Hard Day's Knight

by Katie MacAlister

  “Shut. Up.”

  “Oooh, touchy!”

  I ignored her and her smugness for the next half hour, thinking all sorts of confusing thoughts of a dichotomeus nature, one moment doing an inner swoon at the sight of Walker handing Bliss a lance, the next recalling how annoyingly perceptive he could be, and what I could do to distract him from probing any further at something I didn’t want to talk about. The heinous plot against his team would do, to start.

  “The best defense is an offense,” I muttered to myself as the crowd rose to their feet, screaming as Bliss and the Aussie ran the last of their three jousts. I began to plot accordingly.

  Fifteen minutes after Bliss’s jousting run (for which she scored a perfect fifteen, having struck what amounted to a bull’s-eye on the outside upper quarter of the shield) she was at the bottom of the bleachers waving me down.

  “Go on; she probably wants to do some training with you. I’ll watch Moth until you get back,” CJ offered.

  I sighed as I handed over his leash and dug his can of kitty snacks from the leather pouch that hung from my belt. “I don’t know why she thinks anyone cares whether or not I prove myself to Farrell. . . .”

  “Stop complaining and go.” CJ shoved me.

  Bliss had already started toward the stable as I hurried after her. She was still clad in breeches and tunic beneath a thigh-long chain-mail hauberk that she wore for jousting, but despite her being so burdened, I had to run to catch up with her.

  “Don’t have much time before I have to squire Walker. I want to work you on the shock quintain this morning. We’ll work on your accuracy skills; then this afternoon before Vandal’s match Butcher will take you through your paces.”

  “I hate to take you away from watching the joust—” I started to say, but clamped my teeth closed at the look she shot me. Nothing but outright refusal was going to get her to budge from her plan to train me, drat the woman. I sighed and gave in as gracefully as I could, even allowing her to arm me.

  “What’s this?” I asked as she handed me a navy-blue quilted vestlike object that laced on the side. At her request I’d gone back to my tent first and gotten into a pair of jeans and one of the short shirt-length chemises that CJ had brought for me.

  “It’s a gambeson. An arming tunic. It protects you from the chain mail.”

  I gnawed on my lower lip for a few seconds. “Bliss, I don’t have any chain mail, and although I know there’s a guy on the vendors’ row who’ll make it for you, it’s pricey.”

  “Very pricey,” she agreed, and held out the gambeson.

  “Then why am I putting this on?”

  “You’re going to wear Bos’s armor.”

  I straightened my shoulders and prepared to level a glare at her. “I might be sturdy, but I am not as big as him!”

  “Just his mail, not the plate armor,” she agreed. “That would take some padding, but you might be able to wear it if you had to. Put this on, and then I’ll show you the easiest way to get into a mail hauberk. Did you bring your gloves? Good.”

  I slid into the padded gambeson, tying the sides as she held out two more blue quilted pieces. “These are the padded cuisses. They go on your legs and tie onto your belt.”

  “Oh. Sorry, I left that behind.”

  She frowned at my waist for a second, then shrugged. “Just tie them to the belt loops on your jeans. Do you have a pair of sturdy hose? If not, you’ll need to get a pair. It’s all right for you to wear jeans today, but the sooner you’re properly kitted out, the quicker you’ll accustom yourself to the feel of the equipment.”

  I pulled the cuisses on and tied them to my jeans. “Do I really need this?” I held up my hand quickly, forestalling the lecture about my honor and the dignity of women jousters the world over. “Not do I need to learn how to joust; I’m becoming resigned to that. I mean the leg thingies. I’m not really going to be using my legs, am I?”

  She just smiled. “Tell me after today’s session whether or not you need them.”

  Oy. That sounded ominous. I took the thin scarf she handed me, wrapping it around my head as instructed.

  “That’s to protect your hair while you’re getting into the mail. The men don’t do it, but with your long hair, you’ll not want it snagged on the mail. On your knees, arms straight up, please.”

  I knelt before her as she held the long mail garment above my head, slipping into it as she lowered it down onto my arms. As the weight of it settled on my shoulders, I was thankful for the gambeson, since it helped distribute the weight of the thirty pounds or so of chain mail.

