Jacob Stone gasped raggedly for breath as he stared at his opponent, his blue eyes steely, his upper lip curled with determination. He raised his sword as he sized up the "foe", then, with a loud whoop, he charged, slashing backhanded at the other man's upraised blade. But at the last second, Jacob pulled his swordhand back, ducking and spinning at the same time. He lashed out again with his sword, aiming to take his opponent out by slashing his legs.
Jenkins, however, had seen the move coming a mile off and nimbly hopped over the blade of Jacob's sword. As he landed again, he brought the tip of his own sword down and lightly pressed it into the back of the Librarian's neck.
"Touché, Mr. Stone," he rumbled. Jake dropped his weapon in surrender. As soon as Jenkins removed his sword, Stone jumped up and faced the old immortal.
"You saw that comin', didn't ya?" he barked in irritation with himself, waving his hand in front of face. He had a terrible habit of communicating his thoughts with his eyes, and Jenkins could read him like a well-loved book.
"I'm afraid so, Mr. Stone," the Caretaker confirmed as he bent to pick up Jacob's discarded sword. "But your backhand stroke is improving remarkably. Had I not been able to read your intentions on your face, you might well have done me some serious injury." He peered pointedly down his nose at the younger man.
"And I do emphasize the word, 'might'," he said, his tone just barely teasing. Jake grinned at the praise and the two started to walk over to the bench sitting along one wall of the training room. Jake looked forward to these swordsmanship lessons with Jenkins with eager anticipation; ever since Jake had helped save Franklin's life after the tea dragon's run-in with one of the giant bees in the Library's hive, Jenkins had taken Jacob on as a sort of apprentice. Stone had always looked up to Jenkins, and these lessons in swordsmanship had become a time for bonding with the immortal. Jenkins was surprisingly open with Jake now, more than willing to share stories from his past and answer the historian's questions. Well, most of his questions.
Stone flopped down exhaustedly onto the bench and handed a bottle of water to Jenkins, who didn't even seem to be winded. The older man sat down next to Jake and took a swig of water from the bottle.
"Hey, J," the Librarian began, and Jenkins smiled to himself. Mr. Stone always prefaced his inquiries thus when he wanted to ask Jenkins about something from his past.
"What was the best Christmas you ever had?" Jake's eyes shone eagerly as he awaited the Caretaker's answer. A smile spread across the immortal's face as an image came instantly to mind. He chuckled softly and took another drink of water.
"I've had many very fine Christmases, Mr. Stone," he said jovially. "Especially since meeting Cassandra. But I presume what you want to know is, what was the best Christmas I ever had in my younger days." He screwed the cap back onto the bottle of water and set it aside.
"That would the Christmas in which I defeated my father in a jousting match, in front of King Arthur and the entire court." Jacob's eyes popped open wide, and he leaned in closer, dying to hear the story.
"You beat Dulaque—Sir Lancelot—in a joust?" he repeated, as if he couldn't believe he'd actually heard such a wonderful thing. "In front of King Arthur himself?!" Jenkins nodded his white head and Jacob pumped a fist with glee.
"Aw, man, you gotta tell me that story!" he all but shouted, and turned his body to face the old knight. "And don't you leave nuthin' out, you hear me?!" Jenkins laughed as he leaned back against the wall and paused a moment to gather his thoughts.
"Arthur was hosting a feast for his knights and their ladies on St. Stephen's Day," he began his story. "Of course, being the Octave of Christmas, there was no more fasting, and so the food and drink was abundant. Someone began talking about the tournament season that would arrive with the Spring, and the various knights began to boast of their greatest victories in the lists. It was discovered that my father and I both had exactly the same number of victories in jousting. Being in their cups, the knights began to call for a joust to determine which of us was the best jouster." Jenkins paused a moment as he recalled that scene: The crowded banqueting hall festooned with holly, fir and ivy garlands, the sound of the massive oaken Yule log snapping and popping as it blazed in the huge hearth, the fine beeswax candles perfuming the air with the faint scent of honey, servants rushing about madly serving mead, ale and wine to the assembled knights and ladies, as well as the platters of venison, goose, boar and other delicacies. The raucous laughter, the shouting, the songs, the flutes, drums and pipes of musicians. The heroic tales sung by the court bards. The world would never see days like those again…
"So what happened?" urged Jacob, rousing Jenkins from his reveries. The old knight took up his tale again.
