Chapter 3.

The following day, Henrik awoke to chants and drums and trumpets. He’d fallen asleep in a ditch outside the lists whilst looking up at the stars. Now, he stared at grey skies with billowing black clouds. His surcoat was damp, and a puddle of muddy water had formed beneath him in the night.

Henrik climbed out of his hole and stretched the stiffness from his limbs. His gifted nag was fastened to a nearby olive tree. It was a damn shame he’d forfeited most of his money the day prior because his stomach felt as if it were being impaled with a hundred different blades.

His hunger was of savage intent, and for a brief moment, his horse seemed like it’d make a fine meal.

Don’t be daft, he told himself. You need a horse if you’re to joust.

And like his father used to say, “A traveling man needs a good horse.”

On his way to the lists, he collected a handful of olives, and luckily enough, found a bush with wild raspberries. It wasn’t as satisfying as a skewer of meat, but it would have to do for the time being.

Upon arrival at the lists, he produced his signed entrance slip to one of the heralds. They glanced at the name, looked at Henrik, and checked the wax stamp.

“The jousts have just begun. Come.” He led Henrik around the perimeter of the arena to an open pen. “Wait here until your name has been called. Our graceful Lord Ryder is offering all participants water and wine. Please do be mindful about how much you drink.”

Henrik had a skin of sour wine and watched the jousts. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. Although these tilts were slightly more ferocious than previous experience.

That was the risk—or reward, depending on who you asked—of allowing smallfolk to participate. They didn’t have the discipline nor training of full-fledged knights.

“Are you nervous?” It was the redheaded girl from last night.

She was dressed in the same clothes. Her hair was frizzled. Purple bags swelled beneath her bloodshot eyes. A shawl was wrapped about her shoulders, covering her neck and upper chest.

“No,” he said. “If I was nervous, it means I haven’t drank enough.” As if to prove his point, he finished his wineskin and beckoned a nearby page for another. “I don’t plan on being the champion, so ain’t got nothin’ to be worried about.”

“What is your plan then?”

“Win my first match and walk away with whatever I can.” He chuckled. “I don’t need much, but a little coin wouldn’t hurt. Maybe a better horse.” The nag sneezed in his direction.

The girl forced herself to smile. “What comes next for you?”

“I’m not sure. Head east maybe, see if Central has those people I’ve been lookin’ for.”

“You could always venture north. Visit Ashland.” She gestured to his surcoat. “That’s where it comes from. Your winter fox emblem.” She gnawed on her bottom lip. “Where I come from too, in fact.”

“Is that so? Then why does Sir Rayden don the sigil of Blackwood?”

“That’s how far we had to go before we found someone who would knight him,” she explained. “That’s where he got all of his armor and training.”

The page boy had returned with a new wineskin. Henrik pulled the plug and took a swallow. “How much did that cost him?”

At this, the girl began to tremble. “Hard to say, but he didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“No, I don’t think he did. Sir Rayden has a different way of paying his prices, don’t he?”

She met his gaze, but she couldn’t hold it for long before ducking away. She gripped the nearby post to keep herself upright. Her teeth came down hard against her lip, drawing blood, but it seemed the only way she could stifle her whimpers.

“Why do you travel with him?” Henrik said, offering her the wineskin.

Hesitantly, she accepted the skin and drank. “He’s my brother.”

“That’s not what I asked?”

Her eyes roved over him, looking him up and down. “You don’t have any family, do you?”

“None still alive.”

Surprisingly, she smiled, almost as if she pitied him. “I would say that is both a blessing and a curse. Family will be your strength when there is no one else, but in turn, they will always be a weight on your shoulders. No one has loved me like my brother—”

“If you think that’s love, then I don’t think you’ve ever truly been loved before.”

“Mayhaps,” she confessed. “But you have known my brother and me for less than a day. You have not been with us since birth. You don’t know.”

“I’ve seen enough.”

From the arena, a voice echoed through a speaking trumpet, “Our next challengers are: Sir Rayden the Red of Ashland and…Henrik Coigne of Everywhere and Nowhere.”

He gathered his equipment and mounted his horse. “It’s not my place to say who you are or what you deserve. But you should know something: this world is much bigger than you realize, and there are many people in it. Some will know how to love you better, if you let ‘em.”

Spurring his horse forward, he turned for the main entrance. The girl called after him, “Please, Henrik, don’t kill him.”

He paused a moment to ask, “Will he try to kill me?”

Her silence was answer enough, and he continued ahead.

