Chapter Eleven

At least a couple hundred people crowd the benches lining a sloped hill facing the arena. Others stand to the sides, clogging up the walking paths, and more people huddle along the forest edge, clinging to the shade. A lot of the patrons wave brightly colored flags, supporting their favorite knights.

The King and Queen are seated on a canopied pavilion at the top of the hill. To the King’s right is an honored guest (in this case, it’s a faire patron whose name was pulled out of a raffle) and to his left sits the Queen. She’s wearing the coronation dress Mom crafted last year. Its deep crimson pops against her pale skin. Ruby lipstick accents the gown. The Queen’s ladies-in-waiting crowd around her, serving tea and crumpets. One lady slowly waves a large feather fan in her direction. Standing off to the far right side of the King is the trumpeter. He generally kicks off the joust with a blaring toot and announces the end by repeating the song.

“We missed the King and Queen’s introductions,” Mary complains.

“We have two weeks to catch it. Besides, it’s not like we haven’t seen it before.”

“I know, but I like to see the Queen’s gowns.” She flops onto the edge of a bench and I gather my skirt to squeeze between her and a Rubenesque wench. Seriously, her boobs are bigger than most watermelons. And her corset is so tight it turns ’em into torpedoes.

Two groups of riders cluster at either end of the tilt. They’re dressed in armor and their horses’ barding shows their colors—yellow, green, blue, red, orange, white, purple, and black. An even number of Knights for an even number of jousts. Some horses are docile, standing with their necks extended and relaxed, while others pace impatiently, feeding off the energy around them. The mare from the other day is particularly agitated. She prances in place, tossing her head now and then. Her rider goes with it, letting her blow off some tense energy. The actors shout at one another and call each other names. Laughter and random shouts of “huzzah” bounce around the crowd.

I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of William. He should be with the Blue Knight.

“There he is.” Mary points and I follow her finger to the barn’s entrance. William jogs out, carrying a bunch of narrow lances in his arms. Shequan is with him. He’s dressed in red and black, matching his father’s color. While the crest on William’s costume is a roaring lion, Shequan’s is a fire-breathing dragon.

“Cheer for thy Knight!” A young boy, dressed as a squire in training, waves a rainbow of flags in my face. “Pick your color. Fifty cents!” he shouts.

I flail my arms. “You don’t have to yell.”

Mary shakes her coin purse. Loose change jingles inside and the boy zeroes in on it. She pulls the mouth open and sticks her fingers inside, drawing out two quarters. “Blue, please.”

The mini-squire grins. “Thankee, m’lady!”

Mary hands me the flag and the boy moves down the line, pushing his felt flags on the crowd.

William and Shequan pass around the narrow lances, one for each Knight. The riders cut and parry with them, circling their horses around one another. The play grabs the audience’s attention and they hush.

The White Knight trots to the center of the arena, where I’d had my late-night study session the night before. His horse, a giant white Percheron, tosses its head. Two ponies ridden by colorful jesters trot behind him. One is dressed in yellow and red and the other in purple and orange. They flank him on either side and screech, “Huzzah!” while jutting their fists in the air.

The knight makes a big show of frowning at the wannabe jousters. He swings his arm to quiet them down. “Shush,” he hisses, loud enough for all of us to hear.

Laughter cascades through the crowd.

The knight clears his throat like a disapproving parent. “Welcome, patrons, to the joust!”

In unison, the ponies extend their left front feet and bend their right front feet. Dipping their noses to the dirt, they bow. The jesters slump forward and tumble over the ponies’ heads, landing in a heap. This gets the crowd roaring.

As the jesters dust themselves off and make a spectacle of mounting their short and stocky steeds, the knight gives the crowd a mini history lesson. “Here, you will behold the most popular sport of the Middle Ages.”

He gestures for the jesters to demonstrate. They spin their ponies in a circle and split off, yellow-red cantering to the left end of the tilt and purple-orange trotting to the right. They hold their reins high and flop their arms—the exact opposite of how it’s supposed to be done, but the comedy of it delights us.

“Jousting calls for the bravest of men—” The jesters “huzzah!” again and the Knight glares at them. “…to race at full gallop toward one another, holding twelve-foot long lances.”

A squire gives each jester a fat, black and white striped, three-foot long stick. Yellow-red fumbles his lance, while purple-orange inspects his to make sure it’s not warped or cracked.

“The goal is to knock the opponent off their steed.” The White Knight gallops his horse to the arena’s corner and halts. He spins his horse to face the tilt, extends his arm, and chops the air.

