The task is simple: lower my lance, put it through a hoop, and then retreat to the Red Knight’s part of the crowd.
I miss the first one.
Which is something my brother would never do. My section groans loudly, and I bite my bottom lip as I ride. The warm, metallic taste of blood rises in my mouth.
Dalton hits two in a row on the same pass, and he makes a point to gallop past me on the way to his own section. “Can’t see out of that black eye?”
I want to flip him off, but instead I ignore him, kick my heels into Shadowfax, and head back for another pass. My shoulders ache as I steady the lance, but I imagine Joan, waving her sword and calling soldiers to arms. I think of Chris, watching in the audience, exhausted and proud all at once. I remember myself at seven and the tiny girl I met in the Great Hall.
This is for you all.
I pinch my thighs together and drive Shadowfax forward. One ring clatters onto my lance and then the second one slips on easily.
I want to punch the air and cheer, but that’s not what Knights do. Instead, I ride back to my section and drop the rings into my Squire’s hands. A quick glance at the crowd shows me Chris, way up at the top of my section, standing behind Eddy Jackson and his buddies, all of them waving red banners. Even though Chris can’t see it, I wink at him.
I’ve got this.
The tournament goes on. We race each other up and down the arena, horses kicking up sand and the crowd cheering. Although I have to stay alert, some part of me is on autopilot, outside my body, going through the motions. Sweat pools in my helmet and streams down my back. This is every-Knight-for-themselves, and the races aren’t scripted. The Blue Knight wins most of them, soundly trouncing Green, Yellow, and me.
We take a small break, and I grin to see Eric Taylor rushing out with the other Squires to clean up the horse poop that’s scattered about the sand of the arena. They use long rakes, which look almost exactly like what you’d use to clean a cat’s litter box, and I secretly hope that Layla’s reconsidering her opinion of Eric while she watches him work his pooper scooper.
By the end of the races, it’s time to get favors from the Princess to throw into the audience. My thighs ache from holding myself upright in the saddle, and my back and arms scream at me. Although I’ve trained, I’ve never gone through an entire show. And we’re only halfway there.
“Medieval warrior women, give me strength,” I mutter, thinking of all the female warriors I’ve read about as I researched what the Middle Ages were really like. If they could fight like this in real life, I can stay on my horse for another thirty minutes for the sake of a show.
I ride up to the King’s Platform. Princess Jessica, most treacherous of them all, stands at the edge, throwing fake flowers to each of the Knights. She doesn’t look at me as a white carnation drops from her hand. For the sake of the show, she can’t ignore Chris (well, me) entirely, but she doesn’t have to smile at him. I reach up a spent arm and grab at the flower. It almost—almost—slips through my fingers, but I snatch it out of the air at the last second and turn Shadowfax’s reins. With a quick sprint back to my section, I fling the flower into the audience. Then, I join the line of other Knights galloping back to the royal box. This time, Jessica slips colored scarves tied to rings onto the edge of each Knight’s lance. When I approach her, lance held straight, she deliberately misses and the scarf flutters toward the ground.
I swear, more loudly than I mean to, and fumble for the scarf, nearly dropping my lance in the process. Mercifully, I hang on to it, but this sloppiness is the last thing the Red Knight would do.
Jessica’s already turned away from me, but Jett stands at the edge of the royal box. His mouth drops open when he sees me fumble and hears me swear. “Kit?” he mouths.
Our eyes meet and I give him the smallest of nods. He smiles and glances quickly at King Len.
“Rock star,” Jett mouths, before putting his trumpet back to his lips.
Buoyed by his confidence, I readjust the lance and race back to my section, the scarf waving from my hand. I fling it into the audience and a young boy in the front row catches it. He waves at me, grinning. I smile, confident again.
There’s not time to really do more than smile, though, because the trumpets sound again and it’s time to joust.
HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT ABOUT JOUSTING?
It’s basically the medieval version of chicken, but with ten-foot wooden sticks pointed at the other person. And, rather than swerving away at the last moment, you have to just sit there and take it.
It’s stupid, brutal, and jolly good entertainment, both five hundred years ago and today.
The Yellow and Blue Knights race toward each other, and then there’s a hollow, thunking, splintering noise as Yellow’s lance shatters into Blue’s shield. Blue fake falls off his horse and they take the combat to the ground. Dodging, weaving, swords crashing—this is what the crowd is here for!
Blue topples Yellow—as he’s supposed to according to the script—and their hand-to-hand fighting ends with Blue’s sword balanced on the edge of Yellow’s throat. They grin at each other, and then Yellow rolls away. Together, they bow to the audience quickly, and then it’s my turn. Green is supposed to win tonight, which means I need to unseat Green on his horse and then let him beat me in the floor combat.
Except that’s not what’s going to happen today.
I can tell from the first pass, Dalton is still pissed about his fight with Chris. Right before our lances meet, I straighten my back and steel myself. He’s supposed to pull back on his lance, so it just barely glances against my shield. But, instead, he drives his arm forward, ramming the lance into my shield. I dig my heels into my horse to steady myself as my shield shatters and I nearly fall off.
I can’t help it; a scream breaks out of me as I turn my horse around. Luckily, it’s lost in the roar of the crowd. Green stands up in his stirrups and raises his arms to the crowd. They shriek approval as he parades around.
I grit my teeth and trade my lance for a sword and a new shield.
The choreography of this fight is meant to be simple: Green falls off his horse as we ride past, and then I jump down to the ground to face him in the sand. The Castle has been doing this same show for three years now, and I’ve seen it twice a night, four nights a week, for all of those years. That’s 1,248 shows, and each time the same thing happens—the last two Knights duke it out with swords, maces, and spears until the Knight of the Night (if you will) emerges triumphant.
But Green is out for blood tonight.
On the next pass, he dodges my blow, jumps from his horse, and knocks me down. While I’m on the ground, he advances, raining blows on me. I hold up my shield, arm aching, as he batters it with his sword. I roll out of the way, dropping my shield as I do so, and dance away from him. Inside my helmet, sweat stings my eyes.
My Squire hands me a mace—really just a prop made of balsa wood and aluminum, nothing like its hardier iron cousin, which could do real damage.
“What’s wrong with him?” he asks, nodding at Green. “Did he do coke before the show or something?”
“Just Dalton being his usual self,” I say in as Chris-like a voice as possible.
Before I can turn around, Green swipes my legs out from under me. My Squire jumps out of the way, and as I try to get to my feet, Green whacks me on the shoulder with his shield—totally illegal, off-script move—and pain shoots down my side.