The Archery Tournament

The morning of the Tournament of Lilies dawned with sharp contrast to the days that had preceded it. The earlier attitude of the citizenry, one of excitement and bustle, was replaced with a sense of expectancy and still amazement like the city had itself passed through the edge of a storm to find itself poised at its center. The sun rose with that sense of wonder that accompanies any day of great monument...the almost disbelief that the moment had actually arrived, unimpeached.

Now, however, as the actual hour draws on, the people are once again animated with the powerful sense of the romantic and licentious that any form of carousal designed for the general public brings. The streams of humanity pouring toward the tournament grounds at the river palace fill the viewers eye with a riot of color and movement, her ear with the cheerful ring of expectant cries on seeing the pavilions of knights errant and outlying nobility, the murmured bets being placed on this or that yeoman in the feat of archery.

The grounds themselves comprise a meadow of the finest green turf...an almost natural amphitheatre with a level bottom surrounded by gently up-sloping ground. The center, level part of the meadow has been enclosed with a series of strong palisades forming the are of the lists, about a quarter mile in length and half again as broad. The northern and southern end of this enclosure contains gates by which opposing knights may enter the lists, and it is beyond these gates that their pavilions, colors reflecting their heritage or homeland, have been erected.

Around all but the central western edge of the enclosure, benches, galleries arranged with tapestries and carpets for the nobility, and even man-made bumps of turf can be seen to hold the various classes of spectator. The center of the western edge of the lists contain two canopied boxes...the one, decorated in blue and white Lilies, holds seats for the patron of the Tournament, Joanna de Chaveaux and her attendants, while the other has been set up in deference to the current Regent of Gesarien, Count Meuran de Gasal, likely to remain silent and empty with the reports that he is missing.

Wherever there is food and merriment, Lourein de Bastine is bound to be present. Even above the din of crowd and song and music, the (in)famously jovial Duke can be heard, his laughter and speech booming from his vast lungs. He arrives in a crowd of men in the colors and livery of Bastine, including a handful of yeoman soldiers under the olive branch and sun sigil. Perhaps he has instructed his duchy to send forth its most skilled of archers to compete for Bastine's honor.

He can't help but gawk, nearly caught by the stream of people entering the tourney fields. It's not just the mass of spectators, commoners and nobles alike, but the sheer exciting buzz that seems to fill the very air. Keeping a firm grip on his bow with one hand, the other goes up to hold onto his hat as Tibault du Nordlac tilts his gaze up to the canopied boxes and the stands around them. He can't help but grin, for no reason in particular, it's as if the tournament's energy has entered under his skin. It's probably the most the boy has lit up in months.

While not as grand as some of the entourages that accompany the Duchies, that which arrives under the banner of the County Gallerneault can be considered impressive in its own right. The Countess, who has been living for quite a while in the city arrives on the arm of a much older man, easily old enough to be her father. It appears the Count has decided to join his wife Melisse, if only temporarily, to attend the tournament hosted by his Duchess. The pair, surrounded by servants and a few of their own archers, appear amiable enough, but their expressions appear a bit too stiff to be genuine. A herald announces them both as they proceed to their seats.

Just behind the group from Bastine (and thus easily missed at first), just beyond their laughter (and thus easily unheard initially), comes the contingent of Chaveaux nobility. A collection of ladies in waiting are being escorted by knights and noblemen who are intending to participate - so one hopes by the fact they carry bows - and beyond those chattering courtiers is the Duchess herself. Joanna de Chaveaux's radiant mane of coppery curls blazes all the brighter for the kiss of sunlight upon it, and her dazzling smile is proffered to those she greets both silently (through a head-nod) and verbally. At her side, as is oft the case, walks the Marquis Alain, and what few words they exchange during this entrance are too low for others to pluck from the air.

In and around the spectators, as well as those preparing for today's competition, the famed joglars of Avanne -- and indeed, beyond the nation's borders -- ply their trade. In keeping with the mood, their songs are those of joy and pride and laughter, something to cater to the tastes of all present. Also present are those other elements of society, the merchants and vendors, selling all manner of things possible. Food, drink, favors for the ladies to bestow on their favorite competitors... if it can be made and sold, it is likely found here.

Armand de Chaveaux enters the box setup for his family, playing the role of assistance to the magnanimous benefactor to the hilt. Of course, the heralds have not gone without their orders and a loud and trilling flourish of trumpets just happen to coincide with is arrival on the scene. A wave to the crowd of spectators and a bow and kiss to the hand of the few young women near his box. Though not competing in archery, whispered word flies about the crowd that the young lord intends to enter the lists in a couple days time. Finally, a bow is offered to his sister before Armand takes a seat to one side of her.

Rowdy and boisterous laughter erupts from one of the groups of common men and women seated on the manicured lawn. They're wearing their festive garb this morning, though admittedly it cannot compare against the splendor of the noble classes. Splashes of washed-out reds and blues can be seen against more somber, earthier colors. Barefoot children scamper about in between the women, bringing higher-pitched laughter and the occasional sharp word of retort.

"Oy! Bertrand! Get your arse back here boy before I tan your hide!"

"I told you to go before we came out here. Go behind the bushes."

"Listen to the trumpets! Look, there's the Duchess de Chaveaux and her brother!"

The Bastine entourage approaches the pavilions en masse, a stream of red and gold wending its way through the landscape of the crowd. The Duke himself takes as much time as he likes (a great deal, of course) partaking of the various options available to him -- food, drink and human alike -- with a bright grin. He is in his element here. The remainder of the Bastine group takes their places in a pavilion apart from the central one, while the Duke himself approaches a section set aside for those highest-ranking of nobles, near the Chaveaux who have brought this event together.

As he approaches the pavilions with the Duchess of Chaveaux, Alain stops for a moment to converse with a man bearing the colors and emblem of County Veraux. By their features, they could well be brothers, though the second man is far taller and heavier of build than Alain. Their conversation is curt, lacking in much emotion to the eye of any that might be watching, and they part ways quickly. The Marquis continues on his way to accompany the Duchess and her brother.