"My father had a terrible drive to be the best in everything," he said. "And he didn't like the idea of anyone being his equal, not even his own son." He could see his father again on that day— lordly, cocksure, seated at the King's Table itself and surrounded by the younger knights who looked up to him as a model of knighthood. And by several young, very beautiful ladies of the court, as well. Galahad, as was his custom in large gatherings, kept to himself at the lowliest place in the hall, in the seat furthest away from the King's Table.
"My father turned to look at me and said, 'What say you, Galahad? Shall we joust and put an end to this uncertainty?'" Jenkins mimicked his father's voice as best he could, giving Jake a perfect mental picture of Dulaque's haughtiness.
"I tried to demure, of course; I didn't think it seemly to be in competition with another knight over something so ephemeral as who was the best jouster in the land. And it certainly wasn't appropriate to be in competition with my own father," the immortal continued. "But the court would have none of it, and they kept egging us on. At last, even Arthur couldn't resist entering the fray. 'Lancelot!' he says, 'it seems the wolf has sired a dog!'"
"Whoa, that's pretty cold!" interjected Stone, frowning. "I can't believe Arthur called you a dog!" But Jenkins only laughed again.
"Not at all, Mr. Stone," he replied. "That was merely an old saying in those days; Arthur only meant that my temperament was the polar opposite of Lancelot's. It wasn't meant as an insult at all—at least, not to me." Lancelot, on the other hand, had taken it as an insult. It had always irritated the proud knight that his own offspring didn't seem to have the same level of cutthroat ambition or aggression as Lancelot. Du Lac also knew that Arthur was aware of his indiscretions with the Queen Guinevere, and felt that Arthur sought to humiliate him in front of the other knights at every opportunity, to knock Lancelot back into his proper place. Jenkins shook his head and picked up the thread of his story.
"Lancelot rose and challenged me bluntly to a jousting duel, that very day. I didn't really want to, but he put me into a rather awkward position where I could not really refuse. So I accepted the challenge." Jenkins recalled the look of smug confidence on Lancelot's face.
"Oh, man!" hooted Jacob as he rocked back and forth, caught up in the story. "Dude! I woulda given anything to see that! What happened next?" The old knight smiled at the historian's enthusiasm.
"Arthur ordered the list prepared. Lancelot and I ordered our squires to prepare our armor, our lances, our horses. The entire court bundled up and went out into the cold and snow to watch us joust." The weather had been bitterly cold. Even with all of the knights' mail armor and the quilted padding beneath it to help keep them warm, Galahad's teeth were soon chattering slightly as he mounted his horse. There were three or four inches of snow on the ground, not enough to hinder horses very much at a walk, but snow could be treacherous at a full-on gallop.
"We mounted our horses, took up our positions at either end of the list," Jenkins continued. "Our squires handed us our lances, and we waited for the King to give us the signal." Jenkins didn't mention the insults and taunts that Lancelot hurled at his son, calling him a bastard whelp that Lancelot should've drowned at birth, but the upstart Galahad would soon be taught a lesson for his impertinence. It wasn't unusual for knights to 'psych out' an opponent in such a fashion, but Galahad knew that Lancelot's invectives were meant seriously, and it wounded the young knight's heart deeply.
"Soon enough, Arthur gave the signal, and we were off. Did you know, Mr. Stone, that a horse bearing a fully-armored armored knight can reach a speed of almost thirty miles per hour? And that when a lance hits an opponent's shield, he is striking that man with over three and half G's of force?" The old knight shook his head in wonder that anyone had ever walked away from the lists in one piece. Jake wasn't really interested in the physics of medieval jousting, however.
"So, but, you won, right?!" the historian clamored, his eyes wide and his body hunched forward eagerly. Jenkins couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face, his dark eyes sparkling.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Stone; I won!" he rumbled. "We spurred our horses into a full gallop, lances down, resting on the top edge of our shields. As we closed in on each other, the shafts of our lances touched, and I could feel mine shimmy a bit as it crossed and dragged against his. Then, suddenly, a split-second later—BOOM!" Stone jumped at the loud exclamation as Jenkins's hands flew into the air and outward, mimicking an explosion.
