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To The Sound of Clashing Swords (Story/Traveler)

Ser Ricard would never admit to a potential squire, let alone champion knight-to-be, that playing dirty might come to a head on the battlefield. He scrunched up his face at the little sprite as if such a thought were beneath his dignity to answer. And when he poked the little scamp in the chest he saw the panicked shock there and part of him, a tiny part, felt a bit guilty for poking Fritz so hard.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he also registered that something was ‘off’ with this lad. What exactly it was didn’t quite come through. Then the thin whip managed to spurt out ‘Brain?’ before stuffing his mouth, and Ser Ricard sighed in disappointment.

“Why does everyone say the brain? It’s not even a muscle!” He smacked Fritz upside the head sharply. “Have you ever seen a brain split apart by a mace? I thought not,” he added too quick to allow the lad to respond. “It’s mostly fat. FAT. No, boy, the most important muscle is your heart. You have to have the heart to read your opponent, know when to bolster, and know when to feign weakness to get the advantage. Most warriors are too proud to do that last part.” He grabbed a towel and wiped off his hands before discarding it on the table.

“But the brain is good too. If I ever, ever catch you messing with any of that hashish the squires sometimes try to sneak, I swear I’ll cut off your balls myself. Understand?”

He took hold of the lad’s good shoulder and pulled him back towards the arena. “Remember what we talked about. Win at any cost.” He stopped and turned back towards Fritz. “Oh, and that friend of yours? He’s not your friend during the tournament. Enjoy his company all you want, but when you are face-to-face with each other I want you to take him out.” His eyes narrowed under the dark hood of his brows. “Now, go out there, do your best, and don’t let anyone catch you fighting dirty. Even if you have to.”

~ * ~​

Jacoby was wrestling with his conscience when he saw Fritz returning to the shade. The words of the Golden Knight disturbed him. He prayed to the gods of the sea that he wouldn’t have to face Fritz. He didn’t want to beat him, and he didn’t want to be beat by him. In truth, Fritz was the first friend he had made completely on his own. He liked the short little warrior and he liked the benefits of being his friend, especially when it came to Illeana and her sultry dark eyes, luscious lips, and body that made him feel like he was a king.

He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, feeling both guilty and nervous that the tournament would see him losing his one and only friend, and with it, perhaps his chance at knighthood.
 
Fritz nearly choked on the sandwich stuffed in her mouth when the knight’s hand clapped against the back of her head. Worse, she nearly stumbled over her own two feet and landed face first in the kicked up dust of the medical tent’s floor. At least for her embarrassment, the medic himself sent Ricard a scathing look, appalled that the knight would manhandle his patient after bringing the lad to him.

“That was fighting dirty,” the pretend boy muttered around a mouthful of bread, meat, and cheese, dark eyes winking underneath thick dark lashes and tousled dark hair on an olive tanned face. “I almost lost my sandwich,” came out as “Imm luff sammpp..” as she struggled to chew and swallow as fast as possible.

The medic tsked, straightened, and dropped his aquiline nose at the knight before stepping aside, “He may have brain damage, but he is mended as much as he can be to return to the tournament,” he said, voice dry and unimpressed, then turned away from the two with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Swiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, a coy grin replaced the food. Her eyes dropped to the knight’s mouth, considering. She might not have meant to sound glib, but her next words came out that way, “It also helps to know your opponent’s weakness.. Do you not agree, Ser Ricard?”

Eyes trained still on his mouth, sliding slowly back up to meet the knight’s dark gaze, holding steady. Her hands were as quick as her feet could be. She snatched up the towel he had discarded and snapped it back quick so that it straightened in her grasp. It slapped forward against the knight’s thigh loud enough to make the medic startle and shoot daggers in their direction. It was a towel; the blow would not hurt. Fritz just hoped that the move would startle the man.

“Thank you for the wise words, Ser Ricard. I will remember them when I am throttling my competition,” she promised him and darted backwards, chortling impishly under her breath as the tent flap swung and she disappeared back out and into the open air.

The girl dressed as a boy looked almost proud of herself as she slunk back to where Jacoby still waited, a funny look on his face. She made a face at the younger man and came to a standstill in front of him. “Do you have to take a shit? You look like you ate something rotten and it’s turning out wrong,” she remarked.

She was making as if to make herself comfortable again, maybe stretch out a bit alongside her newfound friend and to rest her groaning muscles. Almost made it, too, with her ass on a flat enough rock, when it was announced that they were to return to the field. Groaning in a dramatic way, she flopped once, then wobbled to her feet, using Jacoby as the platform to drag herself back up. She punctuated climbing up his body with a slap on the back.

“You better hurry and take that shit. We have to clench our arse cheeks hard enough to balance on a stick while we knock each other around.”

With a cheerful, even oblivious grin, Fritz stepped away from the pirate boy and headed towards the stream of would-be knights headed back to their places.
 
What irritated Ser Richard more than the muppet’s sassiness was how damned cute the friggin’ lad was, and when he mumbled something around a mouthful of bread, meat and cheese, Ricard almost found himself smirking. Almost. He kept his face in a scowl made easier by the medic’s tsking, then as he went to direct the boy out of the tent, Fritz’s question brought him around with a mind towards scolding the ragamuffin.

Instead, Ricard caught the coy grin and the quick dart of Fritz’s eyes to his lips. ‘Was he going to bring up that ill-gotten kiss?’ He felt his heart pound to a stop when the eyes moved upwards, holding him at bay with a mere glance. ‘He’s hexed me. That must be it; he hexed me with the press of his damned soft lips, unmanned my…me, and now he’s going to do it again.’

A sharp smack against his thigh drove the knight from his stalled state, pulled a “Fuck, Fritz!” from his lips, and drove him back a step. It wasn’t the pain so much as the unexpected contact so close to his center of sensitivity.

“Thank you for the wise words, Ser Ricard. I will remember them when I am throttling my competition,” she promised him and darted backwards, chortling impishly under her breath as the tent flap swung and she disappeared back out and into the open air.

“Damn it!” Ser Ricard rubbed a hand across the offended flesh. He glared at the chuckling medic, then stalked out of the tent into the sunshine, casting a withering glare at Fritz’s back as he did.

“You look like shit. Regretting our bet?” Teased Ser Edwain. He grinned at the dark knight and then cast his azure eyes at the recruits.

“Oh, I’m not regretting getting a hundred crowns richer,” Ricard boasted, his dark gaze scanning the shadows. “I’m just feeling sorry for the prince. From the look of his bride-to-be, he’s going to have plenty of reasons to not want to spend time in the castle.” He looked up at Maira in the stands and his mood grew even darker. Whirling, he turned back to Edwain. “I can’t wait to get this over with,” he muttered.

Edwain shook his head as he placed his hands on his waist. “You’re just realizing I’m right. There is no story in hell in which that little scamp of yours qualifies to be a knight.”

“We’ll see.”

Under the awning Jacoby looked on as Fritz slunk back in, then made an equally sour face back at her. “I’m fine,” he insisted. But he wasn’t. He was beginning to wonder if the Golden Knight’s order to not hold back had been genuine, or if he was testing the pirate to see if the broken knee had been foul play or an accident. Looking at the little dark-haired mop at his side he couldn’t fathom going full-strength against the knight candidate, no matter how good Fritz was. ‘Or whatever her name is,’ he thought. ‘Besides…’ his thought was interrupted when Fritz flopped in exasperation, then climbed up his body to get to her feet.

“You better hurry and take that shit. We have to clench our arse cheeks hard enough to balance on a stick while we knock each other around.”

“You’re the one who needs to worry,” Jacoby teased back, shoving at Fritz’s shoulder playfully. “I grew up on a ship, remember? Balancing on wooden beams is second nature!” he jogged to his place in line behind Ser Edwain and waited with the others as the announcer presented the next event, the Gladiator Joust.

Two contestants would face each other, balanced on a log, and try to knock each other off the log with a padded stick. If anyone touched the ground with any part of their body, they were disqualified. The first two pairs of contestants were called on, and spectators on both sides were able to watch as their champions battled for points. Jacoby glanced over at Fritz’s line and realized with a sinking feeling that he would be paired with his spry friend. And then echoes of Edwain’s words came back to him.

“I don’t care how much you think this kid’s your friend. He’s not. At least, not right now. When you go against him you don’t let up. It doesn’t matter if you can spare the points, you understand? It doesn’t matter if it means you both get in or just you gets in – you beat him, you understand? You beat him. No matter what.“

Jacoby wanted to throw up.
 
Fritz left her knight behind with his scowls and curses, things that should have frightened any sane person, but only made her grin like the fool. She was still grinning even through her teasing Jacoby. Unlike the boy, she kept her high spirits through the line up and made no motion to ease up on her teasing until they were forced to part ways, joining their knights in a row and awaiting the herald to call them.

Jacoby was not the only one to notice that this time, they would be paired together. Unlike the feeling of trepidation that the other contestant felt, she turned and waved excitedly across the way at the pirate’s son and pointed at herself, then him, then made swinging motions with her hands in an attempt to silently mime their next competition.