The jesters whoop! and charge at one another. Cheers volley through the crowd as yellow-red knocks purple-orange off his pony. Yellow-red takes a victory lap and promptly falls off his ride while coming to a stop.

Addressing the crowd for a final time, the White Knight announces, “The winner takes the spoils and earns a dance with the Queen at the coronation ceremony on the last day of the faire!”

The audience applauds and so do I, caught up in the moment. I don’t give a crap about dancing with the Queen, and there’s a heck of a lot more to jousting than he said, but nobody wants to hear it. They just want to see the action.

The knights kick off the games by charging from one end of the arena to the other and back. Then they take turns racing down the tilt, trying to catch small rings with their narrow lances. The rings are hung from ten-foot high poles and are spaced fifteen feet apart. Some of the rings are as small as a couple inches across.

When the Blue Knight rides, William does his best to incite the audience. I whip my flag around and scream, grinning more for him than for his Knight. William salutes me and gives me a bow.

I scream even louder when his knight catches all the rings.

The Purple Knight prepares to go next. His squire holds his shield as he tests the weight of his lance.

I elbow Mary. “Oh, my gosh, it’s Evan!”

Evan rushes to the fence and shakes a fist in the air while displaying his knight’s shield. A white unicorn, rearing up on its hind legs, pops out against the plum background.

Mary grins and waves.

“Go Evan!” I call.

He turns his head in our direction and shouts, “Huzzah!”

Mary and I echo his cry. “Huzzah!”

“I didn’t know he was a squire.” Mary has to shout in my ear over the cheering of the audience.

“He’s so cute!” I holler back.

She futzes with a tangled curl, her gaze fixed on Evan. They’re such a perfect match for each other. No magick required. I dip my chin, buckling under the pressure of shame. I’d chanted to make William like me more. Here I am, accusing Mary of avoiding everything when it’s actually me who’s the coward.

After the ring catch, the knights retreat to their respective corners and pair off for the joust. First, the Yellow and Green Knights face off. The Green Knight’s bay gelding rears while the Yellow Knight’s Appaloosa paws at the dirt. Each warrior lowers his lance so it’s horizontal with the ground.

Their squires rouse the audience into a frenzy of screams and flag waving. A horn player bleats out a tri-toned tune, bringing the crowd down to an expectant silence. It’s the pulse and surge, the rise and fall of energy that people thrive on.

“Charge!” The Yellow Knight cries and the pair spur their mounts to a full gallop.

I imagine what it would be like to be in the arena, riding a horse, staring down my opponent. How awesome would it be to ride on the back of such a powerful animal, armed with a lance and shield, swelling with the pride of pre-battle adrenaline?

I close my eyes and the world melts away. Instead of an arena and bustling crowd of faire patrons, I see Castor and Pollux astride a pair of black stallions, manes and tails flowing in the breeze. The twins give each other toothy grins, more for sport than war. In unison, they lower their spears and charge at one another.

The sharp thwack! of the Green Knight’s lance impacting the Yellow Knight’s chest plate catapults me into reality. But the vision is enough to ignite an ancient call. Something surges inside me, tingling along my spine like ghostly fingers. My muscles tense.

The crowd shouts when the Yellow Knight collides with the ground. A plume of dirt rises in his wake and his horse skids to a halt. The Green Knight canters to the end of the tilt, raises his lance, and shouts, “Huzzah!”

“Huzzah!” I shout, shooting to my feet and thrusting my fist in the air.

Mary grabs a fistful of my skirt and tugs. “Sit down.” Alarm furrows her brow.

My butt smacks the bench. “What?”

“We’ve seen the joust a hundred times. What’s got you so worked up?”

“This is way more exciting than seeing the Queen’s gown, don’t you think?” I slide my fingers across the edge of my flag and twirl it. “Castor and Pollux would enjoy this.”

“Huh?” She tips her head to the side.

A gust of wind taunts the trees and a wall of charcoal clouds advances across the sky. Lightning flickers between the puffy ridges. Half a second later, a peal of thunder rips the air.

The Blue Knight’s horse whinnies and rears. The mare twists, knocking William over. He rolls out of the way, narrowly escaping her hooves.

She rears again, despite her rider’s yanking at the reins.

“William!” I leap to my feet and run to the arena. He’ll get stomped to death if he doesn’t move. The folds of my skirt slow me down. I hike the fabric up around my knees.

Shequan dives around the animal, tackles William, and rolls both of them away from the horses. They land a few feet from the fence.

