The Joust

What is it about the joust that makes it singularly romantic? Perhaps it is the blend of love and violence that finds its culmination in the art of chivalry. Perhaps it is the deeds of valour the knights perform not only for themselves and their leigelords but for the ladies who hold their hearts. In any event, that spirit of romance has swept through Gesarien and brought the largest and most eager crowd yet for this most popular of events. As it is also the final day of the tournament, the crowd is particularly wild with abandon. Noble, merchant, commoner, all crowd for space in area around the lists and not a few fights break out in the process. Most fights in the common area are solved by men at arms and the city guard with a well placed spear shaft or cudgel, while the nobility are assisted by the heralds and martials of the tournament. The jester of 'pluck yew' fame, gallops around the stands on a stick horse, wielding a large sausage with which he attempts to pierce young women, shouting parodies of chivalric mottos.

It is a beautiful day thanks to the symbol of the fiery god rising high in the sky. A perfect breeze blows enough to keep the crowd cool and show the colorful pennants and plumes of the knights to their fullest advantage. Joanna's canopied box has seen a make-over in the night...normally decorated with the lilies of her house, the area is now also set with bright red hearts and roses. The single young ladies of the noble class have all gathered there to provide a convenient group from which the Queen of Love and Beauty will be selected in the day's event.

Armand de Chaveaux, who in the group melee wore the dullest of armor has undergone a most romantic transformation in the night. Though he rides the same chocolate charger, he now wears mail of polished to high silvery sheen, breastplate lacquered deep blue and emblazoned with the white lily of Chaveaux. More spectacularly, he wears a cloak made entirely of white lilies woven together that falls from his shoulders, down his back and astride the rump of his horse, nearly to its plaited tail. Like all the knights who enter the lists, he gets a gasp of appreciation and not a few ladies sigh to see so available a young lord and knight in such ostentatious finery. Spurring his charger with a valiant kick, he makes a complete circle around the crowd waving and smiling, then retires to the southern end of the lists.

Although absent from the previous day's festivities, the Duke of Bastine comes to the tournament grounds on this day in good health and good cheer, putting to rest rumors that he might have finally suffered the ailments common to one of his sheer size and lifestyle. He and his ducal guard carve out a wide path to the pavilion of the nobility. Before finding his seat, he turns to address one man, clearly the entrant from Bastine on this day. "Complete incompetence in archery is one thing, but if you follow the example of that dolt in today's competition, I'll have you gelded," he says with his usual cheerful aplomb. "Now, go knock some knights off their horses, Sir Volair." He claps the man on the shoulder, who laughs and bows floridly, while Lourein finds his way to his seat.

There have been rumors in the city since last night that the Count de Gallerneault was seen leaving the city, taking a large group of knights and women with him. Some claim his wife threw him out of the city manor while most are certain that the Count left on his own decision. Some even say they heard from their friend's sister's handmaid's brother's wife who is friends with a servant in the Gallerneault household that the Count was disgusted by the behavior of the two brothers in the melee and embarrassed that some commoner street rat was representing the silver gryphon of his County. In any event, there is no sign of him as the Gallerneault contingent arrives.

No matter what the truth of the rumors might be, the Count's leaving seems to be agreeing with his wife. Melisse appears to be in fine spirits this day, dressed in a stunning silk gown of pale blue. Even her hairstyle is not so severe as is usually the case and she's escorting a young knight to the lists. Raynald, the knight in question, appears rather young and the word is he is one of the few who stayed behind after the Count departed. He blushes at something the Countess says and goes an even darker shade as she ties her handkerchief around his arm.

Sharp yelling and insults follow the two urchin boys wherever they go, for in their attempt to get to the forefront of the crowd where the good seats are, they've resorted to nudging with sharp elbows. "Guillard," one boy comments to his chum as he gets jostled to one side, "at this rate, we're never gonna see anything. What're we gonna do?" And Guillard, who looks as if he might have had a bath in the past couple of days, rakes his fingers through his wild shock of black hair and peers about. "Any means necessary, Ristoro," he replies. The urchin named Ristoro sighs a bit to himself, and seizes an opportunity to advance once it presents itself. Small and quick, he darts down and hurriedly scuttles beneath a common woman's skirt and between her legs to get in front of her. Flashing a grin at her squawks of protest, he gestures at Guillard to hurry it up. Guillard makes his own advancement by tugging on the sleeve of a merchant, pointing in a vague direction and telling him excitedly, "I think that guy over there stole your purse!" The merchant wastes no time in stepping to one side, looking frantically down at his belted waist. Well, it hadn't been stolen, but Guillard did manage to slip by with hoarse obscenities tossed at his back.

With the clank of armor and the creak of leather, Drole rides in upon his horse. His undecorated armor giving no sign of who he might be, or to what lord he has pledged his service. He certainly has the martial manner about him, however. He stallion paws at the ground, as if impatient to begin the jousts. It is a marked contrast to the knight who rides him, who seems nearly to be at rest. He makes no banter with those who come near, speaking few words of any sort. Simply cutting a figure gleaming in the sunlight as he holds the reigns of his horse and looks upon the crowds through the closed visor of his helm. The gleam of his arm is slightly dulled by a faint covering of dust, an indication that he has traveled far to reach the joust before the festivities conclude. He has no entourage with him.

Throughout every tournament competition, from now until memory serves, the glorious knights of Mirvil have numbered more than any other single Duchy. When the fanfare trumpets the war cry of the warlike Duchy, many in the crowds hush, expectant to see the tide of knights in blue and silver swarm upon the field. As the reared stag banner appears over the heads of the crowd, a buzz of confusion grows, starting from the back, and moving into the noble galleries. The reason is quite evident...only one knight stands beneath the banner of Mirvil. The visor of his helmet may be dropped, but it is evident by his colors who will carry the honor of Mirvil this day. Upon his metal armor is the embossed figure of the Royal Duchy of Mirvil, a crowned stag, the personal icon of Duke Durand de Mirvil, Champion of the Border Wars, Defender of Gesarien's Northern Border, and Contender for the throne of Avanne. Other than his blazon, the Duke's armor is plain, utilitarian, and utterly warlike. The cry of astonishment is quite loud, and a cheer erupts from the commoners and noble ladies alike. Durand was quite the showy competitor, but he has not ridden a tilt since the death of his wife, three years ago. Perhaps he is leaving his mourning period? Perhaps, this widowed Duke will begin courting, again? Whatever his reasons, the Serpent stands quite still on his dark charger, before taking the field, alone.