The hubbub of the crowd rises and falls with each new noble or House that is announced. Heads crane to get a look at the latest finery, the gallant forms of the young noblemen, flowers of chivalry, and the famed beauty of many of the country's noble young women. When not competing for a view of the various members of court, people jostle to buy sweetmeats and other victuals from the passing vendors who are only too happy to exchange their wares for coin. Suddenly, however, a great hush falls over the crowd as ten heralds, accompanied by twice as many trumpeters march to the center of the lists, standing before the boxed and canopied area of the de Chaveaux entourage.

"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!" the heralds call as the flourish of trumpets fade. "Let it be known to the assembled nobility and the citizens of Gesarien that Her Grace Joanna de Chaveaux hereby announces the Tournament of Lilies, signaling the end of her mourning and designed for the good will and joy of the common man, is officially begun!" Another triumphant blare of trumpets sound as all but the lead herald make their way from the lists and two liveried servants enter with a circular archery target from the northern gate.

The Count of Gallerneault makes a big show of greeting other noblemen and introducing his wife as they take their seats. Melisse offers a smile to anyone she is introduced to, but looks rather uncomfortable overall. Her gaze continually darts around the field, as if to look at anything else but the man at her side. One of her handmaids approaches and the two find their seats, the former chatting on and on while pointing to various archers. Melisse nods every so often, but spends more time looking around at the others gathered than at the men preparing to compete. The Count approaches her, leans over and whispers something to her, which in turn gains a nod from the young Countess. He gives her a smile that lacks all humor and is soon seen leaving his entourage and slipping out through the crowds, leaving Melisse to sit with the servants.

At the proclamation, Joanna waves a hand benevolently from the lily-strewn box that is going to be her vantage point during the tournament. No reason, no need, to add to what the heralds have just proclaimed; far better to stand at her place, wave and look as beguiling as she may (and Oriabel-ish too, but that can scarcely be helped), and keep quiet for the time being.

It takes him a few minutes to actually find where the Count and Countess of Gallerneault are seated, but when he does, Tibault actually waves! Well, more at the Countess than at the Count...and only after the gesture does he realize his faux pas. Luckily, the shadow of the hat hides his blush as he leans on his bow. Hazel eyes peer out at the field being set up and the blush quickly fades. He hasn't a chance against these yeomen...they're all probably twice his age.

Mere moments after Joanna's announcement, as the loud trumpets heralding the beginning of the tournament, is when the Mirvil contingent decide to make their entrance. Once again, the blaring fanfare cuts through the rejoicing of the crowd, as a new group of nobles enter from inside. A herald steps forth, and cries out into the crowd, "All listen, so that I may announce the entrances of the Hero of the Battle Lindell, the Bastion of Gesarien's Northern Border, and once Commander of Avanne's Armies, the Duke Durand de Mirvil, and his entourage." Following that brief fanfare, the collective nobles of Mirvil who have remained in Gesarien enter the area, moving towards the box reserved for higher-ranking nobles. Most of the Mirvil collection are men, including Durand's closest advisor, his cousin, the Count de Soncerre. As they enter, some commoner, bold with drink, calls out, "The Snake of Mirvil!" A common epitaph for Durand, and one in which he ignores. The crowd does not love him, in the way they surely love Joanna, the physical representation of their beloved, and dead, Queen. Though, there is a held respect, for the Mirvil armies are feared, and his crops needed for survival.

Joanna, as she watches the arrivals from her seat, gives the Countess Melisse a smile of welcome that is not entirely echoed when she glimpses the Count. Then, espying Durand, Joanna rises graciously to greet him and those with him - along with de Bastine, whose reception is somewhat warmer than that of de Mirvil - before sitting down again. She's in hostess mode, apparently.

Cyon walks close behind Durand as the party enters onto the ground. The tall Count's head is held high and his eyes scan through the crowd and assembled nobles. His expression stays neutral through the introduction of his Duke and the harsh comments from the crowd.

The Bastine archers, a generally well-attired and equipped bunch of commoners, take their places among the competitors, checking over their bows and preparing themselves for the competition when they're not flinging off-color barbs at the competitors from other duchies. Like Duke, like yeoman archers, it's often said.

Melisse catches the Duchess' greeting but before she can offer more than a polite smile, it appears the other woman is off greeting others. Melisse gives the woman a wave anyway, as if unable to stop her hand from rising from her lap. She goes back to looking around the crowd as her handmaid continues to discuss the men in the field.

Alain leans over to make a comment to Joanna, wry smile on his face as is so often the case. He rises to bow to those of higher rank, politely if a bit cold toward the Mirvil. Old hatreds die hard, if they die at all.

The initial hush of the crowd at the announcement marking the beginning of the tournament is lost with heraldic announcement of the arrival of Durand de Mirvil and party. A crashing of noise sweeps through the spectators, and though some boo the late arrival, the primary tone is of continued joviality and excitement. The more the merrier the crowd seems to think in unified hubbub.

Bales of hay have been placed behind, above and to the sides of the archery target to stop the speedy course of the goose shafts that will be flying that way and as assurance for any that should go wide of their mark. As the bales are being set, an official draws a line at a specified distance from the target, such distance offering those who compete what is called 'a shot at rovers'. A group of yeoman, some guards, but mostly rangers and under-keepers of the various forests preserved for the nobility of the land have assembled. They test the tension of their bowstrings, change them out and fidget with nervous excitement at the chance to display this, their silvan skill, before the large and prestigious assembly.

Durand leads his contingent over to the main stands, escorting the nobles up the steps to place themselves next to the Bastines. Everyone in the crowd watches him place a public distance between himself and those of Chaveaux. He greets both nobles, first Joanna...it is her tournament...then Bastine, with a proper bow, and more if they allow. While their Duke goes about politicking, the archers of Mirvil join the rest of the assembled competitors. Each are emblazoned with the sigil of their Duchy, a raised stag, on a tunic with the Mirvil colors of blue and silver. And, unlike Bastine, they behave themselves with a rigid, militaristic style. They are trained soldiers, and only their Captain plays up to the crowd.

