The Discarded Knight by Andrew Johnston

Author:Andrew Johnston
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Andrew Johnston
Published: 2024-10-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

The wind rushed through the trees over a balding field of one of the mountain valley’s highest hills. The village’s pieced together stonework hid below the trees. Alfred rubbed his fingers, hoping he wouldn’t disappoint his brothers and sisters. Mark helped him up onto the horse, giving instructions after catching his breath.

After climbing down the mountain, the horse’s height wasn’t a challenge. Tremors still ran through Alfred’s hands, though. A carriage didn’t move unless made to. The horse snorted, pawing at the balding practice ground while Mark applied his armor. It was dinted and almost fit but there was too much room no matter how tight the straps were. Forty yards ahead of him Leonardo moved the quintain into position. A small barn stood to its left and racks of practice lances to the right.

“A few more adjustments shall keep you safe from harm.” Mark straightened the small breastplate before double checking the shoulder pads and gauntlets. “You are most lucky that our recent champion was near your size.”

Alfred’s eyes and mind wandered over to his mother. She weaved her fingers, pulling both elbows into her sides after another breeze came and went. Squinting in the sunlight, Alfred nibbled at his lower lip when she sat on a barrel shaded by a rack of lances. He gave her a wave, not hearing Mark’s instructions while trying to give the impression he was okay. The horse moved back and forth between his legs as if replaying the night he fell.

“Alfred, have you been listening?” Mark said.

Alfred blinked, mouth gaping at the flustered wizard in his ice-blue robes.

“I’m sorry. Mum looked worried, an’ I just wanted to—”

Mark shoved the helmet into Alfred’s hands. A shut and clank from its cone-shaped visor followed.

“She shall be even more so when you fall from Nancy before ever learning to ride her.”

As he held the helmet for a moment, Nancy snorted again. The sun glared off the helmet’s brow like the ones worn by the knights in his mother’s stories. Those knights rode with grace, fearlessly charging and thrusting their lances. A lance lay on the ground behind Mark. It had to be twelve feet in length, and when Leonardo had tried regaining his grip on its rough wood earlier, he’d thought it must weigh a lot too.

“You’re right,” said Alfred, sighning. “Can you tell me again?”

The wizard narrowed his dark green eyes, making Alfred thrust the helmet on to hide for a second. Mark’s eyelids crinkled, and his irises focused just the same as Charles’s did. The unyielding focus cracked Alfred’s pores like an egg, sending sweat down his face.

“Only once again and with haste, for”—Mark fastened Alfred’s helmet to his gorget— “the tourney is a fortnight away.”

Mark ran through each item from a full gallop to a trot. Alfred nodded at the end, remembering Don Quixote with his windmills when Mark spoke of how to strike the quintain.

Wobbling with it a little, Mark raised the black lance with its gold corkscrew stripe to him.

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