Page 11 of The Life and (Medieval) Times of Kit Sweetly

I grit my teeth and trade my lance for a sword and a new shield.

The choreography of this fight is meant to be simple: Green falls off his horse as we ride past, and then I jump down to the ground to face him in the sand. The Castle has been doing this same show for three years now, and I’ve seen it twice a night, four nights a week, for all of those years. That’s 1,248 shows, and each time the same thing happens—the last two Knights duke it out with swords, maces, and spears until the Knight of the Night (if you will) emerges triumphant.

But Green is out for blood tonight.

On the next pass, he dodges my blow, jumps from his horse, and knocks me down. While I’m on the ground, he advances, raining blows on me. I hold up my shield, arm aching, as he batters it with his sword. I roll out of the way, dropping my shield as I do so, and dance away from him. Inside my helmet, sweat stings my eyes.

My Squire hands me a mace—really just a prop made of balsa wood and aluminum, nothing like its hardier iron cousin, which could do real damage.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asks, nodding at Green. “Did he do coke before the show or something?”

“Just Dalton being his usual self,” I say in as Chris-like a voice as possible.

Before I can turn around, Green swipes my legs out from under me. My Squire jumps out of the way, and as I try to get to my feet, Green whacks me on the shoulder with his shield—totally illegal, off-script move—and pain shoots down my side.

From the stands, I hear Chris yelling, “Cheater!”

The crowd is half boos and half cheers, and I can’t tell if they’re on my side or not. But I don’t care. In acting there are cues and maybe a bit of improvisation. But, in a fight, there’s only action and reaction. And I’m done just reacting.

My shoulder throbs as I skitter out of Green’s path and swing the mace at him. He’s supposed to block it with his sword, but I aim lower, winging the end of it between his legs. It’s a dirty move, but certainly one a medieval warrior, desperate for any advantage, would’ve used. I make certain to cover the move with my shield as I do it, however, so the audience just sees the mace hit Dalton’s leg, and then his fall.

With a cry of pain, Dalton crumbles, clutching his groin. His sword falls out of his hand and then he flops onto his back.

I step a booted foot onto his chest and raise my arms. Triumph.

The crowd goes wild, and I turn to the royal box. Len’s mouth hangs open, and he knows something is wrong.

We. Don’t. Go. Off. Script.

It’s rule number one at the Castle.

But I’ve broken like a hundred others tonight, so why not one more?

The MC tries to bring things back. “AND SO IT SEEMS THAT THE BEST MAN WON TONIGHT!”

I remove my foot from the Green Knight and stride toward the royal box. In that moment, I’m Éowyn in The Lord of the Rings as she faced the King of the Ringwraiths. I tear the helmet from my head. My hair’s probably standing up in every direction, but I don’t care. I grin and raise my arms.

“I AM NO MAN!” I yell. It’s my favorite line in all of The Lord of the Rings, and I deliver it perfectly.

In the royal box, Jessica scowls, Len’s mouth is a thin line of fury, and Jett’s dropped all pretense of staying in character and is clapping for me.

“Get it, KIT!” he yells.

The MC stammers, his usual narration cut short by what’s happened. But, professional that he is, he picks right back up. “LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, MAY I PRESENT OUR VERY FIRST EVER FEMALE KNIGHT, KIT OF THE CASTLE!”

I bow to the King and then to the crowd. They’re stunned at first and then a loud hoot splits the arena. Layla rescues me with her classic ear-shattering whistle, the one she perfected when we were kids.

As if awakened from a spell, the crowd loses it. They’re on their feet, stomping, cheering, and throwing their colorful scarves and cheering cloths into the arena. Eddy Jackson and his buddies are whooping and raising their pitchers of beer in my direction.

Dalton’s gotten to his feet and he stands with Eric, his Squire, shooting me death looks. I want to stay there and bask in the crowd’s praise, but Len looks like he’s ready to fire me then and there. I grab Shadowfax’s reins from my Squire and swing myself into the saddle. With one last wave and a bow, I gallop out of the arena.

CHRIS WAITS FOR ME BACKSTAGE, A TAKEOUT CONTAINER IN his hands and a grin on his face. There’s a roar from the arena signaling that more of the Knights have appeared to finish up the show.

I slide off Shadowfax as a groom takes the reins. Adrenaline pumps through me. I want to dance and barf at the same time.

“That was amazing!” I say, gripping Chris’s arms. “You never told me how FUN it is to be out there. Or how good the crowd feels!”

He grins at me ruefully. “You were supposed to leave your helmet on.”