Tibault glances back to see if Melisse is even paying attention before he joins the others at the recently made mark. His own bow is tested, his arrows peered at to see that the shafts are straight and the feathers unbent. Licking two fingers he tests for the direction of the wind...all this to keep his breathing calm and his heart in his chest where it belongs. The two men on either side of him have been probably shooting twice as long as he has. For an extra measure of calm and, he hopes, good luck, the boy makes the sign of the Sun in silent prayer.

The chief herald signals to the group of trumpeters on the southern end of the lists, then, steeping forward once more, he announces, "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Let they that would compete in the archery competition stand forward and be named by the heralds. He that shall win the day's event will receive this baldric, tooled with silver lilies, and this horn of ram chased and edged in silver and filled with as many silver coins as it may hold!"

At this, Armand stands in the de Chaveaux box and holds up both of the prizes. Then, setting aside the baldric for the moment, he grabs a large bag of silver and pours its contents 'til over flowing into the ram's horn bugle. At the sight, a wild cheer goes up from the crowd.

Cyon follows Durand as he makes his way past each of the nobles. He makes a quiet greeting to each and offers a bow as appropriate, working through the formalities in a rather mechanic fashion. As he reaches his place, he turns to listen to the herald once more.

Joanna watches her brother, watches the coins from her treasury go into the horn, conjures a brilliant smile, and rises to regard the field nearby. "I shall, of course, be giving the victor these prizes personally, if he will allow it," and again bestows her most beguiling smile on the ranged competitors below. And waves.

Oh, would Durand not pay to see Joanna bestow her gifts on one of his chosen soldiers. Would that not be a sweet sight to behold. The sheer mass of nobles on the stands keep the Duke from making more personal greetings, as Durand behaves like his cousin, speaking with those nearby, that have made their way to each of their sides. Composed, formal, with a brush of a smile upon his face, he talks to those around him.

Melisse turns her attention to the pronouncements even as her handmaid continues to prattle on. Seems she's more interested in the men themselves than whatever trinket they might win. Melisse continue to nod from time to time, giving the other woman a false sense of importance, though the countess appears to care less what her handmaid thinks.

Elsewhere in the crowd the Count de Gallerneault can sometimes be seen, conversing with other nobles or smiling at a young girl who stands much to close to the married count. He never seems to stay in one place overly long and quickly loses himself in the crowd again.

Excited mumbling races through the crowd of commoners gathered on the turf, men and women alike peering out at all there is to see. The children are nearly beside themselves with glee. It's not often they're freed from chores for the morning to watch the pretty nobles ponce about with their noses high in the air. A pair of barefoot bratlings dart in and around some of the standing, unwashed people. One of them is nearly trodden upon by a man who roars with excitement at the sight of so much silver being poured into the ram's horn.

One of the less-grubby urchins stops alongside his friend, and both peer at a figure standing amongst some of the archers. "Hey, is that..." begins one, before he's sharply cut off, "It is. He's in the competition!" At the tops of their lungs, both youths start waving and yelling excitedly, "Oy! Tibault! Watch you don't shoot your own foot!"

A pair of the Bastine archers elbow each other with grins at the Duchess' proclamation. If the silver wasn't enough motivation, the off chance that the Duchess might bestow the gift of, perhaps, a kiss... that's certainly motivation to them.

As the yeomen step forward and begin whispering their mundane heritage and place of origin to the heralds assembled to introduce them to the eager crowd, the lead herald makes known that only one man from contingents representing noble houses or other institutions such as the city guard may compete. This causes the assembled groups to form into tight knots replete with furious whispering.

Turning at his name, Tibault's brows crease before he recognizes the urchins. His free hand waves at them, the frown replaced by a bright grin. Well, at least he has someone watching him in this...he very well -may- shoot himself in the foot...but someone will see. That certainly helps his confidence level, and when the herald cones to take his name, he offers it, shoulders squared and ready to start.

Like Duke, like soldiers, right? The men of Mirvil do not hesitate, and they leave the field to stand guard for the Mirvil nobles, leaving only their smiling Captain upon the field. Durand, at the offerings of Joanna, leans in towards his cousin, and speaks softly to him, the grim smile viewable by the crowds below.

Certainly, the men of Bastine know who their own champion is, a tall, rangy fellow with a salt-and-pepper beard with the heavily calloused fingers of an expert with the bow. However, they do not leave the field entirely, instead hanging back to shout encouragement in their own particularly rough-edged way.

The chosen competitors from the other duchies make their way forward to the herald, all of them affecting airs of confidence, save for one poor fellow under the livery of the Duke of Chalain whose hand shakes as though afflicted with a palsy. One wonders how he became their champion -- lack of competition for the title, perhaps. The Captain of the Duchess of Chaveaux's own guard is the last to come forth, a cheerful fellow with a bright grin for his fellow competitors.

Amazingly the mention of only one archer from a contingent brings the Count back to Melisse's side, with one of their men in tow. Only those nearest can hear them discussing who it will be. The count seems set on the man at his side while the countess is angrily pointing out on the field toward...that commoner Tibault? They continue to argue, drawing curious looks and eager ears until the Countess jumps to her feet so that she is no longer looked down upon. Not shouting, but neither are they keeping their voices low. Insults from both sides are heard, including one insulting the Count's manhood which draws a few nervous laughs from some of the other women. Eventually the count stalks away with his archer in tow, both looking furious, but the archer never takes the field. It seems young Tibault will shoot for the Countess.

As the various factions of yeoman finally settle upon their respective champions, and each is announced by a different herald announcing such things as, "Luc son of Charles son of Valere from the county of Rivere in the Duchy of Chaveaux, chief forester for her grace stands ready to try his skill!" And so, each man named steps toward the line.

"Good luck to you all, my lords and gentlemen!" Joanna calls before reseating herself, her final smile for her own champions. She even seems benevolent to the Mirvil contingent.

