no dodging, no failure of courage, though on any run if something goes wrong one of them might die.
And as I watch I’m thinking: I could do this . I want to be down in that yard right now. What must it be like? Like sword combat – only more terrifying, more thrilling? I try to imagine my opponent’s lance speeding towards me, its metal tip aimed at my head; the sense of terror and excitement only just under control; the joyful sharp simplicity of the world when everything disappears except this and now .
On Brandon’s first run his opponent – the anonymous Spaniard – thwacks his lance into Brandon’s breastplate. The lance slides and shudders. Brandon is knocked backwards half out of his saddle, and we all yell in alarm – but he clings on and manages to grab the reins again. And when he reaches the far end of the yard, he turns his horse straightaway, eager for the next run.
He sets off, his supporters starting a rising roll of cheers that crescendos until the moment of impact. This time the Spaniard aims high. The lance hits Brandon’s helmet; his head jolts back sickeningly fast. The next moment he’s falling, head over heels over the back of the horse, pulling and twisting the reins as he goes, and I’m on my feet, clutching Bryan in alarm. The horse rears, then tumbles, its round belly rolling in the sand, hooves flailing. By sheer luck, Brandon has fallen free of his mount.
A team of grooms rushes forward to help both Brandon and the horse, while a couple of spectators vault the barriers and run to collect gold trinkets that have fallen off Brandon’s tabard and the horse’s trappers. The horse has been cut on thenose by its armour, and is bleeding, but it scrambles up and is led away.
Miraculously, Brandon himself seems unhurt. He pulls off his helmet. He’s flushed, his sweaty hair is sticking up at angles, and he looks delighted as a puppy, as if he’s just had a gentle gallop round the park on a sunny afternoon. After bowing to my father, he takes the lady’s handkerchief from his helmet with a flourish and mops his brow, to cheers from the crowd. It looks as if he would happily do it all again.
Meanwhile the anonymous Spaniard is parading his horse round the arena, to loud appreciation from the Spanish party and some of the more sporting Londoners. He holds his lance aloft in triumph. His helmet is still on, his face concealed.
As I sit down, I feel suddenly so jealous of them both – of Brandon and the Spaniard – that it is like a physical pain.
And then something begins to stir in the back of my mind. A thought – a memory from old storybooks I’ve read. An adored hero… a mysterious stranger… The tales of King Arthur and his Court are full of knights fighting anonymously, their identities hidden behind their visors.
An anonymous knight is a nobody , of sorts – a heroic nobody. And a nobody is what my father wants me to be.
As the next two competitors come forward, my eyes are on the tiltyard, but my mind is lost in a waking dream.
I see myself arriving at the Court of a new King Arthur: my brother. Dressed in coal-black armour, without crest or emblems to identify me, I refuse to give my name or show my face. Instead I challenge the bravest knights of the Court to a joust. They accept .
The tournament is long and arduous. Many lances are shattered, many riders unseated, but I triumph over all, my skill and courage amazing both King and Court. The crowds shout for me, and King Arthur’s queen – the lovely Catherine – bids me wear her glove on my helmet, as a mark of her favour .
When the tournament is over, the King begs me to stay for a banquet, where he promises I will be treated as his most honoured guest. I thank him graciously but decline the offer, then turn my horse and ride away into the dusk. The whole Court stands at the windows of the palace to watch me go, until I am lost in the shadows of—
“What about you, Hal?” says Bryan next to me.
“What?”
And as I watch I’m thinking: I could do this . I want to be down in that yard right now. What must it be like? Like sword combat – only more terrifying, more thrilling? I try to imagine my opponent’s lance speeding towards me, its metal tip aimed at my head; the sense of terror and excitement only just under control; the joyful sharp simplicity of the world when everything disappears except this and now .
On Brandon’s first run his opponent – the anonymous Spaniard – thwacks his lance into Brandon’s breastplate. The lance slides and shudders. Brandon is knocked backwards half out of his saddle, and we all yell in alarm – but he clings on and manages to grab the reins again. And when he reaches the far end of the yard, he turns his horse straightaway, eager for the next run.
He sets off, his supporters starting a rising roll of cheers that crescendos until the moment of impact. This time the Spaniard aims high. The lance hits Brandon’s helmet; his head jolts back sickeningly fast. The next moment he’s falling, head over heels over the back of the horse, pulling and twisting the reins as he goes, and I’m on my feet, clutching Bryan in alarm. The horse rears, then tumbles, its round belly rolling in the sand, hooves flailing. By sheer luck, Brandon has fallen free of his mount.
A team of grooms rushes forward to help both Brandon and the horse, while a couple of spectators vault the barriers and run to collect gold trinkets that have fallen off Brandon’s tabard and the horse’s trappers. The horse has been cut on thenose by its armour, and is bleeding, but it scrambles up and is led away.
Miraculously, Brandon himself seems unhurt. He pulls off his helmet. He’s flushed, his sweaty hair is sticking up at angles, and he looks delighted as a puppy, as if he’s just had a gentle gallop round the park on a sunny afternoon. After bowing to my father, he takes the lady’s handkerchief from his helmet with a flourish and mops his brow, to cheers from the crowd. It looks as if he would happily do it all again.
Meanwhile the anonymous Spaniard is parading his horse round the arena, to loud appreciation from the Spanish party and some of the more sporting Londoners. He holds his lance aloft in triumph. His helmet is still on, his face concealed.
As I sit down, I feel suddenly so jealous of them both – of Brandon and the Spaniard – that it is like a physical pain.
And then something begins to stir in the back of my mind. A thought – a memory from old storybooks I’ve read. An adored hero… a mysterious stranger… The tales of King Arthur and his Court are full of knights fighting anonymously, their identities hidden behind their visors.
An anonymous knight is a nobody , of sorts – a heroic nobody. And a nobody is what my father wants me to be.
As the next two competitors come forward, my eyes are on the tiltyard, but my mind is lost in a waking dream.
I see myself arriving at the Court of a new King Arthur: my brother. Dressed in coal-black armour, without crest or emblems to identify me, I refuse to give my name or show my face. Instead I challenge the bravest knights of the Court to a joust. They accept .
The tournament is long and arduous. Many lances are shattered, many riders unseated, but I triumph over all, my skill and courage amazing both King and Court. The crowds shout for me, and King Arthur’s queen – the lovely Catherine – bids me wear her glove on my helmet, as a mark of her favour .
When the tournament is over, the King begs me to stay for a banquet, where he promises I will be treated as his most honoured guest. I thank him graciously but decline the offer, then turn my horse and ride away into the dusk. The whole Court stands at the windows of the palace to watch me go, until I am lost in the shadows of—
“What about you, Hal?” says Bryan next to me.
“What?”
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