Authoress's Note: Well, dear readers, it seems I've bungled a couple of things this time, which I am in the process of fixing. Namely, I mixed up my months for the past several chapters it seems, and I've had to tweak the rules of the tournament a bit. If you'll forgive me, I hope you enjoy the chapter.
Chapter the Thirty-Seventh: The Joust
25 Fairdawn 2076
The dawn's rosy light reflected on the nearby mountain's snowy peak as cheering Seven Islanders filled the stands surrounding the tournament field. Trumpets brightly announced King Richard's arrival. His subjects stood respectfully as he entered and took his place in the pavilion at the center of the field. Prince Robin took his place at his father's right hand, while Princess Lyra, as the guest of honor, received the place to the king's left. A hush fell upon the crowd as he raised his hand.
"Worthy people of the Seven Isles, dear friends from near and far, be ye welcome," King Richard's warm baritone voice resonated through the clear morning air. "It is Our pleasure to open this great Tournament. Over the next four days, it will test the skill, courage, mettle, and honor of the land's bravest knights. Sir Pelinor will preside over this solemn contest. But first, it is Our honor to introduce as the Tournament's guest of honor her royal highness the Princess Lyra of Archenland, who will graciously bestow upon the Tournament's champion the rewards of victory."
Lyra curtsied at his acknowledgment, glancing over to the nearby seats where the village children, as her guests, contrasted with the well attired courtiers surrounding them. The giggling children barely contained their enthusiasm and joined the crowd in making their Archen visitor welcome.
"Sir Pelinor, let the Tournament begin!" The king concluded, and all cheered. After the king took his seat, Lyra, Robin, and the courtiers around them took their seats as well.
"Let the competitors come forth." Sir Pelinor spoke clearly, then took his seat. The trumpets blew a bright burst of notes.
One by one, the knights entered and paraded grandly around the field as the herald announced them, their pennants snapping smartly at the ends of their lances. Outside the field, Galen sat uneasily on his horse, his lance resting on his boot. The golden Gryphon waved above him at its tip. He could barely hear the heralds announcing the other knights over the beating of his own heart. Last of all, he came to the edge of the field.
"Finally, Sir Galen of Archenland, champion of the Princess Lyra!"
Cheers erupted anew as the young knight spurred his mount around the field, acknowledging the crowd by raising his lance. He stifled a chuckle as he noticed the eager ladies of Prince Robin's frustration. Many a young lady, indeed, waved a favor hopefully in the air as he passed. He took no small amusement in their disappointment as they noticed the favor he already wore. As he passed the royal box, he looked up and caught Lyra's bright eye with a soft smile. The children seated below her shouted and waved, and his smile broadened as he acknowledged them as well. Completing the circuit, Galen brought his horse to a stop in line with the other competing knights.
"Knights of the realm," Sir Pelinor addressed them once the crowd quieted. "Over the next two days, you will each joust four times—once each morning and once each afternoon—in randomly drawn matches. You will accrue one point for a clean hit, two points for a shivered lance, and three points for an unhorsing. In the interest of time, each match is limited to three passes. Tomorrow evening, the knight with the most points will be dubbed the jousting victor, and the sixteen best knights will proceed to the swordsmanship tournament. The third day is for the quarterfinals; the fourth and final day for the semifinal and final matches. The victor of the final takes the Tournament. May victory be to the best man!"
As the spectators cheered anew, each knight hoisted his lance in salute. Glancing to his left, Galen could see miniature shields with each knight's crest hanging neatly on the wall above the spectators. As a trumpet sounded, servants took two of the shields from their places and set them opposite each other at the wall's center.
"Sir Gelhad of Redhaven and Sir Therian of Muil have the first match," the herald's strong voice cut though the chattering voices, and the two named knights eagerly took their places while the remaining competitors withdrew from the field. Galen glanced over his shoulder as his horse crossed the perimeter of the jousting arena, a shiver of anticipation running up his spine as he caught a glimpse of the first competitors offing their cloaks and donning their helmets. With a smile, he spurred his horse on and returned to his tent.
"A successful tournament opening, my lord?" Galen's squire greeted, holding the horse's bridle as the Narnian dismounted.
"I think so, Ethan. I didn't fall off the horse, at least," Galen responded with a chuckle.