"He hasn't got a chance, has he?" One urchin asks of the other in low tones, both of whom continue to watch their friend Tibault on the field. "No, mate, I think he's pretty much gonna get slaughtered." One of the boys starts to gnaw on a hunk of stale bread, and with his mouth full, he says in a thoughtful manner, "Whaddya think he's been up to for the past couple of months? Haven't seen him much." He doesn't get a chance to swallow before he sees one of the heralds talking to Tibault, and so when he yells, gooey half-chewed bread goes spraying on the back of a finely-dressed merchant standing too close in front, "Kick their pansy arses across the field, Tibault!"

A fool, wearing the motley and attending no doubt upon some lord or lady from the outlying regions of Avanne, calls out from the crowd toward the archers, "Pluck Yew!" This, of course, brings a roar of laughter from the multitude.

As the Mirvil archer steps up for his announcement, Durand steps up, and hollers, breaking his mask of solemn reservation, "Give 'em Hell, Captain!!" His various nobles start in surprise at such...common behavior from their Duke. For his part, Prades of Veril, Captain of Mirvil's Archery unit throws his commander a wide smile, and a Avannais salute.

Whether they traditionally like the Duke of Mirvil or not, his brazen behavior brings a chorus of cheers from the rough and common spectators.

Cyon cracks a slight grin at the behavior of the Duke, and he leans forward slightly in his seat, eyes roaming across the different representatives. The Count is known for his military background and is taken in by an excellent contest of skill.

Lourein bursts into laughter, though that can hardly be a surprise, at Mirvil's actions. "I knew there was more than ice that flowed through your veins, de Mirvil. Good show," he calls to his fellow duke, then tears into a leg of roasted fowl with typical enthusiasm.

Deep breaths...take deep breaths. That's all Tibault can do right now even though the comment from one of the urchins causes him to smile. He tries to see what the other archers may have thought of the outburst, but they probably didn't pay attention to it. After all, they're commoners. Well...he straightens his shoulders and flexes his fingers...he'll give them a run for their money...if he can. Chewing on his lip he turns to where the Count and Countess argue, quickly turning back away. Ummm...

"Go to Hell, Captain!" yell the two urchins, seemingly as one, in response to the Duke of Mirvil's rough yelling to his archer. Of course, this elicits quite a few hostile looks in their directions, which are met by rude gestures and face-pulling. One boy is still in the process of sticking his fingers in his mouth and waggling his tongue at a prissy, thin-faced woman when the other tugs him roughly on the sleeve. "C'mon, let's try and get closer. If Tibault shoots himself or someone else by accident, I've gotta be able to see it."

A flurry of trumpets signals the beginning of the event, and, at a signal from the lead herald, one of his assistants steps forward to shout, "Each archer will be allowed three shots! The three men closest to the center of the target will each get another three shots to determine the victor! For the glory of Chaveaux and the greater glory of Avanne!" A loud cheer from the people, then..."First up! The Archer from Bastine!"

Melisse settles back in her chair, brushing off the hand of the woman next to her who attempts to the soothe the annoyed Countess. She glances around, hearing the yell from the Duke of Mirvil, but only gives him the same annoyed glance with which she left her husband. Next on the list is Tibault, who gains an equally annoyed glare, as if to threaten him to do well or else.

Joanna waves to Tibault since, for one, he is shooting for her friend and Countess and two, he is looking somewhat misfit-ish amongst the nobles and knights. And she skitters a sideways glance of amazement when Durand shows some degree of animation. Like she perhaps wonders if his head is going to sprout horns or something.

A raucous cheer rises from the Bastine contingent, and they push their champion forward with bawdy odes to his prowess in all things, not the least of which is the bow. With a grin, he bows to his compatriots before he turns and offers a more serious bow to the pavilion of the Duchess. He steps to the line and takes a long moment to compose his breathing and determine the force of the wind. His first shot is smooth, but even from the distance of the observers, it can be seen that it is offline. The second and third shots come in quick succession, closer to the center, but still far enough off to leave plenty of room for those that come after. Given his ducal affiliation, one wonders if he had partaken of too much wine before the contest. He frowns darkly at his effort, but it has little effect on his disposition, returning to his fellows to their good-natured jeers.

Everyone in the crowd seems to feel that, despite there being room for improvement toward the center of the target, the Bastine champion's shot was well done! They cheer and hoot and make a general ruckus of approval.

Melisse missed the Bastine's shot entirely, still glaring at her single archer, but as the roar goes up from the crowd she turns toward the target and weakly applauds the effort.

Something must have infected the Mirvil Lord, because he continues in Bastine's vein of impropriety. Leaning towards his left, he calls out, "Seems your champion had a bit too much fun, last night, your Grace!" It obvious he's trying to be festive towards a good natured man, as there is no insult in his tone.

Joanna is attentive to the festivities, though she is not by any stretch of the imagination boisterous like the nobles that brace her. She prefers to watch the archers below, somewhat pointedly.

Cyon shakes his head faintly and takes up conversation with another one of the Mirvil nobles who is sitting close by, speaking intently and making occasional motions towards the target. They seem to be arguing as to whether it was really too much drink or just flawed mechanics.

Laughing in turn, the immense Duke of Bastine calls back, "One can never have too much fun!" The nobles of Bastine seated around him look less than thrilled at their man's poor showing, but then again... it's only a commoner. If they fare this poorly in the joust, there may be hell to pay.

As the cheers of the festive multitude die down, another herald steps forward, placing himself artfully beneath a waving pennant and calls, "The next archer to shoot will be the representative of Chaveaux!" And so, Luc son of Charles son of Valere steps forward to the line.

In the din of the cheering and hooting and hollering, two boys are booing at the tops of their lungs. One nearly falls over from the sheer effort that leaves him just a little dizzy and breathless. His urchin friend grabs him by the shoulder, muttering a quiet, "You git." As the representative of Chaveaux is called, they fall into quiet for just a moment or two. "Here we go," says one to the other. "I'm betting this guy won't cock up like Bastine's did." The other nods his agreement, tearing off another hunk of stale bread with his teeth and chewing noisily, like a cow and her cud.

