And therefore… victory for Bastien?
His heart hammered. Way too fast. Every muscle shook from the sudden surge of adrenaline. The pounding in his head from Tréguier’s earlier blow sent another wave of dizzying nausea as bile rose in Bastien’s rasping throat.
One of the judges strode into the center of the tournament field. With a collective intake of breath, an expectant hush settled over the exuberant, enthralled crowd.
“Each competitor has scored one point,” he announced with an authoritative shout. “But no lance was shattered in the final run.” The biting winter wind whipped his long black velvet cloak. “Therefore, the championship of the Yuletide Joust shall be determined by a battle of swords!”
Cheers rippled through the excited crowd, the commotion stilled by the official’s raised hand. Inhaling deeply, summoning the vocal strength for the official proclamation, he cried triumphantly, “The first contender to disarm or overpower his opponent shall be declared the victor. May the best swordsman win!”
Amid hearty shouts and enthusiastic applause, both contenders dismounted.
Tréguier handed his reins to a groom who led the massive, ornately clad destrier back to Ugolin le Clou’s cluster of tents. The Black Knight’s squires dashed onto the tournament field and helped their lord remove the elaborate, ostrich-plumed headpiece and heavy plated armor which would hinder his vision and restrict his movement in the battle against Bastien. The Black Knight donned chain mail and leather armor instead, the cowl headpiece protecting the bridge of his nose without impairing his breathing. With chivalrous panache, he strapped on a studded scabbard and sheathed his impressive sword. In its elaborately carved hilt, a large black gem glittered in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun like the watchful, predatory eye of a giant serpent—poised and ready to strike.
Max trotted across the field and led Drach back to the pavilions where the blue banners ofla Cornouailleflapped in the Breton breeze.
Lancelot and Esclados—no longer needed to inspect the horses and lances for the completed runs of the joust—jogged over to Bastien on the grassy plain amidst clumps of mud and imprints of hooves scattered across the castle grounds.
Like Tréguier, Bastien removed his plumedheaume, shaking the splatters of sweat from his dark, damp hair as his father helped him remove the heavy, plated jousting armor.
Gabrielle’s green silk ribbon floated to the ground.
Bastien peeled off his glove and snatched it up with a bare hand, tucking it safely inside the soaked chemise which clung to his perspiration-laden body.She blessed me with her royal favor. I must wear My Lady’s colors.
Lancelot smiled knowingly as he eased Bastien into the more flexible chain mail and leather which would allow him greater flexibility and agility. Battle fury blazed in his intense, savage gaze. “He’s taller. Heavier. More experienced.But slower.” Challenge and conviction warred in his warrior eyes. “Use it to your advantage.”
Resolute, Bastien held his former mentor’s steadfast gaze, accepting both the sage stratagem and the proffered sword. As Lancelot and Esclados returned to the tents to observe the outcome of the Yuletide Joust, Bastien strapped his sheathed blade to his hip.
And, heart hammering, muscles tense as a tautly drawn bow, strode onto the field.
To challenge the infallible Black Knight.
****
Gabrielle couldn’t breathe.
Bastien had just walked out onto the tournament field to battle Ugolin le Clou’s champion. A surly, hulking brute several inches taller and about fifty pounds heavier than the valiant knight she loved with all her fiery Viking heart.
She gripped the sides of her green velvet gown, fervently whispering her Yuletide wish, willing with all her might for him to win.
“He’s unparalleled with the sword,chérie.Bastien fought off four knights to defend you.” Imbued with royal wisdom, her father’s deep voice wrapped her in a warm, reassuring cloak. Hazel eyes twinkling in the golden sun, he said softly, “That’s why I appointed him your personal royal guard.” He squeezed her hand, raised it to the warm lips smiling above his silver-streaked beard, and bestowed a loving, reaffirming, paternal kiss.
The jarring clash of metal reverberated through her very bones.
Tréguier’s relentless sword crashed repeatedly against Bastien’s wooden shield like the thunderous waves pummeling the craggy cliff below the castle, the staggering impact causing him to stumble under the merciless, incessant assault.
Why does he not strike back? Why does he endure the brunt of Tréguier’s blows without a reverse attack?Gabrielle’s pulse pounded in her constricted throat, her breath shallow and fast.
The Black Knight lunged, heaving his heavy sword into a crushing, battering blow.
Yet Bastien deftly dodged the strike, whirling nimbly away as Tréguier toppled to one knee, thrown forward by the impetus of his own thwarted attack.
Clearly winded, gasping for breath, Tréguier struggled, attempting to regain his footing in time to meet Bastien’s swift strike.
From his stance behind the exhausted, unsteady Black Knight, Bastien swirled in a deadly spin, smashing the full force of his weapon into a brutal, bludgeoning blow that toppled Tréguier to the ground. Seizing the enemy sword from the Black Knight’s slackened grip, Bastien pointed the lethal tip of his own victorious blade against Tréguier’s exposed throat.
The frenzied crowd erupted in raucous, riotous cheers.
Gabrielle shot to her feet, shrieking and jumping with joy. Tears streamed down her smiling face as she applauded wildly, her trembling knees weak with relief.