As it becomes apparent that the crowd has reached maximum capacity, that the nobles are well and truly represented and that the knights competing in the day's tilts have made themselves known, the heralds stride out en masse onto the field. A flurry of wild and soaring trumpet notes accompany their arrival and a deafening hue and cry rises from the assembled masses, crashing over the meadow and drowning out even the multitude of trumpets. The roar continues unabated for nearly five full minutes until the lead herald, having milked the moment as much as he can steps forward and raises his hand high in the air. At the gesture, an astoundingly miraculous hush settles over the throng.

"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!" The lead heralds voice, amazingly well trained, carries throughout the meadow. "Welcome lords, ladies, man, woman and child to the final event of the Tournament of Lilies!" Another roar that takes a while to abate issues from the throats of the crowd before the herald can get their attention again. "On behalf of the Duchess Joanna of Chaveaux, let the Passage of Arms at Gesarien commence!" Another wild blare of trumpets and shouting.

Meanwhile, heralds approach the various knights. Armand, Borsard and Raynald are told to wait at the southern end of the lists, while Volair, Drole and Durand are sent to the northern.

Melisse leaves Raynald to the care of his squire and takes her place among the other nobles to await the jousting. There are more women in attendance with her than men, though that should not be too surprising. There are a couple of guards, as is customary, but no other men over the age of 14 join the Gallerneaults. Melisse's handmaid gives the young Raynald an exuberant wave and this time the Countess doesn't begrudge her the gesture. She is almost radiant this day, smiling to everyone she meets and not showing one ounce of her usual icy self.

A loud and steady stream of noise continues to flow from the crowds surrounding the lists as folk crane their necks to get better views of the chivalric knights on the field. Bets and made and wagers are placed, wine flows freely and among it all can be heard snatches of song from the troubadours wending their way through the crowds. Many point and whisper at the stark figure of the mysterious knight who shows no sigil of house or country, for anonymity has long been a companion of romance. Others, mostly the young women who favor youth, eye Raynald and Armand, sighing and waving their gossamer scarves in hopes that they will find a place in the young men's hearts. Still others, excited by rank and legends of past military prowess, cast gazes upon Borsand de Veraux and Durand de Mirvil, some even brazenly lowering their veils in the hopes of enchanting such powerful men.

Borsard de Veraux, attired in gleaming armor and bearing the diving falcon of Veraux on his shield, takes little or no notice of the woman trying to gain his attention. He is a soldier above all else, determined after the loss in yesterday's melee to make good on today's joust and therefore focused exclusively on the task at hand.

It takes a little while, but the two scruffy urchins manage to make their way to a suitable spot for watching. From his pocket, Guillard pulls out a stale loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese that probably wouldn't have those green, fuzzy spots if it was fresh. Ristoro reaches over to tear off a bite, but he doesn't get to chew for long before he's yelling and waving his hands about like a lunatic as he cheers at the herald's announcement. When it begins to ebb, Guillard asks around a mouthful of cheese, "Think someone will get impaled today?" "I sure hope so," Ristoro replies, scratching vigorously at his head. "Maybe someone will break his neck, or a leg. Imagine the snap of the bone!" He promptly begins to make sickening, squelching, crunchy noises, which causes Guillard to take a second, dubious look at the cheese in his hand.

A nod, and a grunt of assent from Drole. A twist of the reigns and a light kick of his heels to spur his horse toward the northern end. He swivels as much as his armor allows, taking in the roaring, fawning crowd without visible reaction. The women seeking do attract his attention, if only briefly as he rides past the stands and to his place, but it a sparse glance. Too cursory a thing to be thought he truly is seeking the favor of any of the women. Some close by even may hear a snort from within the knight's helmet, a snort of perhaps disgust at the spectacle of it all. He comes to a halt, his steed once more pawing at the ground in a fretful manner.

Unlike some of the more experienced men on the field, Raynald seems to adore the attention of the maidens, so much so that he is the last to turn his horse and head in the direction he is bid. He offers a wave to every squealing maid and flashes a dazzling smile while trying to look as if such 'battles' are common for him. Any that know of him know he has only participated in such tournaments twice before, never making that much of a showing. He slows the gait of his horse so that he might get a good look at the women waving for his attention. He appears much more interested in attracting the attention of the fairer sex this day than actually proving himself on the field.

Volair, the knight of Bastine, waves to the crowds as well, showing the typical good humor of most of those from his duchy, at least those under the Duke's direct reign. He leans down in the saddle to accept a ribbon from one particular woman, which he ties about his wrist. A formal nod of his head to her, and he is off to join his fellow knights.

Last and, one should hope, not least to arrive is the hostess du jour, the lissome Duchess of Chaveaux. This day graced with a gown in cloth of gold, so sumptuous that it seems part and parcel of the very sunshine about them, Joanna enters with Morena beside her, arm tucked through the elbow of her cousin. A warming spring zephyr tousles her hair, left to hang unfettered in a maidenly manner, as she mounts the steps leading to her box, and she greets those ladies about her by name if at all possible. Most of the women she has, of course, come to know far better in the most recent month or two.

Once she has accomplished the social niceties of the circle closest to her, Joanna casts her focus upon the lists below and the gathering of knights, waving a hand to them. "My lords, Sir Knights, bastions all of chivalry and honor that brings joy to our hearts," she calls, "I bid you welcome. In the name of all that is noble, all that is romantic in a day such as this, I implore you to show to us - most especially the array of ladies beside and behind me - the best of your skills and, more importantly, of your honor. The victor this day shall choose his Queen, and I am certain not one among you would shy away from that reward."

The Duke remains quiet and composed, as he moves his horse towards the northern end of the lists. His companions, the unknown horseman, and the knight from Bastine are given nods of acknowledgement, but no true words are exchanged. His eyes are reserved for Borsand, a man Durand has tilted with in the past, and has the strongest of respect. Occasionally, his helmet will face the crowds, his eyes hidden from view. As he pulls his horse up to stop, clumped together with Drole and Volair, a lone squire sees to his Lord's seat, making sure all buckles are buckled, and are stays are stayed. Some may voice their disappointment, the young Durand was known to be quite the showman in times of trouble. His most recent moniker of cold-blooded has only come since he was given his title. The man does not play the crowd as the boy once did, though he never had quite the flair of Armand de Chaveaux. Only at the end does he raise his visor, so his eyes can fall upon the crowd, looking through the various assembled nobility, not a hint of a smile upon his once jovial face.