I drop to my knees and stretch my arm through the rungs, but I can’t reach them. “Are you okay?”

William plunks his head on the ground and exhales. “Thanks to Shequan.”

Shequan hops to his feet and extends a hand to William. “No biggie, man.”

William claps Shequan’s hand and grunts as he rises. Dirt cakes their costumes and dusts their hair.

Lightning cracks the sky, powering yet another drum of thunder. Fat water pellets smack my head. One, two, a thousand drop on us in an instant. Rain falls so densely it creates solid sheets.

The Knight dismounts and drives the mare toward the barn. The rest of the troupe does the same.

It doesn’t take the crowd long to figure out the show is over. They disperse to nearby shoppes and tents. Doesn’t matter. Everybody is soaked anyway. Storms can crop up fast, but this is ridiculous.

William stares down at me. Water streams over his hair and down his face, but he doesn’t seem to notice or mind. Right here, in this moment, all his focus is on me. And I don’t mind one bit. He curls his fingers around the fence rung between us. His dimples make an appearance.

“That was really scary.” I lay a hand over his. Our skin is slippery.

“That mare tends to spook.” He flips his hand over to lace his fingers with mine.

I shiver, not from the cold rain, but from his searing touch.

“Anne! Our dresses!” Mary slops to me. Her hair is plastered to her head and her lime-green dress appears several shades darker.

Crap. Mom is going to murder us. So much for a romantic moment in the rain.

“I have to help with the horses. I’ll see you later?” William drops his hand from mine. He shakes his hair out and runs to the barn, stepping in the puddles as he goes.

Mary grips my arm. “We have to get inside.”

I nod, half-dazed.

We leave the fence and step onto the path, but there are too many puddles, so we shift to the grass. At the end of the street, a hunched figure in a hooded cloak darts in front of us.

“Hello, girls.” Zeena lifts the edge of her hood. The old woman blinks and I swear her pupils are vertical slits before they round back out.

I swallow a yelp.

Mary and I retreat.

The woman follows. “You’ve invoked them, haven’t you?”

“Invoked who?” I counter.

“The Gemini twins, Castor and Pollux,” she hisses.

Thunder rattles my eardrums. The ground vibrates.

“You don’t know what you’ve done.” The old woman lunges and clamps her sinewy fingers around my wrist. Her grip is stronger than I expect. “Playing with such power is dangerous for an untrained witch. But I could teach you.”

A tugging sensation draws me closer to her. It presses against my chest and squeezes my lungs. I struggle to suck in air. Pulling away, I cry, “Let me go!”

Mary swats Zeena’s arm away. We dash toward the main path, fleeing the old woman’s blood-curdling cackle. Lightning flashes like a strobe light.

“Let’s get to Dad’s smithy!” I wheeze, glancing over my shoulder to check if Zeena is following. I slip in the mud, landing on my knees and grinding more mud into Mom’s dress. Mary catches me so I don’t faceplant.

By the time we reach Dad’s building, we’re chilled through, covered in muck, and sobbing.

Dad rushes out of the back room. “What in the…Girls? What’re you doing here? You’re soaked! Mom’s dresses.”

I sit on the wood floor while Mary rests her hands on her knees. We’re both panting. I’d say, “Thanks, Captain Obvious,” but there’s no way my mouth can manage words.

I paw around my coin purse and my fingers latch onto my inhaler. Dark spots crowd at the edge of my vision. My chest burns and body shakes. I need to stop this asthma attack.

Dad rushes over to me. “Anne, take slow, deep breaths, honey. Imagine the air going into your lungs. You can do it.”

I nod, opening and closing my mouth like a guppy. My insides twist and tumble, rubbing raw from friction. It’s hard to hear Mary and Dad over the pounding of my heart and the rain beating on the tin roof.

“Get her some warm water,” Dad barks. He rubs my back as if that’ll make my lungs more efficient.

Mary scurries to the other room. She reappears with a bottle of water in seconds. She holds it to my mouth, but her hands shake so badly that she spills water down my chin.

“I’m okay,” I manage to squeak out the words.

“Freak storm, eh? Triggered an attack?” Dad leans back on his heels, still pressing a hand on my shoulder.

Mary caps the water bottle. “Um, we, uh…” She looks at me, eyes round.

My tongue feels like stone. I open my mouth to say, “An old lady attacked us,” but my lips won’t form the words. My voice box won’t produce sound. And it’s not because of asthma. I literally can’t say anything.

Mary claps a hand over her mouth. Is she mute too?

Holy crap.