The Duke’s armor was beautiful. But it was well beaten in spots, the metal dented at the shoulders and upper arms. He sat with his courtiers and men at the side of the lists.
A man came onto the field, a man in all black and gold armor. He wore his helmet, but his voice boomed. “I will not yield the field until someone beats me!” He wore what looked like light chain mail, and a heavy breastplate, shoulder guards that were at least a foot across, and an armored kilt that clinked when he walked.
“Oh, come on, buddy, we got a tourney to do,” complained someone.
“For my entry fee, and for the feast, I will not yield until I have fought each and every one of you knights, viscounts, dukes, and even kings.”
“Jesus Christ,” said the duke’s man-at-arms, getting up and getting his gorget on. “I’ll take care of this.”
The Duke had heard of this man in the black and gold armor, but never thought in his life he would see him in Merides. For a free day at a medieval reenactment, and a free feast, he would take any and all comers, just to fight them. Just to beat them.
“Be careful, Ruddy,” said the Duke to his man. “He’s not as weak as you think.”
“You fought against him?”
“He’s a legend.”
“Yeah, well it ends here and now,” Ruddy said, and strapped on his helmet. He stepped onto the field, stepping over the ropes guarding the area of the lists. There was a sporadic cheer in the small crowd that had gathered.
“I salute you,” the man said, holding his duct-taped rattan sword to his forehead for a moment before bringing up his shield.
Ruddy did the same. His own rattan sword was ratty in spots, showing the wood, but the other man’s was clean and newly wrapped with sliver duct tape, the guard on it polished to a fine sheen. Even though these were pretend weapons, Ruddy saw that the man took good care of them.
The man’s shield was also finely polished, gold and black pare with the symbol of a roaring tiger on it. Ruddy saw that the man faced the sun, an awkward position usually for a fight. Everything was in good order – Ruddy looked down at his own weekend warrior outfit, the plastic bits mixed in with the metal, and realized he was underdressed for once.
“Yeah, well, get the hell off our field.”
“You will have to beat me first,” and the black fighter struck. Ruddy easily put up his shield. The man was testing his range, and Ruddy’s reaction. He had been fighting sword and board for the SCA since he was 18, at least eight years now, so he knew all the tricks. He almost became king once, but realized at the last minute he didn’t want to deal with all the travelling – and he didn’t have a true consort.
The man feignted down, and Ruddy blocked that, then immediately brought his shield up. The man struck down again, hitting him lightly against the upper part of he knee, striking the plastic guard there. It was a glancing blow – again, to test him.
Ruddy was done being tested, and started to swing on his own. The man parried, with both sword and shield, but was beaten back a few steps. He heard his sword connect with the man’s shield, or sword, and realized he was trying to tire him out.
The man suddenly wheeled and turned, pivoting on his toes in a near impossible move, and the sword came at him from behind, knocking into the back of his helmet. He hit hard – he felt the impact, and knew that he had been beaten.
“Good fight, sir,” said the black knight, holding out his hand. “You bring honor to your house.”
“Look,” Ruddy said, “we’ve got a tourney here.”
“And I have to pay for my way in, and dinner.”
“I’ll pay for you. Are you in the lists?”
“What’s the prize?”
“A case of the finest mead and ale from our brewers, in addition to a pair of gauntlets donated by the Duke.”
“I’ll take it,” he said, and headed off to the Master of the Lists to put his name in.
Ruddy sighed, and went to retrieve his wallet to go pay for the man. He got to the troll gate, where all people who entered in were supposed to pay an entry fee, and whether or not they were going to stay for a feast. “How did you let that guy in?” Ruddy demanded of the woman sitting at the table.
“What guy?”
“The Black Knight there.”
“I didn’t see anyone come in for the last hour.”
He looked around, wondering how he could have snuck into the lists without paying. “Well, no matter, I’m paying for him now.”
“He needs to sign in, and the waiver – ”
“I’ll send him over.”
She nodded and continued her knitting. Ruddy’s curiosity got the better of him, though, and he stopped at the master of lists’ table. “What’s that guy’s name?” He motioned to the black knight who sat alone at the edge of the lists.
“I don’t know, but he signed his name as A Knight of Aethelmarc.”
“That’s his legal name?”
“It’s on his membership card. He’s a lifer.”
By saying that, he had signed a perpetual waiver that was accepted at all Society for Creative Anachronism events. What was a guy from Pennsylvania doing in Alabama? Ruddy went back to his Duke, puzzled.
“It’s not good that you look confused,” said the Duke, putting on his helmet.
“That guy, I don’t know. Something’s wrong about him.”
“He’s a gladiator,” said the Duke. “He’s here for the fight. Let’s give him one.”
