And so the day of the Tourney has arrived. With the Saxons at least marginally pacified as of late, Arthur finds him hosting tournaments far more often. It's often been remarked that a bored knight is far more dangerous than even perhaps a drunk one. And so skills at arms are a fine way to keep the bored warrior class occupied and out of trouble. Most realize that these events are just so they will behave, but few care. They are after... bored.
And so the knights take the field astride their steed of choice, but with their helms tucked beneath their arms. Each knight in turn presents himself before court and the peasants that have been given the day off so they might travel to see the spectacle. The luminaries are here. Arthur and his Queen sit in the royal pavillion and each spares a practiced smile to those that visit.
Soon the Knights that represent Uriens of Gorre ride to the field. Ywaine and his older brother Accolon steer their steeds in line. Accolon has a worried expression on his face and whispers to his brother, "You're not going to do anything rash today are you?" Ywaine doesn't answer his brother... which only makes Accolon groan in frustration.
"Rash?" says a passing Gawain, moving past in the violets of Orkney. The other three smirk in the following, not really expecting an answer to their oldest's brother's question. He just wanted to let them know their voices could be heard.
Taking up in the line next to Accolon, Gawain, Gaheris, Gareth, and Agravaine come to a halt together. There is a subtle difference in the heraldry upon their shields and livery, but the violet of Orkney predominates, as intended.
"He's talking someone doing something rash," Gaheris says, "...he hasn't heard that Prius is still injured, Panipul looks like he did last night, and Acton's asked to be first against Drustan."
Now that brings a waggle of brows and stifled laughs.
A gaggle of the court's finest -- and youngest -- ladies are in a special section in the stands near the queen. There is the luminous Averil of Dorset, always in yellow (it's her signature color), long blonde hair bound in braids interwoven with the daisies and delights of the field, a mix of yellow and white. She is one of the Forever Smiling and Giggling Girls, all of whom are seated around her. The up-and-coming, we shall say, of Guinevere's maidenly troops. Those of higher standing sit in higher station, nearest the queen, her chosen handmaidens and ladies-in-waiting for the day. They are several degrees more stately, but their mouths are in motion. The chattering and gossip has begun.
And among them, a plump, chestnut-haired, round-faced and dimpled lovely-little-pie of England: Olwen.
The crowd is fully expecting Drustan to be late...
Why should today be any different...
Helped onto his horse by a crowd of boys, most likely. It has become routine over the past several months.
So when there is commotion, the ringing of metal the clamoring of hooves in gallop, and a herald running full speed pulling the standard of Cornwall behind him, red-faced and breathless to catch up to his charging Sir, the crowd was, admittedly, stunned.
It took them a full minute (during which time Drustan had already slowed his stallion, Comet, to a sudden rearing and then a calm, almost dignified trot forward), before many rose to their feet.
The helm, simple really, quasi-Roman, is removed from his head and he bows it before his cousin King. "Acton, is it," Drustan murmurs from where he and his horse stand. Dark blue-grey eyes shift toward Gawain and he leans in with a grin. "It's always good to start off with a bang. Good morning, lads."
Oh, and he is sporting a new favor today. Notice... it's brightly yellow. The same color as the sixteen year old Averil of Dorset's dress.
"Morning," comes the grumble from three of the brothers, with Gawain giving a smirk. They all seem a little tired, in truth. "Acton," Agravaine repeats, looking up and down at Drustan. "Poor bastard," he says, shaking his head. Not a good day for Acton ahead.
Actually Gawain's arrival brings a smile to Ywaine's face, as much as it brings a soft groan from Accolon. His favorite cousin, Ywaine has always sought to do Gawain proud. Even to the point of letting Gawain talk him into doing things that have ended in no small amount of personal injury. "Hello Cousin! The day is finding you well." Oh yes, Ywaine's somber look has given way to that of a crooked grin. Gawain and Drustan have been such bad influences on him they say.
Speaking of Drustan, his arrival does not go unnoticed by the pagan prince, Nor does the yellow favor he wears. "I'm suprised she was actually able to walk here today..." For that Accolon gives his brother a dirty look but Ywaine just clears his throat, "It looks like all the best are here, I wonder who will take the field...." Of course everyone usually knows that answer. There's really only one of three men that'll win the day in a tournament such as this, The Mighty Gawaine, the tortured Drustan, or the Pure Lancelot. Though from the rumors that are whisped some say that his son is every bit his equal....
Ywaine's eyes search the crowd and watches the man important faces that are in the crowd. The crown of Cornwall has gone, but Uriens, king of Gorre and Rhegged sits in Arthur's booth as his guest, and Margawse sits beautifully next to her brother in law chatting amiable with him. Oh yes the eyes of the kingdom are here today.
