“The dent in this thing is the exact shape of a horseshoe,” Anders said, chuckling, while wrenching with a pry bar.
“Just get it off,” Ransom said, kneeling on the dirt floor of the forge tent, his head extended sideways on the anvil.
“I saw the fight,” Anders said. “Most of it. You kept calm after falling off your mount. Most knights panic when that happens.”
“I was panicking.”
“It didn’t look like it. The crowd . . . I’ve never seen them so lusty. They were cheering for you, even though you’re a knight from Ceredigion. Even though you bested their prince. Mark my words, today you were a hero.”
He groaned. “Just stop talking and get this helmet off me.”
Ransom felt the strain on his neck. What if the helmet was too badly damaged to be removed, and he had to walk around with a crooked helmet on for the rest of his life? It was a ridiculous thought and made him start to laugh.
“You think this is funny, Ransom?”
“No . . . I was just picturing going back to Kingfountain like this.”
“You think you’d make it that far? You’d ride into a tree.”
“The horse can see even if I cannot.”
The metal groaned, and Ransom winced as he felt yet more strain against his neck.
Another voice sounded from the tent door in Occitanian. “Where’s Sir Ransom Barton?”
“Do you think this suit of armor I’m wrestling with is empty? This is the man.”
“The helmet still isn’t off?” asked the newcomer.
“Would you like to have a go at it? I’m trying not to break his neck.”
“You must hurry. They’re all waiting.”
Ransom gripped the horn of the anvil and tried to turn so he could hear better. “Who’s waiting?” he asked.
“Sir Ransom, you’ve been named the champion of the tournament! Everyone is waiting!”
It felt like a thunderclap had struck him. Ransom blinked in the darkness of his helmet, not sure he had heard correctly. Not daring to believe it.
“If that’s the case,” Anders said with a grunt, adjusting the pry bar, “you can afford a new helmet! Our deal still stands, doesn’t it? Half your winnings belong to me?”
The shell of the helmet bent, and Anders pried it off. Fresh air filled Ransom’s lungs. Sweat streaked down his face. Dizziness washed over him. Looking up, he saw a herald wearing the fleur-de-lis of Occitania. The royal herald.
“I’m coming,” Ransom said, rising slowly, hoping he didn’t faint.
The herald beamed at him and dashed from the blacksmith’s tent. Ransom looked at Anders. They’d been friends for years, but their deal had ended years ago.
“How many knights from Ceredigion have ever won a tournament here?” he asked softly.
Anders smiled smugly. “None that I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been here a long time.”
Ransom put his hand on his sword pommel. He gazed at the tent, remembering the years he had spent there, working the bellows for Anders to earn back the price of his armor. On his wrist he still wore the braided bracelet Claire had given him the last time he’d been in Chessy. It was dusty and coming loose in places, but he still remembered the night she’d given it to him. He would never forget it. Every time he passed the castle courtyard in Kingfountain, he would look up at the tower window, hoping for a sight of her. Only once had he been lucky enough to see her looking out. He didn’t know if she had seen him as well.
Anders put his hand on Ransom’s shoulder. “Go claim your prize, Ransom. You earned it. No one has defeated the Black Prince except his personal sword master. After today, everyone will know who you are.”
A sickening feeling clutched at his stomach, but with it came a surge of triumph he’d never experienced before.
“They’re waiting for you,” Anders said, giving him a push toward the opening. “Get out there.”
Ransom walked out of the tent and headed toward the stadium, where the crowd of nobles were sitting. Wooden palisades fenced off the lower-class folk. As soon as they saw him coming, a tumult began, and the cheering was deafening. Knights who had participated in the events saluted him as he plodded on, and the crowd opened so that he could enter the fighting yard. He saw banners congregated at the front of the stands, showing the different crests of those in attendance, including many of the noble houses of Occitania. At the very front, a series of steps had been put in place, leading to wooden platforms for the awarding of the prizes. The center one was vacant, and Ransom swallowed his nerves as he approached it. Prince Estian was not standing on any of the platforms. Since he’d been defeated, he wasn’t entitled to pride of placement. He turned, his black armor spattered in dust, his helmet off. He watched Ransom approach without emotion.