Sir Lancelot was old. His horse, a white mare, looked every bit as gray and old as he did. His armor, well made, shiny, and no doubt expensive, fit him very well. Sir Lancelot was stocky and stout, and despite his ripe old age of forty-nine, he was still strong. His longsword was no Excalibur, but it was a fine sword befitting its master, and Sir Lancelot had wielded it well enough to live this long. A knight for thirty-some years, he had served various liege lords, riding into countless battles under many different banners. Much to Sir Lancelot’s dismay and the disappointment of many other knights, wars had become a rarity of late, as good old lords preferred stabbing one another in the back and squabbling behind closed doors to calling their banners and laying siege to castles. Those were the good old days, Sir Lancelot thought, sighing. In those days it was easy for a knight to find purpose, gold, and glory. Almost too easy. Of late, however, his gold was running low, and Sir Lancelot was riding to a tournament, hopeful and in good spirits. He had heard that King Arthur had called a tourney to honor the summer solstice that his druid warlocks so cherished, and the winner’s prize was five hundred gold. Five hundred gold! No small sum for any knight, and a huge bounty for Sir Lancelot. But would he win? He sure hoped so. Although he’d never won a tournament before, he was always sure he’d win the next one. He was sure this time as well; he never felt otherwise. It seemed that this unwavering faith gave him additional strength to make up for his age. Even if I don’t win the tourney, I’ll come away with gold, he thought, remembering past times when he had been showered with prize money: he had often come in fourth or fifth, and once even third.
Sir Lancelot thought of the last tourney he had attended. When was it? Has it been five years already? Time flies quickly for one in the saddle, and Sir Lancelot could now feel the passage of time: it ached in his back, squeaked in his knees, and popped in his shoulders. When did the ache start? He could not quite remember, but he was still strong and thanked the gods for that. The last tourney had not disappointed him, for he had come in fifth and won one hundred gold. He should have been fourth, with one hundred and fifty, but he had tied with noble Sir Barrow. The Lord Duke of High Elm had broken the tie with the help of the crowd, which cheered a bit more for Sir Barrow, with his bright blue shield and golden stag, than for Sir Lancelot. Sir Lancelot’s shield was not as fancy as he wished, but he had no money to pay a goldsmith to make his armor and shield a tad shinier and more ornate.
It is quite fortunate that the good King Arthur has called this tourney, the knight thought. I have nigh half a gold coin left. This prize money would come in handy. Sir Lancelot ungloved his hand and rummaged through his money sack. Much to his surprise and pleasure, his fingers came upon not half but two whole gold coins, his last treasure. His growling stomach reminded him why he had two gold coins rather than one half. His elbows and back were quick to remind him, too. For the past two fortnights, the knight had been avoiding inns with their drunken squalor and mouthwatering hot meals, opting to sleep in the fields instead. He was too proud to sleep in stables along with common drunkards, smelly grooms, and dirty stableboys. Instead, he preferred to make camp by the side of the road, far enough from towns and hamlets that nobody could see him. A poor knight’s last treasure is his honor, he thought, and so he had grown used to making his bed in the fields and woods, in the open air, with his mare tied securely to the nearest tree or milestone. He always slept with his sword by his side, often with his hand on its hilt.
For the past month Sir Lancelot had subsisted on whatever he could manage to catch along the roadside: his longsword was ill-suited to hunting, so he chiefly relied on his dagger to kill a rabbit or a squirrel. But last night he had not been so lucky. His improvised hunt had left him empty-handed, his stomach rumbling. The coarse, dusty stones he had slept on had given him a sleepless nightmare his body remembered all too well now. At least the mare ate good grass and drank cool water, and that was all he needed now to get to the tournament arena, only four short miles down the road.
The old custom called for a tournament to begin at high noon, and it was morning still, so even at a leisurely trot he would get there in time. There was no need to rush the mare; he needed her strength for the tournament, and somehow he felt she was grateful for his consideration. He knew his horse well. She was his closest companion, his soulmate and best friend, and she had never failed him before. She would not fail him now, not if he remained kind to her. And he was.