"Good luck!" Joanna calls to Luc as he prepares to shoot, leaning forward ever so slightly so that she may see all the clearer. One hopes no cleavage is more visible for that pose. Probably not.

Further down the field the Count De Gallerneault has emerged from the crowd to watch the archer of his Duchy. The archer he had with him is gone, replaced by another young woman, though barely old enough to be called such. She is giggling and blushing as he speaks to her. Melisse glances in his direction for only a moment before forcing herself to focus on the archer instead of the Count. She sits up straighter and even finds a smile to help cheer on the man who shoots for her Duchess.

The Chaveaux contestant flashes a grin at the Bastine man and makes a pointed comment about the weakness of his weapon. Most of the Bastine yeomen cheer at this, clapping their failed entrant on the shoulder. Luc wanders toward the line with good cheer, settling himself into position to fire his three shots. Each are launched in smooth succession, flying in graceful arcs, each of the three placing better than the Bastine's, one very well landed indeed though off from center by perhaps a couple of fingers' widths.

Armand, too leans forward as the de Chaveaux archer takes his place at the line, and though he doesn't call out, he watches the forester intently, head whipping toward the target with each shot. As one finds its way to center he does speak, pitching his voice and calling, "Well done, good yeoman!"

The crowd breaks into noisy approval for the shots of the Chaveaux archer. Truth be told, he really wouldn't even have need to fare as well as he did, for his Duchess is well-loved for providing these festivities. That he does so well only makes them shout with glee.

Joanna would have cheered had the man missed each time, but as he has done fairly well, she can with enthusiasm and sincerity stand and applaud her champion, taking one of the lilies - the flowers, mind, not the decorations - that have been placed in her box and tosses the blossom toward Luc. "Very well done indeed!"

The archer from County Gallerneault watches as the others shoot, leaning slightly on his bow, hazel eyes watching the form and aim of the men who shoot before him. His lips are worried, causing them to tint pink as he mentally has to remind himself to breathe. If he noticed the Duchess' wave, surely it couldn't be for him.

Melisse applauds as well, but not as loudly as her female companion, who has taken an obvious liking to the Chaveaux archer. She even waves to the man, an action that makes Melisse laugh even as she is instructing the woman to put her hand down. The handmaid gets out a 'Good show!' before blushing in embarrassment at something Melisse whispers to her.

The Snake of Mirvil applauds, as every other noble, no softer than he would for Racialle or the other duchies. He turns into his cousin, and has a quiet conversation with him, after he has given the archer his due. It seems, that except for their Duke, those of Mirvil have remained demure, and rather stoic throughout the event. Of course, that may account for the lack of gentler ladies in their midst.

Armand glances over at the call from the young female companion, noticing for the first time the woman he met in the cathedral courtyard several weeks ago. Though he remains seated, Armand offers a bow from his chair with a friendly toss of his hand in greeting.

Cyon watches the demonstration by the man from Chaveaux and gives brief applause in appreciation. He leans forward to comment to Durand -- not too loudly, but his voice carries well. "Shoots well. I think he would have hit the button on them all, if he had not had one eye pointed to his Duchess the entire round."

One of the urchins resigns himself to sullen, slow applause, but the other can't even do that much. "Lucky shot," he mumbles, before swallowing his bite of bread. The pair shrug at each other, waiting practically up on tiptoe for the next man to be called.

In the intervening moments, the entrants from the other duchies and the city guard take their own turns. The man from Chalain, whose hands shook so badly, does remarkably well. Indeed, with a bow in his hands he is solid as the very stones of the earth. His best shot, though, tickles the feathers of the Chaveaux's, but is alas a hair's width farther from the center. He bears no small amount of pride, however, bowing to the Duchess and the assembled nobles with calm dignity.

Joanna beams at this last archer, too, congratulating him on his performance much as she has for others, equitably to all. Her sliver of enthusiasm was reserved for her own champion but, in truth, that is to be expected. She is comfortable, entirely, and cheerful as well.

Armand seems to be the only man in attendance that doesn't receive a glare of disgust from the Countess. Melisse nods her head to him, but doesn't lift her hand to wave. She smiles, but it is nothing beyond polite. That is, until she once again notices the Count and some young golden-haired girl. She chews hard on her lip to keep from frowning again and offers Armand the wave she hadn't give before. She even smiles a bit brighter.

The crowd shows its equanimity by heaping loud doses of verbal praise on each of the contestants, particularly the man from Chalain. Shouts of "Good Yeoman!" and "Avanne!" can be heard as the citizens of Gesarien show their pride in their countrymen.

The next herald to step forward calls out, "Next to show prowess in silvan puissance will be the representative of Gallerneault!" His fellow heralds look suitably impressed with the use of such a flowery word, some even darting looks green with envy at their brother.

A dark haired woman joins the nobles in the pavilion, seating herself directly behind Armand. She bears a particularly amused -- some might even say devious -- smile on her pale, attractive features and waits only a moment before she leans forward to whisper something into the Chaveaux lord's ear.

Too occupied with waving to the Gallerneault representative, Joanna is blissfully ignorant of this newly arrived woman that has placed herself behind Armand. Or so it would appear.

The Count de Gallerneault quickly forgets the lovely little thing at his side and turns a murderous eye on Tibault. He looks none to pleased at this commoner's presence and even 'gifts' his wife - though she isn't looking - with the same glare. The Count crosses his arms over his chest watches the archer with a smug smirk on his face. He obviously expects Tibault to fail miserably and is just waiting to rejoice in his failure.

Armand, if he has even noticed the cause of the wave, shows no sign of such recognition, or of an impatience with the lateness of the wave. It even seems that the lord is about to mouth something to the countess before the dark haired woman grabs his attention. At her whisper, his head tilts back in laughter, copper hair brushing his shoulders and his mirth can be heard by all nearby. Turning to take and then press the hand of the dark haired woman, he brushes his lips over the back of her hand and then cranes his neck to return a soft whisper.

