My Victorious Knight Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Epilogue

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  MY VICTORIOUS KNIGHT

  LAUREL O'DONNELL

  My Victorious Knight Copyright © 2020 by Laurel O'Donnell.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Prologue

  Kingston, England

  1183

  “Papa!” Elora ran to her father’s side as he stood with his hands on his hips, legs stretched wide, watching the knights practice their jousting in the tilting yard. She didn’t notice his scowl as he focused on the men. At eight summers, all Elora knew was her older brother, Edward, received more attention from her father than she did. As the youngest child and only girl, this was unacceptable.

  She held out a white flower to her father, happy and hopeful her offering would garner his interest. She had spent the morning searching the fields for just the right flower.

  He didn’t look at her, instead concentrating on the knights in the field. His frown deepened in disapproval. “No!” he hollered, startling Elora. His voice boomed through the air like thunder.

  Elora lowered the flower reluctantly.

  “Try it again! Lucius, give him another lance.”

  Elora looked at the field where her brother cantered on a beautiful black horse over to his trainer, Lucius. The dusty expanse was trodden with use. Long lances leaned against a fence at one end of the lists, where Lucius stood. Elora glowered. Once more, Edward was the only object of her father’s interest.

  Stubbornly, she tugged on her father’s beige tunic. “Father, I picked this flower for you.”

  He glanced down at her with a heavy sigh and took the flower. “Almost as beautiful as you are, Ellie.”

  She beamed, lifting her chin and taking a deep breath as he patted her head. She said eagerly, “I know white is your favorite color. It took me all morning to –”

  He nodded. “That’s nice, dear.” His gaze shifted back to Edward. “Go and find me another.” He gestured toward the fields and forest.

  Thrilled, she spun with a wide grin and raced toward the field where she had found the flower. She turned back to tell him she would pick an entire bouquet of white flowers for him. As she opened her mouth to speak, she saw him carelessly toss the flower into the mud at his feet, his gaze never leaving the field and the knights.

  Stunned, Elora couldn’t move. Her lower lip slowly puffed out, and tears brimmed in her eyes, blurring her vision. She would never have his attention. How could her white flower ever compare to a horse and a lance? How could a simple blossom compare to a shiny, sharp sword? Her lower lip quivered. She turned away and ran into the field, running as fast as she could. She darted past the field of white blossoms, kicking at them as she went. A shower of white petals rained down around her, increasing her anger. Stupid flowers! She raced into the darker shadows cast by the towering trees as she neared the edge of the forest.

  Out of breath, she plopped down heavily beneath one of the tall trees and drew her knees to her chest. She wrapped her arms around them and fought back the tears of hurt disappointment. Her father didn’t want a white flower even if it had taken her forever to find it.

  She took a couple of hitched breaths, holding back the tears, puffing out her lower lip. Stupid flower. She rested her chin on her knees, looking across the field at the path of destroyed flowers she had created. Something shone in the long grass outside the woods, near where she sat. She wiped the tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand and stood. The tall grass hid the sparkle from her. She angled her head this way and that and stood on her toes to see through the blades of grass. Maybe it was a pixie or a fairy! She took a step out of the shadows and toward the grass.

  Again, the splash of light hit her, blinding her for a moment. She parted the grass and moved toward the glimmer. As she approached the spot, she saw a boy sitting, crouched over, so intent on doing something that he was completely unaware of her approach. She watched him work for a moment. This boy was older than her, in a tan tunic with shoulder-length brown hair. Sunlight glinted off something in his hand, and even though she didn’t know who he was, her curiosity got the best of her.

  She parted the grass like a curtain and stepped to his side, trying to see what he was holding. One of his hands moved back and forth while the other was still. “What are you doing?”

  He swiveled his head to look at her, and strands of hair fell into his eyes. “Sharpening my knife.”

  She cocked her head to regard him. Then her gaze shifted to the knife. It was old and overused. She grimaced. “It’s rusty,” she said with distaste.

  He shrugged and went back to running a stone across the metal, which made grating noise. “Only the top part. I can get rid of the rust.” He jerked his head toward the forest. “I found it over by the stream. Must have been left in the water too long. If I clean it and take care of it, it will be a good knife again.” He paused the sharpening and looked at her. “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be by the castle?”

  “My papa is in the fields.” She glanced at the men charging down the fenced enclosure on horses and crossed her arms. “He doesn’t care where I am.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” he said, tilting his head in disbelief.

  “I gave him a flower, and he threw it in the mud.”

  The boy shrugged again and continued grinding the stone across his knife. “Knights are not interested in flowers. You should find something he is interested in.”

  Her frown deepened. “Swords? Jousts? Wars? I don’t know anything about them. And I don’t want to.”

