The Black Knight

Author's Note: This item was written for the "Daily Flash Fiction" Contest on 9/24/2009, using these prompts: knight, barrel, twelve.
(Word count: 220)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Black Knight

The Black Knight shifted inside his armor.  He was hot, sticky and smelled like a goat's backside, but he was used to it.  At the signal, he jabbed his spurs into his warhorse.

He careened down the jousting lane and angled his lance to meet his opponent's oncoming charge.  The purse for the last match was twelve ducats, and he'd receive more from those foolish enough to bet against him.

Both lances hit their targets and the Black Knight was rocked back in his high-pommeled saddle; but he regained his seat and then wheeled his horse around the barrel marking the jousting lane's end.  Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he looked back and saw the Red Knight lying on the ground beside his splintered lance, waving his arms like an up-ended turtle.  His attendants ran to lift him.

The attendant who had accepted the payment of one ducat to substitute an old, dry lance for the Red Knight's favorite one, flicked a glance toward his secret benefactor, the Black Knight.

The Black Knight set his steed cantering toward the Royal Pavilion.  He raised his lance in a salute, and thought about his father's favorite quote.

Providence favors the prepared.

Inside his steaming helmet, the Black Knight gave a wicked smile and thought, Sometimes, providence favors the ruthless.