I remember how the fluttering fabric caught my eye as we paraded past her pavilion. I turned my head and saw that, indeed, the radiance of her smile was focused on me. The dream of every knight is the favour of a beautiful maiden, but who dares to hope for even a passing glance from one as fair as her? I have tilted in tournaments beyond count, but a little length of lace changes everything. As my squire tied the fabric around my arm, I knew in my heart that I would be the champion, and prove my worth to the one who’s favour adorns my armour
I remember how, instantly, I became acutely aware of everything around me, from the colour of the pennants, which have never before seemed so vivid, to the feel of my fingers within my gauntlet, as they grasped the hilt of my lance, to the intoxicating scent of leather and sweat.
Joust after joust, I triumphed over each competitor until I was finally waiting beside the rail for the final tilt of the tournament and then, just moments ago, as I sat astride my steed, watching the joust marshall drop his arm, I remember the feel of power as my stallion progressed in moments from standing still to full out gallop. I remember thinking about the timing of the dropping of my lance, planning for the moment of maximum impact.
All of these thoughts pass through my mind in the instant of the collision of lance on shield, like the flash of sunlight off of polished armour.
As I hit,
…the ground feels especially hard.
written for two separate writing prompts today:
writing201, where prompts are: fingers, assonance, prose poetry
dVerse, where we are writing about medieval tournaments