"Indeed, sir," the squire smiled as he tied the horse's reins to the hitching post. "The match schedule arrived while you were gone. You joust against Sir Oliver of Mount Laren in an hour and a half. In the meantime, I have set out tea and a light breakfast, if you wish."
"You're most kind," Galen inclined his head in thanks. "Would you join me? Perhaps I might trouble you for your knowledge of these knights I am to face."
"My pleasure, sir," the squire smiled in return.
As the morning progressed, Lyra became harder pressed to master the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. From her seat next to the king she had an excellent view of the field, and the sight of her own standard—the golden Archen gryphon wreathed in lilies—upon the competitors' wall filled her with anticipation.
"Your champion is next, is he not, my lady?"
"Indeed so, your majesty," Lyra answered the king, maintaining her habitually calm exterior.
"He must be quite a knight to earn your favor," King Richard smiled, and the Archen princess merely inclined her head, arching an eyebrow, in return.
"Sir Galen will win the tournament, father! You'll see," Prince Robin interjected enthusiastically.
"Oh, indeed?" His father chuckled. "I'm glad to see you have so much faith in your own knights."
"Oh, father," the young prince reddened. "You know that's not what I meant," he insisted, and the king's chuckle broadened into a merry laugh.
As the knights of the previous match cleared the field, Lyra glanced up to see her standard moved to the center of the wall. The Archenlander shifted in her seat.
"Ready, young master?" Galen's squire asked kindly, standing beside the knight's horse and patting the animal affectionately. The young Narnian took a deep breath and nodded, shifting in his saddle. The two stood just outside the jousting arena and could hear the crash of lances as the ongoing match finished up.
"As I'll ever be," Galen glanced up to the mountain briefly. He took another breath and closed his eyes. "Aslan," he prayed silently, "grant me your blessing this day, if it be your will."
The trumpets sounded a few minutes later, and after accepting his helmet from his squire, the young knight spurred his mount onward.
"Sir Galen of Archenland and Sir Oliver of Mount Laren!" The herald announced, and enthusiastic cheers filled the air as Galen guided his mount around the field and took his place on the side of the field to the right of the royal box.
At the other end of the field, Sir Oliver situated himself as well. As soon as Galen fitted his helmet in place, the field squire passed him a sturdy lance. Turning to face the spectators, the young knight lifted his lance in salute, meeting the princess's bright eyes with a confident smile. She inclined her head in return. The Redhaven children clapped uproariously, and Galen's smile broadened widely before he closed his visor in place and faced the field.
A squire stood in the middle of the field beside the lists and hoisted a bright yellow flag high. At this signal, both Galen and his opponent readied themselves in their saddles. Taking a lusty breath, Galen felt his heart steady. Suddenly, the squire waved the flag decisively and ran swiftly to the edge of the field.
Immediately, Galen urged his horse to a swift gallop. The horse, itself eager for battle, sprang forward powerfully. The young knight leveled his lance, focusing on his opponent's ever-nearing shield. As the distance between them closed, Galen braced himself and leaned forward aggressively.
With a crash, the knights' lances met their marks. The impact drove the breath out of the young Narnian, but he kept his seat and slowed as he reached the other end of the field. The crowd cheered enthusiastically, and Galen looked up to realize with a smile and a surge of adrenaline that he would need another lance to replace the splintered stump remaining in his hand. The same could not be said for Sir Oliver, whose lance remained intact.
Fresh lance in hand, Galen charged ahead eagerly for the second pass. This time, both knights' lances shivered, sending hundreds of wooden shards flying through the air.
"Steady, Tighe," the young knight patted his war-horse's neck. "One more to go."
The third signal fell, and again the Narnian's horse surged forward. As the gap closed, he found the noise of spectators fade away and his concentration deepen. Keeping the lance level, Galen leaned in aggressively once more, putting all his strength into this last hit. This time, Sir Oliver missed, but Galen's lance hit its mark forcefully. With a resounding crash, the Narnian's opponent fell hard from the saddle.
"Yes!" Prince Robin yelled, standing in his seat. "An unhorsing in the first bout! See, father? I told you the princess would not choose a poor champion!"
King Richard chuckled good-naturedly and nodded in agreement with his energetic son. Lyra did not speak but applauded enthusiastically, her broad smile mingling relief and pride.
