Elora nodded.
“They love to talk about weapons. Go and ask him,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the village.
“Youcan tell me.”
He grinned at her, swiping his hair from his eyes. “I’ll tell you one thing, and then I have to go. Your father can tell you the rest.”
Elora quickly sat close to him, flattening the long wisps of grass by stretching out her legs in front of her, and leaned in to listen.
“You have to pick the right steel to make the weapon. Even knives for eating require steel.” He looked down the length of his rusty knife. “It takes a long time to temper the dagger.”
“What does temper mean?”
“Heat and cool it to strengthen the metal.” He stood. “Ask your father about tempering. That should get his interest. If not, ask him what the best steel is to create the best dagger.”
She shot to her feet with renewed hope, looking at the practice field where her father was. “Thank you.”
He nodded, mumbling, “Good luck.” He began to walk back toward the castle.
Elora darted away from the forest, excited about the prospect of talking to her father about daggers and steel. She stopped and turned to glance back through the long stalks for the boy, but he was gone.
Chapter One
England
1193
The gentle breeze swirled throughthe green leaves of the tall trees, moving through the thick forest following the cheers of the crowd as if eager to see what was happening. It dove into the mass of people standing behind the wooden fence of the field of honor. It twirled through skirts of peasant women on tiptoe to see the joust. It brushed around farmers who waved their arms in the air, cheering, and sped past excited children jumping up and down. It whooshed through the open dusty field, heading toward the feet of a horse charging down the list. The sharp hooves trampled the wind, dispersing it.
The knight atop the horse lowered his lance toward his opponent as they rushed at each other. A roar from the spectators filled the arena at the impending impact.
The long, thin lance struck the black shield with explosive power, lunging past that wooden barrier to slam into the chainmail on his rival’s shoulder, twisting him sideways off his horse. For a moment, he was suspended in the air, looking down before landing in a puff of dust on the ground. The splintered lance rained around him like falling leaves. The crowd stood in the grass on the sides of the field in stunned silence.
Sir Julian of Helmsley reined his horse in at the end of the field and swiveled in his saddle to look at his opponent covered in a thin layer of dust. The eerie stillness of the crowd could not dampen Julian’s confident elation. He had unhorsed his adversary! In practice, he had placed a knight on the ground hundreds of times but had never done so during a tournament before. Not only had he unhorsed his adversary, but he had won his first victory!
He pulled his helmet from his head. The cool air greeted his sweat-soaked skin with a welcomed kiss of refreshment.
Another moment of silence passed before a splattering of astonished applause slowly filled the arena.
Sir Osmont unsteadily rose from the ground, his hand gripping his squire’s, who had raced out to aid him. Once on his feet, the knight angrily shoved his squire away.
A satisfied grin stretched across Julian’s lips, and joy bubbled inside of him. Of all the knights to defeat in his first tournament, Osmont was the most welcomed. He remembered his father telling him long ago that Osmont was a stronger knight than he could ever hope to be, a knight he should try to copy, a knight who was better than he in every aspect. He laughed to himself. What would his father think now? Oh, sweet triumph!
Osmont was his first victory in a tournament! In hisfirsttournament!
Exhilaration coursed through his veins. He’d known he could do it. He had spent years training, practicing with the quintain, preparing with the shield and lance. Still, like a shadow in his mind, there had always been doubt.
His squire and good friend, Gilbert, sped across the field toward him. He had never seen Gilbert move so quickly. He was a stocky man with a constantly jovial expression. Now, that expression was pure delight, a smile lighting his plump face. He grasped the reins of Julian’s horse, and Julian handed him his shield and helmet before swinging his foot over the horse to dismount, his chainmail coat clinking like soft bells.
“You did it!” Gilbert praised, clearly surprised.
“I told you I would,” Julian answered, pulling his gauntlets from his hands. He spotted his mentor, Sir Baldwin, waiting at the edge of the grass for him. After patting the horse’s neck and whispering, “Good boy, Storm,” Julian headed for Baldwin.
Gilbert stared at the helmet handed to him for a moment, unsure of how to conduct this balancing act. He held the remaining lances in the crook of his right arm while gripping the shield and Storm’s reins with his other. Finally, he plopped the helmet onto the top of his head and stumbled after Julian.
As Julian approached Baldwin, his mentor crossed his arms. Gray hair stuck up in several places, and his mustache drooped around his lips. Deep lines were set in his brow from his perpetual frown. His body was as thick as a tree in testament to the years of practice the old warrior had endured. One side of his mouth lifted in a grin. “Well done, boy. Well done.”
Julian had never seen a pleased expression on Baldwin’s face and was stunned by the compliment.
