dryden, not from the lance. I’ll be going.”
They watched Brother Yvan leave.
“He knows his jousting,” Boxster said. “I don’t think he has forgotten much.”
“I wonder if my father knows what Brother Yvan does,” Trevor said.
Win whistled. “You better hope he doesn’t.”
Chapter Six
~
T revor ate with two competitors in the officers’ mess. “How was it in the field today?” Trevor asked.
“A losing proposition for both of us,” one of them said, sighing. “Old Boxster surprised us all. I didn’t expect him to be so proficient. He gave us a lesson in every round.”
Trevor smiled but kept his grin from growing too wide. “He taught me a few things, but I couldn’t believe the championship match.” He hit his fisted knuckles together. “Bam! They just looked at each other until the sergeant’s opponent keeled over. What an ending!” Trevor tried to keep his face straight as pain blossomed in his shoulder.
“I thought he might be you since you two work so closely together, but that was dashed when he pulled off his helmet. Were you disappointed you didn’t get to compete?”
Trevor nodded. “A royal decree, I’m afraid.”
“Yet, he allows you to play in the mounted melee?”
“Wooden weapons,” Trevor said. “Nothing as long as a lance. Swords and bows tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you for swords, but no archery for me,” one of them said.
“Neither for me. Jousting is what I love, and the rest only means more work training to compete,” the other one said.
That made sense to Trevor, but jousting took just as much practice, and Trevor suspected the officer didn’t practice jousting that much.
After dinner, the army was given the night off. Most of the men headed into Tarviston to populate the drinking establishments. Trevor decided to turn in early. His shoulder was beginning to throb a bit.
He woke up in the middle of the night with a deep ache. Trevor applied the salve to his bruise. It helped dull the pain, but his shoulder continued to hurt. He couldn’t get back to sleep and was happy when morning came. He tried out his shoulder when he jumped out of bed and found the joint stiff. At least it wasn’t his sword arm, but he’d have to be able to hold it straight for archery.
Trevor put on his clothes, no uniform for the contests, and hoped his shoulder wasn’t too smelly from the salve. He ate breakfast alone since the officers’ mess was almost empty with just about everyone else sleeping in after a late night.
He walked into the armory to find Boxster trying out an array of swords, laid out on a table.
“I didn’t know you were going to compete?”
“I’m not,” Boxster said, rubbing his wound. “How are you feeling?”
“My shoulder stiffened up last night.”
“You look a little ragged.”
Trevor merely nodded. “Do you have a suggestion on what sword I should use?”
“Choose one yourself, and we can talk about it,” Boxster said.
After eliminating the swords that weren’t Trevor’s style, he tried three that looked right to him.
“This is the one I’m most comfortable with,” the prince said.
Boxster nodded. “Why not this one? It is lighter,” he said.
“Lighter and more prone to be knocked around during a match. If my aching shoulder limits me, speed won’t mean as much.”
Boxster smiled. “That is a good reason to select the one you did. Shall we practice enough to get you warmed up?”
Trevor hadn’t thought the sword selection would be a test of his wisdom in arms, but it was what it was. Boxster’s little lesson reminded Trevor of how much the man’s talents were wasted in the army. Trevor felt yet again that Boxster should be an arms master or something more distinguished than a master sergeant. He suspected the sergeant’s facility with weapons was only part of his talents.
They found a spot on the practice field, and as Boxster worked out with Trevor, getting kinks worked out of new techniques that the sergeant had introduced to Trevor, the arena filled up. Unlike the joust that limited the contestants by dint of having chargers, specialized armor, and lances, the sword competition was open with the ability to judge multiple matches at the same time.
There were over one hundred swordsmen and swordswomen entered in the competition, which would take place in the morning in three-minute bouts. Instead of a preparation area with pavilions, the contestants sat on benches at the perimeter of the arena. Trevor would not have been able to pull off a switch with Boxster in swords or archery.
“I think you are warmed
up enough,” Boxster said. He looked around at the field. “Barring unforeseen disasters, which can happen in any competition, you should do very well.”
Trevor grinned. “I almost won last year.”
“There you go,” Boxster said. “Get some liquid in you, not alcoholic if you can help it, and sneak on some more of that salve if you have any left. I’ll be close to you in the arena if you need anything.”
Trevor shook his head. “No more salve, and see if you can snag Brother Yvan in case someone gets lucky.” He needed the pain medication later for archery in the afternoon and tomorrow, if his shoulder didn’t get worse.
After finding some fruit juice in the officers’ mess, Trevor returned to the armory and selected leather armor that fit him well. He went back to his room and wrapped up his left shoulder as best he could, using a very modest amount of Brother Yvan’s salve. The time had come for him to return to the arena.
He couldn’t help but smile as he thought of the fun he had jousting, but then he frowned. He wasn’t the best on the field. That was Boxster. Perhaps he was second best at jousting, but he could be best at swords.
~
The crowds were just as large for the sword competition, but then there were five times the competitors with all their followers, friends, and relatives. Trevor glanced at the royal box and found it empty. If the preliminary matches didn’t generate enough interest for the royal family, that was fine. Trevor felt less pressure when his family wasn’t there.
He found a place toward the end of the arena where his matches would take place at the beginning of the competition. The field was split into six sections, with the participants fighting in their sectional brackets. Trevor never knew what kind of swordsmen he would face. He might contend with someone very good or a country bumpkin that had visions of grandeur but not enough training to last more than a few seconds.
Rectangular wooden frames were laid on the dirt to separate the fighting areas. These weren’t formal duels, although the rules were similar. The tourney permitted a freer form of swordplay, more like one would find in an actual battle.
The horns blared. Trevor went to location number twelve. His opponent was a husky woman with hair cut shorter and set into spikes. Trevor towered over her, and to him, that was a disadvantage as much as the advantage of his reach.
