COINNEACH CASTLE—

THE KINGDOM OF VANDOLAY
1238 CE

All hail his royal majesty, Francis, King of Vandolay,” the herald announced one mid–August afternoon. When the king and his new advisor approached the stairs to the Royal Box, the crowd erupted in applause, which drowned out the questioning whispers.

As they began their climb up the stairs, the king waved to the crowd, surveying the field. The stands had been decorated with green and white banners of the royal family crest and were filled with lords and ladies from various houses in the kingdom. Francis was pleased to see the wooden barrier, which stretched most of the length of the field, had been repaired after an unfortunate incident during the previous jousting festivities.

Looking to either end of the barrier, the king smiled when he saw several tents set up, each one carrying the colours and sigils of the different houses the knights were representing. His eyes lingered briefly on the tent bearing his own sigil—a green shield with a golden split–tailed lion leaning against a great helm with a golden visor and magnificent green and gold feathers. His heart warmed, reminding him of his love for his son, his only heir, who was preparing himself for the one-on-one challenge.

This was extra special for the royal family because today the king would pass on a family heirloom, a pendant said to have been created by a warlock from the kingdom of Aracelly in order to protect the royal line from elimination. The king himself had never seen the charm do any magic, so there was doubt in his mind of the pendant’s origin or whether any part of the story he had been told as a child was true; however, he hoped once he placed it around his son’s neck, these doubts would be put to rest.

The king took his place in the furthest seat on the right while Orlynd hesitated. He wondered why there were three chairs when only the king was seated. Before Orlynd could question, the king interrupted his thoughts.

“You shall stand beside me. The other seats are for the High Lord Steward, and his daughter, Lady Anya, who is betrothed to my son,” Francis stated, turning his head, hearing a carriage approach. “And what splendid timing, their carriage arrives.”

Orlynd turned around, and positioned his arms under the sleeves of his robe while he took his place next to the king’s chair. He looked up to see a magnificent carriage approaching the fair grounds. It was shaped like a shield with a stylised crown on top and was covered in gold leaf. There were three windows through which the occupants could see the passing countryside or, more importantly, through which the people could see them. The panels below the windows were a forest green, the official colour of the steward.

The door of the carriage promptly opened and servants waited for their appearance. First, stepped out the steward, known to the people of Vandolay as the Hand of the King and overseer of court trials. He reached behind him for his daughter, who had cautiously placed her hand on the side of the carriage. Her festive dress equally caught the attention of women and men with its flashy royal blue and gold colouring with golden lacing.

“Herald!” Francis commanded, startling the herald who had become enchanted by Lady Anya’s beauty.

“All hail, High Lord Steward Ciarán Hrodulf, and his daughter, Lady Anya of Glendalow!” yelled the herald promptly.

Anya was a beautiful, intelligent, medium–sized young woman, the same age as the crowned prince. She had a perfect light complexion, when not hidden by enormous amounts of makeup, piercing hazel eyes, and well–developed breasts. Her long blonde hair was tied up in a bun while wavy strands lay loose on each side of her face.

Francis smiled, watching Orlynd’s facial expressions closely, believing the warlock was becoming charmed. “Lady Anya is very pleasing to the eye, is she not?”

“Aye,” Orlynd replied, distracted, not by the Anya’s beauty, but by a warning he felt in his heart. Something did not feel right. He continued to stare at them as they made their way towards the Royal box.

“She comes to us from Glendalow,” Francis inserted, nodding in the direction of Anya. “Glendalow is one of the former kingdoms in Iverna, now a conquered territory of Vandolay. She resides with her father, who serves as my hand, at Tarloch Castle, where all of our rather difficult prisoners are sent. She shall one day be your queen, and with utmost certainty, will lead this kingdom to greatness. If she were not already betrothed to my son, I would be happy to claim her.”

Anya smiled, catching Orlynd and the king staring at her. At that moment, Orlynd saw a vision of the royal goblet placed on a table. A small amount of clear liquid was being added to the ale, which was already in it.

The royal goblet. Someone means tae din his Grace harm, Orlynd concluded.

Francis leaned in, startling Orlynd. He laughed, seeing a blush starting to form over Orlynd’s checks, before continuing. “She has grown into quite the woman. She knows what she wants and how to get it. These people will love her just as I do,” Francis teased before turning his attention back to his guests.