Simultaneously incredulous and exhilarated, Galen tossed his broken lance to the field squire and removed his helmet. Once more spurring Tighe to a brisk pace, the princess's champion acknowledged the cheering crowd with a wave, bowing to Lyra and King Richard as much as his armor allowed. By this time, the field squires had helped Sir Oliver to the side where his own squire waited. His head spinning with adrenaline and disbelief, Galen cleared the field for the next match and returned to where squire Ethan awaited.
"Well done!" The squire congratulated, taking Tighe's bridle.
"I can scarcely believe it!" The young Narnian laughed.
"I never doubted," Ethan rejoined, a twinkle in his eye.
As the two returned to Galen's tent and the field reset for the next match, Lyra looked up to the row of shields. The servant returned the shield with her standard to its place, and she noted with a satisfied smile the number seven written on the slate beneath it.
Galen's next bout was not scheduled until mid-afternoon, so Ethan assisted the young knight in removing his armor. After washing his face and donning a navy blue tunic, Galen took his cloak against the morning's chill and made his way back to the tournament field. A section of the stands were set aside for the knights, and he spent the remainder of the morning watching the other matches with great interest.
As noon approached, the last match came to a close with a spectacular unhorsing by Sir Alinor. Sir Pelinor officially dismissed the tournament for an hour's luncheon, and the young Narnian threaded his way through the crowd until he reached the royal box. The king and prince had already departed, but their Archen visitor and her marine guard tarried.
"Your highness," he bowed, a twinkle in his eye, as Lyra descended the steps.
"Well fought this morning, my friend," the princess congratulated. "Will you join me for lunch?"
"The pleasure is mine, my lady," Galen responded, offering his arm. She accepted it with a little smile, and the two made their way to the pavilion on the hill behind the jousting field where the king provided food for the competing knights and visiting dignitaries.
The midday sun filtered through the leaves of the trees surrounding the pavilion, and the ever-present Archen marines took positions around the grove. The hum of conversation within the pavilion ceased suddenly as Lyra and Galen entered. The knights seated at the long table stood instantly and bowed to the Archen princess.
"Good afternoon, my lords," she inclined her head in acknowledgment. "Pray do not let me disturb your conversation."
Lyra took a seat, and then the knights resumed theirs.
"Sir Liam," she addressed a nearby knight as they ate, "my compliments on your success this morning."
"My thanks, your highness," the dark-haired knight nodded in return. "And mine to your highness's champion," he raised his glass briefly. "Perhaps we shall have the pleasure of competing as the tournament progresses."
The Narnia acknowledged the compliment with a nod. As they finished their meal, another knight clapped Galen on the shoulder.
"My congratulations, Sir Galen," the knight spoke. The Narnian looked up to see his opponent from the morning bout.
"Thank you, Sir Oliver," Galen stood, then noticed with surprise that the other knight's sword arm rested in a sling. "What happened to your arm?"
The other knight laughed good-naturedly. "Your lance happened, my friend. I broke it upon my undignified landing."
"I am sorry," Galen responded remorsefully.
"Such are the fortunes of the joust," Oliver responded with a shrug. "You are fortunate in more ways than one," he glanced toward the princess. "Of course, now you must go on to win," the knight smiled and extended his uninjured hand. "Let it not be said when I return to the garrison at Mount Laren that their champion lost to just any other knight."
Galen warmly took the hand he offered. "I will do my best."
The Narnian saw his lady back to the stands, then took his leave of her to prepare for the afternoon match. As Galen disappeared around the corner, he did not see the fond smile that lingered on the princess's face. Before she returned to her place beside the king, Lyra paid a visit to her young guests. As exuberant as ever, each hurried to tell her what they thought of the first matches. As they spoke, she noticed out of the corner of her eye a peddler wandering up and down the aisles. Meat pasties, fruit hand-pies, and soft pretzels filled the generous baskets on his arms. With a twinkle in her eye, she instructed a nearby servant to fetch him. He returned promptly.
"At your service, your highness," the portly man bowed, doffing his rough woolen cap.
"Good sir, please be so kind as to provide my young guests here whatever they wish. I will assure that your purse will not suffer by it."
The kindly peddler smiled and bowed. "It would be my pleasure, your highness."
The children's delighted outbursts brought a smile as the princess returned to her seat. The king and his son had not yet returned, but Sir Pelinor and his wife Lady Elaine welcomed her.
