In the third bout, he parts his shield from his plate and allows the opponent's lance to strike him in the chest. The force rocks him back and, gasping through the pain, he pushes up from his stirrups, rolling back over the flanks of his borrowed horse, hitting the mud in a crumpled heap.
He lies there in the cold, a rib broken and an arm twisted, listening to the crowd jeer and howl, while he waits for his borrowed squire to come to lift him onto his feet so the other knight can bludgeon him about with his blunted sword for a bit.
After, a low courtier pours cold silver pieces into his bloodied and shaking palm.
‘Balm for your shame, Sir.’
‘When is the next one?’
‘So eager to be beaten again? Very well. Three weeks from now, in Pont-le-Martin.’
He sucks in cold air, stinging his bound ribcage, and leaves through the back of the tourney grounds.
Paddy Dobson
19th December 2022