“Yer Grace, Ah must inform yis ay something,” Orlynd began anxiously, only to be ignored.

“High Lord Steward!” Francis greeted the noble party. “I am honoured with your presence. I have specifically arranged these chairs for the duration of the tournament.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the steward replied after bowing. “There is no need to be so benevolent. The honour is ours. May it please Your Majesty to present to you my daughter, Anya. If I recall correctly it has been several years since she has seen Your Highness, has it not?”

“Aye, it has,” replied Francis, his eyes twinkling. He gazed at Anya. “Please, approach my Lady.”

“Your Grace,” Anya responded with a half–smile, her lips tucked in slightly. She curtsied and bent her body forward, keeping her eyes locked on the king. In doing so, she exposed the top of her cleavage, yet concealed the vial of clear liquid between the cleft of her breasts.

“Your beauty is ravishing, my lady. You will make a satisfying suitor for my son,” the king said, charmed.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she answered with a smile.

“Please, allow me to introduce you both to my new advisor from the kingdom of Aracelly, the warlock, Orlynd. He is the son of Celeste, my former advisor.”

“Lord Steward, milady.” Orlynd bowed, growing further uneasy. There was something very wrong with these two. It felt as if darkness filled their hearts, but he could not figure out why.

The steward and his daughter nodded back.

“Now, it will please me to have you be more present in this kingdom,” the king interjected. “Would you like that, Lady Anya?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she answered with a smile.

Orlynd felt further unease. Her smile came too quickly and was not matched in her eyes.

“Then it shall be! Please, take a seat beside me. I must address my subjects about the tournament in my son’s honour.”

Francis stood from his chair to address the crowd. When the cheers and applause subsided, he proceeded, “Good people of the realm, and those from visiting realms, I thank you for joining me for today’s festivities. Today marks the day my son, the crown prince, becomes the rightful age to marry, and therefore a special entertainment has been arranged for his guests, in which the best knights of the realm shall joust till all save one have been disqualified. By the crown’s tradition my son shall challenge this knight in order to earn his rightful place as champion! May the best knight or royal prevail! Afterward, please join us for dining and dancing in the banquet hall. High Lord Steward, if you would please do the honour,” he said, gesturing to the steward.

The High Lord Steward stood from his chair and promptly announced, “Let the tournament begin!”

An eruption of cheering filled the stands as the first two knights took their positions. The first to face the king’s guard was Antonio. He came from a very noble family and was the son of a prominent general. His arrogance was unfathomable, and most of the knights whose names were on the list had grown tired of his endless boasting.

Aindrias, the king’s guard, stared Antonio down. Losing wasn’t an option for he could not foresee himself handling the embarrassment. He lowered his helmet and commanded his horse to charge down the barrier towards his opponent. Antonio’s lance was knocked out of his hands, while Aindrias’s lance shattered after making contact between the saddle and helm.

“Three points for Aindrias!” the herald announced.

“I expect that shall not be the last lance to break today,” Francis smirked.

“Forgive me, Yir Grace,” Orlynd said while the knights prepared for their next pass. “Is nae thir something less dangerous tae celebrate the prince’s coming ay age?”

“And what would you consider is appropriate?” Francis challenged.

“Ah dinnae know, Yir Grace,” Orlynd answered.

“Let me remind you, yesterday you were nothing more than the boy of a banished Chancellor. Be grateful your mother was honourable.”

The High Lord Steward cleared his throat while Anya glanced over to the warlock, a sly smile escaping her lips.

Orlynd felt heat rise to his cheeks again.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, the warlock is only concerned about your son’s continued health and good fortune,” the steward commented.

“My son is not some mandrake mymmerkin, steward!” Francis snapped.

“Good gracious, he is not. I’m sure the warlock meant no offense,” Ciarán answered, trying to calm the king.

On the field, Aindrias charged down the barrier towards his opponent, their lances shattering as each made contact with their gritted grand–guards.

“Another point rewarded to each competitor,” the herald announced. While they waited for the knights to ready themselves for the third pass, the steward turned back to the warlock. “Tell us, is this your first individual joust tournament? You must excuse me, your name is Orlynd, is it not?” Ciarán inquired.

“Aye.”

