“Did you see that?” he asked, his eyes shining.
Guinevere laughed, nodding, but Arthur turned around. He had been asking Mordred. “On a blind horse!”
“He let go of his spear. If he had missed, he would have been unarmed.”
“I know!” Arthur crowed his response as praise in response to Mordred’s criticism. He grabbed Guinevere’s hand and kissed it, then threw his own in the air, unable to contain himself. He did not sit again, but stood leaning out across the beam that fenced in the stand.
Sir Gawain also chose horses, but this time with swords. Guinevere marveled with the rest of them at the superb control Lancelot had of her horse. They were as one creature. Because the horse could not see, she did not spook or react to things on her own. She followed Lancelot’s guidance with perfect accuracy. This fight lasted longer, repeated blows being exchanged, but it ended the same way: Lancelot triumphant.
Lancelot triumphant. She had done it. Guinevere felt tears in her own eyes as she clapped so hard her hands—particularly her still-healing burned one—stung.
“Three!” Arthur shouted. “Three!” He raised his fingers in the air and the crowd roared. Lancelot had just guaranteed herself a place among Arthur’s knights. Rather than raising her arms and exulting, Lancelot bowed her head. Then she turned her horse toward the king’s stand and put a fist against her chest, bowing even deeper.
But she was not done yet. No knight would quit without going as far as possible. It was a matter of pride. Sir Percival hurried onto the field. He, too, had chosen swords. Though he was fresh and Lancelot already three knights deep into a fight, the match was over almost before it began.
Dindrane snorted. “Oh, Blanchefleur will be so embarrassed.” She said it just loud enough for her sister-in-law, seated behind her, to hear.
That was four. One remained. Sir Bors strode onto the field, wisely forgoing horseback combat as well. Dindrane squealed, grabbing Brangien’s arm. “Look! Look! On his sleeve!”
A white handkerchief waved like a flag there. Guinevere’s friends had given her so many reasons to be happy this day. Lancelot would be a knight, and Dindrane had a suitor who, while slightly ridiculous, would provide her with a happy and comfortable life.
Dindrane, tears in her eyes, turned to Guinevere. “Thank you,” she said, her voice so low it was hard to hear over the cheering.
“Why are you thanking me? It is Sir Bors who recognizes a prize when he sees one.”
Dindrane shook her head. “No one in the castle paid me any mind until you did. Your kindness has…” She stopped, dabbing at her eyes. “Well. You are right. Sir Bors simply had the good sense to snatch me up before someone else did.”
Guinevere beamed and leaned across Brangien to embrace Dindrane. Even Brangien laughed and hugged Dindrane as well.
Dindrane screamed Sir Bors’s name, her shouts lost in the chorus of Lancelot ringing through the air. Sir Bors paced the length of the weapons stand. He had not lived this long by luck. With only one working arm, he was at a disadvantage with any combat that required a shield. And he had seen how fast Lancelot was with a sword. Far older, Sir Bors could not match Lancelot’s speed.
But he could best nearly anyone in sheer strength. He picked up a wickedly heavy mace and chain, swinging the weapon experimentally. The crowd hushed. They could see the same strategy at play. Only the strongest could wield that weapon with any dexterity or skill. And no one had ever seen Lancelot use it in the arena.
“Damn,” Arthur muttered.
Guinevere’s heart fell, too. She had wanted Lancelot to best all five knights. Then not a single one of them could argue against her appointment.
Lancelot picked up the other mace and chain. Where Sir Bors made it look like a child’s toy, in Lancelot’s grip it became clear how heavy it was. It was a weapon of blunt force, made for smashing through things. Shields. Armor.
Bodies.
It was also difficult to imagine a blow from even a mace without sharpened spikes would not do serious damage to the recipient. Guinevere rubbed at the still-healing wound beneath her sleeve. She wanted Lancelot to win every match. And, for the first time, she feared it was impossible.
Sir Bors swung his mace and chain through the air so fast it made a whistling noise. He circled Lancelot, twirling his weapon with ever-increasing speed. Lancelot did not move her feet, keeping the mace ball on the ground.
Sir Bors swung for Lancelot’s ribs. Lancelot darted back, the mace squeaking across her armor. The speed and force of the blow carried Sir Bors past Lancelot. Without losing momentum, he spun, following the wickedly heavy ball back around for another blow. Lancelot was ready. She dove and, rather than swinging her mace, kept it anchored to the ground. Lightning fast, she wrapped the chain around Sir Bors’s leg.
Sir Bors, his own momentum too much, fell forward to the ground. Lancelot scrambled onto his back, pressing her knee at the base of his spine so he could not rise. Then she dragged her mace up and set it gently at the base of his skull.
“That was cheating!” Dindrane screamed.
Sir Bors was shaking. The crowd quieted. Had he been injured? Lancelot stood, removing pressure. Sir Bors rolled onto his back, and the source of the shaking was revealed. He was laughing.
Tremendous bellows filled the air. He held out his good hand and Lancelot took it, helping him stand. He waggled a finger chidingly at the younger fighter, then took her hand and lifted it in the air.
The crowd went wild. Lancelot had done it. She had bested all five knights.