"Your champion did well this morning, your highness," Lady Elaine complimented.
"You're very kind, my lady," Lyra responded with a nod and sly smile. "I look forward to seeing what the afternoon holds."
"Likewise," the elder lady laughed. "Although, I think my husband would rather be competing himself," she glanced at the older knight with a coy glint in her doe-brown eyes.
"Nay, my lady, I am content as ever to do my duty," he smiled knowingly, refusing to take the bait his teasing wife offered. "And I'd best be to it," Sir Pelinor stood as the king returned, then announced the first match of the afternoon.
Lyra found her mind wandering as the first few jousts of the afternoon came and went. She thought wistfully of her uncle, then of her family, so far away. What was Ayden up to? A terrific crash echoed through the air and brought her back to the present.
Sir Alinor, again succeeding in unhorsing his opponent, acknowledged the king and crowd with a dignified wave. As he made his triumphal circuit, Lyra glanced back where his opponent still lay upon the field. Her brow furrowed with concern as the squires removed the unconscious knight's helmet and placed him on a stretcher. As they removed him from the field, did her eyes trick her into seeing a trace of blood on his chain mail? But the trumpets were sounding again, and Lyra realized Galen was already taking his place upon the field for his second bout.
On the wall, a raven on an azure field faced the lily-crowned Archen gryphon. Despite her champion's success that morning, the princess found her heart again in her throat as the flag dropped and the horses charged forward. Wooden splinters from both lances flew through the air, and Lyra let out the breath she had been holding as the crowd cheered. Her Narnian friend looked none the worse for wear as he took up a fresh lance. Mastering herself, the Archenlander managed not to wince at the second crash. Two shivered lances again. The raven-crested knight from North Brenn took up his last lance with a determined look, and once again the princess found herself holding her breath. The last flag dropped, and the third crash echoed through the stands. Disguising her sigh of relief, Lyra applauded as Galen threw down his last shivered lance. His opponent's lance shivered as well—an even match. She acknowledged both, inclining her head, as they completed the circuit around the field. Galen's smile was not lost on her, and she returned it with a good will. As the next match set up, Lyra did not retake her seat. Instead, she curtsied to King Richard.
"If you will excuse me, your majesty, I will return presently."
The King of the Seven Isles gladly assented, and Lyra discretely left the stands. The king supposed she went to congratulate her champion, but instead the Archen princess and her marine shadows made for the healer's tent behind the field. The sides of the tent were secured open to let in light and air, and Lyra ducked inside. Within, the court physician bent busily over an unconscious knight. The knight's young squire stood haplessly at the edge of the tent, holding his master's dusty tabard and damaged chain mail. The princess could see clearly now that she had not mistaken the sight of blood upon the closely-knit metal rings. The squire's eyes widened as she entered, but his worry-filled gaze quickly returned to his prone master.
"Good physician, may I be of assistance?" Her gentle voice carried a firm resolution.
The grey-haired man started and muttered exasperatedly as he looked up, then his face softened with relief upon recognizing the Archen princess.
"Yes, your highness, the gauze and silk thread from yon table, if you please."
"What manner of injury did he sustain?" She asked as she returned with the requested items. A good deal of blood reddened the once-white cloth covering the table on which the knight lay.
"You can see, here, my lady, where the lance grazed him," the physician moved to one side. "Part of the lance head broke off in the wound."
Silence pervaded the tent as the physician concentrated.
"There it is," he said at last, with satisfaction tossing the cruel shard of metal to the ground. Lyra continued to assist him as he finished tending to the wound and wrapped the bandages tightly around the knight's torso.
"Will...will he be alright, your highness?" The young squire tentatively inquired, his brow furrowed with concern.
"He should be, in time," she answered with a gentle smile. "He was jousting against Sir Alinor, if I am not mistaken?"
The squire nodded distractedly, then recovered his manners with a startled gulp. "Yes, my lady," he answered with a deferential nod.
"I do not recall him," she mused.
"He is from the Windward Isle, my lady," the squire answered.
"And quite skilled at the joust," the physician added wryly.
"I am curious at your tone, good sir," she arched an eyebrow.
"Perhaps this was accidental," he answered. "But, then again, in my experience accidents do not often repeat themselves, let alone in a single day. Sir Alinor's morning joust left a lance head in another knight's shoulder."