A full hour before noon Sir Lancelot reached the tourney grounds, bustling with people: commoners and knights alike. It had been a while since Lancelot had seen so much commotion, and his heart skipped a beat excitedly. The knight coughed pointedly as he approached a registrar. He lifted his helm’s visor and announced himself in a loud, coarse voice befitting a knight: “Sir Lancelot of High Castle is here for the tournament!”
The registrar looked at him warily, yawned, and asked, “Where is your squire, sir?”
“I have no squire,” Sir Lancelot replied, trying to hide his annoyance at the obvious question, for he could not afford one and had not been able to for the past six months. “I traveled fast; my squire fell behind,” he lied, but a dishonorable lie this was not. “I hereby wish to enter myself in the tournament!” he demanded, still sitting high on his horse.
“As you wish.” The registrar scribbled something on a piece of parchment, then lifted a small chest from under the oaken table and opened it. Gold coins gleamed inside. He looked up at the knight. “That would be one gold, sir.”
“One gold?!” The knight nearly fell off his horse. “One gold?” He had been expecting only a few silver coins, maybe half a gold, but one gold sounded like too much. “What kind of thievery is this?” he protested.
“It is one gold, sir,” the registrar insisted. “All the knights must pay their tribute.” He lifted and shook the chest, coins clinking inside. He set it down and stared at the knight for a moment, then asked, “Have you got the money, sir?”
“Have I got the money? What kind of question is this?” Sir Lancelot replied indignantly, dismounting. It was clear to him that he would have to part with one-half of his treasure now. Thank God he had two coins. He rummaged in the money sack at his belt and produced a coin. He threw it at the registrar in disdain. “Here, one gold. Now go and write down my name properly, you knave!”
“But of course, my lord,” the registrar replied politely, showing him the parchment. “The stables are that way.” He gestured broadly in the direction from which the wind brought the smell of horses and manure. “And the knights’ canteen is there.” He gestured in another direction, from which Sir Lancelot could hear the knights’ laughter and the chatter of armor.
Sir Lancelot led his mare to the stables, where a stableboy tethered her, gave her oats, and began brushing her. At least she gets oats, thought Lancelot, remembering his last gold coin. He had to win the tournament. You are only as good as your last tourney! He remembered the words of his old master-at-arms, his voice echoing in his head. You are only as good as your last tourney! the voice repeated.
The knight proceeded to the canteen. His stomach would very much welcome a hot meal by now, and his mouth could use some good mead, too. An old, fat lady was cooking and serving, and a man who must have been her husband—also old, fat, and unshaven, with soot on his face—was roasting deer meat. The lady brought Sir Lancelot his meal. He bit into it hungrily, warm juice flowing over his graying mustache and beard. Lancelot looked at the other knights. Seated in packs, they were busy eating, drinking, and talking. The pack closest to him was made up of black-haired noble knights in gray tunics. These must have been knights of the Grey Woods; he recognized their house sigil on their armor. The knights in the pack farther away had blond hair and wore white coats. Lancelot saw the mark of the house of White Water on their shields and tunics.
Sir Lancelot sat alone at his table, an outsider at this tournament, which was organized for the benefit of the two main houses lording over this principality. Nevertheless, the old rules were clear: anybody could participate as long as they were a knight, but few would travel this far for a handful of gold coins. Sir Lancelot had. He needed this tournament, and he needed to win.
There were three events: sword fighting, dagger combat, and good old horseback jousting with a lance. Sir Lancelot was fond of swordplay and confident with a lance. Dagger fighting he despised as a low form of brawling. Alas, the local folk must have enjoyed this entertainment that he abhorred.