He recognized enough of the words to know it's him. With another deep breath, Tibault steps to the line. Good shots before him...and the target is getting crowded by shafts. Nocking the arrow, he lifts the bow, aims and shoots. The first arrow is off-line...it hits the target, but nowhere near the center. Taking a moment to compose himself, the second arrow is drawn, aimed and fired. This one flies far more true, hitting the center just above the Chaveaux arrow. The third also hits the center, but closer to the edge, nearly bordering on the next ring.

Well, even if everyone else is casting murderous glares at the common-bred boy Tibault, two scruffy youths are nearly yelling themselves sick to cheer him on. The two can hardly be understood, they're so shouting so loudly and so fast, one atop the other. Everything from encouragement to amusingly crude slander against the other champions is covered. Those nearby can get the gist of what's being said. Red-faced and jostled by the annoyed people standing about them, the two boys begin chanting, "Tibault! Tibault!" Their enthusiasm prevents them from really seeing what has actually happened.

"Tibault," Joanna calls, remembering his name from their abbreviated encounter (and perhaps discourse with the Countess?), and waves to him as she leans forward once more, "good showing indeed! Avanne is blessed with grand archers from across her length and breadth, from Chaveaux to Mirvil to Bastine and back again!"

Melisse cheers on her archer with an abundance of enthusiasm which surprises most of those around her. Her voice grows louder as she glances over to see her husband, the Count, fuming in disgust and likely swearing up a storm as he stalks off back into the crowd. Melisse's who demeanor has changed, she is on her feet, cheering for Tibault and encouraging those with her to do the same.

The crowd, too, growing fiercer every minute in the affection they have for their class, stomp and hoot animatedly at the performance of Tibault. Shouts of, "Gallerneault!" fill the stands as the man proves that he will most likely make it to the final round.

Tibault turns at his name, grinning at the boys before it is called again. Spots of color appear on his cheeks as the Duchess calls to him,, but he offers a refined bow in acknowledgement before stepping aside. Glancing back at the Countess and seeing her rally the stands about her, he flashes a grin before pulling the brim of his hat a little lower about his eyes.

The next herald who arrives, not to be outdone by his brother shouts, "Next to grace the azure sky with the blissful arc of the feathered shaft, and though the last, certainly not the least in place is the Captain from Mirvil!"

Luc, the Chaveaux entrant, comes forward to give Tibault a hearty clap no the shoulder. "Well done, my boy," he says and nods his head toward the other Chaveaux men, inviting him to join them.

Joanna seems to applaud a bit more enthusiastically for the Mirvil archer. Politic? Maybe. Sarcastic? That, too, is a possibility.

Once the boys have settled down a bit, both too winded to actually speak, they exchange low mutters. "Think he'll get any further?" "If he does, I'll take a bath." At the calling of the Captain from Mirvil, the urchins cup their hands to their mouths to amplify the snake-like hissing of their disapproval.

Just as quickly as she had jumped to her feet, so does the Countess de Gallerneault take her seat again as the Mirvil archer steps forward. She appears the opposite of her Duchess. She smiles slightly and claps for the man, but her enthusiasm for the sport seems entirely depleted. Elsewhere in the crowd the Count is seen yelling at some poor boy who approaches him. Seems the youth is trying to collect some money the Count owes on a bet but the angry man appears in no mood to pay up. He was certain his wife's little project would fail miserably.

Prada steps forward, as his name is called, privately glad to be last in this contest. Turning to face the noble box, he first gives a deep and respectful bow to the Duchess, followed by another Avannais salute to his leigelord. Finally, he performs the Sun sign, before turning to the bales of hay in the distance. He takes a second to prepare himself, now that the moment is upon him. Distancing himself from the cheers of the crowd, Prada draws his bow, and fires three shots, in succession. Only the briefest of pauses to hear the *thuck* of his arrow hitting the target, before he releases his next shot. The accounting bears to be exactly the same as the archer from Chaveaux, two shots on the center mass, the third sidling along...a few fingers-breadth away, matching up to the third Chaveauxan arrow. The archer's lip twists, obviously thinking that he should have outperformed his enemy, but he turns to salute Durand once more.

It's a good thing he's a sturdy commoner, or the slap on the shoulder might have sent him sprawling. "Thank you, sir...and you." At the nod, Tibault hesitates but then moves to join the other Chaveaux men. If his chest could swell more with pride, he might just burst.

"Excellent shooting, sir!" Joanna compliments on this most recent offering, smiling in what seems to be an earnest manner. She applauds and, as before, offers a lily to Prada as a form of congratulations for his excellence.

The crowd, happy just to have occasion to be happy, cheers heartily the shots of Prada, calling out thinks such as "The serpent strikes true!" and "Mirvil!". As the noise crests and then begins to fade, the trumpeters sound their brassy call once more and the chief herald stride to the center of the lists. "Valour! Vision! And truly, Victory to all who competed. You each have made worthy the name of the Duchess whose largess allows these feats of silvan glory! The final three contestants, in the order that they will shoot, are Prada of Mirvil, Luc of Chaveaux and Tibault of Gallerneault!" The crowd goes wild.

Cyon rises from his seat and applauds Prada's efforts. "Well done, Captain." The Count's voice easily carries.

As the herald speaks, a fresh target is brought out to replace the old and Prada is once more called to the line.

The Bastine archers cheer as much as any in the crowd. Whether or not their man places in the finals seems irrelevant. They're bound to enjoy themselves regardless.

Melisse cheers again when her contestant's name is announced. She leans over and listens to something one of her guards says and she nods in agreement to whatever it was. "Yes, a grand surprise, is it not? We should take in more of the downtrodden I think," she says, laughing.

Durand stands with his cousin, and nods towards his contestant, giving him just respect for his efforts. And, in return, Prada once more returns to the hay bales, after giving the trio of bows to Joanna, Durand, and Orien. His motions are exactly as before, taking a breath, waiting, then firing his one lone arrow at the target. The arrow thucks into the center, about halfway between true center and the center's edge. The look of disappointment on Prada's face is evident from the stands, but his Duke continues his heavy applauding, proud of his Captain.

