A vision of his father’s face swam into view and Otto straightened up.
Get a hold of yourself, boy.
Althalos was watching. Nay, most of the North was watching. He knew he must fight. He must win. He must remain undefeated. For the glory of Darkmoor.
“It’s time, milord,” Robin said, nervously.
Without a word to his companions, Otto mounted his horse and re-entered the arena where the noise from the crowd had swelled to a constant undulating wave. Half a smile cracked his uncle’s frozen expression as he witnessed the victories of Darkmoor’s finest warriors. All of whom had been trained by Otto.
His horse wheeled around, and Otto reined her in.
“Easy girl,” he murmured.
She tossed her mane and snorted, ready to charge. Otto raised his lance.
Show no weakness. Show no mercy.
The man before him was a trained warrior, a challenger like any other. He must be overpowered.
Benedict, the boy who just two years ago had run races in the castle fields, flipped down his visor.
The flag went up. Otto urged his horse forward and focused on his target, but Benedict’s charger was fast and came upon them at surprising speed. Otto’s thrusting blow was sound, but not powerful enough for the clean, decisive victory he sought. Benedict was injured, bent low over his horse’s neck, but he was not unseated. They must ride again.
Perspiration beaded beneath Otto’s heavy helm and ran into his eyes as he cursed his own stupidity. He yanked at the reins, furious with the horse that had let him down. He could hear his uncle’s mocking voice in his head.
“So, not the fastest horse in Darkmoor today.”
Benedict steadied his lance. They were ready.
Otto rammed his spurs into the horse’s sides, making her rear with alarm, then bolt forward with a surge of energy, like lightning striking a tree. Otto readied himself for the blow, closing his ears to the roar of the crowd, seeing only his opponent and the point at which he must strike.
Benedict slumped to one side; his feet still tangled in the stirrups. His horse bolted and the boy was all but unseated, but at the last moment he regained his balance. The crowd gasped, and Otto cursed savagely under his breath, reining in his horse beside the royal enclosure.
“Let him retire,” came the call from the stands. A woman, most probably a mother herself, wrung her hands in alarm.
Otto flipped up his visor to see a blood-soaked Benedict struggling to remain in the saddle.
“Send for the stretcher bearers,” he ordered. His voice carried easily through the arena.
Althalos stood slowly, shaking his head. His natural air of authority made all around him fall silent. “The competitor is still mounted,” he declared. “The joust must continue.”
Otto’s chest tightened in anger. He was the earl. How dare Althalos question his judgement? But at the back of his mind, he knew the rules of the joust were clear. His uncle was correct.
For the second time, his head whirred with confusion. Under his father’s rule, Otto knew there would be no doubt. He would ride out once more against Benedict, even if the boy was killed in the process.
The crowd was growing restless. Some shouted out their agreement with Sir Althalos, others their disapproval. Otto’s heart pounded beneath his chain mail. This was his chance to assert his rule.
“The competitor is but a boy. One who may yet rise to become a knight of Darkmoor,” he stated firmly, raising his voice to be heard above the clamor from the stands. “But not if his back is broken here today.”
This time the chorus of approval was deafeningly loud. Otto beckoned for the stretcher-bearers to enter the arena and cantered out, dismounting as soon as they were safely out of sight. He removed his helm and wiped the sweat from his brow.
The horse’s flanks were flecked with blood from his spurs. Her mouth foamed and her eyes bulged with fear.
Behind him, Otto heard weeping as Benedict’s mother ran towards her fallen son.
Otto looked over to the ancient trees of Darkmoor Forest. They waved slightly in the breeze, peaceful and calm.
He laid a hand on his quivering horse.