Excitement made the time crawl, slower than a tortoise over sand. It was anticipation that sped it up, causing the other competitors’ performance to be over lightning fast. Some were. Those who were not so agile on their feet stumbled fast and within seconds, knocked to the ground with all the grace of ogres. Others, more quick and sure of their own weight and abilities, left her poised on the balls of her feet, jaw hanging limp as she watched with rapt attention.

One was a man, dark hair braided down his back, his features dark and exotic and handsome with his furrowed brow and sensual lips. He moved like a black mamba of the jungle, striking fast and pulling back quicker. Towards the end, knowing he had the win, he even leaped right up in the air and twisted his body, performing an athletic spin that caused the entire log to shudder under his weight as he rocked on the balls of his feet and sent his opponent spinning off his own log with a deft strike of the padded stick.

She nearly clapped, but one glance up at Ricard stopped her and forced her face back into a look of composure.

Then it was her time. Grinning again with her belly fluttering, she glanced with shining eyes toward Jacoby and gave him a nervous salute before jogging out to the tournament floor. A squire handed her padded weapon and went over the rules again, receiving nothing more than a brief nod from her. Then she was clambering up on the log, balancing with her legs held apart, wobbling just a little.

Her grin was gone in a second when Jacoby joined her, replaced by a more serious, determined expression. It was soon replaced by a wry, apologetic half smile and a slight bow.

The herald called for them to begin.

She lunged first, an echo of when they had first met, the dark glint in her eye the only hint of playful as she thrust clumsily with the padded end of the stick to test the younger man’s mettle. She even wobbled on the log, shooting a sidelong look at her dark knight from her peripheral. Though this time it was hard to tell whether she was merely trying to play him or if she were genuinely losing her swift grace atop the log.
 
‘Why was she grinning and looking like she was at a carnival? Doesn’t she know what could happen out there?’ Jacoby was writhing inside as it neared his time to compete. He pulled off his boots and stockings, and when Ser Edwain noticed the knight shot him a glare.

“What are you doing?” Edwain asked.

Jacoby noticed that all of the others had kept their shoes on. He felt embarrassed, but he had a good reason. “Balance, Ser. When we were on the ships we never climbed the beams with shoes. Bare feet give you a better grip and sense of where you are,” he explained.

The knight just glared and shook his head. “Don’t be soft,” he said quietly, smacking the lad across the back as Jacoby was called forward.

He caught the sight of Fritz’ insane grin and salute, and as Jacoby jogged to catch up, he wondered if his friend would still be his friend once it was over. Even more pressing; what if Jacoby did his best and still lost to the little scamp? He might not ever live that down. ‘It’s in the hands of the Fates,’ he told himself. ‘Do your best, wish for no harm, and remember that this is just a test.’

He hopped up on the log as he tested the weight and swing of the stick he was given. He bounced lightly on the log, seeing if it had any movement, and gripped the curve with his bare feet, then looked across the distance to where Fritz was. He couldn’t help but smile at her apologetic half smile and slight bow. ‘She’s always the showman. Show woman. Whatever.’

Fritz lunged. Jacoby leaned back, stick held close across his hips as he thought about the tactic he would take. He knew she was fast and nimble, strong and smart. That made her a very capable fighter no matter what the stakes were.

When Fritz wobbled slightly and then glanced at her knight, Jacoby took several quick crab walk steps towards her, and aimed for the back of her nearest thigh. He didn’t want to prolong this too much, but he also was wary that she was much, much more than she seemed. He bent his knees deeply as he took the swing, part of him wanting to unbalance his foe, and part of him hoping that she would move away.
 
Fritz was already under the impression that Jacoby would go easy on her because he -- well, he knew that he was really a she. He knew her secret and her cockiness was drawing the picture that he would hold back where she would have no reservations in knocking her friend on his arse. She only hoped that he would be a good sport about it when it was all said and done. Male egos were tricky when it came to the fairer sex having the upper hand, after all.

So she feinted when he made his pass at her. Moved backwards like she was trying to move out of the way of his attack, when instead her body shifted at the last moment and she pressed forward, flicking the padded stick down to block then shifting that, too, at the last moment to aim a low blow towards the back of his knee.

Fritz was going to take the offensive, it seemed. A competitive light flashed in her green dark eyes. It knit her brows down over the graceful bridge of her nose and, with her teeth gritted, she flicked her head to knock the few stray strands of dark hair trapped on her forehead and lunged again before - she hoped - he had a chance to gain his composure at her aggression.

In a fluid motion, her grip shifted, and again she gave the impression that she might be thrusting up for a dirty blow to catch up under the chin or right smack in the nose for a nastier fall than was smiled upon, but instead dipped the padded stick again and jabbed towards his legs again, this time the chin, to try and whack him hard enough that his nerves gave out on him and he wobbled his way off the log.
 
She was quick, and Fritz wasn’t holding back. Jacoby’s lips parted as he smiled surprisedly at her fast return, taking the offensive and landing a grazing blow off the back of his knee. If he had been lock-legged it would have tumbled him right from the log.

His feet felt the smooth surface of the cambium under the stripped off bark, and as he moved back, repositioning his feet, he took care to remember the knots and rot holes his soles discovered.

He saw her thrust towards his face and leaned back slightly, then her padded stick connected with his shin just as he twirled the stick and aimed at the spot of her abdomen beneath her arms, hoping to knock her off balance. He stepped back and onto a slick spot where an earlier contestant had hacked his thick, gooey spit on the wood, contacted with the slippery mess, and lost his balance.

‘Don’t touch the ground!’ he shouted internally as his arms flailed in an attempt to grab a line, a piece of sail, anything. But there was nothing there sans the log and the ground below. At the same time he gasped out, “Shit!” his back leg lost its grip and his front leg where she had hit him numbed. He didn’t have time to see if his blow contacted. Suddenly he saw the sky, felt the log as his torso bounced off its radius, and landed on the ground in a puff of dirt and humiliation.

Jacoby spat out mouthfuls of sand and grit as he pushed himself off the dirt surface. His entire front side was covered in dust. He felt like he could barely draw in a breath and knew that he had earned himself a mighty bruise along his right rib cage. He turned to look for Fritz, expecting to see her triumphant grin as she claimed the championship of their round. Part of him was proud of her; another part felt embarrassment that he had lost to a girl.
 
Fritz may have been quick, but they were still performing a balancing act on top of a hunk of wood. And she had not been clever enough to remove her boots like Jacoby had. It meant that some of the teeters that had started out as a show of weakness had turned on her, so that now her knees locked with the strain of her shaking legs as her muscles screamed to keep her upright as her block to his blow aimed towards her stomach rocked her hard enough that her teeth clacked together and her jaw twinged. She tasted blood on the tip of her tongue where she bit it.

She almost fell. Her knees locked together, but she managed to sway forward and cinch her abdomen enough that she stayed in place on the log, only to be caught off guard when Jacoby slipped without her making another move. Eyes widening, salt sweat dripping in them without a care, she watched as his foot left the log like he was moving in slow motion.

She almost did the foolish thing and moved forward to grab him before he fell. She got as far as a step forward, hand instinctively reaching for the boy, but it was too late by the time she caught up to his movements.

He hit the ground.

So she did the second best thing. She burst out laughing. Squatting like a frog on top of the log, she peered down at where he had landed on his back, grin stretched wide on her face as she cackled, the noise drowned out by the herald announcing her the winner.

The dark green of her eyes sparkled as, once she was announced the winner, she reached down and offered him her hand, “Come on, pirate boy. Time to get up. I did not even hit you so hard, so why did you fall?”

She hopped off the log whether he took the hand or not, then spun and looked up, high up, shielding her sights with her hand as she searched for her grandfather sitting up on the center of his raised dais, scanning his face against the glare of the sun to see if he recognized the slender boy that stood triumphant down below.

But Locke’s face was hidden by the shadow of the sun, despite that she could tell he stood and clapped along with the Knight General. The red-haired girl stood rigidly beside her mother and father, clapping like a puppet, yesterday’s fire drained from her posture -- no doubt about the announcement that she would be married off to the prince. Speaking of…

Fritz squinted. She had not seen her cousin at the tournament, not that she had much of a recollection of what he looked like. Only that she was a few years younger than he and had been small when she had been sent away like a dirty secret, illegitimate in the eyes of her family. Her lip curled with the malice of her own insecurity, then she muttered over to Jacoby, “Onward we go.”

She slunk from the roar of the crowd, back to Ser Ricard and the other gathering of knights and would be knights. Her lips curled into a more pleasing grin by the time she reached her knight and bowed deep, her voice turning flippant as she announced her victory to him, “Does that please you, Ser Ricard? Onward to our next event?”
 
That laugh. He turned to see her squatting like a spindly frog on the log, laughing her ass off at him. As she reached down he took the offered hand, welcoming the small act of comradery despite their position as opponents.

“Come on, pirate boy. Time to get up. I did not even hit you so hard, so why did you fall?”

“Something slippery,” he muttered, squinting at the log as if it had personally betrayed him. He let go of her hand once he was on his feet and dusted his legs off. He glanced over at the stands where Fritz was looking, then turned to look at his line of ‘teammates.’

Sir Edwain was glaring at him.