There's a twinge of disgust in Ristoro, one that manifests itself once he gets a good look at the all the girls waving and cheering for the armored knights. He wrinkles his nose, and he repeats, "I really hope one of them breaks their necks. Look at all the girls falling over themselves for those poncy gits. I bet if I wore a suit of armor and had a nice horse, I could do as well too." Guillard snorts as he hears his friend's rant, and he nearly has to shout his reply to make himself heard, "You're an idiot! I can see it now. You'd smack one of them, and they'd look around all gormless-like and wonder if someone threw a pebble at them. Oh, and just where that awful smell came from." About to shoot back a retort, both boys fall silent when the Duchess of Chaveaux begins speaking. Guillard gets a rather goofy, silly grin on his face as he stares.

Listening to the Duchess, if for no other reason then simply for the reason that she deserves as much, Drole quiets his horse with a short, sharp rap to it's side. Durand and Borsand each receive a nod and an almost military salute, but silence reigns for the mysterious knight. He waits for the call to tilt at his opponent, patient as a rock. And seemingly as immobile.

At Joanna's words the crowd erupts once more in celebration and admiration of such gracious and becoming words. Many comment on her resemblance to the deceased queen, seeming thoughtful and pleased by such comparison. Two other knight of minor rank join the lists at the last minute, one joining either side. When it is clear that all the competitors are in place, the lead herald steps forward again and, once he has the attention of the masses, he announces the rules of the joust. At the end of that he further adds, "He who shall carry the day shall not only appoint the Queen of Love and Beauty who will reside over our closing feast, but shall also receive this prize charger!" At his word a truly magnificent white horse of massive and muscular proportions and a regal bearing fit for a king is paraded around the lists to the delight and cheers of the crowd. Once the parade has finished, the lead herald steps back and two of his assistants step forward to face each of the groups of knights. "Love of ladies! Splintering of lances! Stand forth gallant knights, fair eyes look upon your deeds!" Then, "Largess, Knights!" This of course, being the cue for each of the knights to throw a handful of coins at the heralds for their perfect duty to date in the tournament.

Armand, with a gallant wave to the crowd, and bowing to the heralds from atop his horse, reaches into a pouch at his side and sends a handful of silver coins flying through the air..each spinning and shining as it catches the light of the glorious noontime sun.

Raynald throws his coins with a flourish, making a grand show of a rather simple gesture. He smiles brightly as he gains a few more waves from the ladies. In the stands Melisse and her handmaid are speaking in whispers, though they rarely look at one another. The scene on the field seems to draw their attention. Perhaps they are secretly betting on which man will win the day or which of the maidens will be chosen as the Queen.

Sitting next to the Duchess, dressed almost as if the occasion were no more special than any other day, except for the obviously new and pretty ruby pendant around her neck, is the Marquessa de Monnier. Morena, unlike the single women surround her and the Duchess, is not atwitter with laughter and speculation. She does, however, seem extremely interested in the joust and those who will perform therein. When the Duchess has finished her greeting, she turns her gaze back to the men on horses. Her usually playful smile is replaced by a look of intent concentration. Though she doesn't seem to have a favorite amongst the riders, she certainly does give Raynald a look and smile, as he is the Countess's champion.

At the call from the herald, Volair tosses a handful of argents as his fellow knights have done, bowing toward the heralds in gratitude for their service. His mount begins to grow restless, matched by his own shifting in the saddle, ready for the battles to begin.

Taking a handful of coins, Drole tosses them in a wide arc toward the heralds. The little silver disks spinning and twisting in a flurry of motion nearly as chaotic as the cheers of the crowd. The gesture is simple though, simply a flick of the wrist and a swirl of his arm. His hand returns to his side, loosely holding the reigns.

Borsard, as is so common to the dour-faced de Veraux, halfheartedly flings a few coins if only so that he is not singled out too obviously as being needlessly stingy.

Joanna's chestnut irises are trained on the charger, who bears a striking resemblance to the mare on whom she is often seen in more formal circumstances, and she frowns fleetingly at Armand before laughing quietly, shaking her head, and calling below, "Good luck to you all, my lords!"

Surely, everyone is betting up something or other. Isn't this another way of showing that the coin of Avanne flows freely, from one man to another? Or woman, as the case may be. Durand reaches down into his pages hands, and draws forth a large pile of argents, which he pours heavily onto the dirt before him. NO need to disperse the winnings of the heralds. While not as wealthy as Bastine or Chaveaux, he does ensure the he matches them...coin for coin. Always the political monger.

Only one thing will ever tear the boys' eyes away from the fair countenance of the Duchess of Chaveaux, and that is money. Guillard idly picks his teeth as he watches the silver coins glittering in the light, and an impressed Ristoro whistles quietly. "Look at that charger, Guillard. I bet you could fetch a pretty penny selling it." Guillard can't help but nod his head, "Betcha Bellisande would kiss me if I had a horse like that. You know, she actually didn't throw a rock at me when I said hello to her yesterday." His grin shows a few crooked teeth, "She's starting to warm up, methinks."

As the coins are thrown the lead herald steps forward once more to announce the first joust...between the unnamed knight (Drole) and Volair of Bastine.

Restless no more, Volair takes his place at one end of the ground. Looking across at the mysterious man who will be his opponent, he raises his lance in a salute before he lowers his visor and prepares for the first tilt.

Drole takes his place at the start of the run, opposite Volair. He secures his own lance into place. Again, he sketches a simple salute toward his opponent. He makes ready, waiting for the signal to start his charge. Sitting astride his horse, he is all intensity. Focused on putting the tip of his lance as far through his opponent as possible.

Seeing the knights in place, the lead herald raises a bright red flag holding it aloft. The crowd goes quiet with anticipation and then....the red flag is dropped to the ground!

Volair spurs his steed into action, racing toward his opponent with lance set. Clods of earth fly from the horse's hooves amid the thunder of his charge. To the seasoned observer, it can be seen that he does not sit his horse perfectly balanced.

