“Then I amend my request. Grant me not your favor, but your blessing, and your attention. Watch as I earn what I was foolish enough to ask for, and when I have proven myself worthy, perhaps…”
His hands rose, signing the rest:“Perhaps I may earn a ribbon from your hair.”
I didn’t have to look to know how that settled with Nicolas. Worse was the black energy that flowed from Quinn like heat from a bonfire. Then the man was indeed being flirtatious. An audacious move, but interesting, nonetheless. I stood.
“Fight well, Sieur Bastian,”I signed.“May your skill match your courage.”
Sieur Bastian crossed his heart and rode back into position. I knew already that he would not win that ribbon from me; provoking Nicolas’ jealousy would be unwise, and gods forbid I take another interested man into my company.
At the signal of a trumpet, the games began.
Despite its name, the tourney was more a showcase than a competition. Every knight displayed prowess in a different area, with some being especially talented. I tried to keep my focus neutral, to avoid turning my gaze to that green and gold surcoatworn over Sieur Bastian’s armor, but eventually my focus gravitated to one knight in particular.
He was a smaller man than the rest, in height more-so than muscle mass. He wore a yellow and orange surcoat bearing no recognizable heraldry, only simple chevrons.
The knight first demonstrated expertise with the longbow, drawing the weapon with practiced ease. Six arrows loosed in rapid succession, each finding the center of its target at varying distances. But it was when the targets began to move, pages running across the field carrying painted shields, that his true skill showed. Without hesitation, the knight adjusted, leading each target perfectly, arrows punching through wood like parchment.
“Impressive,” Adelaide murmured beside me, though her tone suggested mere acknowledgment rather than enthusiasm.
They moved on to blades. While others swung their swords in wide, powerful arcs meant to demonstrate strength, this knight’s movements were surgically precise. Every cut had purpose, every parry flowed into the next attack. When sparring, every defensive motion became offensive, turning the opponent’s strength against them.
It was with the polearm that the display became truly mesmerizing. He wielded it with an economy of motion, spinning and striking with obvious experience. No wasted movement, no flourishes for the crowd.
“You seem quite taken,” Adelaide observed, and I realized I’d half-risen from my chair.
I settled myself, but my eyes remained fixed on the yellow and orange figure below. Quinn’s silence behind Nicolas’s seat felt particularly heavy, though whether from professional interest or disapproval, I couldn’t tell.
The knight concluded his demonstration by taking on three opponents simultaneously, not in the choreographed dance I’d seen from others, but in something that looked genuinely dangerous. The polearm became a whirlwind of death, keeping all three at bay while creating openings. One opponent’s sword was hooked and yanked away, another took a hammer blow to the helm that sent him stumbling, the third found the spike of the polearm pressed to his throat before he could close the distance.
When it ended, I was standing again, my applause unrestrained. The knight’s bow was perfunctory, dismissive of the accolades, and somehow, that only made the display more impressive. This wasn’t someone seeking glory or favor; he was simply a warrior.
Leaning to Nicolas, I whispered my demands. He nodded once, then stood at my side, and the crowds fell silent.
“Knight of Fenmire, come forward and remove your helmet.”
The knight did as he was bidden, crossing the disturbed grounds until he’d reached the appropriate distance. Then the helmet came off.
This knight was no man at all, though to call her a woman also felt strange. Her hair was shorn as any soldier’s, brown and spotted with silver strands. She was well-muscled, with a strong jaw and defined cheekbones, but the rest of her was so ordinary, I second-guessed if I’d seen this woman on the field at all, or if there had been some illusory switch-off when she was summoned.
“You’re a woman,” Nicolas said. His eyes were round with stupefaction, but I didn’t see any signs of disapproval.
The lady knight bowed her head. “I am Siere Marceline of Fenmire, Your Majesty.”
“I’ve heard of her,” Quinn spoke up with boyish enthusiasm. “The Bog Knight! She’s the reason the Salans haven’t raided south of the marshes. She killed Warlord Iba in the bogs, then led a handful of soldiers to hold the Mired Causeway for two days against a full raiding party.”
“Aveteranwoman.”
Siere Marceline raised her head. “I’ve served for twenty-five years, Your Majesty.”
“Twenty-five years,” Nicolas replied with awe. “You compete for the role of Queensguard. Have you no husband to return home to?”
The audience laughed in response to his question. I wasn’t sure he’d made a joke.
“I’ve buried two husbands, both slain by Salan raiders. I did not take a third.” Siere Marceline’s weathered face was steadily confident, regardless of the question or the reaction it provoked. “I mothered no children, but I have trained more soldiers than I care to count.”A profound silence followed. Here stood a woman who had chosen duty over convention, a rare person that carved her own path through loss and expectation.
My fingers found the crimson ribbon woven through my hair, the silk warm from the sun and my own body heat. I pulled it free, my curls spilling over my shoulders. The murmur that rippled through the crowd was immediate. Beside me, Adelaide’s stillness spoke volumes, though I couldn’t tell if it was in approval or calculation.
Each step down from the royal box felt weighted by significance; I was conscious of every eye upon me. When at last I reached the field, Siere Marceline remained motionless, only her eyes tracking my approach.
