Antoine was furious. He had never been so humiliated in his life. Some peasant had just beaten him. A duke’s heir and future king if his father’s plan worked. The idiot Perceval made some simpering humorous remark. Around him the other nobles laughed. It was a discordant and harsh sound to his ears.
The lowborn fool was even bowing now as if he had one because of anything other than chance. Seeing that Antoine almost ran him through with his sword. Which is what he should have done in the first place. He managed to contain himself, however. Flashing a look at his father Antoine could already tell that he had disgraced the family enough. He needed to kill this impudent wretch now and he needed to do it brutally.
Antoine mulled over his options and after consideration he decided mashing this peasant’s skull in with a war-hammer would be best.
Taking a deep breath and playing into the humour of the situation he said, “well fought Sir,” he emphasised the erroneous title, “I think for our second contest I shall chose the hammer. Of course, I will have to don my armour and perhaps you might have to borrow a hammer?”
After speaking he snapped his finger at his squire who dashed out of the room to fetch Antoine’s armour and hammer.
The peasant looking around the room and seeing a half-finished sculpture in a dark corner of the hall he approached it and bent down to pick up a small one-handed hammer that in conjunction with a chisel was being used to craft he piece.
He then returned to the centre of the hall and bowed to the king, “would your Majesty be willing to loan me this hammer.”
The hall was shocked before they burst into more laughter. Perceval chuckled and said, “of course let it not be said that the house of Mercier is lacking in generosity.”
Antoine was red in the face. The man was either woefully ignorant or deliberately toying with him. Perhaps the man’s first victory had made him overconfident.
Antoine’s squire returned with his armour and began to assist him in putting it on. It was beautiful painted in gold and purple in reference to the chain that his father wore. It had been made by the best armour smith in the kingdom and had begun gather a martial reputation for excellence around these colours. After minutes of painstakingly putting the armour on his squire capped it off by placing a finely worked helmet on Antoine’s head. The helm was adorned with purple feathers made into a crest. After making sure that all of the straps where in place Antoine grasped a two-handed great hammer that his squire offered him. It was wicked in appearance one side had a spike.
Antoine looked to the king and proclaimed asked, “as first blood is not possible might your Majesty agree that we shall continue until yield?”
Perceval waved his hand, “oh that will be quite alright. The fighters may begin when ready.”
The peasant was pale with fright now that he saw the hammer that Antoine was using. Antoine smiled perhaps he was just ignorant enough to believe that a crafting hammer was what Antoine had been taking about. Antoine did not rush his opponent this time but approached him methodically. Once in range he jabbed the hammer at his opponent’s leg. The man was caught off guard and barely manged to stumble to the side. No doubt he had been expecting Antoine to make a wide and powerful swing as all people seemed to expect when facing a war hammer. Antoine felt a small tap as the man connected to his armour with the pitiful hammer. It was not enough to feel fully never mind rattle him.
Antoine swung more forcefully now attempting to strike his enemy in the head while he was off balance. Amazingly the man ducked just enough to dodge the blow. Antoine saw the man’s hairs being swept by the wind of the hammer’s passing.
Antoine felt another tap in the same place as the pervious seemingly random area of his shoulder. This time the metal bent in slightly. Not enough to hinder him but enough to rub against his arming coat. Antoine used the haft of his hammer to push his opponent back. Before trying another sweeping blow. This time the man tripped backwards to avoid the blow and accidentally entangled his feet with Antoine’s. Both men went down in a hemp of metal and as he fell Antoine felt the weakened shoulder portion of his armour give in and crumple. His right arm was trapped and unable to move. Antoine seeing the danger attempted to use his free arm to trap the man’s face with the hammer. He had taken a short grip on the shaft and intended to batter through the weak rusty face guard of the man. He successfully connected with the helmet but surprisingly the armour held as if it were the strongest metal re-enforced by mana instead of a rust bucket. He drew his fist back to pummel the man again, but the man tapped the same joint that had crumpled on his right shoulder instead this time on his left side. They traded three blows in this fashion but the rusty armour of the chalager refused to give. Antoine’s own armour though crumpled making his left arm as equally immobile as his right. This functionally meant that Antoine was immobile. Antoine felt the peasant slowly work his way out from underneath him. The hall was full of giggles and speculation now. How could Antoine fail to keep his feet and was he so weak that he could not break that rusty helmet?
After a minute the peasant worked his way free and started to gracelessly bash on Antoine’s helmet. Antoine was furioys but he had no choice but to yield he could not move, and his helmet was already beginning to crumple.
“I yield,” he shouted, and it felt like the words were tiny daggers ripping the air out of his lungs.
The peasant dropped the sculpting hammer next to Antoine’s head and backed off of him. There was not the same silence as there had been at his first defeat. The assembled crowd were unabashedly laughing at Antoine. Another look at his father revealed that he had gone beyond hot anger to a cool but far more deadly pallor.
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Antoine squire helped him up and started to pry his bent armour off of him.
The peasant was bowing to lady Agace again and preening as if he had accomplished some feat of great martial prowess. Antoine began to breath heavily and felt as if might have a stroke at any minute.