Joanna chews a bit on her lower lip, a nervous gesture, and murmurs something to Morena about Volair's imbalance as the pair of men and their destriers thunder toward each other.

Even though her champion is not yet competing, Melisse is cheering on the combatants equally; there is a love of the sport itself, perhaps that is why she appears in such a fine mood. Her handmaid clutches a small bouquet of flowers in her hands, waiting to throw a couple to the winning knight.

Armand watches from atop his horse, unconsciously holding his breath and going wide-eyed at the never ending excitement of two knights charging each other.

For his part, Durand is also quite intent on the action, though not from a hunger for excitement, or entrancement of the sport. He's merely watching for technique, looking for opportunities to exploit, weaknesses to pressure, strengths to counter.

Now that the jousting's actually begun, the urchin boys have begun cheering again. It's not exactly clear who they're rooting for, since they aren't calling out any names. Rather, Guillard and Ristoro are yelling things along the lines of: "Knock the bugger off his horse!" "Skewer the bastard!" "Let's see some blood!"

In contrast, Drole not only is seated perfectly in the saddle his balance is impeccable. The lance is held at an equally precise an angle. His steed thunders forward, chewing at the ground under its hooves. The speed of his motion is blistering, closing the distance until there is the loud crack of lance against shield. For his part, the unnamed night hardly moves, remaining in his saddle as he charges past his opponent. He doesn't even look to see the fate of his opponent until he ends his run and turns his steed around.

It is not even necessary to look. Volair's lance angles harmlessly off Drole's shield; by contrast, the Bastine knight is nearly launched from the saddle by the unerring blow, traveling in a short arc to land with a raucous clatter of armor on the churned ground. He lies motionless, though whether dead, unconscious or simply unable to move is uncertain.

The Duke of Bastine puts on a smile, though his utter lack of comment at the plain incompetence of his knight speaks volumes about his displeasure. Perhaps the man will be gelded after all. Assuming he lives.

The crowd rises as one everyone jumping to their feet to get a better view of the clash of the knights on the field. Holding a collective breath for a span of only seconds, the air of thousands of lungs are expelled in a deafening cheer as Volair is sent clattering to the ground. Loud hoots and calls are made to cheer the valour of the unknown knight. Some ladies, perhaps pretending to be unnerved as befits their fragile state at the violence, swoon.

Joanna rises and leans forward and over to peer at Volair, fretfully. "Well done, Sir Knight!" she calls to the victor, though she, like others, looks worriedly at the fallen Volair. Even if he's of Mirvil.

Remaining astride his steed, the unnamed knight looks at the vanquished foe, his head tilted forward. There is a hint of disgust in his posture, at so easy a victory. His shield his hardly scratched. He raises his head to receive the cheers as his due, waiting for the various squires to inspect the now flattened knight for signs of continued life.

Melisse jumps to her feet with the rest of the crowd, but her cheers have silenced and she now holds her hands to her mouth as the Bastine knight lays on the ground. The handmaid, overly excited just to be here, throws a couple of flowers to the victorious Drole. "Well fought!" she cries as she tosses another flower.

Fortunately, he's not. The fallen knight of Bastine would have been flogged by his liegelord for that abysmal failure. Durand, of course, doesn't say that out loud. His eyes are purely for Drole, and that excellent show of horsemanship and jousting. In his mind, he runs through the knights that he has seen, trying to place the victor's style with that of someone he has watched before. Coming up with nothing, the Duke merely gives Drole a salute for his masterful style and showing.

Those skilled in the healing arts come rushing onto the field along with the field marshals to place the fallen knight on a litter and bear him off. Speculation rips wildly through the crowd as to the man's fate, the excitement at the possibility of death becoming a palpable presence on the field.

While the vanquished knight is carried away, the heralds call the next contestants, Borsard and Raynald.

If he's dead, then that'd be all the better. Such excitement! Guillard and Ristoro are up on their feet, jumping and yelling to cheer for this mysterious knight. "Did you see him?" Ristoro excitedly chirps. "I swear, I think I heard something snap! He ain't moving either!" "Well," Guillard replies, "if he ain't dead, he'll wish he was. He sucked!"

With his lance and shield ready, Raynald at least looks the part of a successful knight. His horse paws nervously at the ground, sending up small puffs of dust around its hooves, but Raynald appears calm and confident. He looks to the stands and finds his Countess, to who he bows ,or as much as one can, seated on a horse and dressed in armor. He looks toward the herald, awaiting the drop of the flag.

"I should enlist that young man as a ducal ambassador," Joanna muses to her cousin as she settles on the bench again, eyes twinkling now that the knight has been carried away. "I wonder who this other one may be, the victor." As the next pair is summoned to the lists, the duchess smiles thinly and shoots a look over her shoulder at Melisse and her lady in waiting. She knew the two were there, even if they arrived separately.

Drole moves away from the run, managing to catch one of the flowers thrown to him in a gauntleted hand. He tucks it through the ring holding his crimson cloak about his armor. He makes a slight bow to Joanna and a few others who cheer him onward, but no true displays of showmanship. No, just simple acknowledgement of the adulation given him.

Borsard takes his place at the end of the ground, settling his massive mount into place. He is, without question, massive himself, taller and broader than nearly any other knight in the tournament. He studies Raynald with a hint of disdain, but he salutes his opponent as is proper before he lowers his visor.

The red flag shows brightly against the azure sky as the lead herald once again lifts it on high. Then, accompanied by the awed silence of the spectators, it hits the dust much more gracefully than the knight of Bastine.

Morena watches the man being taken from the field as she listens to her cousin. "It seems that Bastine is lucky in being rich," she murmurs. "For if that man was his best, he certainly lacks in any kind of army." That's Morena, always thinking politically. But she smiles as her gaze returns to the stranger who has bested him. "I would definitely be interested in knowing who he is." S Then her interest turns to the next pair.

Raynald lowers his lance and at the drop of the flag he spurs his horse onward. He becomes engulfed in the thunder of the horse's hooves and the roar of the crowd as he rushes toward his opponent. his polished armor gleams brightly in the morning sun, though the rising dust quickly dulls the sheen.

At the drop of the flag, Borsard bursts forth, lance and shield set. In contrast to the de Bastine, this man is experienced and not in the least incompetent. As the two knights meet, Borsard's lance strikes at the edge of the younger man's shield, off-center but still a solid blow. The shock of the contact turns Raynald's lance aside, missing the de Veraux completely.