“I see. Then, perhaps I may suggest to his Grace that he educate his young advisor?” Ciarán proposed.

“You may certainly not!” Francis glared at Ciarán. “Who do you think I am? I am the king, not some nursemaid meant to educate waifs. I will excuse your outburst since my son will be marrying your daughter.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I apologise.”

Francis smiled slightly then quickly turned away.

At the same time Aindrias charged down the barrier towards his opponent, this time Antonio’s lance shattered while Aindrias’s lance missed.

“Two points for Antonio,” the herald announced.

Francis turned his attention to Ciarán.

Feeling Francis’s eyes on him, Ciarán took in a deep breath, and said, “Prepare to be amazed, young warlock! Jousting has been the tradition of this country for centuries during times of peace. It was once used for military training, now evolved as a sport competition allowing nobles to demonstrate who is the mightiest and the bravest,” he explained. “There are some basic rules. First, the competitor must be a noble from Vandolay or Glendalow; commoners are only permitted to be spectators.”

“Whit about warlocks from Aracelly?” Orlynd interrupted.

“Your Majesty?” Ciarán asked, looking for assistance in the explanation.

Francis rolled his eyes. “They were once permitted to joust, until too many were caught manipulating the game using their magic.”

“Ah see,” said Orlynd.

“Second, each noble must provide his own equipment and horse. The squire is the only person permitted to provide a new lance if it should break, speak between charges, and help the competitor up if he should become unhorsed. Third, if the noble is successful in
de–horsing his opponent, the match is declared over, and the victor may claim his opponent’s armour and horse.”

“He may also hold his opponent at ransom if he should so wish,” Francis interjected, grinning.

Ciarán nodded in acknowledgement and continued. “Points are awarded as follows: If a lance breaks at the chest and between saddle and helm, one point is given. If a lance breaks at the helm or base, it is two points, and if a competitor should become unhorsed or drop their lance, it is three points. Do you understand?”

“Aye.”

“Now, please observe the knight’s attire,” Ciarán said. “Their armour is constructed from the finest mail, accompanied by a solid, heavy helmet, called a great helm, and mighty shields composed to take the hardest blows.”

With a wink Francis teased, “There’s even a little extra padding at the rear for when they get de–horsed. I do hope you have a stomach strong enough to handle violence. These things do tend to occasionally get gory.”

At that moment the crowd’s cheering increased and the king’s guard readied his lance and charged his opponent, knocking Antonio quickly off his horse and onto the ground.

Francis applauded. “Splendid! Another victory for Aindrias. He makes the other knights on the list look like fools.”

Orlynd gazed at the fallen knight with concern, hearing him moan on the ground in pain. “Yir Grace, is that man injured?”

“Never mind, the squire will attend to him.”

Unable to accept this embarrassment, the knight stood back on his feet, revealed a small knife from underneath his armour and threw it towards his opponent, hitting the horse. The horse neighed and stood on its back legs, knocking Aindrias onto the ground.

“Seize that man!” Francis commanded. “How dare his frustration be taken out on an innocent horse.”

“I will see the knight is rightfully punished, Your Grace,” Ciarán stated. He stood up from his chair and walked over to where guards had surrounded Antonio. “Take him away!”

The remainder of the afternoon went without incident. By the time it had come for the prince’s appearance, the field had been narrowed down to one remaining knight, Aindrias, who other than having a sore back from being thrown from his horse a few times, was eager for the prince’s challenge. He had obtained better armour and a faster horse.

Déor appeared from his tent to the eruption of the spectator’s applause, riding on Arthelea, a magnificent white horse with brown patches that was already attuned to the competition. The prince smiled and lifted his right hand to greet everyone.

“Aindrias,” Déor mused while the squire approached with a lance. “I cannot think of a worthier opponent. My father chose well in the selection of his guard.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Aindrias replied. “I am honoured to accept your challenge.”

Déor grinned and lifted his lance into the air to the crowd’s applause. He trotted over to the royal box.

“My lady, would you kindly do me the honour?” Déor requested, reaching his lance out towards Anya so she could tie a ribbon from her hair to symbolise that Déor represented her in the competition.

“My prince,” Anya answered with a slightly higher pitch, keeping her eyes fixed on his.

“Please, accompany me to the viewing stand for the Lady of the Joust.”