  “I hope to heaven this is it,” I said, getting awkwardly to my feet. “Because if there’s anything else I have to wear, I doubt if I’ll be able to hold the lance at all. Man, I thought Farrell’s mail was heavy—this stuff is wicked.”

  “This is all you’ll need today. If you were jousting in competition or performance, you’d have a surcoat or jupon with your coat of arms on it, but it’s not necessary for training. You’ll need a helm eventually, though. We’ll have to see how mine fits you, but for now you can make do with just the mail.”

  I gave her back the scarf, then grabbed the shield she indicated and followed her out to the stable, feeling like a slow, cumbersome sloth as I struggled to keep up, sweating heavily under the bright August sun. “Is your mail lighter than mine? How on earth can you walk so fast in it?”

  She didn’t even slow down, blast the woman. “Practice. You should wear that mail as long as you can each day. Your muscles will build up in response and soon you won’t even notice that you have it on.”

  “Ha!” I laughed, walking around to the field behind the barn. Vandal was there with my archenemy Cassie, flirting with twins dressed in identical low-cut bodices and flowery layered skirts. At the far end of the field a white quintain had been set up, although it wasn’t the same one I’d gone up against (and defeated, go me!) earlier in the week.

  “Mount up. That’s a shock quintain,” Bliss said abruptly, frowning at the twins until they murmured excuses and fluttered off with many a backward glance at Vandal. “I don’t think we’ll even bother trying you at a walk and a trot; let’s see you hit it at a canter.”

  Bliss turned to where a stack of lances lay alongside a small ditch. Vandal held Cassie for me as I got my foot into the stirrup. I gave him a pathetic smile. “You look smashing, Pepper. Mail becomes you. Eh . . . do you need a push up?”

  “Oh, I don’t know; I kind of like bouncing up and down on one leg like this,” I said breathlessly, trying to hoist myself up and onto Cassie’s back. “Hey!”

  He grinned as I settled into the saddle, the feel of his hands on my butt still fresh. “Just giving you a helping hand.”

  “Next time try somewhere else.”

  “Come along, Pepper, we don’t have all day! Vandal and I are to squire Walker. Let’s see you make a run at the quintain.”

  I will admit to being a bit cocky as I took the lance from her, couching it against the saddle as I rode Cassie to the end opposite the quintain, turning her and lining her up with the white wooden structure. “Quintains are old hat,” I told Cassie as I took a deep breath and focused as Bliss had instructed me the day before. “I’ve jousted with a real person. This is gonna be a piece of cake. Hah!”

  Cassie jumped forward at the yell, my legs tightening against her sides, the lance clamped down in my armpit with my hand directly behind the protective vamplate. As I approached the quintain, I lowered the lance into the couched position, holding it steady as Cassie cantered easily toward the wooden target.

  I think I was smiling when the lance tip touched the shield nailed onto the quintain. I wasn’t smiling a minute later when I managed to shake the stars from my head and sit up.

  “Wha’ happened?” I asked, dazedly noting that Cassie had stopped a few feet away and was happily cropping the grass. “What’s wrong with that quintain? Did you nail down the swing arm or something? Isn’t it supposed to swing when I connec
t with it?”

  “This is a shock quintain,” Bliss said neutrally as she hauled me to my feet. I clung to the stirrups for a few seconds just to make sure my legs were going to hold me. I wasn’t hurt, other than a slight bruising on my right hip, but the . . . well, there’s no other word for it but shock of the blow left me mentally reeling. “It doesn’t move. Your goal is to hit the quintain hard enough to knock it all the way over onto the shield on the back. We use them to get jousters accustomed to taking a blow, and to hone their targeting skills.”

  I glared at the quintain. It did indeed have two shields, mounted on either side, about seven feet off the ground. Four sturdy legs were bolted onto a wooden platform that sprouted two wooden braces projecting horizontally on either side. I gathered it was supposed to rock back under a blow, but my still-tingling fingers and sore armpit were testament to its not having much give to it at all. “You could have warned me,” I groused, rubbing my side. “I think I broke my armpit.”