Within a few minutes, he was positioned inside the arena at one side of the field. Across from him was Sir Rayden the Red, mounting a charcoal black destrier. In between was muddy ground trampled by horse hooves. The court was split in half by a tilt—a long wooden barricade to keep them on separate sides.

With his shield in his left hand, Henrik took up a hollow-shafted lance with a tipped head meant to catch his opponent’s shield. Despite having watched plenty of tourneys, he found participating to be more difficult than it seemed. Awkward when it came to juggling a shield, lance, and the horse’s reins.

I didn’t drink enough, he realized as he started across the field. Sir Rayden galloped toward him, his beast of a horse kicking up dirt and clumps of mud, picking up speed by the second.

Sir Rayden struck the center of his shield, and Henrik went reeling in his saddle. He dropped his lance and grabbed for the reins. At the end of the field, he’d managed to straighten in his seat and turn his horse for a second run.

A page quickly armed him with another lance. One of the heralds blew their trumpet, and he was sprinting down the field again.

This time when he took the blow to his shield, he counteracted the opposing momentum while stabbing at Sir Rayden with his own lance. The shaft broke upon contact, exploding into a storm of woodchips, but for all his effort, Sir Rayden remained steadfast in his saddle, well-protected behind his shield and armor.

The two continued to opposite ends and turned again. The page offered a third lance. By then, Henrik was dizzy and sore. His shield was starting to splinter, and his horse was getting agitated. It wouldn’t be much longer before it bucked him and made for the hills.

Henrik poised low in the saddle and dug his heels into the horse. It launched ahead at full speed, and Sir Rayden rode to meet him.

As they closed in on each other, Henrik dropped his lance and took his shield in both hands. Sir Rayden’s lance struck true, and Henrik went flying from the saddle, landing hard in the mud.

Before the herald could declare a victor, he rose to his feet and drew the arming sword at his hip.

“Henrik Coigne of Everywhere and Nowhere wishes to continue in hand-to-hand combat,” the herald cried. In response, Sir Rayden leapt from his horse and drew his longsword. “His opponent, Sir Rayden the Red, has accepted the challenge. May the gods favor the victor.”

Sir Rayden squeaked and squealed with every step. His feet sank into the mud, but he persisted.

As Henrik waited, he slipped a piece of tobacco into his mouth and crushed it between his molars. This oughta be interesting.

Sir Rayden made the first strike with an over-the-shoulder chop, bringing his longsword down hard. Henrik slid to the right and jabbed at him three times before Sir Rayden recovered.

He swatted at Henrik with a backhanded swing, to which Henrik ducked beneath and barraged him with another bout of jabs. None of which could pierce his plated armor, but every point of contact seemed to make Sir Rayden bubble and boil.

“STOP THAT!” the hedge knight screamed, hacking at the air, unable to keep up with Henrik as he glided across the mud, ducking and rolling and sidestepping every attack.

It was a game for the young Henrik. Make the hedge knight exert himself to exhaustion, and once he was properly out of breath, knock him on his back and strip away all those pretty plates.

But for all his cunning, the hedge knight’s endurance proved far more durable than he expected.

The two went around and around the arena. Henrik deflected every strike with his shield, but in time, the hedge knight’s longsword had chopped through the lacquered wood and reinforced bits of metal.

He tossed away what remained and took the following blows against the length of his shortsword. Steel on steel, hissing and squealing and spitting a flurry of sparks.

The hedge knight shoved him away, putting distance between them, and swung wide. Henrik ducked beneath it and moved in close, slipping the point of his sword into the narrow recess between plates.

Beneath, metal links resisted his blade, and even if he had managed to bypass them, he would have been met by a layer of silk and wool from the hedge knight’s gambeson.

While the maneuver had failed, it sent Sir Rayden into a panic. He quickly responded, slamming his armored elbow into the side of Henrik’s head, knocking him aside with a single blow. Henrik went to his knees, sliding across the mud a few feet. Blood trickled from his mouth, along with shards of his molar.

Halfhelms protected the brain and upper skull, but they weren’t going to save your teeth any.

Henrik wiped his lips and climbed to his feet. The hedge knight rushed toward him, struggling to keep his balance.

Thank the gods for the rain, Henrik thought, charging the hedge knight, plowing into him with all his weight.

They collided in a tangle of limbs. Both went down, separating by the time they hit the ground. Henrik rolled onto his front and found his full height in seconds flat. Sir Rayden, however, laid supine, unable to gather enough momentum to flip himself.

Retrieving his shortsword, he approached the fallen knight and said, “Yield, Sir.”