"I see," Lyra responded. A moment passed in silence. "If there is nothing else I can do to be of service, I will take my leave."
The physician and squire bowed, and the princess made her way back to the stands, pondering with some concern what she had learned.
As the afternoon sun deepened in golden splendor and Sir Pelinor officially closed the tournament for the evening, Princess Lyra joined her young guests.
"What did you think of this first day, my friends?" She asked with a twinkle in her eye.
"Amazing!"
"Exciting!"
"They were so gallant!"
The children talked over each other in their excitement.
"Well, I think Sir Galen was the best," one of the boys announced with some unnecessary stubbornness.
Lyra laughed. "Shall we go find him?"
This question received many affirmative answers, and with a smile the princess took her little entourage in tow and made for the knights' tents.
"What news of my champion, my good squire?" The princess hailed Ethan cheerfully as they approached. At the sight of the children, he laughed and swept a bow.
"He left some time ago, your highness, muttering something about troubadours and heading towards the heart of the fair grounds. Perhaps you might find him there."
Offering her thanks, Lyra and the children made their way in the direction the squire suggested. The fair grounds were not deserted, but the few people walking here and there were beginning to make their way home. As the sunset gilded the treetops in gold, the princess heard a familiar lilting flute.
"This way," her eyes twinkled as she lead the children onward. Motioning to them to be quiet, she brought them to the edge of the troubadors' stage. As she suspected, her champion sat on the stage floor concentrating deeply on copying the clear-toned notes an aged, skillful musician drew from a sweet-toned dulcimer. The Narnian flute followed the tune well, better and better as the notes moved on and the melody established itself. The singers added their river-smooth voices, and the children sat, enthralled, as the music mingled with the last sunlight. The notes, at last, died away, and Galen jumped up in fright at the sudden burst of applause. He met his Archen friend's laughing eyes with good-natured embarrassment. Thanking the troubadours for their lesson, the Narnian jumped down from the stage to greet the children and accept their boisterous congratulations.
Most of them offered exuberant hugs and excited encouragement, and he laughingly accepted them. A few of the older boys only nodded their sage approval, noting that he had managed so far to redeem himself from his shameful loss to the princess the week before.
"Thank you all for cheering for me," Galen stood at last and smiled at the young Seven Islanders.
"We'll be here tomorrow!" A girl of six piped up enthusiastically.
"Don't let us down," one of the boys warned ominously.
"I'll do my best," Galen chuckled.
"Very well, children, if you're to be there tomorrow, you'd best be home to your families before sundown," Lyra gently shooed them in the direction of the village. "Come on," she said reassuringly, taking one of the younger girls' hands, "We'll see you home."
Hand in hand with a princess, the little girl happily skipped homeward, the rest of the children chattering cheerfully as they walked alongside. The princess's knight walked at her side, offering an arm, which she accepted with a warm smile.
"A good day, my friend?" She asked as they walked.
"A good day indeed," he answered with a satisfied sigh, returning her smile with one of his own.
The next morning dawned overcast. Shrill-voiced seabirds winged their way over the empty tournament ground, where Galen stood alone in the early twilight. A northerly wind brought a chill in from the sea, tossing his cloak about his boots and stinging his cheek. On the wall, twenty-eight shields remained of the thirty-two that began the tournament. As he compared the points beneath each shield, Galen felt his heart quicken. The lily-crowned gryphon boasted tenth place.
He made himself take a deliberate breath. Sixteen knights advance. He just had to be better than twelve at the end of the day. Easy enough, he thought, as he fought butterflies in his stomach.
The young knight took another breath of the chilly air, then looked down at the bright blue silk ribbon wound tightly between his fingers. It brought a fond smile to his face. He really should have left it tied to his armor, he chided himself. This wind could snatch it away. His fingers tightened their grasp against that thought. Curious how something so delicate could give a heart such warmth. He mused a moment more, then withdrew from the field before the spectators began to arrive.
"Aslan's Mane, he hits hard!" Galen exclaimed to himself after the first hit of the late-morning match. Sir Liam's lance had shivered to splinters in consequence, but the Narnian ruefully noted that he himself would not require a fresh lance for the next pass. Grateful that the audience could not see him wince beneath his helmet, the young knight wheeled Tighe into place and stiffened up his sore shield arm.
