The Tourney

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Not inspired by anything but my own head... Yes, you should be worried! Nah, only jokin' So, here goes...



The Tourney





Garred trotted onto the churned up, dusty field, behind Sir Jassin, atop a nimble grey warhorse. As Sir Jassin's squire, he was required to present himself behind his knight master. This was this year's royal tournament, and ahead the royals and their court, were seated in a large wooden stadium. Pennants snapped in the light breeze, and they could hear the tourney's blacksmiths, and other knights and their warhorses preparing in amongst the tents and marquees sprawling on the fields surrounding the capital.

The squire was tall and lithe, though lacking the heavy build of most of the warriors at the tourney, with a swathe of lustrous brown hair as his only forgiving feature. Apart from that, he had an angular face and high cheekbones. His eyes were a dull brown, and his nose was straight and sharp. He had broad shoulders, and strong muscles, although he was still quite slim. Behind him, the masses of peasants and people who'd travelled from afar for the tourney, milled behind the boundary fence, ready for the next remarkable joust. Their raucous laughter and talk trailed away as the King stood.

'Ah, Sir Jassin, Sir Morent, ready for the fifth joust this day, are we? Eager, perhaps?'

The two knights bowed low in their saddles, from their positions in front of the courts stands, their squires mirroring the gesture.

'Now, let me get this straight. No ordinary joust this!' he said, turning to the court with a boyish grin. 'Sir Morent wants to knight his squire, Beron, but Sir Jassin believes the boy isn't yet ready for knighthood. As they disagreed, the two, in a most manly fashion, put themselves on the lists to resolve it on the field. So,' he finished, 'if Sir Morent prevails, squire Beron gets knighted. If Sir Jasson triumphs, squire Beron will remain a squire until the next suitable occasion.'

There was applause as the court and peasants alike showed their appreciation for a fight like this one. 'Thankyou, Sire,' murmured the two knights, and they trotted back to opposite ends of the field. Garred dimounted when they reached the end, and began armouring Jassin. The man was like a father to him, and they had been together almost as long as Garred could remember. As he was fastening on his breastplate, Sir Jassin growled in his rough bass voice, 'You could take on that little mongrel squire of his any day and best him! What's his name… Ah! Beron. Pathetic, he is. Sharp mind, quick sword, and yet… something's not quite there yet. Something hasn't quite clicked…'

'Jassin,' the squire interrupted, 'It doesn't matter. Just win the joust and you'll get your way. Don't worry about it.'

'Yes, of course your right, Garred.'

Both of them remounted, and Garred passed up a lance to his knight master. Both knights walked to each respective end of the long rail that separated the horses during the joust, and waited patiently. Sir Morent's golden charger tossed his head and pawed the ground, the only sound as the people waited for the glorious impact.

Suddenly a fanfare blew, and the horses leapt forward into the charge, lowering their heads just as their riders lowered their weapons. Garred watched as the knights couched their lances, and then with a shattering crash, the two slammed into each other. Both the lances splintered, and the knights reeled, struggling to stay in their saddles. Again they charged, and still both men stayed atop their mounts. For a third time, they ran at each other, the cheers and encouragement of the spectators washing over them. For a moment it looked as if both knights would fall, yet miraculously they both stayed mounted. Garred trotted back to the centre of the field, so the King could pass judgement. As he reached Jassin, the knight growled, 'My arm will be numb for days after that!' the comment was meant for his ears only.

The King stood again. 'Well, that was very close, I'm almost tempted to let you run one more time-'

'Please, your Majesty? I may have an idea that would ease your decision,' Beron said, shooting a sly grin towards Garred. The squires stomach churned when he saw the malicious glimmer behind the grin.

'And which idea would that be, squire Beron?'

'Perhaps… If squire Garred is up to it, of course, I could duel Garred, a one on one fight, with swords… right here, now, for all to see. We would both be careful, of course, not to draw blood. But if squire Garred doesn't want to… Of course I'll be gracious if he withdraws.'

Garred heard Sir Jassin's sharp intake of breath, and fought against the cold sweat that was forming on his brow. He had seen the look in Beron's eye… when it came to drawing blood, he would do it gladly. Garred waited for the King's decision.

The King contemplated this for a moment. Finally he boomed, 'I think it’s a splendid idea! Arm up, at noon, you two can fight it out. If squire Garred is up to it, of course…'

Garred nodded stiffly, unable to withdraw in honour.



Later, in their tent, Sir Jassin helped arm him. He would be wearing unornamented, practical gear, the only embellishment being Sir Jassin's personal device on his shield, a rearing griffin on a violet field.

'He's good, but he's not as quick as you. He's very cunning, but he's too slow with that big sword of his to put most of his ideas into action,' Sir Jassin had been reeling off snippets of advice for the last half hour, and Garred wasn't listening anymore. Moreover, he was thinking about Beron, the rogue squire. Why would Beron want to fight him? They'd never met before. Never even exchanged a word. Maybe it was in Beron's nature to be malevolent and spiteful. Had Garred mistaken the bloodlust in the eyes of Beron, a squire at least three years his senior? Garred pushed away the negative thoughts as his gut twisted in fear. It was just a tourney – no bloodshed allowed, he told himself.