‘Shit,’ Jacoby thought to himself. He sighed as Fritz recommended that they leave the field, and walked to the back of his line, picking up his boots as he did, while trying to ignore the blue-eyed condemnation coming from his knight. He had failed. The one thing his idol had told him to do, and he had failed.

As for Fritz, Ser Ricard stood with his arms folded over his chest, dark curly hair partially covering his eyes. He raised a dark brow when Fritz asked if it pleased him. “Don’t get cocky,” he grumbled at her, but as she passed, he acquiesced. “You did well,” he added more quietly.

Once all the contestants had fought twice, the first time in order, the next time paired according to points and been ranked for that event, the field was cleared. Jacoby had done much better against his next opponent, which made Ser Edwain that much more convinced that the pirate boy had purposely lost against Fritz. The Golden Knight cast a scowling glare at his best friend and most annoying partner when Ser Ricard shot him a triumphant grin.

There was one more physical event before the finalists would be questioned by Knight General Ser Jonas Williams. Since it was in his honor that three new knight recruits would be selected, he had the final say, and he would judge the final dozen after interviews. But before that, each contestant of the remaining eighteen would joust against a true knight. Not to test their skills, so much, as to give them a taste of what they were facing if they won. Knighthood was not just a title and fancy armor; it meant you were prepared to go to war, fight, and possibly die, for your king.

And in this event, each knight leading a line would joust against those in his care, which meant Ser Edwain would face Jacoby, and Ser Ricard would face Fritz.

As the rail was set into place and those in the Dark Knight’s line were listening to Greybeard’s instructions, Ricard came beside Fritz. “Can you even lift a lance, boy? Or should I have the squire lash it to your arm?” He was certain that of the last four he had left in his care, Fritz had the most promise despite his size. “I can ask them to give you a child’s lance if you’d like.” He smirked down at the tousle-haired lad.
 
“So long as you did not allow me to win on purpose,” she commented around the flash of teeth as they departed. “I would like to have bested you on my own merit, friend.” She nudged him with her shoulder as she passed him on her way back to Ricard.

She almost reached up to push the dark curl that had flopped over his brow out of the way, but despite any teasing she had mustered on this day, she knew better than to test it any further, especially with the eyes of many men turned her way, many appalled or at least shocked that she had lasted so long in the tournament. Here, men rose in rank, shone with a warrior’s pride. And despite that she was tall as a shorter man, her slender physique and features aged her from being a man to being a lanky boy.

That part amused her a great deal, but also worried her. She was in a man’s world now, playing a man’s game.

So when her next bout on the log came, against an opponent that was broader and more fierce than she had any hope of ever being - a true man that no doubt deserved to win a knightship over herself - she nearly lost. He caught her straight in the gut. Despite the pads, the blow had pushed the wind from her lungs when her stomach and guts had been moved up into her chest - or that was how it felt. She collapsed with her legs splayed, the log catching her between the legs hard enough that tears pricked her eyes. No matter that she lacked the balls and cock between her legs, it still pained her.

Her opponent had no knowledge of what was and was not between her legs and his look of pained sympathy was what cost him his place on the leg. Eyes leaking and face strained with pain, she stayed straddling the log and swiped him between the legs, whacking against his inner thighs, but not cruel or dirty enough to hit him in the gnads.

It didn’t matter. The man wobbled precariously, his weight doing the rest to topple him sideways into the sand. Fritz barely held herself upright before the herald announced her the winner, and she slipped with a whimper right after him before dragging herself to her feet to stumble back towards the line of waiting men. And Ricard.

She had nothing cheeky to say to her knight after that bout. Not until they were being called out to line up for the joust.

The joust. Fritz was dreading this part. It was something she had no practice with; it was a true tournament’s game, not something that she would need in a battlefield, she did not think. She was leaning rigidly when Ricard came up beside her, watching the field hands set up for it with a creased bow.

She jerked to attention and turned to face him at his words, unable to help the slow smile that curled her lips when dark green settled on darkest brown. “Lash it to my arm and give me an unfair advantage? I think not, Ser Ricard. I will knock you to the ground with my child’s lance instead,” she jested, daring to nudge an elbow into his side. Hiding the fear that flared her nostrils behind the cocky charm she wore better than the armor they would be dressed in.

It became even more noticeable when the herald came to stand on the platform, his voice echoing to announce that the contestants would soon be fitted in their armor and the joust to begin. A shuddering breath escaped, rippling her spine, and she straightened to turn away from the knight to look back on the field. This time when she looked over, she had a paler countenance and a lopsided smile on her face.

“May the best man win, no?” The irony, she hoped, was lost on the man. “I had best go be fitted and we shall see each other on the field, Ser Ricard.”
 
The dark mopped lad was full of himself. Ser Ricard found himself smirking at the lad’s boast about being given an unfair advantage, though when the boney elbow dug into his side he swatted away Fritz’ hand as if he was an irritating fly. “God! You’re so damned touchy,” he complained and stepped away from his most irritating contestant. Fritz had better get a spot on the six; otherwise all this tolerance was going to be for naught.

Then the call was made to be fitted for armor and the little brat had the nerve to taunt him yet again. “I have no doubt the best man will win. Especially when I’m jousting against a boy.”

In the other lines the knights were getting their contestants in order. The Gambler, Ser Garrity, was coaching his men on tactics to remain in their saddles. He didn’t want to be ‘accidently’ beaten by them, knowing that they’d be scored on their overall form and not their success, but he didn’t want them to be at a disadvantage either. He strolled before them now, his long dark hair tied in a pony’s tail along his back, looking dashing as he described the shifting of weight needed in the saddle once the lance struck.

Nearby Ser Vainte and Ser Harald were likewise giving their small teams some last minute words of advice.

The Golden Knight looked at the three who remained in his cluster. Along with Jacoby there was Hans Johann, the tanned desert man who had been exceptionally skilled with the bow, and a brute of a man named Burton whose tactics in every event had been ‘do it with force and do it fast.’ How the last one had remained in the running was anyone’s guess.

“Alright, men. This is the final event. Remember – you won’t have to ‘win’ this event necessarily. Just hold your saddle, present the lance honorably, and you’ll do fine. Prepare yourselves for a glancing blow on your shield,” he hinted. “Your points will be determined by how well you sit and ‘face the enemy,’ so to speak. Not on whether you unhorse me.” Then he grinned. “But if you do manage to unhorse me I’ll be buying your drinks all night!”

That brought a round of chuckles from the group.

As latter groups were armored, Ser Harald “The Horseman” went with his group first. After two passes apiece in which the crowd had their chance to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh,’ over each strike and unhorsing, the contestants were all patting each other on the backs and congratulating themselves for a job well done. No one had died and everyone was going home that night. According to their knight that was a battle won.

Next were Ser Edwain’s men. He looked resplendent in his armor, riding a circuit around the field as he held the king’s banner high. The crowd loved it. They cheered and waved hand-held banners back. He raised his eyes to the dais as he passed, giving his father and the Knight General Ser Jonas William a nod, noticing the disinterest from Lady Maira, and then circling back to take his place opposite his three candidates. One by one they took their turns. One by one they shouldered blows from the golden knight. Of the three, Hans Johann had the most difficult time staying astride his horse, and the burly Burton seemed to believe that the horse would go faster if only he would bounce in its saddle. Jacoby, for all his time at sea, seemed to sit the saddle well, twisting with the blow, aiming his lance well enough to glance off Edwain’s shield both passes.

It was over so fast that before Jacoby had enough time to be worried about ‘what ifs’ he was done. He heaved a relieved sign and craned his neck to look to see which group was next.

Ser Ricard Debaise now circled the field, this time carrying the banner of his homeland in the colder north. He had many female admirers in the crowd, but the one he still had a desire to impress, Lady Maira, seemed even more forbidden now that she was engaged to the prince.

He turned down to the jousting fence and watched as the largest of his three remaining mounted his horse. First the auburn haired son of a noble merchant, second would be a cousin of Sir Alan Windlark, twice removed. And lastly his runt of a moppet. Fritze. Ricard’s eyes grew steely as he flipped his visor down. There was nothing to it. Just glance the candidate’s shield, don’t get knocked off yourself, and all would be well.

‘As long as Fritz didn’t get himself stomped beneath his own horse’s hooves he should be alright,’ Ricard thought, ‘and if he gets selected I win the bet.’ He smirked. All he had to do was stay in one piece and it was almost a guarantee he’d get a spot, if only because of the crowd’s delight in the scamp’s showmanship.
 
Maira was more interested than she was showing on her face from up high in the bleachers. She was in her emotions, was all, and allowed the crowd and excitement to roll through her as she processed the last couple of hours. She had not met the prince; he was rumored to be an odd recluse, which was why she dealt her hand of fate to him rather than one of the men fighting on the battlefield. Perhaps he would leave her on her own since he seemed to want to be on his own.

Her inner musings still did not relieve the anxiety that pulled at her gut and kept her face stark even as the crowds roared with excitement. Her father and mother both turned to encourage her to participate, that these men needed her pretty smile to encourage them. And how had that all gone when she had been standing handing out flowers?

The red-head did perk in her seat when Ser Edwain appeared on the field in his shining armor, the overhead sun glinting, it seemed, in both his blond crown of hair and his breastplate. She sat forward despite herself, watching him turn his circle, then watched with bated breath as he charged forth to knock his opponent from their seat.