A cheer rises from the crowd at the blow and the lead herald quickly picks back up the flag, looking to either side of the lists to make sure the combatants are ready for their second pass. When they are, he lets it fly once more to the ground of the meadow.

"Do something for me for once, Borsard," Joanna breathes, just barely audible, fingers clenching quite tightly about her kerchief. And she cheers with the others, half-rising, when the first pass seems to favor the de Veraux.

There is disappointment from the Gallerneault seats, but Melisse waves them off. "It is only the first pass," she says to reassure them with a generous smile for those with her.

Alain, seated next to Joanna, remains more or less silent, though he applauds out of politeness at the very least for a better show than the Bastine put on against his mysterious foe.

Raynald appears shocked at the assault once he regains his balance and keeps himself in his saddle. Quickly he turns his horse and prepares for the next charge. He checks his shield and adjusts the grip on his lance. Cheers and calls from the ladies who encourage him are now ignored.

As Borsard pulls up at the end of the field, he turns with some surprise that the boy remained astride his moment. An inclination of his head is given for his opponent's skill. Or luck. Setting himself once again, he launches forth at the dropping of the flag.

Raynald and his mount charge forward toward the oncoming Borsard. The younger knight sits square in his saddle, though rises up slightly as he and Borsard come into range of each other. Perhaps there is still luck to be had in this young knight for this time he evades the lance of the older knight and his makes contact. It is little more than a glancing blow against Borsard's shoulder, but it is enough to restore confidence in the youth. He reaches the end of the field and thrusts his lance into the air and accepts the cheers that rise to meet him. So large an ego for so small a victory.

Smiling, Joanna says loudly toward the field, "You do Chaveaux honor, good Sir Knights! You make me very proud!" And, judging by her countenance, she seems to mean every word.

And cheers there are indeed. The crowd hoots and hollers, leaning forward collectively as the match looks to prove more even than they first though given the differences in size and military experience.

On the field, the lead herald collects the red flag for the third time and holding it aloft for the final pass, the allows the drama to build and the knight to get into place once more. And then, when they are ready....down it goes!

Melisse offers a small amount of applause for her champion, but her smile seems tight and false. "You would have thought he single-handedly taken down a Kuredin invasion," says a woman next to Melisse, a woman who does not appear too happy with Raynald's antics. Melisse, still clapping, nods her agreement.

Borsard reins in his mount with evident disgust, both at his inability to unseat the boy as well as the boy's antics. He sets himself for the third pass, his steed pawing at the ground. As the flag drops, before it even reaches the ground, the knight of Veraux is flying forth with almost reckless abandon, setting his lance for the Gallerneault. And strike it does, a nearly perfect blow that drives the young knight from his saddle, while Borsard barely moves with the shock.

Joanna is on her feet at once, looking fretfully at Raynald even as Borsard is slowing from the perfection of his victorious charge. "Well done, well done, Sir Borsard," is her congratulatory cheer to him, but she is plainly concerned for the younger and the dashing youth just unhorsed. She does, however, remember to toss a pair of lilies toward the winner, her token of congratulations.

Once again, the crowd leaps upward as eyes track the careening, metal-clad gentlemen across the field, the only sounds suddenly just the pounding of hoof on turf. Then, as the mountainous figure of Borsard de Veraux unseats the young and dashing Raynald a mighty cheer goes up. Calls of "Chaveaux!" for both noble combatants can be heard. And then of course, there are the young women in the stands who let out screams and heaving sighs of fright for the fate of poor Raynald. Many of those young ladies look like they plan on finding a way to tend his wounds later.

Raynald barely has time to react and it seems this time that luck has failed him. There is a scream from his horse coupled with the crash of armor as it hits the solid ground. Groans and cheers both fill the air around the field, but one sound stands out among them all. With the metallic crash of the armor is another, more sickening sound. A crack; the sound of a bone or bones breaking. Raynald lets out a strangled cry of frustration and pain as a small amount of blood trickles from his arm, staining the ground.

He still possess his old talent. Durand hasn't matched against Borsard in years, but obviously the Chaveaux noble has remained in shape and in practice. The bulky, heavy knight had trouble with the boy, but he finished him off, with little difficulty. The quiet Duke has not moved from his spot, staying close to the tilts, watching the action, judging everyone's talent.

Quitting the stands, Joanna herself moves with haste toward Raynald, ready with a kerchief to bind the young knight's wound and a smile to bolster his heart. "Be certain he is tended to well," she instructs the healers who are naturally a requisite presence during a pastime such as this.

Melisse is on her feet again, this time with a cry of pain, though she is not injured herself. Her champion lays injured and the favor she had tied around his arm is now stained with dirt and blood. "Orien protect him," she whispers, quickly making the sign of the sun before slowly sinking to her seat.

The night with no banner, nor any name watches impassively. A faint shake of his head seen with the younger knight's antics. A satisfied nod when the Chaveaux noble unseats his rival. All is right with the world. He watches for the next pair of riders.

Having just had enough time to see their charge from Bastine into the healer's tent, those who practice the medical arts rush back onto the field with the recently abandoned litter. As poor Raynald is placed upon it, the field marshals urge the Duchess back to the safety of her seat while the crowd murmurs its approval at her concern. Then, the heralds step forth and announce the next contestants.

Armand de Chaveaux gracefully removes his cloak of live lilies and hands it to a squire as another squire hands him shield and lance. Sitting confidently atop his chocolate steed despite his youth, the young lord waits for the signal, then charges one of the knights who was late entering the lists. The crowd hushes as the men hurtle toward each other, then with a loud crack they meet...both have hit their targets evenly. The both lances shatter in a rain of splinters and both young knights teeter atop their horses, arms flailing. Fortunately for Armand, he maintains his seat while the other knight loses the battle of balance and falls.

The crowd goes wild even as Durand and the other late comer are called to the lists.