At last the trumpets called the knights to the arena, and Sir Lancelot followed them into the tourney yard. Their horses were already there, brought in by stableboys, freshly brushed and clean, their harnesses gleaming in the sun. He mounted, as did all the other knights. They circled the arena and saluted the king when their names were called.
The sword fight was first. In the few short minutes before the tourney, Sir Lancelot had managed to get a good rest. His stomach was no longer growling, and he had almost forgotten about his sore back. Somehow fresh and rested, he did well. His sword, still faithful to his grip, clawed and marked his opponents’ armor angrily. The stabs and slashes he received in return were few and light. Lancelot was sure of it, for he ended all his matches pleased with himself. Now that he was moving freely, his knees hurt very little and his elbow was no longer sore. The knights he faced were all young, much younger than he was, perhaps only half his age or less, but where Sir Lancelot could not match their vigor, he could outdo them in the strength of his blows and the reach of his sword. Today he had particular luck in luring the inexperienced youths into the fury of his counterattacks. It’s a good start, and it will be a great tourney, he thought. He was not wrong in his appraisal of himself: the crowd cheered and roared every time his longsword slashed and hacked at a foe’s armor. He had even downed one, a thin, blond-haired knight in a white tunic, but the crowd had not roared that time, much to Sir Lancelot’s dismay. The little one was King Arthur’s nephew, forbidden from the tournament on account of his young age. He must have snuck in somehow and had the misfortune to face Sir Lancelot’s full fury. The crowd and the king found no honor in that—as if it were Sir Lancelot’s fault—and the bout did not count.
Still, Sir Lancelot moved on to the dagger bouts in high spirits. But dagger fighting, a filthy business of blood, sweat, and close combat, wore him down. He was slashed more times than he slashed in return, and many of his dagger swings failed to find their targets. The youths had an advantage over him, for he was not as swift or sure-footed as they were. At one point a dark-haired knight with bad breath and many broken teeth held his dagger right at Sir Lancelot’s throat, a hair’s breadth from spilling blood. It took Lancelot all his remaining strength to wrestle the dagger away from his chin. The crowd booed, and he hoped they were booing the other knight…
The final competition was a horseback joust with a lance. By then Sir Lancelot was tired, sweat running down his face and burning his eyes. An acrid smell of a horse’s entrails and manure hung in the air—the result of an unfortunate accident in the joust just before his, when an inexperienced knight had managed to impale a horse with his lance, much to the horror of all. Lancelot had even heard the king curse. The poor thing was put to death, but not before it had offended every ear with its agonized neighing.
A bad sign, Sir Lancelot thought, preparing for the joust. A stableboy helped him onto his mare and handed him a wooden tourney lance. The lance seemed heavier than Sir Lancelot remembered. He raised it upright, holding fast to his horse, trying to find his balance. The trumpet sounded through icy silence, and the knight on an impossibly large black destrier charged at him at lightning speed. The blow struck him like a thunderbolt. As in a dream, Sir Lancelot watched the earth float away from under him, the horizon turning slowly before his eyes, counterclockwise. The seats full of spectators and the distant line of the woods were still turning, twisting, when a large gray mass entered his field of view, blocking out his vision. Dust and dirt rushed into his visor, filling his mouth, plugging his nose and eyes.
Two squires rushed onto the field and lifted Sir Lancelot. His legs were strangely rubbery and would not support him. Noticing this, the squires tightened their grip and began to drag him out of the arena. Sir Lancelot tried moving his legs to mimic walking, but his limbs were too limp and too slow to keep up. They dragged him all the way and seated him gently against a wooden post beneath a seating deck. A stableboy brought his mare and tied her nearby. She was limping, although nothing looked broken on her except the harness. The saddle tilted to one side, the reins torn and ripped in several places.
