This is my first story published on Fanfiction and I'm really excited. I wrote this story for a school historical short story project, so if it seems to revolve a large amount around dates I apologise. Anyway moving onto the story, a little back ground info: This story is set from 1659-1665 in England during the Restoration of the English Monarchy; none of the people in this story are real people, except for Edward Disbrowe, Charles Stuart, Richard Cromwell and Oliver Cromwell, they have simply been used to tell the story, so if they display any likeness to any people, it is not intentional. So sit back, relax and hopefully enjoy (cross fingers) my story
Prologue
Lance perfectly balanced, I spun back towards my awaiting opponent, observing him through the small slit in my helmet to see him dig his heels into the flank of his seasoned Drestrier, carrying him forward to the point at which our weapons would meet. I accelerated, crouching low in the saddle, balancing myself, preparing for the possible impact of lance meeting shield that would throw me from the saddle. With uncanny accuracy I levelled the blunted end of my lance below his left breast, ensuring that no blood would be shed. My thrust landed perfectly, lifting him from the saddle, to land on the grass of the green below. I slowed and dismounted, making way towards my opponent. Smiling I reached down to clasp his hand, pulling him up to face me. Returning my smile he quoted the code we had all been taught, 'Gracious and dignified in defeat', to which I answered 'Humble and gentle in victory.' We turned to face the crowd that had gathered to watch the infamous squire Nicholas Bennett and unbeatable Walter Placett in combat, and bowed, laughing, mimicking the action performed by knights after the heat of battle. I searched the berfrois, noticing that the puritan black worn by nobility was instead replaced by dark greens and browns by those of the lower class that could not afford to pay for the expensive dye needed to fully conform to the laws of England's present religion, brought on by the Protectorate. Walter, sensing what I was looking for, pointed to the centre of the stand where my eyes met an entrancing pair of deep mahogany, perfectly shaped almond eyes that could only belong to one person, Daniella Bessette. It was impossible to look away from those bottomless eyes, even when the pretty ladies of the court stepped out onto the green, attempting to catch my eye, but my eyes were only for her.