The rush of the horses of the Duke of Mirvil and his opponent, a knight from the north, is much more dramatic. Both men show proper horsemanship, and show that they can use a lance, as on the first two passes, they both hit their opponents shields, shattering their lances in a clash of wood. The tension fills the field, as they prepare for their third tilt. The crowd silences, waiting for the herald to drop his flag, and both knights quiet ready mounts. Finally, the signal is given, and both men rush towards the other. Durand's strike is true, bashing upon the shield of his foe, but his opponent, through either guile or failure, lowers his lance at the last moment, scoring a deep gash along the flanks of Durand's steed. The animal goes to the dirt, with Durand above him, and they are all covered in a cloud of dust. A gasp is sounded by the crowd, while the knight from the north is disqualified for daring to strike a beast. When the dirt settles, Durand is laying face down upon the earth, his horse having thrown him to the floor. However, as his squire and the healers run to his side, Durand attempts to push himself up from the earth. With the assistance of men, the armored Duke stands tall, and waves towards the commoners to indicate his good health.

Frowning, Joanna leans toward a servant bearing her livery, murmuring to him some instruction. In answer, the young lad fetches a cup of wine that is hurried to Durand's side. She must be trying to be gracious...or she's thawing toward de Mirvil.

Or it's poisoned.

The field marshalls are immediately upon the scene and, after a quick conference and muttered words, the herald steps forth. The booing and hissing at the poor show of the northern knight only grows louder as the herald announces the man's disqualification from the tourney. A few pieces of rotten fruit even find their way toward the northerner. The Duke is told to find another horse as he will pass on...perhaps he can take the northern's which is now his by default. In the meantime, Borsard and Drole are called to contend.

With a grit of her teeth, Morena watches the match between the Duke and the late entrant. When she sees what happens to Durand's horse, she is out of her seat, for the first time during the match, glaring angrily at the other man. Whether he is from Mirvil or not, no one deserves to be unhorsed in such a manner, and no beast deserves that kind of treatment.

Again the Countess de Gallerneault is on her feet as another knight goes down, though this one is quite unexpected. Cries of 'Foul!' are heard from the crowd and while Melisse doesn't join them, she is showing some concern for the Duke of a rival Duchy. "A poor show to attack an animal," the Countess says to her handmaid who is again tossing a couple of flowers toward the fallen, but successful Duke. She obviously cares not from where he comes, only that he has won his round.

Borsard, out of character for him, has accepted a token from one of the ladies of the crowd, a scarlet strip of fabric that he ties about the end of his lance. As he takes his place, he salutes his opponent, settling himself in armor and atop his mount.

Taking his place, the unnamed knight readies his own lance. He pushes aside thoughts of the last northerner disqualified for his poor behavior and readies himself. One eye fixed on the red kerchief, waiting for the signal to go. His horse ready to charge. A small salute to Borsard, only that which is required to show due respect.

And down the red flag goes!

Spurring forward, Borsard takes aim for his opponent's shield. Leaning forward as the moment of contact approaches, he lands a solid blow to Drole's shield, wood exploding in an impressive show of splinters. In return, he too is rocked by a return blow, teetering in the saddle but not quite falling. Neither man falls, and they both reach the end of the field ready to take the second pass.

The crowd loves splintering lances and brave knights who keep their seats so valiantly...and their cheers and heaps of praise reflect it, even as the herald steps forward to raise the flag again.

Tossing aside the remnants of his lance, the unnamed knight takes another from the field marshals. He sets it in place and turns his charger back toward his opponent. When the red flag is released for the second, he spurs his steed forward in a headlong rush. Heels digging into his horse to urge more speed from it. Lance hits shield, and he manages to turn aside Borsard's lance even as his own connects squarely. Splintering from the steadfast opponent's resistance. But alas, the mysterious knight is victorious, for Borsard wavers and falls from the saddle. Not as spectacular as the first win, but a win nonetheless.

Borsard rises to his feet not long after he falls, waving a hand to indicate his health. As he gathers his wits, he turns toward his opponent and calls out, "Who are you? You ride like the God himself!" Which, of course, makes -him- look better as well, losing to a man of such prowess.

Joanna remains on her feet, hands resting on the railing of her party's box, just as much of the rest of the audience stands, excitement disallowing a more casual pose. She smiles humorlessly at Borsard's remark, but she peers pensively at this unnamed knight. "I wonder...." is all she says in reference to him, and that to herself.

"I am a knight who serves the god, and the throne." is the reply that Borsard receives. The voice is unrecognizable in the echoing, distance created by the sealed helmet. He sketches a bow in the saddle, or something that resembles it at least. He moves dutifully out of the way, awaiting to see who his opponent will be in the final joust.

More flowers fly from the crowds toward the unknown knight and Melisse's handmaid is happily joining in. "Careful Melora," Melisse warns. "You'll have none left for the victor if you toss them away now." Indeed, the handmaid holds only a half dozen or so flowers left in her hand.

Borsard, removing his helmet, does not look thrilled at the answer, but he bows graciously to the man nonetheless before retiring from the field.

Due to his unhorsing, Durand was away during this last tilt. One he would have been most interested to see. With his visor up, the look of stunned surprise to see that Borsard had been defeated is plain and obvious. Obvious enough that the crowd remarks upon it...until they see the state of Durand himself. His armor has been slightly knocked stray, the dust sticking to his once proud and gleaming banner. But, that isn't the biggest surprise. He sits astride the same beast that just took him to the ground, the animal standing proud, with its head up, ignoring the mar on its side. Some cry foul that Durand is putting his horse into more danger, but many see it as noble that he refuses to leave his most trusted mount. He carefully guides the animal to the lists, ready for the call of his rush against the Chaveaux lad.

The crowd, nearly horse from shouting, nonetheless send up a tremendous cry for the victory of the nameless knight who is quickly becoming the source of much gossip and romantic intrigue. As the field is cleared, Armand is called to face the Duke of Mirvil, however, and an expectant hush settles on the crowd. Ah, the great Rivalry. As the Duke of Mirvil makes his way out of the gates, however, a the silence is broken by a multitude of gasps! Durand is riding his wounded horse! Blood still dripping free from its wound, the animal looks skittish and angry, snorting and skittering sideways a moment. But then the flag is thrown and the two members of rival houses hurtle toward one another, armor glinting in the sun. Shortly before the two meet however, Durand's horse stumbles with the pain of its wound. And though the brave steed does not go down, the Duke stands no chance of hitting the mark. Seeing this, Armand quickly raises his lance and passes by without attempting to strike. Such chivalry receives a great cry from the masses and produces calls of "Honor!" and Chaveaux!"