Ruddy had noticed the man had not taken off his helmet yet, but wandered outside of the lists in full dress. When it was his turn to fight, a young fighter who had about a year under his belt, he hit the fighter’s shield so hard it cracked.
“Get a real shield,” the knight yelled at him, stalking away. The Master of Lists berated the guy for using excessive force. If that blow had hit the fighter, he would have had broken ribs. The Black Knight ignored him.
His Duke was not fighting at 100%, however, Ruddy noticed as he lost to one of the knights of one of the other houses. The Black Knight had to fight a bye, which he hit the man hard enough to knock him down. “Again,” cried the master of lists, “You are using excessive force and if you continue you will be removed from the lists!”
The Black Knight growled and stormed off. Ruddy watched the man tip his helmet back, but not remove it, and drink some water. Someone had gone up to him to ask if he needed help, but he shook his head no, and clapped the helmet back on.
Ruddy had a few fights himself, but wasn’t really into it, his attention more on the Black Knight. Who was he, and why here, why at this tournament?
The tourney wound down and the crowd started to gather. It was left to the Black Knight and a female fighter of the Baron’s house, and Ruddy and a member of the Jolly Stronghold, a few miles south of where they were fighting. Ruddy decided to give it to Sir John Puck, as he called himself, as he had been a fighter for many years in Merides.
The Black Knight stepped onto the field and saluted the Baron’s woman. Unlike the other times, when he danced in close to his opponent, he stayed out of her reach. The other thing he noticed was that he tapped her shield, testing his limits and reach.
“A cat with a mouse,” said one of the Duke’s men.
She then dug her feet in and ran forward. He easily parried with his shield, thrusting at her side with his sword. It wasn’t hard, but it knocked her down, and he stood aside. “Rise again, warrior; that was a lucky shot.”
“You won,” she spat, and gathered her shield and what was left of her dignity, storming off the field.
He impudently saluted her as he left the field. “It’s not fair,” she snarled, throwing her helmet down. “Who is this guy?”
Indeed, who was this man who had risen so high in the lists, who was one fight away from winning the tourney? Puck, a big man dressed more in plastic than metal, stepped forward onto the field. “Are you ready, fighter?”
The Black Knight stepped into the lists. “I am a Knight of the Road, the title given to me by many kings and queens in many lands, and you will salute me as such!”
“A Knight has humility, which I will give to you in spades.”
Helmets clamped down. Both men stepped close to each other. The Duke himself was going to be the referee, and he stepped in. “Ready? Lay arms!”
Both men circled each other, as the crowd sat in silence. The ones closest to the list could hear the breathing of the two men as they walked around and around with each other, experimentally tapping. The Black Knight struck first, aiming at the head and whipping to the side, but that was a typical move and Puck blocked it easily, with an attempt at a thrust of his own. The Black Knight drove his shield between them and danced away.
“A child’s move,” said Puck, and he was more entertaining the audience than he was concentrating on the fight. Ruddy shook his head. He was going to lose.
Puck moved this time, swinging his sword high, then low, and the Knight jerked sideways, almost off balance, but he swung his shield and caught the blow. He tried for a jab at Puck’s jaw but missed, hitting his chest instead.
“Touch!” yelled the Duke.
“I beg to continue,” said the Black Knight.
Everyone looked at Puck. In the Merides, a touch, if the other man warranted, was as good as a true hit, but that hardly ever counted for tourneys. “I will continue,” said Puck, and the crowd roared its approval.
They went at it again, and this time both men’s swords flew. Right, left, up down – combinations and twists of body and wrists, so complicated, so calculated, that it looked like a choreographed dance. They got to the edge of the lists and a group yelled, “Hold!” and the fighters stopped.
“All this for a case of beer,” murmured Ruddy. Why was he with this crazy group anyway, again? Oh, yes, the women.
The men went to the middle of the lists, and one more time, went at each other. A blow was blocked by the Black Knight, who used his shield as a weapon now, shoving Puck off balance, and striking him in the kidney with the taped “edge” of his sword. That was not a touch.
Puck fell to his knees from the blow, not expecting it. The Black Knight moved back, waiting. The Duke went to his knees to Puck. “Are you okay?”
“Damn, that hurt. I yield.”
The Duke rose and looked at the Black Knight. “Remove your helmet before I pronounce you victor.”
The man removed his helmet, shoulder-length blond hair spilling out. His eyes were gray, like a storm cloud, and his face was rough, tanned from the road. “What is your name?” the Duke asked.
“Knight,” he said.
“Sir Knight is the winner of this tourney, and shall be awarded his prize at court three hours hence.”