At the next pass, Galen's lance wavered just enough that it deflected across the length of Sir Liam's shield a fraction of a second before the Narnian's opponent's lance struck with remarkable force and shattered. With the difference in impact, Galen almost panicked as he felt himself slipping in the saddle. Though he did not see her, Lyra could not help shifting forward anxiously in her seat. With Herculean effort, her champion retained his seat and wheeled again for the last pass.
Setting his face in hard determination, Galen gripped the horse's sides tightly with his knees and steadied himself. The flag dropped and both knights charged. Leaning in to the heavy blow he knew was coming, the young knight at last struck with sufficient force to shiver his lance. His head spun with the exertion, and the Narnian did not fully come to himself until he was back in his own tent and his squire was helping him out of his armor.
"I don't think I did too well this time, Ethan. I—augh," A groan cut Galen's sentence short despite his valiant attempt to suppress it. In removing the chain mail, the squire had jostled the young knight's shield arm.
"My apologies, young master," Ethan answered contritely as he put the armor away. "You'd best sit down for a spell," he guided Galen to a chaise in the corner of the tent, then expertly checked the tender arm for injury.
"Nothing broken or dislocated," he announced with satisfaction. "But the shoulder would do well with some ice. I'll be back in a trice."
Ethan returned shortly with a cloth full of mountain snow, kept on hand near the knights' tents for exactly this possibility.
"Here," the squire spoke soothingly as he pressed the snow-filled cloth to the young knight's shoulder. "You'd best rest this arm until the next match, my lord. The princess sent word earlier that she will luncheon with the king, so there'll be no call upon you until then."
Galen nodded demurely, knowing better than to challenge a squire who clearly knew his business well. Leaning back, the Narnian closed his eyes and let himself drift into unconsciousness.
As the morning concluded, Lyra noted with a tremor of apprehension that the lily-crowned gryphon held sixteenth place. Whether her champion would proceed to the next phase of the tournament was a question balanced on the edge of a knife. Looking down at the field, the princess's countenance clouded with concern as another of Sir Alinor's opponents was removed from the field unconscious.
She found herself preoccupied throughout the midday meal with the king, prince, and a few high-ranking courtiers, but managed to conceal it beneath her well-trained calm. Nevertheless, she excused herself early and made her way back to healer's tent. Silently, she ducked inside the white canvas tent. A fair-haired young knight slept on a cot in the corner, his shoulder and torso swathed in new bandages. The court physician was absent, evidently late in taking his midday meal because of the need for his services at the end of the morning matches. Lyra's boot accidentally bumped the nearby table, and the sleeping knight awoke with a start.
"Your highness!" He exclaimed and tried to rise, but his voice trailed off into a pitiful, strangled whimper and he sank back onto the pillow.
"Please forgive my intrusion, Sir Percival," she spoke gently, approaching the wounded knight's bedside and taking a seat on a low stool. "I came to see how you fared after the match went ill."
"You are too kind, your highness. The worst wound, I fear, is to my pride," the Seven Islander responded wryly. She responded with a kind yet relentless gaze, and he squirmed under it. "A lance head to the shoulder, a fractured collarbone, and two broken ribs," he finally admitted, his eyes averted.
"Is there anything you need?" Lyra asked kindly. "A drink of water, perhaps?"
"Nay, your highness!" Percival protested. He tried to rise again, but his throbbing ribs strangled the attempt and he fell back. "A princess should not deign to serve as nursemaid," he spoke weakly.
"Nonsense, good sir," she chided gently as she stood and retrieved a glass. Reluctantly, he allowed her to support him with a firm hand as he raised the water glass to his lips. After the morning's exertion, he drank gratefully.
"Sir Alinor is dreadfully crafty with a lance," Percival remarked as Lyra helped him lean back onto the pillows.
"Indeed?"
"He snuck the head around just so, and it went through my shield's weakest point," he shook his head with a trace of admiration in his defeated tone. "I wish I had his precision."
"You fought well, Sir Percival," Lyra drew herself up to leave. "I wish you a speedy recovery."
"I am grateful for your kindness, your highness. My best wishes to your champion."