  “You’re holding your lance wrong,” Bliss said, bending down and putting her hands out for me to step into. “You also were using an incorrect seat, your grip on the lance could easily have broken your wrist, and you jerked back on Cassie’s mouth when you struck the quintain. We’ll have to work on all of those things. Get on; we don’t have much time before we have to go.”

  “Huh-uh,” I said, shaking my head and backing away from both the horse and the monster in Bliss clothes. “That thing is evil. I like jousting against you better. It doesn’t hurt nearly so much.”

  “I can’t joust with you until after the competition is over. It’s too chancy; I can’t risk your making a wild blow and taking me out of the competition. Butcher said he’ll take the chance and joust with you later, but I won’t until you’ve had more training.”

  I shook my head. “Then I’ll just wait until you have more time—after the competition is fine by me. . . .”

  “Quitting again?”

  My spine snapped from its “this mail is heavy” slouch into a perfectly vertical line as I slowly turned and faced the owner of the deep voice that slipped over me like silk.

  “I am not quitting. I’m simply going to wait until a time when Bliss can joust with me personally.”

  “She’ll have to go home after the competition,” Walker said evenly, his eyes shaded by the period black wool hat he wore. It had a curved brim, and made him look like something out of a medieval tapestry—a sexy medieval tapestry. He was leaning against a sign warning people not to drink the water out of the attached tap, looking handsome and masculine and very, very scrumptious in his gold-and-red surcoat and black mail. I swallowed down the thrill of excitement my traitorous body gloried in whenever he was near, and reminded myself that although he was everything wonderful, he was also a very large pain in the patootie. My patootie. “Which means that you’re quitting. That’s a rather cowardly act, don’t you think?”

  I let my nostrils flare at him for a second, just so he’d know how peeved I was with him, then spun around and marched over to Cassie, hauling myself onto her back on the first try. “Lance,” I said, holding out my hand for an unbroken lance.

  Bliss handed it to me, snapping out a series of orders. “Hold the lance from the underside rather than the top. Lean in a little more than what you’ve been doing. The minute the lance touches, drop the reins so you won’t harm Cassie’s mouth, and push through the target. Aim a bit high—the closer you are to perpendicular, the more shock you’ll feel. Leave a little more lance behind you, and it’ll be easier to hold—eighteen inches is about right. The reason you went off the last time is because you struck the target lower than your armpit, which pushed you back and up, out of the saddle, so keep your aim higher than what you’ve been doing. And don’t fight the saddle—use the high back to brace you, but don’t forget to use your knees and thighs to grip Cassie against the shock. Ready? Go ahead.”

  I gave Walker a long look as I turned Cassie, trotting her to the far end of the field. Damn Walker, he just stood there watching me, a slight smile on his lips as though he were anticipating my fall before it happened.

  “What a big poop. Why did I have to pick him to fall in love with, Cassie?” The horse’s ears moved as she shook her head, mouthing the bit in an excited way. “Right. Whatever. Let’s try to make this a good one, ’kay?”

  I dug my heels in, leaning forward and deliberately loosening the reins as she cantered toward the target. I adjusted my hold on the lance, raising it and leaning forward, trying to remember everything Bliss had just told me. The lance connected with a loud splintering, crashing noise that reverberated down my arm into my back, twisting me slightly in the saddle. I dropped the reins, cartwheeling my left hand for balance as I leaned even farther forward, throwing my weight into the lance. The shock quintain rocked backward on its base, teetered on the projecting braces for a second, then suddenly gave and fell onto its back.

  A victorious cheer rose in my throat. I’d done it, and Walker had seen me! Coward, ha! I sure showed him who lacked the courage to try something difficult!

  Cassie, feeling no pressure from the reins and no doubt seeing the quintain fall, decided that she’d done her part, and such good behavior deserved an appropriate reward. She stopped suddenly and dropped her head to graze. Unfortunately, I was still leaning forward, throwing my weight into the lance as it pushed through the quintain . . . which was no longer there.

  I went right over her head, landing spread-eagled on my face in the dirt and grass.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Pepper? Are you in here? Dammit, where has she gotten to?”

