different challenger. With a smile of pleasure, he kicked Rock, and they bounded off for the lists.
The powerful thrust of his opponent’s lance was poorly aimed, but nearly unseated Bernard on the second pass. He held firm in the saddle, taking the brunt of the blunted lance in the shoulder of the arm wielding the pike. Even through the mail that protected his body, Bernard felt the strength of the man’s blow.
On the third pass, the same lance struck the same sore spot on Bernard’s shoulder, and he cursed aloud as the pain intensified. His aim was true, though, and he took pleasure in watching his stocky opponent waver, then fall from the saddle just as they passed each other. With a grunt of triumph, Bernard allowed his own lance to his rest on his thighs, and prodded Rock into a canter back to his squire.
Groaning in pain, Bernard slid from the saddle as Rowan leapt to take the shield from him. Harold and his own squire attended him as well. “God’s blood—that bastard had poor aim to strike twice in the same wrong place.” He tried to rotate his shoulder, but the throbbing heat radiated up his shoulder and along his arm, fading over to his shoulder blade.
“Aye,” Harold said. He began to pull Bernard’s tunic off his shoulder, but his son jerked his arm away.
“Father, there is no need to play nursemaid to me—especially when there are others watching. The injury is not that severe.”
But he had barely spoken those words when his name was called yet again. “ Peste !” Bernard turned to whistle for his horse, but Rowan had heard the challenge and brought Rock immediately. He pulled himself into the saddle, smothering a wince, and took a new lance offered by Harold’s squire.
“Stay in your seat,” Harold called after him as they galloped off. Bernard choked on a retort at the needless warning, and put his meddling father out of mind.
Swiping the sweat from his face yet again, Bernard eyed his third opponent. It wasn’t Ralf, though he’d been expecting to be called to challenge him at any moment. This man again was someone that he did not know, and he appeared very solid and heavy in his saddle. The horse was fine, enough for Bernard to notice in appreciation, though not nearly as perfect as his own Derkland-bred mount.
He’d barely settled the lance in his lap, attempting to keep it from weighting on his injured shoulder until the very last moment, when the signal was given. Rock leapt forward before Bernard even gave him the heel of his boot, and suddenly the wind streamed over his face as they galloped down the list.
Thwack! The impact of his opponent’s lance struck Bernard even as his own bounced off the top of the other man’s shoulder. The power of his thighs gripping Rock was the only thing that kept him from tumbling onto the ground, and his fingers loosened, dropping the lance onto the dusty ground.
A loud exclamation rose from the crowd, either because it was the first time Bernard had missed a hit, or because he’d taken a good one, but he barely heard it through the searing pain that shot down his arm. The other knight’s lance had caught him again near the injury he’d sustained in the last challenge, and now agonizing heat caused black spots to dance before his eyes.
Of all the bad luck.
Gritting his teeth, Bernard turned Rock and headed back to his side of the list, keeping the dancing mount to a trot to give himself time to catch his breath. Rowan met him there with a choice of four lances to choose from. Again, taking as much time as he could, Bernard hefted each one in his hand before selecting the first one.
He gave a quick nod to his father’s questioning glance, then, steeling himself for one, mayhaps two, more passes, he kicked Rock into motion. He managed to make it through the next two charges without being unsaddled—though it was a close one on the last. He did not manage, however, to unseat the
The powerful thrust of his opponent’s lance was poorly aimed, but nearly unseated Bernard on the second pass. He held firm in the saddle, taking the brunt of the blunted lance in the shoulder of the arm wielding the pike. Even through the mail that protected his body, Bernard felt the strength of the man’s blow.
On the third pass, the same lance struck the same sore spot on Bernard’s shoulder, and he cursed aloud as the pain intensified. His aim was true, though, and he took pleasure in watching his stocky opponent waver, then fall from the saddle just as they passed each other. With a grunt of triumph, Bernard allowed his own lance to his rest on his thighs, and prodded Rock into a canter back to his squire.
Groaning in pain, Bernard slid from the saddle as Rowan leapt to take the shield from him. Harold and his own squire attended him as well. “God’s blood—that bastard had poor aim to strike twice in the same wrong place.” He tried to rotate his shoulder, but the throbbing heat radiated up his shoulder and along his arm, fading over to his shoulder blade.
“Aye,” Harold said. He began to pull Bernard’s tunic off his shoulder, but his son jerked his arm away.
“Father, there is no need to play nursemaid to me—especially when there are others watching. The injury is not that severe.”
But he had barely spoken those words when his name was called yet again. “ Peste !” Bernard turned to whistle for his horse, but Rowan had heard the challenge and brought Rock immediately. He pulled himself into the saddle, smothering a wince, and took a new lance offered by Harold’s squire.
“Stay in your seat,” Harold called after him as they galloped off. Bernard choked on a retort at the needless warning, and put his meddling father out of mind.
Swiping the sweat from his face yet again, Bernard eyed his third opponent. It wasn’t Ralf, though he’d been expecting to be called to challenge him at any moment. This man again was someone that he did not know, and he appeared very solid and heavy in his saddle. The horse was fine, enough for Bernard to notice in appreciation, though not nearly as perfect as his own Derkland-bred mount.
He’d barely settled the lance in his lap, attempting to keep it from weighting on his injured shoulder until the very last moment, when the signal was given. Rock leapt forward before Bernard even gave him the heel of his boot, and suddenly the wind streamed over his face as they galloped down the list.
Thwack! The impact of his opponent’s lance struck Bernard even as his own bounced off the top of the other man’s shoulder. The power of his thighs gripping Rock was the only thing that kept him from tumbling onto the ground, and his fingers loosened, dropping the lance onto the dusty ground.
A loud exclamation rose from the crowd, either because it was the first time Bernard had missed a hit, or because he’d taken a good one, but he barely heard it through the searing pain that shot down his arm. The other knight’s lance had caught him again near the injury he’d sustained in the last challenge, and now agonizing heat caused black spots to dance before his eyes.
Of all the bad luck.
Gritting his teeth, Bernard turned Rock and headed back to his side of the list, keeping the dancing mount to a trot to give himself time to catch his breath. Rowan met him there with a choice of four lances to choose from. Again, taking as much time as he could, Bernard hefted each one in his hand before selecting the first one.
He gave a quick nod to his father’s questioning glance, then, steeling himself for one, mayhaps two, more passes, he kicked Rock into motion. He managed to make it through the next two charges without being unsaddled—though it was a close one on the last. He did not manage, however, to unseat the
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