"He must really love his steed," says one of the Gallerneault guards. "Perhaps that is why he has not yet taken a new wife?" suggests another as they laugh at their own jokes about the Duke. Melisse glances over her shoulder to the men. "Hold your tongues fool, there are maidens present who should not hear such filth."

Armand did no more than Morena would have assumed. And she claps just as loudly as any of the maidens in the box with her, though she does not raise her voice in cheers or calls. Instead, her gaze remains on the Duke and his wounded steed. And despite her obvious pride of Armand, there is no look of humor, or good cheer on her face. Something about this particular battle has riled her.

Joanna half turns and glares at the guards, men in her own faction no less. "I will have no such dishonor brought on Chaveaux by low, cheap insults such as that," she says sternly, "especially when my brother carries himself with such honor below." She *must* be warming to Durand.

For his troubles, and his honor, the Duke of Mirvil gives Armand his proper respect, a deep nod of the head, and lowering of the lance. That respect ends, however, when he turns and takes the opposite list. The crowd once again hushes, excitement at its prime. Who shall face the unbeatable nameless knight? The wounded Durand de Mirvil, or the youthful, but honorable Armand de Chaveaux? This is more than a simple tilt, more than a joust. It's a symbol for the political intrigue that faces the country of Avanne. The two enemies, treating each other honorable, tearing at each other 'til only one remains horsed. As the flag drops for the second run, the collective gasp of breath sways the trees. The men charge. And only one man /is/ left standing. As the lances clash, Armand's settles in on the Mirvil shield perfectly, but it is Durand's hit that sends the young boy end over end, landing loudly upon his back. The cheer from the nobles of Mirvil, settled into their box seats, are deafening.

The guards at least know enough to look embarrassed as their Countess and then their Duchess chastises them in public. They drop their heads and murmur what sounds like an apology, but as soon as the woman turn back to the jousting they are laughing quietly at each other. Another servant with another chalice is sent below for Armand along with Joanna's congratulations; Durand should still have nearby possession of his own goblet. The duchess seems pleased with her brother's performance, but she shows tension from the state of Durand's horse and from this unknown knight.

Armand watches as the knight looms larger and larger in the vents of his visor, he feels the impact of his lance on the man's shield and then the force of a blow that seems to shatter his very being and drives the breath from his lungs. There is a vision of sky, then the whirling colors of the crowd, then the sky again, then all goes dark. Medics rush to the field to start removing armor from the unmoving knight to get him into a litter as fast as possible. Fortunately, the speed with which they work seems to indicate that there is life to save still within the young man's body.

Melisse cannot help but gasp as yet another Chaveaux is unseated in a rather unfortunate fashion. She stays the hand of Melora who is prepared to throw more flowers, no matter who has won. "Save them for the final joust," Melisse suggests to the other woman as her eyes watch the healers carry off the Duchess' younger brother.

As Armand is carried from the field, the final two competitors are called to present themselves. Durand de Mirvil and the Unknown knight.

Readying himself for the charge against his opponent and the wounded steed, the nameless knight settles in once more. He waves away a field marshall offering a fresh lance. Leather creaks as he watches the red signal cloth for his chance to win a victory. Though none can see the face hidden by his helmet, there is a smile there beneath the sweat. His posture is one of confidence, expecting an easy victory.

The Duchess' only brother. Joanna's eyes fill with tears that she swiftly blinks away was she realizes that her brother's fall is more than a simple unhorsing. Yet, gripping tightly to the railing before her, she stays put as the marshals earlier wished of her and sends someone to ensure Armand is cared for, is well. Is alive.

Durand, ignoring the cries of luck and victory from the assembled nobles, leans over his horse, whispering, touching its side. His face is a grimace of distaste, at the animal, the wound, or the joust, who is to know? As he finishes his ride towards the list, he nods his head once more to the fallen Armand, given the boy his proper respect. He did well for his first time out, and Chaveaux should be proud of him. Is this an end to the Mirvil/Chaveaux feud? The whispers of the crowd to that effect are as common as the desire to know who the identity of this unnamed knight. After ensuring his mount's readiness, Durand takes a fresh lance, and stands ready for the flag, his horse remains unfaltering since his first pass with Armand.

With a quick crimson flash, the herald drops the flag and the crowd goes deathly quiet.

The red flag drops. The unknown knight charges forward, kicking his charger into action once more. And though the horse moves swiftly, it is not the same full-tilt, head long rush of the last joust. If asked later, he will say only that chivalry demanded he not push his steed to it's fullest against an injured opponent. As the two close in, the sound is heard. A might crash as both lances find their marks. Showers of splinters twirl like flower petals in a tempest. Durand remains seated on his horse, both mount and rider wavering from the blow. The unknown knight seems on the verge of maintaining his seat as well. He reaches for a grip on his saddle to steady himself. But to late, he falls backward from his still galloping horse, falling to the ground with a clatter. No good deed it seems, will go unpunished.

So it is done. Joanna sighs, eyes closing slowly in relief that no one has perished - no one yet, at least - and takes a drink of wine offered her before beckoning to Durand. "Well done, your Grace! De Mirvil stands victorious this day, triumphant! I salute you and congratulate you." She raises her cup toward the duke before adding, "Although, like many, I should wish to know who may be this worthy opponent you have so recently vanquished...and to know whom, your Grace, you would have crowned as Queen of Love and Beauty."

There are gasps from the crowd amongst the cheers from the Mirvil contingent and Melisse is one of the former. The excitement of the last joust is like a living being; it elicits cheers and groans, and pulls people to their feet. Melora stands as well, jumping up to get a better view and to see where she should throw her flowers, but she doesn't begin tossing them immediately. She looks to her lady first, to see if now is the time to do so. Melisse nods and Melora happily throws hers to the field.

The crowd erupts. The wave of sound, part jubilation for the victory, part astonishment at the defeat of the unknown knight, rolls over the meadow in a crush wave. Flowers of every kind are thrown along with handkerchiefs and other keepsakes from the women in the stands. A blaze of trumpets sound and the marshals enter the field with the prize...a horse that, by all means, will be needed by the Duke should he own horse suffer later for being made to perform while wounded. Leading both Duke and prize before the Duchess, the marshals step aside so that Joanna may present the greatest of prizes to her rival. The choice of which fair maiden shall be named the Queen of Love and Beauty. The unknown knight, too, is brought before the Duchess in response to her request for his identity, though he is by no means bound to give it.