The king finished laughing and coughed out, “well lord Roche it seems that you have been bested twice. What will be your final choice of combat?”
Antoine calmed down. He still had one last chance to right the course of this fiasco. He needed to put this peasant in the dirt and preferably kill him. His helm had been surprisingly resilient, but the rest of his armour could not be as good. He also had no shield or lance.
Antoine breathed out and then said, “if your Majesty is willing to lend more arms to this challenger then I request a true knightly challenge on the tilting field.”
The king seemed to have caught Antoine’s subtly appeal for help and nodded, “very well let us all vacate to the tourney field. Find this man,” he gestured vaguely at the rust covered peasant, “a suitable lance and horse.”
About half an hour later Antoine was dressed in his backup armour and facing off across the jousting field against a joke. The king had lent the man an old mare and a length of off balanced wood. The ‘lance’ did not even have a proper tip. Antoine was sure that the horse was not even capable of half the speed of his own mount.
As a joke some of the nobles had asked the peasant what his crest was. He had carved a surprisingly artistic tentacled creature into a piece of wood. The nobles had hung the rude crest on the peasant’s side of the tilt yard. They had even brought trumpeters out to sound the start of the bout as if this were a real challenge.
The jousting grounds in Stormbreaker were well trodden. The King had taken to holding tournaments often in the last years. He had hoped that it would make him popular among the nobility. Mostly it had only made the Royal treasury poorer.
Antoine burned with embarrassment. The man’s lance was even a good two feet shorter than his own. If he could not unhorse the peasant it would not only lose his father a bride but also shame their house for generations.
To add further insult Agace had given a ribbon from her hair to the man as if he were a real knight seeking her favour. She had also gone as far as kissing the man’s helm as if she were kissing his cheek.
Antoine had determined that in the first two rounds he had let his impatience and anger disrupt his usual battle calm. He was determined to rectify that in this round. Unhorsing or even killing his opponent would be nice but he must not strive for that goal beyond what he would usually do in a tournament.
The trumpeters sounded a call to begin, and Antoine kicked his stallion into a gallop. He had cleared the first third of the lists before the peasant’s horse even started to move. The man’s lance was swaying from side to side and up and down like a drunkard’s walking stick. Antoine allowed his self a smile as he lined his own lance up with the man’s chest. Almost faster than Antoine could she a seemingly impossible set of circumstances played out before his eyes.
The peasant’s lance violently jerked to the side knocking his own offline. Then almost falling off his saddle the peasant jerked his lance in the other direction. It perfectly got in-between Antoine and his saddle, acting as a leaver powered by the force of the collision. Antoine questioned his life as he felt himself be lifted off his horse. Time seemed to slow down as he fell to the dirt. He saw the twisted face of rage his father had adopted and knew that even if the fall did not break any bones his father likely would.
Antoine hit the dirt headfirst and, in the process, wrenched his back almost to the point of tearing. He bit his cheek and blood filled his mouth. He was sure that he had also lost a few teeth. His horse broke two legs as it too was forced to the ground at full speed.
Before he blacked out from the pain, he saw the peasant parading around the field, triumphant.
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Duke Roche felt the world closing in around him as his son hit the dirt. There was a brief silence before all of the aristocrats burst out laughing. They cheered and hooted as the peasant rode around the field. He somehow even got his old horse to bow by lowering its front legs. The Duke could already imagine the songs that would spread around the city overnight.
His family was a laughingstock and worst of all he had lost his fortune that was needed to pay the mercenaries for his takeover. The peasant approached Agace and offered his hand. The women reached over and using his support hopped in front of him in the saddle like some common whore.
The King was clapping along with the rest before he raised his hands for silence, “Well young man congratulations. You have won a grand prize and an even grander fortune. Might we know your name?”
The boy bowed forcing Agace to bow with him, “I am Erec your Majesty, Erec Foundling.”
The King smiled appreciatively, “well maybe we could use your strong arm, “the king winked at the crowd, “in the army. Tell me what are your plans?”
Erec removed his helm and as if pained by embarrassment, bowed to the King yet again, “as to that your Majesty. I beg another favour from you.”
The King raised an eyebrow and questioned, “oh and what else might you need?”
Erec reddened as if flustered and said, “I am a simple man your Majesty. I would not know how to manage that large of a fortune. I do however know how to farm. I wish to take my bride North to her, rather our, fief. Might I give over the rest of the money to the crown?”
The king frowned for effect, “I cannot take something for nothing. How about this. I will grant you and your new bride a vaster fortune in return for this fortune. I decree from this day forth that everything North of the escarpment will fall under the sway of house Martel, or perhaps I should say house Foundling.
The crowd broke out into further laughter. Everybody there knew that north of the escarpment was essentially a wasteland. The king just traded a fortune for a useless territory.
Erec bowed again and began to ride off with his new bride as if he were a hero from some story. The king turned to duke Roche with a slightly malicious smile and said, “well Roche looks like I can afford to but that chain off of you after all.”
Duke Roche gritted his teeth. After those two left the city for the north he would have them dragged back to him. He would wipe that un earned pride off of Erec’s face and after he was king he would put anyone who mocked the honour of his house to the death.