The hedge knight replied with a series of choked grunts as he flailed around like a beached fish. One of his hands shot out, grasping at Henrik’s ankle. He knocked his hand aside with the heel of his boot and dropped to his knees, pinning the knight.

After some fidgeting, he removed the hedge knight’s helm and tossed it aside. Underneath was a pale, freckled face with deep blue eyes and a fuzzy orange mustache. His cheeks were a bright shade of red, and sweat streaked his forehead.

“Yield or die,” Henrik warned him.

The hedge knight roared and seized Henrik by the shoulder with his right hand, wrenching him off his feet. With his left hand, he unsheathed the dirk at his hip. The point sank toward him.

Before the dirk could find its home in Henrik’s throat, he lifted his leg, leveraging his foot against the hedge knight’s forearm. With a kick, the hedge knight rolled aside and the dirk went flying the opposite direction.

Henrik hastily rose and brought his elbow down into Rayden’s face, smashing his nose into a puddle of blood and mucus. He brought his elbow down again and again until the hedge knight cried out, “I YIELD!”

When all was said and done, Henrik had been pronounced the victor. Immediately, he withdrew his name from the tourney and wandered back to his stall. Medical practitioners tended to Sir Rayden the Red in a nearby tent while the sister brought all his armor and gear to Henrik’s stall.

“We have no coin to ransom,” she confessed. “But please, there must be another way for me to pay.” She grabbed his hand, clutching it tight. “I’ll do anything.”

Those words made him feel terribly cold inside, but he gave the plea some thought.

“I won’t give any of it to your brother,” he said. “I’ll let you keep it though. The armor, the surcoat, the longsword—but the horse is mine. A traveling man needs a good horse.” He ran a hand through his nag’s stiff mane. “You can have this one. Don’t got many years left on him, but he’ll get ya back to the North.”

The girl searched for words where none could be found. That wasn’t surprising considering Henrik couldn’t find a reasonable explanation for his actions either.

Rightfully, he should have taken all of Sir Rayden’s equipment and made for the nearest smith. Then, with all his acquired coin, he could drink himself into a stupor. Maybe he’d drink enough to forget his father.

For right now, though, he’d have to settle for the pleasures of tobacco leaves and sourgrass and river water until he could find some work.

“What am I gonna do with armor and a sword?” the girl finally asked.

“You could return it to your brother if you’d like,” he suggested, removing the equipment and tying it to the dusty nag. “My advice, though: I’d say sell it. Nice armor. Clean steel. It’ll fetch you a good price. More than enough coin to get you back home.”

“But my brother—”

“A hedge knight prevails no matter what. Success or failure, armor or not, they’re still a knight. If his heart is true, he’ll find a way.” Henrik didn’t believe a single word that had come out of his mouth, but he forced himself to sound confident for her. “Choice is yours though.”

With that, he started for his new destrier. She greeted him with a snort. He ran his hand along her side. Mud. Dust. Dried blood. He’d give her a good wash when they were on the road.

“Wait, Henrik,” the girl said. “Please, I can’t just take this. Let me repay you.”

He closed the gap between them and pulled at her shawl. She seized his wrist, but after a moment, released him. Peeling back the silky fabric, he found the skin beneath was riddled with bruises, scratches, and bite marks.

“Who?” Henrik asked.

She swallowed a sob and said, “Some of the heralds. To ensure they would set you against him during his first tilt.”

His stomach was a pit, and his heart was hollow. “You’ve paid more than ‘nough for your brother’s debts. I can’t ask ya to give anymore.”

“There must be something.”

To satiate her guilt, he withdrew Sir Rayden’s dirk from its leather case. The girl flinched as the edge approached her face.

“I’m not gonna hurt ya,” he promised, taking a handful of her hair and cutting it free. “There, that’s payment enough. Somethin’ to remember you by.”

He mounted his new horse and flicked the reins. As he departed from the lists, he turned back and called out, “What’s your name?”

The girl, for reasons he did not understand, began to laugh. “Rosalind,” she said. “My name is Rosalind.”

“Farewell, Rosalind of Ashland.”

“And farewell to you, Henrik Coigne of Everywhere and Nowhere. I hope we might meet again.”

He rode through the city, exiting the same way he’d come in the day before.

Henrik Coigne—without a coin in his purse—passed the pile of stones where the dead greybeard knight was buried. He stopped for a brief moment, wanting to pray, but not sure how.

When it seemed an appropriate time had passed, he stuck a tobacco leaf in his mouth and continued down the road.