Standing with some effort, though he brushes aside any assistance in the endeavor, the unknown knight reaches his feet. He reaches up to his helm and pulls it from his head, forward towards the Duchess to hide his identity as long as possible. He gives a shake, reddish-brown darkened by perspiration. His face covered in the same as he raises it. It is none other then Count Meuran de Gasal, Regent of Avanne.

"Felicitations, your Grace." Joanna offers Durand a kiss on either cheek, just as she has all other victors, and a garland for the crowning of his Queen. "Pray, if you will, take this token, along with the charger of my own stables and breeding, and find amongst the ladies here your Queen of Love and Beauty." She then pauses as the unknown knight removes his helmet, her jaw sagging. "Good...gracious."

As word of the unknown knight's identity spreads, the a noise builds in the crowd. At first a low murmur of confusion it grows and grows until it is a deafening roar. Many cheer their returned regent. Others start calling out demands to know where he has been and why he abandoned them the greater intrigue. Still other gas in astonishment while those to either side of them begin making wagers again...not on the joust anymore, but on the political ramifications of the event.

Meuran remains cool, collected before the Duchess and collection of ladies, tucking his helmet beneath his arm before taking a step back. Silence will speak louder than any words of his presently, so he leaves the spotlight to Durand and keeps to himself, aloof and mysterious. Let the rumors and demands fly as they may.

Melora is up on her toes, trying to peer around those in front of her. "The regent, really?" she asks of Melisse, though gets no immediate answer. The Countess appears as shocked as most of the others in attendance. "Ye... Yes," she finally replies absently.

Morena is as shocked as the others, amazed at the identity of the Knight. Almost under her breath, she murmurs, "Well, I guess His Grace /didn't/ have him killed as was rumored. That is a pleasant surprise." She is seated, watching the tail end of the joust, just as interested in Meuran as she is in who Durand might name as his Queen.

The victor, the champion, Durand de Mirvil allows his horse to be taken from him, to be seen by the physicians. Except for a bruised shoulder, the Duke has remained unwounded, and is able to walk to where the Duchess awaits him for his prize. As he approaches, he sees the man who he rode against, and looks as stunned as the rest of the crowd. "de Gasal, you dog!" It was not an insult, but a cry of astonishment. It seems that the rumors that Durand had the Regent murdered are exaggerated.

Shaking his head, Durand turns to face Joanna, ignoring the missing Regent for a moment. "I have not given much thought to who I would name the Queen, your Grace. I did not for a moment believe that I would defeat the powerful Borsard of Chaveaux, or the other great men here. However, since I must name only one of our many flowering beauties to be Queen, there is only one that I believe shall be fitting. You have among your entourage a lady that is frequently forgotten, in the background, unseen by the public. Yet, she was a great counselor to your sister, our former beloved Queen. While you have taken the mantle of leadership from your father, and had this glorious even hosted in your name, I can think of no other woman than her to stand beside you to bask in its glory. For that reason, I name the Marquessa Morena de Monnier the Queen of Light and Beauty, the one who shall stand beside you, your Grace, for your glory, the glory of Chaveaux, and the greater glory of Avanne."

"Not to stand beside me, no," Joanna states as she turns and curtsies to her cousin, "but to stand above us all as Queen of this day."

As Durand makes his choice, some of the women look visibly upset, some manage to keep an impassive expression, a some look relieved and still another number of them look very pleased with his choice, instantly applauding and cheers as demurely as is possible Morena de Monnier. Stepping forward with a fanfare, the lead herald makes the announcement to the stands. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Per his right as champion of the lists of Gesarien and the Tournament of Lilies, let it be known that Marquessa Morena de Monnier is hereby made the Queen of Love and Beauty and shall preside over the closing feasts. Let troubadours sing her virtues and beauty and let no man deny her wishes while she so remains!" The crowd erupts with joy in such a way as they should in your imagination, for I have run out of descriptive terms for them.

Other women near to the newly named Queen curtsey as well, including the Countess de Gallerneault and the women who are with her. "A perfect choice," Melisse says with her knee bent to Morena. "A great honor for Chaveaux," says another woman in the Gallerneault entourage.

If anyone looks shocked by the pronouncement, it is the Marquessa herself. Her jaw drops half an inch, and then closes. She rises to her feet, half in confusion, and looks at Durand, startled. For all their fighting, all their arguing, all of their pointed and heated battles, he would name her? For once, he seems to have thrown her off her guard. She turns her attention to the Duchess as the Duchess speaks, and just stares for a moment. But then she pulls herself together and turns to Durand with a well practiced smile. "Your Grace, I hardly expected this, but I will do my best to live up to the Honor you have bestowed upon me this day." It has to be a trick. It has to be a ploy. That thought is written on her face.

As Morena rightfully receives the accolades and attention due her, Joanna looks toward Meuran, and as he discreetly takes his leave, she, too, withdraws with a final smile, making her way after Meuran it would seem...but no, she is aiming for the pavilion to which Armand had been taken some time earlier.

Even as the words leave Morena's lips, the marshals of the field appear behind her and, with another fanfare, place a thin golden circlet bearing only a golden heart on its front atop her head.

Of course it's a ploy, of course it's a trick. That doesn't stop it from working, now does it? The Serpent of Mirvil just gives Morena a steady look, not shrugging away, or attempting to make a mockery of his decision. The crowd is most certain that the age old Chaveaux/Mirvil feud is at its close. These group of nobles hardly look ready to tear each other apart, as has happened in the past. At seeing the "coronation", Durand does allow a broader smile to sit upon his face. He doesn't feel the need to speak, just turning to the crowd to accept their accolades with a bow. Once the cheers die down, the Duke does summon a page, to inquire about the health of the fallen Armand.

A couple of the women in the box look quite disappointed and even shoot Morena threatening looks. One even bursts into tears over the selection, even though she barely looks a woman herself. Melisse gives the sobbing child a pat on the shoulder. "There shall be other Queens my dear," she offers as encouragement as the Gallerneault contingent begins to make their way out of the stands. "See that someone checks in on Raynald," the Countess says to one of her guards. "I will visit him tonight once he has been tended to." The guard nods and disappears into the crowd.