Too soon, the sun rose into the centre of the sky and Garred rode out onto the field, the ground even more uneven after a further two jousts. Apparently, Garred and Beron crossing swords was going to be the highlight of the day. It seemed like there was even more viewers there than there had been for his knight masters joust.

The two squires rode to the middle of the arena and faced their King, bowing low, fists over hearts, from their saddles. Garred saw Beron was mounted on a big, heavy black warhorse that was obviously very restless. No fears in that, his own horse was a good match. His was a dark grey mare, equally heavy in build, and nimble on her feet. She wasn't displaying restlessness like Beron's stallion, except for the occasional fidget, but she had an air of intelligent ferocity that no one could mistake – exactly like her rider.

'My King,' the two young men acknowledged.

'Now, I do believe the stakes haven't changed?' It was a question.

'I don't believe so, Sire,' said Beron loudly.

There was a cough from behind.

'Sir Jassin?' asked the King. 'You wished to speak?'

'Well, I only suggest, if all parties agree, wouldn't it be fair, that, considering squire Beron is competing for a knighthood, its only fair that if squire Garred were to be the victor, he should win the knighthood?'

'A very interesting point,' the King replied. 'If all parties agree?'

Beron had no honourable way to refuse this, and even if he had, he was secure in his knowledge that he had the upper hand, and didn't care. He would still win. 'Agreed, your Majesty.'

'Wonderful! Lets begin then!'

The two knights left the field, and Garred took up a position in the centre, (the jousting rail had been removed for the event) opposite Beron. He drew his sword, which was a very real, very sharp steel blade, just under two feet long.

A bugle sounded, but neither squire moved. Beron had a murderous glimmer in his eye, and he held his sword aloft. Suddenly, he leapt in to the attack, and Garred's horse leapt nimbly out of the way, as Garred parried the blow, and struck quickly underneath. His sword met Beron's, and they broke away, the horses circling now.

Garred nudged his horse, and she leapt into the attack, biting at Beron's black stallion, just as Garred's sword attempted to bite into Beron. They shared a few blows, neither gaining a single strike, and Garred could see by the look on Beron's face that he hadn't been expecting such a challenge.

His breathing was becoming ragged now, and sweat was beginning to blossom on his forehead. Beron assaulted him again, slashing towards his shoulder, but he leaned out of the way, and stabbed toward his opponent's midriff. Beron's horse danced away but Garred pressed the attack. He was vaguely aware of cheers now, but he was concentrating too hard. He shook his head to get the sweat away from his eyes, and Beron's sword came at his face, scratching from the corner of his eye, down his neck. The deadly glint was back in Beron's face, and he leered at Garred for the small victory. Beron's lank black hair hung heavy with sweat, flopping above his eyes, and Garred was sure his hair, though lighter, looked similar, just as his breathing was coming in ragged pulls, though Beron seemed less tired than him. Garred's muscles were screaming from the unusual strain, and the abuse of taking on an opponent so much older and stronger was beginning to take its toll. Confident now, Beron decided to press his advantage, and slid his arm up too high and wide in a rash back swing. And Garred saw an opening. Repeating the rule, 'no bloodshed,' to himself, he instead stood in his stirrups and rammed his shoulder deep and deliberately into Beron's torso, and the unexpected impact knocked the other squire out into the air, and with a dull thwack, he landed heavily on the hard ground.

Beron cursed harshly and scrambled to his feet, holding his sword up defensively. But Garred had a massive advantage now, and was prepared to use it. Almost casually, he hacked and slashed at Beron, until, with a stumble Beron landed flat on his back in the dust, again. Quickly, before he could recover, Garred leaped off his sweating horse and stood over the tall youth on the ground, and placed the tip of his sword at his throat.

'Yeild,' he said simply.

Gone was the murderous intent from Beron's eyes, replaced with a genuine respect, and the squire replied just as plainly, 'I yield.'

Without another word, Garred slid his sword home and offered his hand down to the fallen squire. There was a second's hesitation, and then Beron reached up and took the offered hand, and Garred hauled him to his feet. Remounting, the two rode back to the King. Before anyone could speak, Beron said clearly, 'I have been taught humility today, that before now, I had not experienced. I owe this to my friend, Sir Garred. He has earned his knighthood.'

'Incredibly gallant of you, squire Beron, and thankyou for your kind words. Sir Garred has surely secured his knighthood,' the King said, clearly happy with the good show the two squires had put on.

Garred spoke up. 'My liege, I think… Beron almost bested me… perhaps… he has earned his knighthood also?'

The King considered this, and Garred felt the change as Beron froze in his saddle. Despite his honoured words, Garred knew that Beron would feel the loss of his knighthood keenly. This would fix all that.

'I believe…' the King began, then more surely, 'I believe that's a marvellous idea! You will both be knighted, as a royal decree!'

'Thankyou, Sire,' they both whispered in awe.

Sir Jassin was very proud of his squire, and the two stayed in contact for many years. Sirs Garred and Beron went on to be accomplished knights, skilled in their craft, and kind to all who crossed their path. From that day, their friendship deepened, and Sir Garred travelled the realm with Sir Beron, their short feud long forgotten.