"Cos," Gawain says to Ywaine, rather upright in his seat today. "And thank you..." eyes glancing to the men at his left and right, "I do feel pretty good today." Uh oh.
"You look well...heard you had a Saxon holiday," he says, only half-listening to the heralds and announcements, but paying a little more attention to the arriving knights and who's in the box.
"Drustan, Drustan...I think you have something yellow hanging from your armor..." Gawain teases, hands upon saddlehorn. "Didn't know yellow was your color..."
"Perhaps the spring breeze lifted her here, like one of the many blossoms she wears in her hair," Drustan drolly remarks as he straightens, and sets his quasi-Roman helm back on his head. It hides the waggling of his brows, but hides nothing of the grin. He won't say whether or not she could walk or had to be carried, or at least supported by several of her friends, or give any credence to the "rumors" that Averil of Dorset's flower was plucked. Unsubstantiated of course.
Drustan makes a fuss at looking down at himself at Gawain's comment, "Well, it is spring, my northern cousin. It is the time of year when yellow flowers blossom around the crown of Dore." Subtle. And not.
When is he ever...
Drustan makes a motion to Lady Averil of Dorset, and then looks to all of you. "He may be old gents, but he's not dead yet..." With that, he gives a slight spur to Comet and wheels him around. His herald, having just now caught his breath, groans upon a sigh and turns, trotting after him, banner of the Boar of Cornwall in his hands.
The youngest ladies are all, of course, on their little slippered feet, giving loud applause to the knights who are assembling. It being spring and there are no battles afoot, some of his greatest knights are in attendance. Even Lancelot, gathered with the Queen's own Champions. It will be a banner day.
And there was blushing and young girlish squeals of delight as they were waved to. And Averil, in particular, bloomed a new shade of crimson. But to those who notice such things, she was wearing a knowing smile.
At the side, a stream of white rides forth. Several horses in the related heraldry of the Gard. Lancelot, Galahad, Bors, Lionel and Ector stream ahead, almost like light itself made visible. Thundering hooves slow at the formed line. Lancelot rides forth, attention elsewhere. Ahead. He gives standard smile and greetings, but after politenesses, quiet falls over him as he takes a place at what will be the end of this first row. He seems to expect the other three to line up inside, between himself and Agravaine.
"Good morn, honored gentlemen," Galahad chimes, his pass in front of the line filled with drama.
Ector speeds up, and with nods to all takes a spot inside Lancelot. Bors waves, coming to a halt next to Ector.
"Many of you look grand this lovely morning, despite your excesses of last night." He knows. He was there. "I salute you all for it." He laughs, slow to pass the view. But it matters not. His spot is determined ... next to Agravaine. He's got all the time in the world, yes? Better to be on the front row, than with the newcomers on second and third.
From behind Drustan, on the second row, knights laugh at his comment on not being dead yet. "Glad to hear it," Panipul says, voice filled with earnest cheer. Guess he's heard the rumors too.
God does indeed bless you, Galahad. He just spared your "virgin" ears. For off rides Drustan, first knight out of the gates, thanks to Acton, to take his position and wait for the self-congratulation festival to end. He has to get set up properly. Squire makes a last check of armament, horse and tack. The herald plants the standard in the ground. And goes to catch his breath again. He has become unused to all this running!
And so in turn each Herald introduce his lord the princes of Gorre eventually recieve their turn. Both Accolon's and Ywaine's introductions are short. Accolon though skilled is just to reserved and two passive to ever truly become great, and while much is expected of Ywaine, he is still young and has many deeds to accomplish to prove himself. As the herald finishes, Ywaine urges his horse forward. Accolon reaches out to grab the reigns of his brother's horse but is not quick enough. THere is a sigh from the elder prince
The young warrior from Gorre leads his horse across the grounds to the pavailon, bringing his favored courser Donnar to stop before the adorably plump, Olwen, "I wonder if my lady might give this lowly knight the honor of carrying her favor this day." The young girl turns a beat red, yet many of her fellow maids that saw fit to tease her just this morning shift in there seats with envy. No knight asked them for their favor before the entire court. Olwen blushes quite the pretty shade of crimson and silently nods her approval to Ywaine. She slowly pulls off one of her long gloves, lavendar gloves and Ywaine lowers the tip of his lance, so olwen might tie her favor in place there.