"We struck each other at the exact same instant, dead on target, and both of our lances splintered, large chunks of wood flying everywhere like missiles! I fell backward in my saddle so far I thought I was going to break my back on the high backrest we used on saddles in those days—it felt like I'd been hit by a garbage truck!" It had been a mighty blow that Lancelot had struck Galahad, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. The sharp pain in his back as he fell backwards over. But, somehow, I managed to stay in my seat, though I must confess it was difficult to breathe at first, whether through the blow or because I simply forgot to breathe in all the excitement, I can't say." It had been a horrific blow. One moment Galahad was upright in the saddle, his heart pounding in his ears, the next instant he was bent so far back by the force of the blow he received from Lancelot that he was sure his back was going to break. The lances, already cold and brittle, had shattered like glass when they struck the shields. One large shard of a lance had flown into the crowd and impaled a man through his upper chest like a dagger. He lost the use of his right arm that day, though he could count himself fortunate to have at least survived the spectacle.
Galahad heard the roar of the court. By some miracle, he had managed to stay in his saddle. As his horse slowed to a trot, he hauled himself upright again, clutching the reins in one tight fist, while the other still clutched what was left of his lance in a death grip. He turned his horse around to see where Lancelot was, and was utterly stunned to see his father lying flat on his back on the snow-covered ground, knocked completely senseless, his horse trotting off unburdened while grooms tried to catch it. Jenkins could still feel the rush of euphoria that had swept over him at the realization that he had actually defeated his father in a joust. It was the very first time Galahad had ever beaten his father at anything. Galahad had been all of seventeen years old at the time, and he had felt ten feet tall.
"I had succeeded in unhorsing Lancelot, and rather decisively, too, I might add," Jenkins said, unable to keep a note of pride out of his voice. "Arthur declared me the winner on the spot, and, as was his custom, awarded me a token as a remembrance of the duel." Jake's ear really perked up at that.
"What was it?" he asked, almost breathless. Jenkins smiled and cocked his head at the younger man.
"He plucked a ring from his hand and gave it to me right there—a large, gaudy, gold thing with a sapphire the size of wren's egg set into it," Jenkins replied, crinkling his nose slightly with distaste. "Not really my style, you understand, so I've never worn it, but I could hardly refuse to accept it. He was the king, after all." Jacob was beside himself with excitement.
"You still got it?" he asked, the words tumbling from his mouth almost too fast for his tongue to form them. "Can I see it? Like, can I see it right now?!" The knight laughed, amused by Stone's exuberance.
"Indeed you may, Mr. Stone!" he answered cheerfully as an idea suddenly came to him, and stood up. "In fact, I'll make you a Christmas present of it to you, of sorts: I swear to you on my honor as a knight that on the day you best me with the sword, I shall award that very same ring to you in acknowledgement of your mastery of the skill. Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Stone?"
Jacob stood and stared in astonishment at the old immortal for several seconds, just until his brain had fully processed and understood what exactly it had just heard. He then exploded in a paroxysm of excitement, jumping straight up into the air and whooping with joy, as if the Oklahoma Sooners had just won the Super Bowl against the New England Patriots.
"Are you kiddin' me, Jenkins?!" he hollered. "Are you freakin' kiddin' me, man? You better not be kiddin' me! Are you just jerkin' my chain or what? Man, are you serious?!" Stone babbled on for several minutes before he finally calmed down enough to hear Jenkins assure him that he was, indeed, serious.
"I mean just what I say, Mr. Stone," he said, draping his long arm companionably over Stone's shoulders as they began to leave the training room. "I think it will be an excellent motivational tool. Perhaps it can inspire you to redouble your efforts in learning how to hide your thoughts from an opponent rather than broadcasting them through your facial expressions as clearly as semaphore message…"
"Aw, come on, J, I ain't that bad…am I?" Jacob asked, suddenly chastened. Jenkins smiled mysteriously as they walked.
"We shall see, Mr. Stone. We shall see."