Page 83 of Picking Up the Gauntlet

“There is no reason in the world why you need to be out there. This tournament is to find your sister a husband, not for you to show up every one of the competitors. Now sit down and be quiet. Your place is up here with me.”

“I-I will be back,” said Raven nervously, having no excuse to leave now.

“Nay. You’ll stay right here, too,” said Corbett. “The competitors need to see you.”

The herald announcing the competition spoke up. “Since Lord Rook has withdrawn from the games, Sir Whitehead will compete against the next man in line instead.”

“Raven,” said Jonathon, pulling at the hem of her skirt from the ground. She leaned forward to look over the edge of the raised dais and to hear him. “Your brother was going to win the competition so you don’t have to marry a noble. He can’t do that now.”

“What?” she asked, not able to hear him clearly with all the noise. She thought he said something about Rook wanting to help her?

“Rook knows everything that went on between us. I told him,” continued Jonathon.

“Nay! Why the hell would you do that?” she spat, having no idea why Jonathon would do such a stupid thing. It could only hurt them in the end.

Everyone clapped and shouted as Sir Whitehead made his way to the center of the field, holding his sword high over his head.

The announcer continued. “Sir Whitehead of Liverpool will fight Sir Nevar of Lyon, France. Sir Nevar, take your place.”

“Oh!” Raven’s head snapped upward. She needed to get to the shed to change and get out to the field before she was disqualified.

“Who is that Frenchman?” asked Corbett. “Rook, did you invite him to compete?”

“Nay,” said Rook. “I don’t know him. I thought you invited him, Father.”

“Excuse me, I’m not feeling well.” Raven stood up and bolted from the dais.

“Where the hell is she going now?” growled her father. “I told her to stay here.”

“I’ll get her,” said Lark, running after her.

“I will make sure she returns,” said Jonathon, following, trying to see the women through the crowd. Unfortunately, he lost them. He wandered over to the practice yard where the sword-fight was about to begin.

“Sir Nevar, come to the field,” called out the announcer. “You have one minute to show up before you’re disqualified.”

“No one can beat me,” called out Sir Whitehead, holding his sword in the air and getting the crowd to cheer for him again.

Jonathon already despised this man who thought he was so important. He dreaded the thought that Raven might actually have to marry him.

“Sir Nevar, this is your last call,” yelled the herald.

“I’m here,” came a strange voice from behind Jonathon. A small man darted past, knocking into him. He wore a long cloak and oddly enough his hood was pulled up over the helm he wore on his head.

“Excuse me,” said Jonathon, knowing he needed to apologize since he was only a commoner. Even if it wasn’t his fault, he needed to show respect for all nobles.

The knight didn’t answer, and neither did he even look at Jonathon. He was very rude.

“Sir Whitehead will now compete against Sir Nevar,” called out the herald.

Jonathon watched the small Frenchman pull his sword from his scabbard, to fight the huge man that towered over him. Jonathon had never seen such a small knight in his life. He looked thin and frail.

As their swords clashed together, the Frenchman’s hood fell, exposing his helm that shined in the sun. Jonathon couldn’t see it clearly from where he stood, but the craftmanship of the piece seemed exquisite.

Then he heard Whitehead heckling the French knight.

“You are no match for me. No knight with roses and hearts on his helm is going to best me in a fight. I will beat you into the ground.”

“Roses? Hearts?” Jonathon repeated, pushing his way to the front. “God’s eyes, nay!” cried Jonathon, gripping the wooden fence that held back the onlookers. He realized now why the knight was so small, and also why the helm caught his attention. It was the helm he made. That was Raven in disguise, fighting Whitehead!