Ywaine raises up the lance then so the favor is caught in the spring breeze and calls out, "And to honor my lady so she might be remembered as the fairest here today, I will challenge challenge and an all comers of the Queen's own knights so I might hold the field for the fair lady Olwen!" Oh yes, now the entire gathering is a murmur. Arthur laughs heartily at the young knight's boldness, this tournament will certainly be interesting, make no mistake. Kay the Seneschal grins like a demon as he starts to prepare the verbal salvo that he's going to loose upon the young pagan knight in his mind's eye. Urien's leans over to the elegantly mature Margawse and boasts that his middle son get's his boldness from him. The queen however.... the queen just seems to seethe. Biting her lip to maintain her composure and forcing a hollow smile.
"Did he say, All comers of the Queen's Own Knights?" Gawain blinks, glancing over at Accolon with a pained grimace. "Goddess," he whispers, bending his head and shaking it. Gareth and Gaheris turn to each other, while Agravaine bursts out in laughter.
At least he manages to get his hand up after the first howl.
Galahad rolls his eyes towards the laughing Agravaine. "I refuse to clean up his body," he says softly, giving a smile to the knights on the second row. Galahad sighs in the turn to the right, looking at his father, who stiffly continues to face the royal box. Queen's champions, indeed.
"I didn't know getting favors made one stupid," Agravaine finally gets out, watching Drustan and Ywaine in turn.
"Maybe it's the bright sun," Gawain observes, two horses down.
"Sirs! Will you quit doddling!" comes a bellow from the field, and a waiting knight, with lance in hand. "Before you all break your arms patting yourselves on the back, I have people to defeat... if you don't mind..."
You all missed him, didn't you? When he was drunk he was never this entertaining. Pitiful, sure. Entertaining?
Course, some of you might not think he's entertaining now...
"Acton, stop delaying the inevitable!" Drustan grins, motioning for the younger knight to come get his lesson. Now, when Drustan's sober -- which admittedly hasn't been frequent of late -- he's normally beatable by only one sort. And that sort is not Acton.
Poor Sir Acton...
Drustan couches his lance then holds out his hands. You all can't see him from where you are but he peers at Ywaine. Then glances at the sun starting to dodge beneath the clouds. Well, taking her favor was one thing. Committing suicide is another. "He's mad, you know," Drustan drawls to his squire. Then he laughs. "Not as mad as I, but he's gaining on me. Pour me a bit of that cider. I'll be back in a moment..."
He's supposed to be drunk, isn't he?
Acton is already in motion from the second line, others giving way to him. With squire to attend him, he cantors out to his spot, squire holding lance and helm. "Here," the squire says, handing Acton the helmet, while he sorts out Acton's horse and lance. The young man murbles encouragement as he tightens straps.
"Think of the glory," the horsehandler says. "I mean, if he were drunk... that'd be one thing. Beating him sober, Sir, quite another."
You might as well shit gold, Sir...
"Aye," the squire says again, tightening and giving the horse a last pat. "...think of the glory. Alright, Sir, you're fit. You're ready."
And the Christian squire crosses himself and looks to Jesus. Be kind to him, Great Sir...he's a good boy...
"I can't see her, the one Ywaine's challenging for," a second-row knight says, "...is she cute?"
"Not cute enough for taking on the Queen's knights," another comments, he too looking to see Lancelot. "But, there's lots to hold on to, so that must be a plus..."
Somehow Agravaine laughing boisterously punctuates this whole ludicrous scenario. But not before the Seneschal get's get set his barbed tongue to the young knight, "Bold, but wholly stupid boasts, Sir Knight. After all the beard doesn't fool me, you're still a whelp of a boy. To do what you boast you'd have to be knight the likes of your great Cousin Gawain, or the Mighty Lancelot... or dare I say, the infrequently sober Boar of Cornwall himself, Drustan."
"Today I shall be then!" Ywaine boasts, The knights look at him like he's quite out of his head, but the crowd loves it. Grinning to Kay the young knight spurs his horse back to his spot Between his Brother and Gawain.
"You're quite mad you know." Accolon tells his brother.
"I'm told the Christian God heavily favor's fools and children. I am at least one of those." Is Ywaine's answer to his brother. "Now shush, Drustan's about to Tilt."
Gawain's expression turns into a frown as he hears Kay remonstrate his cousin. He's not impressed. "A bold knight is never a bad thing, Ywaine," he offers when the man returns. "What you should worry about is a knight who uses words because he can no longer use a sword." Directed intentionally. In short, ignore him.
"And, you are mad, your brother is correct." Gawain smiles, turning to watch Drustan hurt Acton. "Someone should tell Acton's squires to get his tent ready, and get him some wine and a healer..."
"How kind of you to remember me," Drustan bellows, a chuckle following to Kay. "Alright, everyone ready... yes, good... on we go..."