That wouldn't be a satisfied smirk on the face of Luc of Chaveaux, would it? Surely not, being such a pleasant, magnanimous fellow. He -does- applaud, as is polite in such a situation.

It may not be dead center, but it looks close enough to the crowd! The go wild with applause for the fine showing by Prada. Much moreso than the first preliminary round, a hush falls upon the crowd as Luc of Chaveaux is called to take his place.

Tibault also applauds, his bow tucked into the elbow of one hand, freeing them to clap. Glancing to Luc, ruddy brows draw down slightly at his expression, but then return to the targets, awaiting his turn.

Cyon seems to have winced slightly even before Prada's arrow had reached the mark, as though he saw it was slightly off, but he recovers quickly and continues to applaud alongside Durand.

Melisse applauds politely, as is expected of anyone watching the tournament. She doesn't shout or cheer or otherwise behave as she had for her own man, but she at least shows some appreciation for the skills on display.

Joanna seems to be endeavoring to look supportive of everyone; yes, even she cheers Prada and his fine showing.

Armand, for his part, tries to keep up the facade of polite respect for the shots of the archer from Mirvil. He keeps being distracted, however, by the presence of the dark-haired woman behind him. And though she says nothing further to disrupt the tournament as yet, Armand keeps turning to flash a brilliant smile or to make an idle comment on the skill of the contestants.

And so it's Luc's turn to prove his -- and by extension his duchy's -- superiority to the Mirvil. He steps to the line and gathers himself with a few long deep breaths. With a smooth motion, he draws and fires the first shaft, which sinks into the target... well, not particularly well, worse than Prada's farthest. The second and third are similarly fired, each near to but farther off than the Mirvil man's. Perhaps the god and goddess frown on self-satisfied smugness.

Applauding Luc's shots as well, Tibault waits a moment after he has cleared the area before he steps to it. Once more he checks the air by licking two fingers. His hat is pulled low to block any glare from the sun and he nocks his bow...waiting.

"I'm surprised he hit the target at all, with his head held that high." Is Cyon's comment to Durand as he brings his hands together to applaud the man's efforts.

"This means you've gotta take a bath now," the one urchin points out to his friend, grinning like a maniac. The other, looking just slightly apprehensive of such a prospect, quickly retorts, "No, it doesn't! I only have to take one if he actually wins this!" Snorting, the first kid turns back to the field of archers and roughly shouts, "Come on, Tibault! Pretend you're aiming for Gaillard's head here! You'll hit for sure!" The urchin, thus dubbed Gaillard, roughly punches his friend in the arm. "How about I nail your head on the target. Not even Bastine's man could miss that swollen lump." The boys immediately set to scuffling with each other, which takes their attention away from the competition for a few moments.

Master Gaillard, the Duchess of Chaveaux's longtime advisor and tutor, leans forward to look, just look in the direction of the urchins.

The expectant hush of the crowd ends as the third and final shaft is shot from Luc's bow. Murmurs of disappointment can be heard, but on the whole, no one is willing to let such a fine yeoman down and calls of "Well shot!" and "Chaveaux!" fill the air. The jester of pluck yew fame is even heard to comment, "Had Duke Mirvil's likeness been painted upon the bales as becomes his complexion, the shots should have flown true!"

The herald steps forward yet again and indicates that Tibault of Gallerneault should take his place.

Even though they are all waiting for Tibault to shoot the Gallerneault contingent groans as one at Luc's shots. Melisse joins in, looking upset at the man's display, but applauds him anyway and encourages others to do the same. "Well shot!" can bee heard from some of the Gallerneault men and even though she cheers him, the handmaid of the Countess looks near tears.

Joanna applauds again, giving Luc a smile and wave that indicates her pleasure at his performance and presence. She seems disinclined to any expression but the most charming of smiles today.

Durand keeps up pretenses, applauding as loudly as he has for anyone so far in the tournament. After all, Tibault is from Chaveaux, and if he acts high and mighty, Orien will strike him down as he has struck down Luc. The comment about his head being on the target is ignored, magnanimously. Although, it is certain to be spoken about in taverns across the city proper. He turns towards Cyon, and says softly, "Remind me to speak to Prada, once this tournament is over."

"It's a bird..." can be heard, muttered almost under his breath as Tibault raises the bow and arrow to shoot. After only a moment of stillness, it is loosed, flying true towards the center of the target. It isn't dead center either, but it is closer than Prada's by about a finger's width. The second and third arrows fly in quick succession...the boy has switched to 'hunting' mode. The target is the bird...or rabbit...or deer he must hit or there will be no meat for supper. It hasn't been that long since he's known that feeling. A fourth arrow is almost pulled out, but he manages to blink out of his self-induced trance. None of the arrows are dead center, but they are clustered closely around it in a tight triangle. One above, two on either side.

Even greater anticipatory silence falls over the crowd as the third and final archer takes his place on the line and shoots. So complete is the lack of noise that each arrow can be heard whistling through the air by those close to the lists. As the last strikes true, the multitude erupts with fantastically explosive cheering. Rumors even start to rush through the crowd that this Tibault is the bastard son of some foreign king! No, no, others claim, he is but a poor orphan taken in by Gallerneault. Still others swear that he is a knight errant, and will show even more bravely upon the lists in two days time.

The two grand marshals of the tournament march out from the southern end of the lists and bow respectfully to Tibault, offering to escort him before Duchess Joanna to receive his prize.

Even the urchins are silent, holding still in a most uncomfortably awkward pose with their elbows in each others ribs and fistfuls of hair. Seeing how close the common boy's arrows have come to the center, their eyes widen with sheer shock. "By Uxa's left tit," one mumbles, "he did it." Like everyone else around them, they start screaming, whooping and hollering as loudly as they can possibly manage.

The guard holding the silvered baldric and hunting horn stuffed with coins approaches Joanna's seat and bows before offering her the prize to be bestowed.