  I stood up from where I’d been crouched next to Marley’s leg, examining the wound. “Keep your shorts on; I’m here. What’s up?”

  CJ, half turned to leave the stable, marched over to me and thrust her pugnacious face in mine. “What’s up? We have a Wench Promenade in three minutes—that’s three minutes—and you’ve spent the whole day hiding because you and Walker are on the outs. Well, you can just knock it off and get your butt in gear, cousin, because this Promenade is an important part of Faire tradition, and I’m not going to allow you to screw it up! Thank God you’ve got your garb on. Come on; we don’t have any time to waste.”

  “But Ceej,” I whined, grabbing Moth from where he was sitting in Marley’s feed bucket. “I don’t want to Promenade!”

  “You’ll do it and you’ll like it,” she said grimly, walking so fast that even I with my long legs had to hurry. “You’ve sulked all day long because Walker saw you fall off your horse when you were trying to impress him, but it’s time you grew up and stopped thinking only of yourself.”

  “Oh, yes, my selfishness is legendary,” I huffed, hoisting a disgruntled Moth higher as I scurried after my cousin. It wasn’t easy, since the Faire was in full swing, and the walkways were crammed full of Faire-goers, some decked out in full garb. Trailing CJ as she headed for the Promenade starting point at the far end of the vendors’ row, I shook my head at a woman whose dalmatian was wearing an Elizabethan ruff and saucy feathered hat. “Imagine making that poor dog wear a hat. Some people have absolutely no idea of good taste.”

  “What?” CJ asked without stopping.

  “Nothing, other than that I am not selfish. A selfish person wouldn’t have this cat glued to her every friggin’ day.”

  “I’m not going to talk to you when you’re being impossible,” CJ said, dodging a couple of girls in Celtic wear who had evidently decided to give an impromptu demonstration of Scottish dancing. “Hurry up, we’re going to be late! Honestly, I can’t imagine why someone with legs as long as yours walks as slow as a slug. Fairuza! Is everyone gathered?”

  I grumbled to myself as CJ and Fairuza consulted for a moment, hastily taking my place with the gathered Wenches as CJ turned to scowl at me. “I am not selfish,” I muttered as I snapped Moth’s leash onto the gold-and-amber jeweled and beaded harness I’d purchased for him earlier, setting him on the ground and giving h
is horns a quick tweak before straightening up. If I had to Promenade, he had to Promenade, too.

  Fairuza and CJ, finished with their whispered consultation, turned to face the ten gathered Wenches. “Wenches, we are about to commence the first Promenade of this season.”

  “Huzzah!” the women around me yelled.

  “Yay,” I said without much fervor.

  Moth licked his privates.

  “For the benefit of those new Harlots amongst us,” CJ said with a pointed glance at me, “we will briefly cover the rules of the Wench Promenade. First of all, does everyone have their lipstick?”

  “Yea, verily,” the assorted Wenches cried, everyone quickly pulling tubes of lipstick from their pouches or pockets and waving them at CJ. She glared at me until I rooted around in my leather pouch and dug out my lipstick. “Excellent. Wenches, apply lipstick!”

  I shared the tiny pocket mirror belonging to the Wench next to me, applying dark bloodred lipstick that clashed horribly with my hair.

  “Teeth check!” CJ ordered.

  My neighbor Wench bared her teeth at me.

  “You’re good,” I said, then did the same.

  “As you know, the purpose of this Promenade is to mark likely-looking lads. Please remember that this is a family venue, and keep your marks confined to above the markee’s waist. Also, last year we had some trouble with particularly lusty Harlots racing down targets.” The twins in the low-cut chemises whom Vandal had been flirting with earlier in the day giggled. “Wenches are not cats in heat! We do not run; we saunter saucily. When you see a potential mark, saunter up to him, announcing as you do, ‘What ho, my sisters in Wenchdom, yonder I spy me a likely-looking lad/lord/rogue. Methinks he’s ripe for a marking, what say you?’ To which the rest of you reply, ‘Verily, ’tis the truth yonder lad/lord/rogue is ripe! Have at him!’ At that point you may proceed to mark your lad, but please remember to do so in a manner that will not embarrass the gentleman.”