It was barely past sundown, the time for reveling and drinking and relaxing. Instead, Jack had holed up in his tent to tend to the hurts he'd gathered over the course of the tourney and to take care of his equipment. He had already seen to his mount, a large chestnut gelding with rippling muscles and not much sense. His second horse, a red roan mare now past her prime, was living out the rest of her days in the stables of his lord's castle.
Jack inspected the edge of his blade, as he had countless times before, and grinned. That blacksmith sure knew how to make a sword that held an edge. The man's reputation was well-earned.
Then the knight sobered. He knew what he should be doing, and it wasn't competing. His horses might be young and strong and sure, bless them, but he was certainly getting on in years. Most knights his age would be looking to settle down with a wife and children and, if they were lucky or their lord generous, a small plot of land. Jack had realized a while ago, when his old annoyance (and sometimes enemy) Lord Harold Maybourne had found himself a wench and a home, that 'settling down' wasn't quite what he wanted.
Not that he wanted to go out campaigning again, oh no. He'd had enough of warfare. But Jack had a wife, dead though she may be, and he didn't want another. Had the plague not taken her and their son, Jack would have been more than content to live out his days with them.
Since they were dead, though, Jack found himself attracted to someone quite different. For a first, that person was a man. The smith who had forged his blade, as a matter of fact. Daniel Jackson.
Daniel was something of a contradiction. He disliked violence as a rule, but readily forged the weapons to make war possible. He was literate, yet insisted he was no better than the common man.
Jack remembered one night, when he had been passing through and decided to overnight in Daniel's humble village. A fight had broken out, in the middle of the only tavern in the village, with Daniel in the middle of it. Jack had been getting another round of ale, and about to run to the blacksmith's rescue, when Daniel had drawn his belt-knife, parried the drunken thrust of one of the aggressors, and knocked him out with the pommel. Then, almost effortlessly, he had taken himself out of the fight. When Jack questioned him, he only said that he had picked up some moves when a free-lance mercenary had wintered over. Another mystery of a bundle Jack wanted solved, preferably over long, ale-filled nights.
Jack knew with certainty that Daniel's little village was where he wanted to be. He didn't know what he'd do once there; maybe establish a small farm near the smithy so Daniel and his apprentice didn't have to buy so much from the market. But he was too old to lie to himself and say he didn't want to be near Daniel.
He wondered if Daniel ever questioned why Jack was 'passing through' so often. Truth told, Jack often made long detours so he could 'pass through.' Jack found himself wishing, more and more often lately, that he could do more than just 'pass through.'
Jack dropped the whetstone into its pouch and eased his sword into its scabbard. Oh, well. Nothing he could do about it, no matter how badly he wanted it, at least not know. He had a tournament to win, and for that he needed rest. So, with a sigh, Jack fell into his bedroll, blew out his candle, and tried to fall asleep.