She clapped once to the shock of her parents who shot her encouraging smiles now that she seemed to be enjoying herself, which by itself sobered her expression back up and settled her hands back down in her lap and school her features back into composure in time to witness the feminine cheers that erupted when the rakish, dark haired knight entered the field after Edwain.

Ricard of all of the men caused Maira to roll her eyes, if only because the man knew his look and used them to gain the attention he so sorely felt he needed by being validated by -- well, the women in their seats proved her point right away with their false swoons and calls to the handsome knight.

As much as she had decided to hate Edwain, she admired his dignity, at least.

~~~

Far below where the privileged and rowdy both sat to watch the finale of the tournament, Fritz felt her nerves through every dry swallow like her stomach had crawled up her throat and lodged itself there. Usually the epitome of confidence, she was shaking from the adrenaline as the squire fitted her in full armor.

It settled heavy on her frame. Even toned and lithe with muscle, she was slight and the plate mail heavy, weighing down her arms and shoulders in the most uncomfortable of ways. The shield was not as bad, it being made of wood, though she still struggled with it due to the awkward shape of it. She tried to hide the fact that it was a struggle to lift herself onto her horse in front of the other men that jostled one another, feeding off each others’ energy and was relieved when her weight settled on the animal’s back.

“There, there, horse. I know -- I dislike you almost as much as you dislike me,” she promised the animal through gritted teeth. The mare whinnied and chomped her bit as a reply, her haunches shifting as if Fritz were agitating the animal.

She had barely taken the reins when the stablehand gave the horse a good swat on the backside, sending her trotting forward and through the gate, out into the glaring daylight. She squinted around her helmet, head tilting forward so that the visor fell over her face, suffocating her eyesight in a way that panicked her until she focused forward.

There was nothing fancy with the way the girl circled the field. Most of her showmanship today was focusing on remaining on the saddle and keeping herself front forward. All of which was made more difficult when she was handed the long lance and turned to face her dark knight from across the field.

It meant now she only had the grip of her knees on either side of the horse holding her steady now that both of her hands were occupied. Inwardly, she screamed. Outwardly, she must have shouted, for the sound resounded in her ears as the herald shouted and she spurred her horse into motion. Straight towards Ser Ricard.

Who knew what he was doing.

Fritz panicked. Speed and dexterity was how she had gotten this far in the tournament. Seated on the back of the horse clutching a lance and shield, she was stripped of both. With her heart in her throat and staring down the face of another lance barrelling straight towards her, she tried to swerve the horse out of the way instead of blocking with her shield.

The motion of her arm did not come until it was too late for her. The lance slipped past the shield with a graze, knocking it clean from her grasp to fall to the sand. The lance she managed to stab outward, but it went far and wide of even coming close to hitting the knight. Instead, the pointed end of her opponent’s lance caught her full in the breastplate.

Pain seared through her at the same time that the breath was knocked from her lungs and she went tumbling off the horse with less grace than Burton had with … well, anything.

She rolled on the ground, winded, dazed. She might have even been all right being knocked flat on her back. After all, she had been rolling with blows and punches since the tournament started. Her mistake was in thinking that she did not need to roll further - or simply forgetting that there was a horse. No matter the helmet on her head or the armor that engulfed her. When a horse hoof slams into the side of one’s head, it shakes a person like a bobble headed fool.

There was a ringing in her ears when the frightened mare’s hoof made contact, followed by a flash of light, black, and then the world faded from sight.
 
Ser Ricard waited patiently with lance erect as the final jouster of his group was hoisted to the saddle and given a send-off by the squire. The knight should have known that there would be trouble when Fritz circled the field, but inwardly he was still focused on winning his bet. He watched as they faced off, then shouted and spurred their horse onward.

Ricard lowered his visor with a practiced tap and trotted forward, then as his horse built up speed he lowered his lance across the pummel, watching the scamp racing towards him, still shouting a battle cry as he did. ‘That’s the spirit,’ Ricard thought, ‘give the crowd their show, and just. Hold. Steady.’ He would do the work, aiming for the shield to design a glancing blow, and as long as Fritz’ bouncing lance did not hit Ricard’s horse all would be well. ‘Just hold steady, Fritz, you’re doing well.’

Three strides before they connected there was a wildness in the horse’s eyes as it received a command it did not understand. The mare was trained to run along the fence, not swerve away. It fought at first, then succumbed to the pull on her bridle and swerved, just as Ser Ricard realized what was happening and shouted “NO!” even as the crowd roared their shock (and delight) that something unexpected had occurred.

But it was too late.

The lances were blunted, but they were not designed to break away. He felt the full catch of his charge shoot through the saddle, his arm, the lance, and vibrate intensely as it connected with Fritz’ tiny frame. He saw the wide-eyed surprise through Fritz’ visor slit, saw the ‘poof!’ as the aspiring knight was knocked back from the saddle and hit the ground. As Ser Ricard’s horse pounded the ground racing by the knight twisted in his seat. He tossed the lance away and whirled his horse around in a mad, I’ve-killed-my-recruit panic that nearly stopped his heart from beating and his lungs from expanding.

It wasn’t the potential lost bet, or even the thought that he might have permanently injured the lad that gripped him. It was the scene unfolding of the motionless lad on his back and the frightened horse above, and then the unintended contact between the mare’s hoof and Fritz’ helmet.

Ser Ricard was vaguely aware that he had leapt off his horse and was kneeling by the lad’s side. He heard Edwain’s voice calling for the medic tent, saw his friend’s worried face beneath the hue of his golden hair. Ricard glanced down and saw too much damage, and those thick-lashed eyes closed, as if forever, and scooped the diminutive candidate into his arms.

Edwain held back the swarm of concerned recruits. He saw Jacoby’s pale face and waved the man forward, knowing the friendship between the two, and the pain one felt when faced with losing a comrade, no matter that this battlefield had only been meant for show. In the distance, the festival herald was describing the scene to the eager crowd to whom the occasional blood shed added extra excitement. There was one more group to run the joust, he assured them. In a few moments they would continue.

Ser Ricard brought Fritz into the medic’s tent and the sides were drawn. He gently laid the limp form on the table as the chief medic began to assess the damages and which pieces of armor could more readily be removed without causing further injury.

“Ricard,” Edwain’s voice was calm despite the chaos. “Jacoby here will stay and assist. They’re companions,” he explained. “I must attend to my group.” He put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You did nothing wrong. It was an accident, spurred by the lad’s fear.”

The Dark Knight glared at his friend. He needed someone to be angry with. “Don’t tell me that it was an accident! I saw the motion. I should have—”

“There was nothing you could have done,” Edwain repeated. “I’ll look after your group. Attend to this recruit. And Ricard…we all hope that the lad will be alright,” he added softly. “We stand with you.”

Seeing the exchange between ‘real’ nights in such an emotional moment reminded Jacoby that he was not just seeking entry to a group of men who shared a profession, but men who considered each other brothers. They shared their lives together, they celebrated together, and sometimes they died at each other’s side. This was a sacred circle of men who guarded the crown. And he wanted to be one of them. But right now, what he wanted more than anything else, was to help Fritz to guard their secret.

But fingers were undoing the buckles at Fritz’ side, and Ser Ricard had already removed the gauntlets and vambrace, before moving to the helmet. With the medic’s guidance the conical covering was loosened and slipped from Fritz’s head.

“What can I do?” Jacoby asked, his voice hushed as if speaking loudly would injure Fritz further.

Ser Ricard glanced his way and the pirate’s son was surprised to see genuine worry burning in the older man’s eyes. “Remove his leg protection,” he instructed, before turning his own attention to the pauldron over the shoulders and lastly the cuirass, holding the chest. The metal across Fritz’ heart had taken a serious blow. The heavy plate had dimpled where the lance had struck, and though it hadn’t pierced through, the force had been dispersed across all the pressure points where the metal had contacted Fritz’ body.

But Ricard was thinking on the concern that Jacoby had for Fritz. The knight knew that Ser Edwain’s contestant was a pirate’s son, and he knew what pirates were rumored to indulge in. The knowledge that the two were companions went far to explain Fritz’ actions at the carnival. The mischievous eyes, the kiss…He frowned as he worked. Perhaps Fritz had developed a crush on the knight or had falsely assumed that attention from a spry boy would ease the knight’s judgement of him. It went far to explain much.

Jacoby peered up anxiously, watching as the final layers of armor were set aside and the medic handed Ricard a pair of blunted scissors.

“I’m still assessing the head injury.” The medic lifted each eye, peered into them, and then lightly fingered the back of Fritz’ skull. “You cut away the tunic and we’ll look at the damage done. Luckily this lad is breathing, which,” he added, “is a very good sign.”

Ser Ricard said nothing as he began to cut away the tunic. He paused, glanced up sharply as the underlayer of bindings were revealed, and then glared towards Jacoby. The lad was staring with trepidation, but it did not seem as if he was shocked.

“Did you know about this?” Ricard hissed.

Numbly Jacoby nodded. “Please, Ser, don’t –”

“Get out.” He shoved the recruit in the chest, shoving him back a few steps. “Say nothing of what you’ve seen here, and get out.” Once the boy had left, Ricard turned back to the medic. “The same goes for you. Do not say a thing about this to anyone.”

“Ser, I do not understand…”

Ricard teased the sides of Fritz’ tunic apart, then cut the final snip upon the bindings.

“Oh,” the medic’s mouth formed a small hollow. His eyes went as wide as his lips went narrow. “I see…”
 
It was not so bad as it seemed once the helmet came off. The hoof had only caught the girl with a glancing blow. But then again, one never knew with head wounds. Sometimes they bled profusely with just a scrape and sometimes there was no telling the damage until the person slipped into a forever sleep.

The medic’s attention was on the head injury whilst his tent erupted in cacophony. His distaste showed through barked orders for everyone to back up, his tone brusque as he loomed over the too-pale face of the young lad on the table, dark hair curled and tangled with sweat that stuck to cheeks too elegant to belong to a boy. Deft fingers prodded the hairline, sifting through the mop until he gingerly found the bump that swelled.

Sucking his teeth in thought, he examined the swelling a little longer, then moved away to procure a cold pack to the injury. “The head wound does not appear to be severe. The lad has a lump on his head that will likely cause him a good headache when it is all said and done. With these injuries, it is hard to tell if there is anything internal, however. It is best to keep a good eye on him in the time being…”

Her pulse still thrummed through her veins, her breath rasping. Lips a good color and not showing discoloration. It was not until the head injury was inspected, the lad’s vitals checked, and they began to remove the trappings of armor and other hindering clothes that the real truth came out.

The medic looked to be in as much shock as the other contestant and Ser Ricard himself as the bindings that strapped the boy’s chest were removed -- to reveal not the flat or muscle of a lad as the medic expected, but a pair of breasts.

The man at least had the dignity to shut his mouth and turn a more clinical eye to what needed to be done. Clearing his throat, he reached down and removed the cut away wrappings and the rest of the lad’s -- lady’s ...tunic and began inspecting her ribs.

“Ah, the ...lady’s ribs appear to be broken here,” his fingertips landed on one, then another “and here. No doubt bruised. I shall bind ...her again so that when she wakes, she will not irritate the healing process. Other than the blow to the head and that, the ah… the contestant does not appear to be in an alarming state, Ser.” There was a long pause as the man considered the light. “I am assuming that you wish to keep this as discreet as possible? Or shall I go fetch the Knight General and inform him of this… breach?”

While the medic waited instruction from Ser Ricard, he began binding the girl’s rib cage with fresh bandages, keeping his lines taut and falling silent as he worked.