Again the Countess de Gallerneault is on her feet, cheering wildly, as is everyone around her. Guards are already discussing who gets to buy him drinks at the local inn tonight while a couple others are joking about how much money they can pool together to buy him some 'company' for the night. The handmaid has forgotten her sorrow over Luc and is cheering loudly for the commoner who has won the day. "Well shot Tibault!" Melisse yells out with a wave to the youth as he passes by.

The Duke of Bastine is certainly one to enjoy a good and unexpected story, and so he rises to his feet (not without some effort) and joins in the thunderous applause for the boy. At least until he once again gets hungry, which will occupy his hands with other matters.

Joanna stands, beaming broadly, genuinely delighted for this young man who has done so very well in the pursuit of perfection with the bow. From the guard she takes the prizes, in one hand the baldric festooned with her duchy's lilies, in the other the silver-filled horn that, to any of common birth, must look to be a fortune. And her smile is radiance incarnate.

Tibault gives a start at the sudden applause, but his confusion only lasts a moment before he breaks out a bright smile and waves to everyone. Looking to the two escorts he gives a nod and moves with him before the Duchess' box. Once he is before her, he drops down into an elegant kneel, removing his hat, his head bowed properly before one so high in rank.

While most are cheering the youth's amazing ability there is one in the crowd who appears ready to murder someone. A couple of other nobles are laughing at the Count de Gallerneault who is fuming as he hands over a few coins. He again stalks off to dispose of some furious rage. One of the young women who had been at his side earlier runs up to him to try and calm him. He glares at her and then grabs her wrist, dragging her off with him, ignoring her sudden protests.

Durand takes to his feet, as well, standing tall for the man that has managed to defeat his champion. His hands smack together loudly, and his cries of, "Good show!" are as loud as anyone's. Never sweat defeat. He watches as Joanna bestows her rewards upon the commoner, as befits a lady of her station. His true feelings are hidden behind his mask of good sportsmanship. For his part, Prada stands at the sidelines of the presentation, awaiting for his chance to congratulate the one who has bested him. The Captain of Mirvil's Archers proudly stands, and when Tibault is finished with his Duchess, is planning on stepping forward and offering the Chaveaux commoner his hand.

"I am exceedingly proud, sir, to give you these prizes as tokens of your victory today." Joanna drapes the baldric about Tibault's chest, from his right shoulder to left hip, then offers him the coin-filled horn. "You bring honor upon Avanne, Chaveaux, and your stout heart this very day, and I am delighted to claim you victor in our archery competition." And then she leans forward and brushes her lips against Tibault's cheek, warm congratulations for a job well done.

Armand rises as his sister does, standing just behind her and slightly off to one side. A bright white smile is offered as extra thanks to the man as he receives Joanna's praise and some small measure of her wealth.

"Thank you, Your Grace..." is offered, surprisingly enough with only a slight accent that might betray his birth. Blushing once more...pink cheeks never did go well with red hair, he takes the filled horn and looks down at the ground after the light kiss. Should he say something else? He can't really think...it's all so overwhelming. "Your Grace...these winnings...are mine to keep?" He seems to want to be sure of this before even taking two steps towards the crowd.

Alain can't help but grin as he rises to honor the victor. From the boy that nearly got himself killed in Apriciele Square to this, quite a rise in a short time. He applauds cheerfully.

Nodding, Joanna assures him, "Indeed they are, for you have earned them well. Now turn toward those who would join me in offering these congratulations which, like your prizes, you have so richly earned."

Melisse is still on her feet, though the cheering has died down considerably. Her eyes are on her young charge, half waiting for him to make a mistake somewhere. So far, so good. She is completely oblivious to her husband's behavior or his whereabouts, nor does she seem to care. Not once does she look around, searching for the Count.

Tibault does as he is bid, turning where the Duchess says he should. But his hazel eyes flicker to the stand of commoners, the heavy horn shifted slightly in his arms.

As Tibault steps before the crowd, they rise as one great swelling wave and the sounds of praise they pour upon him are nearly deafening. Roses, lilies and even a few more coins fall from the direction of the nobles' seats, while wildflowers, daisies and daffodils rain down from those of more base birth. A few sweets are even strewn upon the ground and not fewer than twenty handkerchiefs from lower born women who wish the young archer might wear a token of their favor in imitation of the ladies of the day.

What with all of their screaming and exuberance, the urchins have managed to push their way to the forefront of the crowds. Gaillard the Urchin and his companion have their hands cupped about their mouths, for the nobles to better hear their incoherent strings of shouting. A merchant standing near to them narrows his eyes slightly as he applauds, looking as if he might like to kick one of the rowdy boys square in the rump and send him flying.

Seeing that Tibault is suddenly swamped with well-wishers, Melisse decides to speak with him later. She gives instructions to the guards, leaving two behind to watch after the boy, and the rest of the Gallerneault entourage begins making they way out of the tournament grounds and back to their house in the city.

Stringing the bow across his shoulders, very much like the baldric, he manages to grab a handful of the flowers and a few of the handkerchiefs before moving towards the commoner's stand. A handful of coins are taken out and pocketed before the horn is drawn back as if to throw into the stands. But it isn't the horn that is tossed, for that is stopped last minute. But the coins keep going, glittering in the sunlight like giant, silver raindrops. Now he'll greet the crowd.

Durand takes this time to slip away from the crowds, taking with him only his cousin and a few guards. They are seen speaking rather quietly, talking in gestures and soft words, should any bother to look for him. After all, this is just the beginning of the tournament, and even more 'festivities' will be had by all.

It's raining. No, it isn't. Yes, it is. Such are the thoughts that run through Gaillard the Urchin's head before it suddenly dawns on him what Tibault's just done. Quick as only urchins can be when money-grubbing is involved, the two boys dart forward to collect as many of the silver coins as they possibly can and stuff them into their pockets. They aren't alone. The look the two shoot the common boy victor is one that promises they'll catch up to him later, and likely with a lot of wine as a present.