She inclined her head, then left the tent and returned to the stands. As she regained her seat, Sir Pelinor began announcing the afternoon matches. Another two knights were too injured to continue in the competition—only twenty-six now remained. Lyra glanced at the schedule Prince Robin handed to her, and her heart skipped a beat. In the next to last bout of the afternoon, Galen would compete against Sir Alinor. Her stomach churned with anxiety as the first match began.
Galen awoke near three in the afternoon, opening his eyes to see that Ethan had laid out a light meal for him.
"How do you feel now, my lord?"
"Much better, thank you," the young knight responded brightly as he stood.
"Your next joust is in one and a half hours, against Sir Alinor. Perhaps you'd like something to eat in the meantime?"
Galen agreed, marveling at the squire's efficiency. The time passed quickly as he refreshed himself and prepared for the last bout. Given the morning's disappointing results, he knew he would have to acquit himself well in this last match to advance to tomorrow. Many such thoughts swirled about his head as Ethan helped him don his jousting armor one last time. As he finished, Lyra entered the tent, her footstep deliberate and her spine straight. Galen looked up in surprise.
"Will you give us a moment?" The princess addressed the squire.
"Of course, your highness," Ethan bowed and left the tent.
"Only one joust left, my lady," Galen smiled softly, but as the young knight looked to his lady, he saw a glint of concern flicker in her blue eyes as she stood before him unsmiling. "Is anything wrong, Lyra?" He took a step towards her.
"Will you make me a promise?" The princess spoke solemnly.
"Of course, my lady. Anything."
"Give me your word you will take care in jousting against Sir Alinor."
"Certainly, as with any joust," Galen responded lightly, reaching for his helmet. But the princess stepped towards him and laid a hand against his shield arm.
"Galen, he has a bad habit of leaving his lance heads in his opponent's sides," she insisted. "I beg you to heed me."
At the gravity and earnestness of her tone, Galen stopped and returned her gaze intently.
"You have my word, my lady, that I will take the utmost care." Now his voice reflected her seriousness.
"Thank you," Lyra responded, taking his leather-gloved shield hand in hers and pressing it earnestly. His countenance softened with a little smile.
"He will try to exploit the top edge of the shield at its weakest point," the Archen princess added, still somber.
"I am grateful for your counsel, my lady," he returned, his smile lingering still. Bowing slightly, the young knight raised her hand to his lips, then picked up his helmet and left the tent.
"Aslan watch over thee," the princess whispered once he had gone.
Galen steeled himself as the trumpets announced his next match and he guided Tighe to his place at the left extremity of the field. Sir Alinor waited at the far end of the field, his bold black and yellow livery reminding the Narnian of a hornet. He could feel his heart beat hard as he looked up to the royal box. He was too far away to meet the princess's eye, but he imagined that she returned his gaze nevertheless. The young knight looked down to the bright blue ribbon fluttering from the leather strap of his breastplate and smiled. Down went his visor. Down went the flag.
In a flurry of green and gold, yellow and black, the two knights charged fiercely at each other. Their lances met in a resounding crash, both shivering to splinters. Breathing hard, Galen wheeled his mount to face the field again. The normalcy of this first pass tempted him to dismiss the princess's warning—Sir Alinor had not attempted to breach his shield. But the Narnian shook himself free of this thought—Sir Alinor was no fool. He would make the attempt on the third pass in order to accrue the most points possible. Besides, the young knight chided himself, he had given his lady his word.
In a flash, the horses were charging again. Two more resounding crashes. Two more shivered lances. One more pass remained. Galen winced at his aching shoulder.
In the stands, Lyra held her breath as the horses charged one last time.
Galen gripped Tighe's flanks tightly with his knees and leaned forward aggressively. He kept a sharp eye on his opponent's fast-approaching lance. There it was! Just as his friend warned, Sir Alinor's lance took a slightly upward angle as it rushed towards him. At the last second before impact, the young knight angled his shield slightly upward and parallel to his opponent's lance. At the same time, he thrust his own lance with all his might. Sir Alinor's lance slid along Galen's angled shield and snaked off wildly into the air beyond, while Galen's lance struck home with such force that the lance head snapped clean off and hurtled high into the air above them. Sir Alinor wavered in his seat as his lance's unspent momentum dragged him off to the side. He landed the ground in an undignified posture, his left foot caught in the stirrup. His horse dragged him clear to the end of the field before the squires could stop the animal.