~~~

The girl, as Fritz turned out to be, looked near angelic in her unconscious state, even worked like a limp marionette as the physician patched her up from the lance’s blow and the fall. A purpling bruise was already blooming across her collarbone where she had been struck, but the skin had not broken thanks to the armor she had been wearing. To the remembering eye, the blemishes, cuts, bruises, and other injuries that she had thus sustained were gone or fading already, leaving only what she had sustained just then to mar her figure.

And she did have one, even being so slender. Not a lad, then. Not even a girl. The woman calling herself Fritz was a grown woman if the lines of her body were any indication. Her breasts may have been small, enough to fill the palm of a hand, but the pair glared up at the two men as if taunting them with their dark tips that complemented the olive tone of her skin. She was tone, but also soft, with a waist that tapered then flared into the curve of her hip with all the elegance the persona of a gangly lad had been hiding.

Not to mention she had lacked an Adam’s apple this entire time.

While the medic was finishing bandaging her, a shiver traced her, followed by a weak groan. But she did not wake just yet.
 
Ser Ricard watched the medic for his understanding. Right now, he needed this win. They would deal with the fallout later. Much later. Maybe never, if ‘Fritz’ could contain himself.

Herself.

‘Damn.’ This explained everything. The cocky grins, the teasing eyes, and above all, the kiss. But what it didn’t explain was why the bruises on the young lad – lady’s body were seemingly healing right before his eyes. Ser Ricard squinted his eyes at the phenomena as he watched the medic’s careful and skilled bindings to keep the ribs supported.

Ricard’s eyes jumped to the twin dusky rose tipped peaks that taunted him. Pert. Petite. Perfect. He growled in his chest and dragged his eyes downward, though then he was rewarded with the sight of her taut belly and the little hollow of her belly button, leading his eyes to her shapely hips. He pushed his gaze away, knowing that he would have never allowed her to ride against him if he knew the truth. Then he remembered the tart’s turn at the events; archery, wrestling, the gladiator joust, the swordplay, and finally the true joust. Somehow this woman…woman!...had braved along with the best of them, and wound up making it to the final round.

“I am assuming that you wish to keep this as discreet as possible? Or shall I go fetch the Knight General and inform him of this… breach?” asked the medic.

Ser Ricard shook his head. “No one knows. No one.” His dark eyes flitted to the other’s face. “If this gets out I’ll know who leaked it.” He was glad to see the medic return to quietly binding the girl’s rib cage. As he did so, the knight looked upon the girl’s other limbs and saw that bruises obtained just a day or two ago were already turning yellow. They were healing remarkably quickly.

He didn’t know what to think about that fact. Even more so, he didn’t know what to think about Fritz. Was he upset that ‘he’ was a ‘she’ and had tricked them all? Undoubtedly. Was he glad that the lad who had kissed him and given him a sleepless night had turned out not to be a lad at all? Yes…he could definitely say ‘yes’ to that as well. Was she off the hook for tricking them, confusing him, and turning his world on its end by the skill of her abilities on the field? Hell yes.

But would he cane her across the back of her thighs like he would have had she been a boy?

Hell no.

He pulled a shirt off of the medic’s pile and then scooted a wooden chair to sit by Fritz’ head. Then he leaned over the shivering, weakened girl and gently tapped the far side of her face with the flat of his fingers. “Fritz,” he said, peering intently at her. “Fritz. Wake, lad,” he kept up the pretense. “I have terrible news for you.” Tap, tap, tap on her cheek. His gaze grew harder and he leaned in closer to her as the medic finished his task. “Fritz.”

When her eyes would finally flutter open, Ricard raked his eyes down her face to her lips, then back to her eyes again. “Bad news, I’m afraid,” he said, trying to sound sincere. “It seems that your fall from the horse made your balls fall off.” His jaw tensed as he glared. “Care to explain?”
 
The medic retreated from the tent once the girl showed signs of waking up. He had done all that he could do in the situation and was now bound to close his lips as to what he had witnessed. Grim faced, he peered at the loiterers that peered inquisitively at the tent and shooed at them with a scowl. “Off with you. The lad needs some rest. It will be some time before he is awake. Off with you, now.”

The man’s deep set eyes rolled up to the heavens, his lips moving in a silent prayer for his sanity, then he wandered off to seek a tankard of ale as the knight dealt with the woman in his tent.

Where Fritz groaned again, after several long minutes, the noise punctuated by a pained expression that pinched her face. Her mouth felt dry and her stomach felt hollow. Her head felt as if something had … oh wait.

She remembered the horse.

Just as her body remembered that a lance had tried to punch its way through her armor. Her features, already pinched with pain, grimaced as she shifted and was rewarded with sharp pain that lanced through her chest and took residence in her ribs. It was almost enough to cause her to sit still and try and slink back into the dark where she could forget her injuries.

Until she heard his voice. Then felt his calloused fingers tapping her cheek.

Fritz drew in a sharp breath - a mistake - for as soon as she dared to breathe, she winced as pain shot through her from ribs, to collar, bouncing right up to join the pounding inside her skull and the ringing in her ears. Slowly, warily, her eyes opened, her vision met with blurred shapes that sent her heart racing in a panic as she struggled to focus.

“Am I dead?” She managed to grunt, her arm lifting to touch the back of his hand, then dropped it again for it proved to be too much effort. And eventually, her vision started to make sense to her again. She saw his face, the dreadful glare that made her want to kiss him all over again, and then she heard his next words.

“Ah, fuck,” she uttered in a whisper. Her face was already pale from her injury, but the remaining color seemed to drain from it as realization dawned. Since her awakened nipples and shivering skin hadn’t yet clued her in just yet, both of which were still bare to his eye since the bandages were only wrapped around half of her torso. “That is horrible news, Ser Ricard,” she managed, a crescent punching its way into her cheek as she smiled at him.

Her hands lifted, arms securing a position over her breasts, her eyes shifting away from his face to hide their shock. “It seems that I’ve also grown a pair of breasts. Or perhaps they are my balls that got knocked straight up into my torso from my fall…”

If she were to be done with now that she was found out, she may as well go with her sense of humor. It at least distracted from her body’s pain.

Shifting on the table, her eyes tentatively moved back to the man looming above her. Quickly flicked right on past to the shirt he had. Softly, she addressed the shirt. “Is that for me?” It was a hopeful question.
 
Damn her. Damn her straight to hell and back again. Ser Ricard glared down at the face, adorable with its dimples and framed by those curls. She asked if she was dead, and he grunted back. “You might wish you were when I get done with you,” he threated. Even the way she cursed through her plump, angelic lips was engaging.

Then she made a joke, and Ricard closed his eyes as he shook his head. ‘Dear God give me patience.’ He opened his eyes and looked back down at her little mischievous face.