  Soft laughter rumbled from his throat. He lifted his blade, turning it to inspect it in the sunlight, sending rays of reflected sun dancing over the grass. “How about daggers?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know anything about daggers.”

  “You could learn. And then you could talk to your father about them. Do you have a blacksmith in the village?”

  Elora nodded.

  “They love to talk about weapons. Go and ask him,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the village.

  “You can tell me.”

  He grinned at her, swiping his hair from his eyes.
“I’ll tell you one thing, and then I have to go. Your father can tell you the rest.”

  Elora quickly sat close to him, flattening the long wisps of grass by stretching out her legs in front of her, and leaned in to listen.

  “You have to pick the right steel to make the weapon. Even knives for eating require steel.” He looked down the length of his rusty knife. “It takes a long time to temper the dagger.”

  “What does temper mean?”

  “Heat and cool it to strengthen the metal.” He stood. “Ask your father about tempering. That should get his interest. If not, ask him what the best steel is to create the best dagger.”

  She shot to her feet with renewed hope, looking at the practice field where her father was. “Thank you.”

  He nodded, mumbling, “Good luck.” He began to walk back toward the castle.

  Elora darted away from the forest, excited about the prospect of talking to her father about daggers and steel. She stopped and turned to glance back through the long stalks for the boy, but he was gone.

  Chapter One

  England

  1193

  The gentle breeze swirled through the green leaves of the tall trees, moving through the thick forest following the cheers of the crowd as if eager to see what was happening. It dove into the mass of people standing behind the wooden fence of the field of honor. It twirled through skirts of peasant women on tiptoe to see the joust. It brushed around farmers who waved their arms in the air, cheering, and sped past excited children jumping up and down. It whooshed through the open dusty field, heading toward the feet of a horse charging down the list. The sharp hooves trampled the wind, dispersing it.

  The knight atop the horse lowered his lance toward his opponent as they rushed at each other. A roar from the spectators filled the arena at the impending impact.

  The long, thin lance struck the black shield with explosive power, lunging past that wooden barrier to slam into the chainmail on his rival’s shoulder, twisting him sideways off his horse. For a moment, he was suspended in the air, looking down before landing in a puff of dust on the ground. The splintered lance rained around him like falling leaves. The crowd stood in the grass on the sides of the field in stunned silence.

  Sir Julian of Helmsley reined his horse in at the end of the field and swiveled in his saddle to look at his opponent covered in a thin layer of dust. The eerie stillness of the crowd could not dampen Julian’s confident elation. He had unhorsed his adversary! In practice, he had placed a knight on the ground hundreds of times but had never done so during a tournament before. Not only had he unhorsed his adversary, but he had won his first victory!

  He pulled his helmet from his head. The cool air greeted his sweat-soaked skin with a welcomed kiss of refreshment.

  Another moment of silence passed before a splattering of astonished applause slowly filled the arena.

  Sir Osmont unsteadily rose from the ground, his hand gripping his squire’s, who had raced out to aid him. Once on his feet, the knight angrily shoved his squire away.

  A satisfied grin stretched across Julian’s lips, and joy bubbled inside of him. Of all the knights to defeat in his first tournament, Osmont was the most welcomed. He remembered his father telling him long ago that Osmont was a stronger knight than he could ever hope to be, a knight he should try to copy, a knight who was better than he in every aspect. He laughed to himself. What would his father think now? Oh, sweet triumph!

  Osmont was his first victory in a tournament! In his first tournament!

  Exhilaration coursed through his veins. He’d known he could do it. He had spent years training, practicing with the quintain, preparing with the shield and lance. Still, like a shadow in his mind, there had always been doubt.

  His squire and good friend, Gilbert, sped across the field toward him. He had never seen Gilbert move so quickly. He was a stocky man with a constantly jovial expression. Now, that expression was pure delight, a smile lighting his plump face. He grasped the reins of Julian’s horse, and Julian handed him his shield and helmet before swinging his foot over the horse to dismount, his chainmail coat clinking like soft bells.

  “You did it!” Gilbert praised, clearly surprised.

  “I told you I would,” Julian answered, pulling his gauntlets from his hands. He spotted his mentor, Sir Baldwin, waiting at the edge of the grass for him. After patting the horse’s neck and whispering, “Good boy, Storm,” Julian headed for Baldwin.

  Gilbert stared at the helmet handed to him for a moment, unsure of how to conduct this balancing act. He held the remaining lances in the crook of his right arm while gripping the shield and Storm’s reins with his other. Finally, he plopped the helmet onto the top of his head and stumbled after Julian.

  As Julian approached Baldwin, his mentor crossed his arms. Gray hair stuck up in several places, and his mustache drooped around his lips. Deep lines were set in his brow from his perpetual frown. His body was as thick as a tree in testament to the years of practice the old warrior had endured. One side of his mouth lifted in a grin. “Well done, boy. Well done.”