The crowd cheered wildly as Galen took off his helmet and acknowledged them with a wave. He could not restrain his broad smile as he circled the field, paying special care to the royal box where Lyra's relief found expression in her enthusiastic applause. The Narnian returned to his tent, and Sir Alinor limped off the field, cursing the squires who tried to assist him.
(At Lyra's later inquiry, the court physician indicated that Sir Alinor's sprained knee would prevent him from sitting his horse for at least a month. Naturally, the princess expressed her sincerest sympathies.)
An hour later, all twenty-five remaining knights assembled on the field, their ceremonial cloaks streaming behind them. Sir Pelinor stood at the rail in front of the royal box, where a platform built into the wall enabled him to address the entire field.
"Knights of the Seven Isles, Knight of Archenland, I congratulate you on an excellent joust. Each of you acquitted yourselves well. It is with pleasure that I announce the sixteen competitors in the round of eight and the jousting victor."
Sir Pelinor paused, glancing to the wall where the squires had cleared away all the knights' shields and awaited his announcement to place each quarterfinalist's shield on the wall. Galen felt a thrill of anticipation as he awaited the announcement.
"In sixteenth place, Sir Ewing of Northfield."
Up on the wall went a purple shield with a white diagonal bar behind a white star, and the knight named rode slightly forward.
"In fifteenth place, Sir Gelhad of Redhaven."
The crowd applauded at each announcement, while both Galen and Lyra held their breaths in hopeful anticipation. Six more shields went on the wall; six more knights rode forward.
"In eighth place, Sir Galen of Archenland."
Up went the lily-crowned gryphon as Galen let out his breath in exultation and Lyra practically beamed. The village children drowned out all other applause handily. The announcements continued apace.
"Finally, in first place, Sir Liam of Cranaugh." The crowd applauded wildly as Sir Liam rode forward and his shield took the primary place on the wall. "Come forward, sir knight," Sir Pelinor gestured toward the royal box, and Sir Liam promptly dismounted and made his way to the royal box.
Reverently, he dropped to a knee before his king, who nodded to Lyra. The Princess rose from her seat at the king's side and stood before the kneeling knight.
"It is my pleasure to dub you, Sir Liam of Cranaugh, the victor of the joust," she spoke in firm tones that carried through the stands. Taking a golden medallion suspended on a red ribbon from the cushion that a nearby servant held, she presented the award to the victorious knight, who bowed his head as she placed the ribbon around his neck.
"Rise, Sir Liam, victor of the joust."
Late that night, Galen stood at the wide window of his room overlooking the bay, whose glassy surface reflected a thousand brilliant stars. Unconsciously, he rubbed his sore shoulder. The king's reception that evening had been a blur. He vaguely remembered bowing to a vast number of lords and ladies. He even more vaguely remembered conversing with them. He passed a hand over his weary face. Perhaps that was due to fatigue, he told himself. Perhaps, he thought wryly, it was due also to the sweet, warming wine and the countless toasts made with it. He fuzzily recalled receiving and giving congratulations and well wishes.
But he remembered most the gentle pressure of the princess's hand upon the arm he offered her. He did not realize he smiled fondly when he recalled it, his gaze drifting glassily past the ships swaying to their anchors in the harbor. There was a time, the young knight supposed, when he had offered his arm purely from courtesy. But that time was so long past that he could not remember it. Indeed, Galen mused, each day that presented the smallest opportunity to offer his forearm to support that delicate hand was a good day. And when she smiled at him as her hand alighted—his stomach fluttered at the thought.
"Bother that wine!" He grumbled, breaking his reverie to jerk the curtains closed. His cheeks burned involuntarily, even though he was alone in the room with no one to overhear his thoughts. He tumbled wearily into bed, but as he drifted off to sleep his eyes lingered on the bright blue ribbon on the bedside table. It would see another day of battle on the morrow.
Authoress's note: A note on Seven Islander names: I admit I've been shamelessly borrowing a number of names or name variants from Arthurian legend. They generally have no correlation to the plot of Arthurian tales. Rather, I imagine that Arthurian tales originally told by King Frank I of Narnia became particularly popularized over the centuries in the Seven Isles and resulted in a number of common names in the Islands' culture. That, and it is really rather difficult to devise many creative knight names of the top of one's head. Many thanks for reading! Part 2 of the Tournament to follow.