Page 16 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

A hushed silence fell over the crowd as they waited for the trumpets. Once they sounded, Gareth could finally unleash the power of the warhorse beneath him, finishing what he’d come here to accomplish.

It was the final joust of the tournament, and he was just one opponent away from being named champion. That it would be his fifth such victory since the weather had broken and tourney season began did not diminish his excitement, though Gareth attempted to quell it.

Celebrating victory before I’ve won is a clear path to defeat.

Shutting out the colored banners, the shouts and cheers and all but his and his horse’s movements, along with those of his opponent, Gareth breathed deeply.

..in and out. Without warning, the trumpets blared.

Spurring his mount forward, he waited longer than usual to lower his lance.

Longer than his opponent anticipated. Almost too long.

Thankfully, as planned, he’d taken his formidable opponent by surprise. The clash of metal and wood, along with the sound of its splintering, echoed in his ears as Gareth slowed, eventually turning back to find the German knight precisely where he’d expected him to be after such an impact.

On the ground.

Scrambling to his feet, the man turned toward Gareth.

Though the joust was ended, his victory complete, for some unconscionable reason, the knight unsheathed his sword.

Scrambling down from his mount, unwilling to allow the horse to come to harm from what appeared to be a furious and crazed opponent, Gareth unsheathed his own.

“’Tis done,” he called out as the crowd returned to its pre-joust silence. “What are you about?” he asked, hoping to avoid bloodshed.

“You cheated,” the knight yelled for all to hear.

Gareth nearly stumbled as he made his way forward. Cheated? He’d never done as much in his life, nor would he, and to have such an accusation made against him was Gareth’s worst nightmare come to pass.

“Never,” he growled as his opponent’s sword first struck Gareth’s. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Cheater,” the man yelled again.

There were ways to cheat in a joust, but the man refused to name one, and Gareth, knowing he had done no such thing, again asked for evidence of such a claim.

He was never given such evidence, and it was only when their noble host called for a stop to the swordplay that Gareth had an opportunity to look more closely at his opponent. Something—--though he could not name what precisely—was amiss.

“Drop your weapons,” their host called from his place among the stands.

Both men did so, the tourney rules requiring it.

“What evidence do you have for this claim?” he asked the German, a man whose name Gareth could not even remember. He’d fought so many men, in so many places, one began to look like the next.

When his opponent did not answer, their host turned his attention toward Gareth.

“You’ve been accused of cheating, though no evidence has been provided, nor do I see any to support such a claim.

As such, you are not only crowned champion of the Grand Tournament of Henham Moor, but you’ve the right to claim all possessions of your opponent for his false claim. ”

Ignoring the cheers that erupted around him, Gareth turned toward the man who’d attempted to dishonor him. Jaw locked, expressionless, he gave nothing away. Again Gareth had a suspicion of something . . . amiss . . . he could not quite place.

No matter. He had won. ’Twas all that mattered. Securing another victory. Restoring his family’s name. Nothing—not this knight’s false claim nor the mystery surrounding the reason for it—would occupy Gareth’s mind.

“He may keep them,” Gareth called up to his host. “I’ve the only horse I need.”

Of all the man’s possessions that could have been forfeit to Gareth, ’twas his mount that was the most valuable. But that was not the kind of valuables Gareth sought at this tourney.

More than one gasp greeted his words. Aware most would not have made the same decision, he attempted to yell loud enough for his host to hear. “Permission to regain my weapon, my lord.”

“Granted.”

More cheers. But Gareth cared as little for those as he did any other spoils of his victory beyond the coin owed him and recognition that the Claymore name was not one of treason but of honor.

Leaving the field with his horse’s reins in his hand and his squire’s excited recounting of the event in his ear, he was not halfway to his tent when two hooded men stopped him.

“This way,” one of the men said, as if Gareth would simply go with him.

“I will not?—”

“Sir Gareth Claymore of Fenwall Manor,” the second man added. “We wish only a private word.”

He was about to tell them no again, when the first man, whose beard covered most of his face, said, “I squired alongside your father, a man well respected despite the false claims against him. He and your mother accepted me into your home this winter’s past and know me well. We simply wish for a brief word.”

He lied.

Not about squiring alongside his father or visiting his home, one Gareth had not been to for too long.

He lied about wishing for only a brief word.

That same premonition that told Gareth something was amiss with the German’s claim also told him that this man wanted more than just a word.

Perhaps it was the way his gaze held Gareth’s, even beneath the hood.

However, he was not a threat. Of that, Gareth was certain.

Handing off the reins of his mount to his squire, Gareth wordlessly followed the two mysterious men toward the edge of the tents, where they could presumably not be overheard.

Gareth had no way of knowing for certain, but he guessed that their arrival and the odd accusation of cheating were related and told the men as much when they’d reached their apparent destination.

“You had something to do with the German’s cheating claims.”

He did not ask it as a question but stated it as a fact. By both men’s reactions, Gareth realized he’d been right.

“And intelligent,” the bearded men said to the other, as if they were appraising him.

“Indeed,” his companion replied. “He will do well for us. Very well indeed.”