“Listen,” he said, placing a hand next to her head as he leaned close. “You put us both in a dangerous position, Fritz. Or whatever your name is. The shirt is for you, but not until you bind yourself up.” He pulled back slightly and reached for the binding tape. “You better have a good reason for wanting to pretend to be a boy, and a better reason for me to keep your secret,” he said, his jaw clenched as he tried to ignore her very feminine curves and began to unroll the binding tape. She was right there, barely dressed, and looking at him like she wanted to eat him up.

And he wanted her to eat him up.

“If you were to be selected, you’d be forced to travel and live in close quarters with your sponsoring knight,” he kept the tape in one hand and drew the other hand along the inside of her thigh, sliding his hand along the slim, firm muscles and up until he almost reached her womanhood. His thumb brushed across the top of her leg, then down the crease between torso and thigh. He arched a dark brow. “You’d be sharing a tent with me.”

His hand moved up to cup her mound, punctuating his words. “You didn’t have the balls to hold the line in the joust today. That’s why you were injured.” He tipped his chin up slightly as he steeled his gaze at her. “A knight apprentice without the courage to stay the course could get his, or her, knight killed.” Slipping from her womanly treasure, he gently drew his hand along her bound midsection and towards the valley of her breasts. “Give me a reason to allow you to continue your ruse. You might yet be chosen if nobody finds out your secret. Why should I risk it and let you go on?”
 
If only her head would stop pounding. If only her entire body would stop feeling as if it had taken the finest beating of all. She wanted to close her eyes, roll over, and sleep. Only the alarm going off in the ringing depths of her mind reminded her that to do so was folly. No doubt she was concussed and so falling back into unconsciousness was out of the question. That and the gut clenching fear that she was caught red handed doing something that she was not supposed to.

And that her knight had caught her made it all that much worse. That alone kept her eyes wide, trained on his face, her breath stopped in her throat for long bouts of time before she remembered that she needed to breathe again. And, of course, she kept her arms casually folded, as if her topless state were of no consequence when all she wanted to do was roll over and bury herself in her own humiliation.

“Sienna,” she finally murmured, rolling the name over her tongue. She hid her nerves, her fear, with another cheeky grin; hiding behind humor in the face of something that terrified her. There was no point in keeping the name of a lad in private, not with Ricard. Sienna tore her gaze away from his eyes, looked off to the far side of the tent. Her lower lip she dragged between her teeth, worrying it as she debated if she should try and sit up or not.

“I know,” she whispered, after a handful of heartbeats. “That I put myself in a dangerous position,” she corrected, dark eyes flickering back to his face. His look made her squirm with her own guilt. “You could still turn me over, Ser Ricard.” The last said quietly, lashes lowering as she dared meet his eyes again.

“All I wanted was to surprise my grandfather by participating and--” There it was -- the grin on her face; the dimple in her cheek. The corners of her eyes even crinkled as the grin stretched with mischief. “Winning the tourney. It is not my fault that the rules discriminate on those who have different parts than others. I’ve not seen my grandfather in a long time. Winning the tourney would be a surprise for him when he sees me again.” She was not ready to reveal just who her grandfather was. She doubted that Ser Ricard was ready to hear that news. Her gaze turned curious. “Why are no women trained for battle here? I grew in the mountains. Our customs are… very different there than they are here.. In terms of the fairer sex.”

What her knight did next surprised her more than the night she had planted a kiss on his mouth. His hand dipped, feeling like a hot brand on her thigh. Though her leg was still covered with her breeches, she still felt the heat of his skin permeating through. She gasped out loud before her body tensed, eyes flying fully open and alert.

She had to remember to breathe again.

The breath she had been holding she released in a shudder, her only reply to him a little murmur of shock as sensation danced up her thigh, curling heat between her legs. Heat that crept up, turning her face rosy, causing her eyes to dilate. Surely, he knew that she had developed a crush on him during their time spent on this tournament.

And he was using it against her.

“Ricard, I--” she uttered in the same voice she had used when she had caught up in the arms of the gyps woman. But the unwarranted jealousy of then was replaced by another choked emotion now. She closed her lips, swallowed hard.

“I thought that you said that I was too touchy,” she breathed the words out in a voice gone hoarse with sensation. She didn’t dare move, not even when his fingers crept higher up on her thigh. Not even when his palm cupped her sex, radiating heat as it was through her breeches, so that she gasped out loud again and finally did squirm underneath the touch. “Does this mean that you like me after all? You looked awfully upset that I kissed you…”

The muscles in her stomach jumped as his hands trailed up, sending twinges of pain along her rib cage, causing her to adjust the position of her arms that guarded his view from her breasts. A poor way to save modesty. Eyes glued on him still. She spoke quietly then, her features falling, “You are right. I… the joust is not something I was familiar with and I..”

Sienna tried to sit up then, only to squeeze her eyes shut as the world spun around her too fast. Groaning with the effort, she slipped back down on her back, the color that he had spun through her fading fast as she fought against vertigo. Her voice was strained when she spoke again, “Perhaps knighthood is not for me, then, if I still have things to learn.”
 
Sienna. ‘Fuck, did she have to have a beautiful name too?’ Cute face, promising look in her eyes, desirable body, and that whimsical, crazy personality that made him feel like she would try anything once, combined to give Ricard the feeling that there was much more to Sienna than anyone could guess. Then the way she said his name as she acquiesced, he could turn her in sent electrical shimmers into his core. Every word she breathed, every twitch of her muscles and blush of her cheeks told him that she was not averse to what he was doing. No…that kiss of hers had been more than a silly bet among recruits.

“You are too touchy. For a boy.”

She tried to sit up, and as she groaned he slid one hand behind her head to ease her down, the other going to her hip to keep her from falling off the table. ‘Silly girl.’

Her voice was strained when she spoke again, “Perhaps knighthood is not for me, then, if I still have things to learn.”

Ricard smirked down at her as he moved his hand off her hip and laid her head upon the pillow. “I don’t think so. You’re not getting off the hook that easily.” His eyes narrowed in devilish delight as he bent over her and captured her pert lips with his mouth, then parted them with his tongue, invading her mouth and taking liberties that matched the boldness of her own. She tasted like wild oceans and sunny fields, snow-covered mountaintops and the first bite of a sun-warmed orange. If she hadn’t been injured…

But she was. And they had something to see through to the end; the tournament was going on without them. “There,” he said. “Now we’re even. Somewhat.”

He moved to get the bindings, then glanced at her covered breasts as he firmed his lips and arched one brow. “You took this upon yourself when you impersonated a man to enter the contests. You are going to see this through, and if you win…” he shrugged. “You win. You make your grandfather proud.”

He glanced down at her arm-covered chest. “Move your arms, scamp.” Then he saw his dilemma. How does one wrap a chest when her back was to the table? “Actually,” he slid off the chair and stood, then helped her as much as he could. “You have be upright for this to work, and sitting will hurt worse than standing. Trust me on that.” Once she was on her feet he started from her back, wrapping the binding with one hand while holding it in place with the other.

“Such a shame to be covering these up,” he said as he brushed his palm over her dusky nipples, then took the full handful of her pert breast in his hand, weighing their youthful bounty. “But you’ll unwrap them for me tonight, won’t you?” He smirked at her as he wrapped. “And then we’ll see how long you can keep this secret of yours.”
 
She had not expected the attention. It had been a game she played when she knew her disguise was fooling the eyes of those around her, an amusement to tease him knowing that he would be adverse to what accounted as little more than a boy child being raucous. But now that she had the man’s gaze on her, she was not quite sure what to do with herself. Something like girlish shyness had washed her, erasing the confident, almost cocky demeanor she liked to carry herself with.

She did not like it. Almost as much as she did not like being defenseless on the medic’s table in front of him. Even as much as she disliked how she had demonstrated herself on the field during the joust. It was that shame that was white hot -- disappointing the knight in the finale when she had wanted to at least hold her ground, if not knock him from his own horse.

If she had not fucked that up so bad, she would not feel like a maiden with butterflies in her stomach, blushing under the scandal of her situation.

Her chin teased up once he had settled her back down on the table just in time to watch his lips descend over her. Her body tensed the moment his lips touched hers, but then melted in a low moan as his mouth parted hers and his tongue tasted her. It was deeper than what she had tried, more skilled, serving as a reminder of the man’s prowess.

That knowledge did not stop her hand from lifting, fingertips touching the dark curl of his hair as her lips parted, nostrils flaring as she shuddered with new sensation. She kissed him back, tentative, sweet at first. Her lips were soft along the firmness of his mouth, her tongue eager yet hesitant as it dipped past the barrier of his teeth to taste him.

It was distracting enough that she forgot where they were until he pulled away, leaving her shaking, breath heavy and lips parted like they wanted more.

For fuck’s sake. Do better.

Groaning, she pushed both palms of her hands over her face and scrubbed it, her palms feeling the burn in her cheeks. The motion exposed her breasts tipped with their hardened nipples that ached, only to quickly cover them again with an embarrassed hiss of breath that then turned into a hiss of pain as the knight eased her from the table.

Sienna wobbled as her feet found the ground, her vision swimming with the movement. Forgetting her budding lust, she turned her focus on simply staying upright, even if that meant learning heavily on his frame to keep herself up.