  Julian had never seen a pleased expression on Baldwin’s face and was stunned by the compliment.

  “You completely knocked him from his horse!” Gilbert exclaimed, clumsily slamming his shoulder into Julian’s back. “I can’t believe it.” The lances leaned heavily to one side, and Gilbert released the reins to steady them with two hands.

  Julian shook his head. “I told you I would win.” He grabbed the shield from Gilbert and put a hand on his shoulder to help steady him.

  Gilbert pushed the helmet up so he could look at Julian. “But in the first pass?”

  Julian glanced across the field toward Osmont, watching as he threw his helmet into the dust and stomped his foot. Apparently, Osmont was not ready for the defeat.

  “He’s not pleased,” Baldwin stated, following Julian’s gaze.

  “No. I would say he is not.” Warmth rushed through Julian’s body, and he stood a little straighter. It had given Julian immense gratification to see Osmont lying in the dirt. He should have protected his right side. Julian had seen the flaw in his style of riding a long time ago.

  Julian looked down at the shield and noticed a scrap mark where Osmont’s lance had slid from the wood. A prideful grin touched his lips. It had taken him years to save up enough coin to enter this one joust. But now, the prize from this win was big enough to enter a grand tourney finally. One of the biggest. One that welcomed all comers. No amount of excitement would surpass taking part in that joust. He knew the man he wanted to face, the one knight he wanted to defeat, would be at Lord Yves’s Tournament.

  An undefeated champion, Sir Edward of Kingston.

  Gilbert elbowed Julian, snapping him out of his reverie. “Do you know what this means?”

  Julian bobbed his head. “We win the coin.”

  “We eat like royalty!” Gilbert exclaimed, rubbing his stomach. “Women, drink! The world is ours!”

  Baldwin’s scowl was back. “Or we purchase a suit of armor worthy of a victor, one that will help win other tournaments.”

  Julian heard them, but neither was his plan. “Or we enter Lord Yves’s tournament.”

  Gilbert’s pout now matched Baldwin’s. “You still have that stuck in your head, do you? I thought after all these years of practice and casting aside your noble birth that you would have forgotten that plan.”

  Julian stared ahead at the road back to their camp. He had always looked to the future, always had one goal. One plan. To be the best jouster. To defeat Sir Edward of Kingston.

  “Lord, Julian! Sir Edward is an undefeated champion! You haven’t a prayer against him. He’s more experienced than you,” Gilbert sputtered, reluctant to abandon his dream of endless nights filled with food and women. “He certainly has more coin. Better armor, a better shield, a better horse.”

  “Don’t drag Storm into this. He’s an excellent horse,” Julian defended.

  Storm tossed his head
and nickered as if in agreement.

  Gilbert clutched the reins tighter and shifted the lances in his arm. “Why not enjoy what you’ve won here? Why not enjoy the day?”

  Julian looked at the field of honor as if his fate were written there. “Because I can beat him. I’ve watched him. I’ve analyzed his riding, his jousting, every flaw he has. I will defeat him.” He turned to Gilbert, laying his hands on his shoulders. “Imagine the coin then! All the food to fill your pudgy little stomach.” He jokingly rubbed Gilbert’s round stomach. “And the women? Who could resist us?” He locked an arm about Gilbert’s neck. “When I win, the world will be ours!”

  Gilbert rolled his eyes, sighed softly, and nodded.

  “But if you lose, you’ll have nothing,” Baldwin interjected. “Are you willing to risk that? To risk everything?”

  “Absolutely! This is the first time in my life that I am confident about the future. I have the coin to enter. I have the skill. I have the desire. Nothing will stop me from achieving my victory. Nothing.”

  Chapter Two

  Kingston Castle

  Kingston, England

  The Great Hall was filled with nobles dressed in fine silk, seated at long wooden tables dining on metal plates filled with steaming venison. Soft murmuring echoed from wall to wall, interweaving with the pleasant notes of the harp musician. Large, vaulted ceilings rose high above. Colorful tapestries lined the stone walls depicting epic battles as well as scenes of courtly love. Against one wall, a hearth housed a warm, crackling fire.

  From the raised dais at the head of the room, Lady Elora of Kingston looked out apathetically over the expansive hall. All these nobles. All these knights. She sighed heavily as hushed laughter erupted from a table to her left, drawing her attention. She felt as if they were laughing at her, even though the notion was ridiculous.

  Her wistful gaze dropped to her untouched venison. She wondered briefly, if she hurried and ate all of it, could she leave?

  Her brother, Lord Edward, sat at her right. He was an opposing man with short blond hair and a stature that demanded respect. His straight nose and square jaw were a testament to his impressive lineage. He wore a blue bliaut that fell to the floor in thick volumes of fabric, with a thin golden embroidery of leaves along the edges of his long sleeves.