A select few knew that this wasn’t just a joust, wasn’t a meeting of two sportsmen or a play at heraldry by boys; this would not be a bloodless affair. Yet, they would keep to the forms. Proper salutes were given and received, and the ignorant had no foreshadowing that the coming struggle would be a matter of life and death.
The charge was made, the shields struck, and the knights passed each other. They turned and rushed each other again. Oh to hear once more the sounds of their armor jingling, of the horses’ pounding hooves, to feel again that dread in the pit of my stomach wondering if my friend would die.
Again and again they met, their skillful blows meeting skillful parries; then, on the fifth pass, the lance caught, and my friend sent his enemy flying from his saddle. The rising cheer of the crowd was swallowed in silence as the fallen knight climbed to his feet and drew his sword. My friend turned his charger round and rushed his enemy.
My merciless friend came upon the fallen knight and delivered the final blow. No cheers came from the stunned crowd; the ignorant people had thought this all a game, but death’s one virtue is in reminding us that not everything is play.
There lay his enemy, the blood pooling up and mixing with the mud; there too lay the end of my friend’s knighthood, but he did what he had to do.
Tale Told 