“Remind me again not to have my head smashed in by a horse,” she hissed at him. “Or hit with a blunt object in the chest. Or fall off the bloody horse. Worse than falling from a tree or toppling down a hill,” she complained so that she did not have to think. Thankfully, her knight had another distraction on his own, as she did not presume that his palm grazing her pebbled nipples was by accident. “Ricard--” No, surely not. He cupped her breast in his hand, uttered his rakish in a way that sharpened her attention on him. “Do you.. ..do you not have designs already on a lady or two already?”

She shot him a look with eyes that had gone dark and sprinkled with starlight, looking ethereal. Braving her body’s injury, she dipped away from his breast palming hand with a wicked little smirk that she used to hide the flash of pain as she straightened herself out so that she was not so close to the masculine scent of him that radiated heat. She snatched the binding tape, teeth gritting as she helped him pass the wrappings across her chest, flattening them back down and hiding them away once again. Suffocating them. Reminding her too of the ugly bruise from his lance that ached with a more horrific sort of pain than the pulse that invaded between her legs and made her slick.

“Perhaps you ought to buy me a drink when they announce me as one of the winners, Ser Ricard, and unwrap yourself a little more. I cannot allow you to have your way with me so easily when I know that you are a scoundrel. The lads all say so.” She arched a brow at him.

A little of herself was coming back at least. Now she just had to suck the rest of it up and get through the day. But first...

She pushed away from him to stand on her own, then glanced at him coy-like. "And Ricard? I am ahead again, in terms of kissing..." Her grin widened, playful, as she took a wooden step toward the tent flap, then another.
 
The dimple-cheeked tart asked if he hadn’t had designs on a lady or two already, and Ricard shot her a confident grin. “Ladies and you have very little in common Sienna. They don’t steal kisses while pretending to be boys,” he said, tightening the wrap of her bindings. But she was nimble despite her injury and ducked away from his touch.

He grunted at her suggestion he buy her a drink. And when she said that she could not allow him to have his way with him, he scoffed. “You’re so easy to feel the strike of my lance,” he said. “Is the scoundrel any worse than the woman growing wet at his touch?”

But that little brat would not let it go, and when she was finally dressed and once again resembling a boy, she made him growl with irritation at her final taunt. He cleared his throat, took several strides to catch up with her, and as he passed her by to open the tent flap, said quietly, “I hope you enjoyed the last one, then. It will surely be our last.” He stood half in the sun and half in the shadow.

“Come on, Fritz. If you want that knighthood you’d best walk out of here on your own. You can cry later where the crowds won’t see you.” Gone was the flirting, gone was the lust. In its place was the grim, judgmental countenance that had watched her these last few days. “Unless you want them to think that you’re a girl.” He waited for her slow wooden steps to catch up, not offering any assistance. If she wanted to stay in the game it would be by her merit and her merit alone.

The other contestants had all just completed the final round of jousts, and to the crowd’s disappointment, no other near-death collision had occurred. While a troupe of jesters, acrobats, and musicians entertained the audience the Knight General, Ser Alan Windlark, and a few other seasoned knights tallied the scores. The recruits were allowed to refresh themselves in the covered shelter where watered down ale and cool fruits were brought to help them in their stamina.

Jacoby paced the edge of the shade as he stared at the medic’s tent. Unfortunately, his focus on the tent didn’t alert him that Ser Edwain had appeared at his side.

“See? You shouldn’t have thrown the gladiator joust.” His voice was steely and low, and in the shadows of the tent the Golden Knight didn’t look so golden. “You might have cost yourself a knighthood, Jacoby Reinstahl.”

The pirate boy whirled, startled at the sudden voice beside him. “I…I didn’t throw that event,” he stammered. “My foot slipped on phlegm.”

Edwain crossed his arms over his chest. He watched the medic tent too and saw Ser Ricard standing at the flap and holding the door open. “Likely story,” he said, but as he slid his eyes towards the young man beside him, he nodded once. “I believe you, Jacoby. It’s a shame is all. You would have made a good knight.”

Jacoby’s face grew pale. Perhaps Ser Edwain knew something that he didn’t know. At the very least Jacoby had thought he stood a fifty-fifty chance among those remaining. Now he felt like he was being told that there was no hope for him.

He had failed.

Ser Edwain broke from the shade when Ricard grew closer and walked out into the sunlight to meet him. The change in the man was almost simultaneous. As soon as the sun hit his armor his dusky brown hair seemed to turn golden blond and the darkness in his eyes shined bright blue.

Jacoby likewise was waiting eagerly for his companion. Once Fritz made his way the majority of the way the pirate’s son walked out to meet him, trying hard to appear casual and unconcerned. Once he was closer he whispered worriedly, “What happened? I tried to stop them, Fritz.” He was confused that the woman pretending to be a boy was still in the tournament, for all appearances. He couldn’t understand it.
 
Sienna was enjoying their banter, even that grin on her face, when he caught up to her wobbling form with a darker look on his face. It was a look that wiped the smile from her face and switched it from impish pleasure to wounded. Wounded and not knowing just what she had done to garner his spite. “Ricard, what--”

She moved too quickly forward, thinking that she could move as if every motion did not cause her insides to twinge and her breath to rasp for pain, for the world to tilt on its very axis. It forced her to move more carefully instead of speed after him from the tent. So she called, weakly, “Do not tell me that your pride is so wounded so easily, Ser Ricard Debaise, that you cannot handle a little teasing.”

She stopped herself there, watching his dark countenance follow him out into the daylight. She did not wish to push him, being already in his bad graces by her deception. Trembling, she made sure that the clean shirt covered her fully, then stepped out after him with her pretty mouth set into a scowl that might rival his own as she focused on making her way to where the other competitors waited in the shade. Relief was brief as it slid across her features as her one friend claimed her before she could face the smug snickers of her fellow competitors.

She grunted at the younger man, eyes forward, knifing through Ricard and his golden friend as her attention swept over him before settling on a place to sit. She dropped herself down in the midst of the men and lads that stared curiously, then shot her attention back to Jacoby.

“He is an ass,” she hissed out from between her teeth. “And I ought to kick him where the sun cannot reach if he did not…” Well, she gestured down to herself, grinned despite it, then reached out and gingerly touched the lump on the back of her head with a wince. “I know not what happened, to be honest. But he did not seem keen on turning me in, so…” And she shrugged one shoulder, grimaced again as her ribs twinged, then pulled herself back to her feet since -- the damnable man was right - it was better to stand than it was to sit. Her anger faded into concern as she shot Jacoby a look. “Are you in trouble, do you think?”
 
Ricard watched the expression on Sienna’s face change from jovial to confused, then to wounded and angry, and knew he had hit the mark. She couldn’t go out onto the field grinning like a happy fool. If people were to keep believing that Sienna was ‘Fritz’, she had to be upset. She needed to look like he had reamed her and spat her out on the pavement.

He simply kept his stern expression when she tried to mock him again, then let the little muskrat find her way back to the shaded rest area. If they got through this deception in one piece it would be a miracle.

When he met Ser Edwain on the field Ricard felt a sense of relief wash over him.

“He seems unusually well for taking a blow like that,” Edwain noticed. The two men walked towards the knight’s shade structure, slightly offset from their recruits. The once full tent where the prospects waited was much roomier now that three quarters of those who had begun this journey had been disqualified.

“He’s a tough mongrel,” Ricard growled. “They bounce back.”

“I hope so. He could have opened up his side to your lance, and accident or not, his family would have been quite upset with you.”

“Well, apparently there’s only a grandfather to contend with.” Ricard stood facing the recruits’ tent, his arms crossed over his chest and the ever-present scowl on his face. “Are the tallies almost done?”

Edwain nodded. “You finished just in time.”

In truth, Ricard had not finished with Fritz. He had merely needed to get them out of the privacy of the medic’s tent. The way Sienna had kissed him back had done something to him that he didn’t think was possible. Of all the women he’d bedded, for indeed he had earned his reputation fairly, he’d never felt that soft, yielding connection as he had when he kissed that impostor. Something about the way she practically melted in him had made him think of ‘forevers’ and ‘destiny,’ and though it was a pleasant feeling, it had frightened him.

What good was it for a fighting man to leave behind a devastated family when he went to war? To leave behind a widow and fatherless children; it was irresponsible. He couldn’t be worried about them if he was to charge forward against any and all enemies. Love made knights weak. It made soldiers weak. He’d seen it in person, and he had sworn long ago that he wouldn’t be one of those tainted by the fear of never coming home. He would not do it to himself and he would not do it to anyone else.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to do it for a scamp like Sienna. Even if her dimpled smile made him smile back even when he was angry. Even if her kiss tasted like strawberries and wine…

At the recruits’ tent, Jacoby was handing Sienna a mug of watered ale. “He is and ass,” he agreed, “but he’s also your knight.” He lowered his voice. “And he didn’t turn you in, so…” He waited for her to take the offered mug before getting one of his own. Jacoby sighed heavily at Sienna’s question. “Worse than trouble,” he admitted. “I don’t think I made the cut. Ser Edwain is furious that I lost to you. Worse, he thinks I did it on purpose, and I can tell you now that I didn’t lose on purpose. You won fair and square.” He took a long draught, leaning against the tent post as they waited for the numbers to get added up and their fates to be determined.

