Author's Note: This is a one-shot I wrote based on the jousting scene in the classic romance "Ivanhoe" by Sir Walter Scott. I hoped to capture what might have been Sir Ivanhoe's thoughts before he entered the joust against the Templar knight Sir de-Bois Guilbert. Feedback is always highly appreciated! Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Sir Walter Scott's "Ivanhoe."
Life, Love and Chivalry
The slight breeze ruffled the plume on my helm, passing through the bars of my visor in a most refreshing manner. Oh how I wished to be rid of the wretched device of that moment, to cast it aside and cry aloud for the joy of living. The breezes of England were quite different than those of the Holy Land. The scent of fresh flowers and sweet grass floated on the air, as soft as a lady's kiss, caressing the cheek not stinging it as the acrid wind of the East might. The land was lush and green, not at all like the barren wastelands that my weary eyes had so long beheld. No prouder sight was there then the stately lists and colorful galleries, decked in such merry banners and flags though they be of Norman origin and graced by the foul sons of that descent.
To think of the fortune that had found me! I was but a pilgrim in my father's house, unbeknownst to him, sheltered in a drafty room not apart from the Jew who also lodged with us. But a kind deed, even disposed on one such as Isaac of York had led me to my current agreeable position. With the help of his friend I had happily gained the armor and horse needed to participate in the joust. For what grander way would there be to return to my homeland in such a show of gallantry?
But I forget myself even now, astride the mighty black steed lent to me. I would to God that none yet know of my return, except the chosen few. Here my eyes land on Gurth, a faithful servant of my father's, who for the loyalty of his young master, deserted the manor which he called home to aid me. I would reward him grandly when the time came, as for now he must stand beside me, his arms wrapped around my lance as his eyes dart over the field. A good squire was he and an even better friend.
We watch in silence as the lists are cleared, the broken bodies of the challengers who dared to go against Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert. Perhaps I shall render some justice to their cause and knock the good sir from his saddle ere the day closes. Long had I sat by the side, awaiting my chance to enter the lists at what I deemed the perfect moment. A glance behind and I see the thinning crowd of knights, ebbing like the noble tide which bore me to this shore. Mayhap, now when the populace murmurs and shifts in the galleries, now when the Templar is so safe in his victory.
Gurth senses my determination and fumbles with the lance. He greatly fears my demise, though his knowledge is not privy to the skills I gained on the crusades, taught to me by the very best of warriors and King Richard himself.
"Hand me the lance, dear friend," say I with patient tone, my fingers grasping upon the weapon.
"Take great care, my master," replies he, his eyes flickering back to the field and the tent of Bois-Guilbert.
"Do not let fear invade thy senses," I answer, spurring my horse on. "It does me little good to have a squire of no use." The musicians that stood nearby gaze up from their instruments, watching as I pace forward and understanding at once, the sound, the call of a signal trumpet. Silence echoes across the lists, the highborn lean forward in the galleries, in eagerness to see what foolish youth will now place himself at the mercy of those who had already proven their might. The barriers are lifted high, my horse leaps onto the soft green grass.
It is quite a lonesome feeling at first, being the object of interest for so many eyes, all peering anxiously, some ladies drop their veils, excitement is born once more. But I too let my eyes wander, searching for the familiar face, the kinsman, the foe any who I can cling to at that last moment before I am thrust into the clash. Sitting not faraway I spot them, and all the years fall away. My father, sitting high in his pride, does he still think of anger when his thoughts turn to me? And noble Athelstane, or so he is called, lost once more in that stupor that he is well known for. Oh, my heartbeat quickens, pounding within my breast! Her eyes fall on me, those precious eyes which I have dreamed of. The Lady Rowena, so demure and sweet, did you recognize me in our interview not so long ago? Or was the pilgrim in your bower nothing more than that, a mere wanderer that you humored in your gentle spirit?
The call of the crowd brings me back to my purpose.
"Touch Ralph de Vipont's shield!" cries one bold lad, leaning far into the field to alert me. "He has the least sure seat, he is your cheapest bargain." I smile in gratitude though he can not see, but I am fixed to my cause. And there, looming in front of me in his great gallery is Prince John. He watches with mild interest, though I sense a flicker of fear in his eyes, a coward as always. Would his brother weep to see what has become of his country? I feel the hot brand of hate thrust to my heart, burning with the fury I imagine the Lion Heart would feel at such a sight. Still, I lower my lance in bitter salute, determined to regain the glory of the Englishman so long forgotten.
And there stands he, marked by his arrogance that his Order should not know. All of Heaven must weep to see the Templars turned so foully. Bois-Guilbert stands by his pavilion, not a care gracing his well set countenance. Such pride I will not suffer, I can scarce bear it now. So gracefully my steed climbs the slope, the sharp end of my lance coming to touch his shield, a challenge, a call to joust. For life, love and chivalry!