Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Breaker of ten thousand lances.

William, Roland, and Wat got a tent to sleep in that night, it was possible to see a part of the sky from a hole in it.

 

William lay on the ground, staring at the roof of the tent dreamily. Wat was asleep, but he would have passed for a pig with his snores.

 

A deep sigh escaped from between William’s lips.

 

“What is that,” Roland asked in a gruff.

 

“It was the sound of love, Roland,” said William with another soft sigh.

 

“For the love of victory, William, go to sleep,” Roland barked.

 

“But I can’t,” said William,” Love has lent me wings and I must soar.”

 

This time, it was Roland who heaved like a father forced to deal with a stubborn child the hundredth time in one night.

 

“Roland, I can’t explain it,” William continued, softly. “She makes me feel like a poet, and you know I’ve always been one at heart.”

 

“It’s okay to feel like a poet,” said Roland, “but right now, you sound like an idiot. What’s her name?”

 

“I know nothing of her name,” William replied, “but I shall call her Rose, for she’s as sweet and mysterious as a blooming petal. And if that suffices not, call her Aphrodite, Venus, or Calypso…”

 

“You don’t even know her name,” Roland said, disgustedly. “Women weaken the heart. And without your heart, you cannot win, William. Concentrate.”

 

William let out another draining sigh. “You’re right, Roland,” said he, “I will.”

 

On that note, William closed his eyes, bidding himself to sleep and dream on the thoughts of the mysterious lady. But just as he was dozing off, Wat jolted from his sleep like a dead risen from the coffin.

 

“Where’s Chaucer?” he asked, panting as though he’d just finished a war charge. “I had a dream he earned a fonging from me.”

 

“He hasn’t returned,” said Roland, “I’m afraid we’re without a herald.”

 

“No loss,” said Wat, snorting. “That means I get to keep the skin on my knuckles.”

 

He fell back to sleep with the same abruptness he had woken up with. And all was quiet.

 

“William?” Roland called.

 

“Yes?”

 

“If you don’t go to sleep, I’ll borrow the word fong from Wat and use it on you.”

 

“Right.”

 

The next morning came with a rush of adrenaline. William was up before dawn knew to crack, flexing his arms and jumping.

 

“It’s alright,” Roland said to him later that morning as they made their way to the list. “It’s no different from practice, just that the targets get to hit you back.”

 

“And Sir Hector did a good job teaching me to take hits,” said William.

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The jousting ground was just as William imagined it, in fact, very scarcely was it ever different. A stand on either side for the peasants to stand on and the nobles to sit in.

 

A list divided in two about a hundred yard long with well trodden earth and a man with a flag halfway. And the cheer, the noise, the energy, the tension and cold that caught the limbs just before the spotlight comes on a fellow.

 

William eyed his opponent from afar, Roland had told him it was a Roger Lord of Mortimer.

 

“William!” Roland boomed, his voice rising about the cheer and jeer of the crowd. “Remember what I told you; never take your eyes off the target.”

 

“Even if it means I risk losing my eyes...” added William.

 

“God knows you should have lost your head already from the last tourney, you know what I’m talking about,” said Roland.

 

William bobbed his head and slapped his visor down.

 

“Lance!” he barked, holding out a hand.

 

Wat hurried and handed over the twelve feet long stick to him.

 

The pursuivant standing halfway the list raised his flag up and the spectators gasped with tension. The second the flag was brought down, William kicked his horse into a trot. On the opposite side of the list was Roger de Mortimer, bearing down his lance.

 

Everything grew painfully silent in that few seconds William rode down the list. The landing of his horse’s hooves beat rhythmically with his heart. Never before had he felt such strong urge to disobey; he desperately wanted to look away from the lance pointing at him, the lance that could crash into him or worse still, send him off his horse, his and his companions’ end.

 

As William and Roger rode past each other, the crack sound of wooden lance splintering one knight to victory and another to a loss rang across the list.

 

William’s lance had been reduced to a three foot shaft. He turned around to face Roland and Wat who looked as though they’d been struck behind the head.

 

“He did it!” Wat yelled and clung to Roland.

 

William nodded his acknowledgement to the cheer from the crowd around him.

 

“After three passes,” the King-of-arms stepped boomed from the stands, quieting the crowd. “Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein defeats Roger Lord of Mortimer one lance to none.”

 

William felt pride swell in his chest as he rode his horse back to excited Roland and Wat. He raised his visor and beamed at them.

 

“Oh, William,” said Wat, bubbling with excitement. “You did it!”

 

“I kept my eyes on the target, Roland,” said William, “just like you asked.”

 

Roland patted William on the thigh. “I’m proud of you, I’m proud of you.”

 

“Now, easy boys,” said William, throwing his chin up. “Let not this crowd think I’ve never broken a lance before.”

 

“But you’ve not,” Wat said.

 

“Sir Ulrich has broken ten thousand lances,” said William.

 

“Alright, Sir Ulrich,” said Roland, “breaker of ten thousand lances, you need to get off the horse, sword fight starts in fifteen minutes or less.”

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