Soon the master of the festivities came out to address the crowd and the troubadours left the field. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Honorable King Locke Tyrven, revered Knight General Ser Jonas Willams…the moment you’ve been waiting for! Let us call out our knights and their men for one last round of appreciation before we announce the champions of the tournament and our newest six knight initiates!”

A fanfare of trumpets blasted out an encouraging three notes to spur the crowd’s cheer. The master of ceremonies called out each knight who entered the field, waving for his men to join him. As each did the crowd cheered and hooted for their favorite recruits. Some even called out for the charming underdog, Fritz Richter. Even Jacoby, who had been called out before her, raised his fist and hooted his support, much to the disappointment of Ser Edwain.

“You realize that Fritz is still your competition?” Edwain asked Jacoby as the final group was being called forth. “Until this ‘battle’ is over, he’s still your enemy.”

Jacoby cast his eyes at the Golden Knight. He had nothing more to lose; in the young seaman’s mind, the decision had already been made who would move on and who would be forced to return home, defeated. “We’re only at odds because someone else said we are,” he replied. “Why should I hold the orders of those above us against the individual?”

Edwain’s eyes narrowed, then he turned away wordlessly. Something about the message the novice shared troubled him. As the future king he might one day order his men to stand strong against their own countrymen and family. What would that mean for those who were friends yesterday if they stood against each other on the battlefield today?
 
Sienna had always been a fast healer. She blamed in on good genes and something extra. After all, anyone who was not an idiot could see that His High and Mighty Locke Tyrven did not seem to want to be aging at a very fast rate. The stories spun around the king ranged from a witch’s curse to a deal with the faerie who hid themselves away from the greedy eyes of men. Either way, she felt as though whatever helped the king keep his youthful exuberance helped her to heal. Or it could just have been a hearty diet and good metabolism.

Her only complaint was that she was not healing fast enough. So while she was on her feet, her face still looked bleached and she had to shut her eyes against the sun and lean against one of the pavilion’s poles so that she did not wobble over to crash to the ground. Furthermore, she wanted to get this portion over with so that she could corner Ser Ricard again and force him to speak with her instead of storming off, though her better senses told her to leave him well enough alone. He had already spared her the consequences of getting caught at her charade, but somehow that left her feeling anxious and nauseated; fuel for standing around in the heat waiting for the announcement on who would be the winners of the tournament.

“He is not my knight,” came her immediate rebuttal when Jacoby spoke to her. Her dark eyes opened, squinting at him through her pinched up features. Her hands took the mug he offered, but the thought of drinking anything that had spirits in it made her stomach turn. She closed her eyes again. “At least your knight does not paw you like you are a common whore just because you have breasts…” she hissed, her voice soft so that it would not carry and only Jacoby could hear. “Ser Edwain also sounds like an ass. I bet each and every single one of these knights are true asses all around, despite their talk of chivalry and glory.

The part that she left out was that she had enjoyed being pawed at by the knight. Had wanted more of it, in fact, which only made the color rise in her face.

The sound of the trumpet interrupted what was beginning to sound like a rant, sending jolts through her skull and making her wince. As the voice called out over the amplified field, Sienna plucked herself from her lean against the pole and set her jaw tight. Reaching up, she clapped Jacoby on the shoulder, then with a moment’s hesitation, drew him in for a hug and whispered, “Thank you for being a friend. If this does not work out for either of us, I should hope that we remain close. Promise?”

Her eyes searched as she drew away, careful not to disturb her bound mid-section. Then she was stepping out into the field as Ricard’s group was called. Him she avoided looking at and instead focused on her steps, of standing still as the men lined up.

It seemed as if they were standing for ages with the sun beating down on them when the Knight General himself stepped forward onto the dais, his rich voice carrying for the crowd. Surely, there had to be some sort of magic at work here for their voices to be heard all around.

“As the tournament comes to a close, I would like to thank you all for being a part of this celebration. Without further ado, I would like to announce the winners!”

The crowd went wild, growing wily as the excitement was drawing to an end. Ser Jonas waited until they had settled, then started listing them off.

“Ser Garrity’s champion, Gavin of Fairbrook, please come forth! Ser Vainte’s champion, Noa of Jorn, please step forward! Ser Harald’s champion, Hans Johann, come forward please! Ser Alan Windlark’s champion, Aeron ap Derwyn, please come out to the field! Ser Edwain Slayte’s champion, Jacoby Reinstahl, come forward! And finally, Ser Ricard Debaise’s champion, Fritz Richter, please join us in the field!”

Sienna’s stomach dropped at the sound of her made up name. No matter that this was what she wanted, the nerves were still there. Her eyes widened, her legs moving despite the fact that her mind had gone blank as her gaze lifted to search the dais, searching of the king. His silhouette stood along with the others, clapping along with the rest of the crowd. Where everyone else who had stepped out onto the field bowed and waved, she stood stock still.

Then turned abruptly and lost her stomach to the ground at her feet, her upper torso keeling over with pain as she lost what little she had to lose. While the other men stopped to stare, the crowd had not yet truly noticed, and instead were listening with rapt attention as the Knight General proceeded to announce that they would have the rest of the day and night to celebrate. After, the carnival would remain until the weeks’ end for everyone’s enjoyment while the next eve the champions would be introduced to the king himself and knighted in an official ceremony.

Sienna barely heard any of it. She was too busy trying to right herself, both hands pressed to her head as she breathed, only to stumble from the field and back into the shade once the champions bowed once more and were dismissed.
 
While the contestants stood in the sun, waiting for the Knight General to finish speaking, all Jacoby could think of was that impromptu hug from Fritz, and those simple words, “Thank you for being a friend. If this does not work out for either of us, I should hope that we remain close. Promise?”

Jacoby had been so touched he only had the sense to nod at her and whisper, “Of course, always.” He had wanted to say more. Tell her that no matter what he would be there for her. Their brief adventure had been one of those moments that he believed would change his life. It was a pivotal compass point. On the sea there was a saying that are eight moments in your early life, just as there were eight points on a compass rose, that really determine what the rest of your life would reveal. This, and Fritz’ friendship, was one of them.

He knew it in his marrow.

And as the names were called, Jacoby realized he had also known that those men would be called. Despite Gavin’s skills being limited to those learned on the training field, he had done well in the tournament (if you overlooked his first round with Aeron. Jacoby hadn’t watched Noa of Jorn compete, and so that candidate was a mystery to him, but he did know the dark-skinned Hans to be adept at the bow and others means of fighting; you just had to keep him off a horse. When Aeron was called it seemed right that his practical knowledge of fighting had served him so well. It also didn’t hurt that he was a favorite of the female crowd.

Jacoby looked to the side to see who would be called next. When he heard his own name, he was stunned.

‘Me? They’ve made a mistake,’ he thought. ‘Surely not—’

Ser Edwain’s strong hand pushed his shoulder blades forward. “Step up, you fool,” the knight hissed.

Jacoby could scarcely believe it. His smile slowly spread across his face as he raised his hand as the others did and heard the cheers. He turned to seek out Fritz’ face just as he heard her name called out. It seemed surreal. They’d both been chosen! “Fritz! You did it!” He shouted. He didn’t care that Edwain was scowling, nor did he care if it was considered strange to be rooting for your competitor.

The Knight General continued to speak. Somehow his deep baritone seemed to reach the ends of the tourney field.

Ser Richard was just comprehending that he had won his bet against Edwain when the sound of someone losing the contents of their stomach drew his attention. He saw the mop of curls bent over, heard the pitiful squeeze of her diaphragm over the cheers…

Ser Edwain looked to his friend, saw where his attention was, and shook his head. ‘That one is never going to survive on a real fight,’ he thought. ‘We’re putting babies on the battlefield.’ He watched as the Dark Knight preempted their dismissal after his newfound squire and knight apprentice, then turned to look back up at the stands, scanning the faces of those already getting from their seats to enjoy the celebrations. As the sweep of his gaze met his grandfather’s face he paused, feeling a great weight upon him, and noticing that his father had not been strong enough to make it that day. Either that, or his mother, seated near the king and wearing a light blue gown adorned in gold trim, had decided that she would come on her own. He saw her now, casting her gaze in the king’s direction, and felt his heart chill towards her another slight degree, before turning and walking with his men into the shade.

Ricard came behind Sienna as she stumbled into the shelter. “You,” he said, reaching out to steady the dizzied ‘lad,’ “need to retire to the medic’s tent and rest. No celebrations for you tonight.” His voice was stern, though a hint of worry darkened his gaze.

Jacoby had hurried to Sienna’s side as well and offered to take ‘him,’ but Ser Edwain’s voice interrupted that thought.

“Jacoby Reinstahl, a moment please,” the Golden Knight called out.

All around them men were congratulating the winners and wondering who would be announced the ‘champion’ at tomorrow’s knighting. Those who had come this far and not made it seemed non-plussed; they had proven themselves worthy enough. And tonight, they knew, their efforts on the field were sure to be rewarded by women who wanted to console their hearts and help them to forget how close they had come.
 
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