At least the mare is alive, thought Lancelot, his mind still in the arena, huge red circles floating in front of his eyes. He tried to stand but felt the ground spin beneath him and had to lean back against the wooden post, finding support in its mute obedience. He rested for a few minutes until the circles in front of his eyes grew smaller and all but disappeared, then inspected his harness and his mare closely. She was all right. Shocked, maybe, but all right. He straightened the saddle, noticing a deep gash left on the mare’s side by his spur. The gash was bleeding, but not profusely. He sighed and set about mending the harness. He managed it, albeit crudely. The entire right side of his body, especially his neck, was burning, but nothing seemed to be broken. He tied the harness here and there. The horse snorted. This was the quickest horseback joust he had seen, and he had seen quite a few.
There was no point in waiting for the tourney’s end now. He knew he would not be taking any gold today, for there could be no prize money for the losers of the horseback joust. Sir Lancelot mustered all his strength and climbed into the saddle. His back was aching again; everything was aching now, especially his neck. He discovered that his ribs hurt too: with every breath, something sharp inside him seemed to catch on something soft.
Damn ribs! he cursed silently as his white horse limped from under the bleachers like a forgotten ghost, heading toward the exit. Her mane glistened in the sun; the brushwork of the stableboy was magic. The knight did not say goodbye to the registrar and did not listen to the voices calling him as he left the arena grounds. He wanted to ride as far from this wretched place as he could. He wanted to flee his deafening defeat in the arena, if such a thing was even possible.
Somehow Sir Lancelot had never once considered that he might not win—win something, that is. Although he had never won an entire tournament before, he had always come back with gold. Not this time. The mare’s limp worsened. Sir Lancelot dismounted and proceeded on foot, holding the reins in his left hand. He patted her shining white mane. The sun was setting, and she snorted back at him, grateful that he had eased the load on her injured foot. You’ll be fine, my lady, he said to the mare in his mind. You’ll be fine.
Late that night he reached an inn, which turned out to be a brothel full of drunkards and wenches celebrating the sins of life. The knight was too tired, and the mare needed hay, so he shelved his honor and knocked on the door. The appearance of a noble knight in such a place interrupted the celebration, if only for a moment. The owner, a short balding man, unshaven and shrewd, barked orders at a stableboy to take the knight’s horse, then measured the knight’s sorry appearance with a thoughtful glance, noting dried blood on his face and dirty streaks of sweat across his forehead. The owner motioned for two henchmen to take the guest upstairs to their best room (if there was such a thing at this place). “Jane will tend to you, sir…” He looked at the knight inquisitively. “It is Sir Lancelot,” the knight replied, barely standing, still in his full armor. “Jane, come quick! Sir Lancelot is waiting for you. Don’t make the good lord wait!” He heard the owner slap her on the buttocks; the sound came from somewhere downstairs.
In a minute a puffy wench of uncertain age, questionable cleanliness, and long-faded beauty showed up with a large tin pail and a rag for a towel. The two henchmen, unexpectedly turned valets, brought a large wooden bathtub. They struggled to get it through the door, but finally they managed. Jane filled the tub by pulling on a rope just outside the window. The rope brought up one pail of water at a time; someone on the ground floor must have been filling them.
She helped Sir Lancelot out of his armor and undergarments. She looked surprised to see that the entire right side of his body was one huge bruise, red, brown, and blue. She was gentle with him. Jane helped him into the tub and dabbed him with the rag. Sometimes she used her apron, which was not much cleaner. Her blouse was untied, and her huge breasts swung unceremoniously in Sir Lancelot’s face as she tended to him. “I beg your pardon, m’lord,” she said, blushing. The knight was as surprised by her blush as she was. When her breast slapped him in the face again as she bent over the tub to scrub his knees, she blushed again (a second miracle), stood up straight, and asked in an unsteady, shaking voice, “Would your lordship require any other tending tonight?” She held one hand to her chest and clasped the ties of her greasy gown with the other, wondering whether she ought to bare her breasts altogether.
Sir Lancelot did not answer. He was fast asleep in the tub. You are only as good as your last tournament, the voice of his old master echoed in his dream.