If he weren't so damned charming and funny, he might well be hated. But he has earned every accolade. Likewise, he has earned every grumble. He has made his way, like it or not.
There is no helm visor to set down in place. His helm has a protective guard over his nose, but his face is otherwise free. His eyes can be seen, bearing down even. Deep blue-grey, intense. Sudden steel. But there is still, and always, a grin. As he sees Acton is seated, readied and his squires go scampering away, Drustan gives spur to Comet. The white horse, descendant, just like Drustan, of Romans, lunges forward, burst of speed, and the lance is lowering...
Acton started a half moment after Drustan, his dark bay lunging forward into a sudden gallop. The young man will be good one day, truly. He has nice lowering, good follow-through, keeps his head up.
But he's not yet comfortable...
Too stiff...
...Made more so by the fact that he knows Drustan is sober and therefore near on unbeatable...
And with the meeting of lance -- namely, Drustan's to his armored chest -- he goes flying. Right out of his stirrups and onto the ground with a cloud of dust.
Ewwww... that had to hurt...
Galahad watches Ywaine, still wondering at his challenge. Not that he is one of the queen's knights, but he knows one who is. His dance card will not come up until later, and so he watches the events with bemused anticipation.
Well, except the suddenly-nervous Acton. He knows how that will go.
"She is cute," Galahad finally offers of Ywaine's choice. His head tilts in evaluation of Olwen. "In a sisterly sort of way?"
There's winces from the second lines of knights. More visible wincing from the third...they haven't done this much.
"Did someone get the healer ready?" Like Gawain suggested.
At the rear, a knight sends off his own squires to Acton's tent. Acton's squires appear busy right now.
It's all business now. No more quipping. As the young man is seen to, Drustan removes his helm, holding it in the crook of his arm and against his armored self. He bows his head to his fallen comrade. Makes a cross of blessing (both sorts, as he swings both ways, religiously speaking), and then turns. The applause is, of course, muted. No one wants to see anyone killed.
There is only the lifting of his hand, an acknowledgement, and then Drustan moves to his tent. There is much commotion there as well. Particularly once it's announced that Acton will be forfeiting his pass. Game. Match. Drustan.
As Gawain tells Ywaine that he's mad the young prince harumphs, "If I am it's your fault... When I was ten I almost died climbing up into a tree to get you a beehive so you could make more mead... Or when I was your squire and you used to have go and throw rocks at the boars when the dogs couldn't chase it out of the brush...." And of course let's not forget the now infamous, 'Drustan's drunk and riding off towards Cornwall.. Ywaine go fetch him will you.'
Of course Ywaine's reminiscing is cut short. Hooves of a heavy French Destrier thunder out onto the field, and hte first of the plain white shields that mark the Queen's knights ride out to answer his challenge. "Ywaine of Gorre, I answer you're challenge and will defend the honor of our fair queen, against your impudent boasts!"
Ah yes it's young Sir Bellias, a devout Christian, and though still young he is a handful of years Ywaine's senior. A literal ox of a man, His mother was a saxon princess offered as hostage and who's unloving father attacked regardless. Bellias' father took pity on the fair saxon beauty and made her a bride. He's a bit of a thick brute and will certainly be hard to rest from that saddle, to say nothing of the fact that his horse is almost twice the size of the courser, Ywaine sits astride.
"That would be my cue.. Cousin... brother." he gives both Gawain and Accolon a nod in kind and slides his helm over his head and takes his lance takes one of his jousting lances from his squire and rides out to face his first challenger upon the field.
Meanwhile...
At the red-black-and-white pavilion of The Great Boar (pun fully intended), Drustan is dismounting, removing the outer vestiges of war, as he doesn't have another charge until the second round. That'll be a while, with Ywaine going at each and every champion of the queen. Horrible waste of his own sobriety. He may only get three charges in...
Drustan walks behind the lines, among the tents and heads into the stands themselves. Getting a rousing cheer from lords and ladies alike. Giggles erupt from the section of young women. He returns the yellow favor to its owner, planting a resounding kiss on her blushing cheek. She looks like she's ...used to the attention.
Let the chattering of gossiping hens begin!
Gawain was about to speak, but closes his mouth when the champion comes. "I was trying to say that he should ignore Kay...now it's all my fault?" he asks of Accolon in feigned hurt. "Remind me never to tell him to be more confident, alright?"
"He hasn't touched her," Galahad laughs, watching the scene in the box. "Look at that. Chaste kiss in public." Bors and Ector do not seem amused, and the King's Champion dismounts to talk with an arriving Secretary. "He has lost it," Galahad goes on, getting Agravaine to smile again.
Posted by rowan at October 01, 2003 08:54 PM
