The Blacksmith's Bride - first chapter only

Chapter one

Chapter One

Hooves thundered on the ground as the horses charged forward.  Lances met chests, splintering on impact with a sickening crunch that sent shards of wood cascading wide across the lists.  The riders reeled in their saddles, wheeling their mounts round to face each other once more.  The crowd roared, stamping feet, pounding fists against the wooden fences that separated them from the contestants.  In the high stands the women gasped in alarm, clutching each other’s hands in excitement and suspense.  To watch was agonizing, but not a watcher, high or lowborn, could bear to tear her eyes from the spectacle before them.  None more so than Joanna Vernon.

“Sir Roger leads.  Sir Godfrey must unseat him or deliver a hit to the head to win,” muttered a woman to Joanna’s left.

“Sir Godfrey will win,” her companion vowed.  “He has twice the experience of Sir Roger.”

Joanna smiled to herself.  Roger Danby would win the joust.  Joanna’s certainty was iron hard.  It was true that today’s encounters were only between knights unseasoned by battle but Sir Roger was the best and brightest, and his skill on horseback was the talk of Yorkshire.  He told Joanna so whenever she mentioned her fears for his safety, laughing at her protests.  Then he would declare there would be no more talk of jousts as he silenced her with kisses, more demanding each time they met.

Joanna’s heart fluttered at the thought and she forced her eyes back to the arena. At either end of the tilt the knights lifted their visors, wiping sweat from their brows as squires brought them fresh lances.  Sir Roger’s chestnut stallion pounded the dirt fiercely, tossing its head, as eager to be off as his master.

Heralds sounded trumpets and the knights lowered their visors once more, hefting their lances in readiness for their final encounter.  A hush descended on the crowd as the flag was raised.  Joanna bit her lip anxiously.  In the three years she had watched Sir Roger compete she could not remember him ever becoming unseated.  Even so her hands twisted around the linen scarf she held in her lap, tightening it around her fist until the blood pooled in her fingers.

The flag dropped and the knights charged towards each other, roaring through their exertion.  Sir Godfrey’s lance smashed into Sir Roger’s chest but the younger knight rolled his shoulder back and the lance remained unbroken.  At the same time Roger’s weapon caught his opponent square in the chest, shattering on impact.  The crowd surged en masse to its feet in a deafening roar and Joanna let out a breath she had not even been aware she was holding.

Sir Roger was victorious.  He had won a purse of five pieces of gold and his place in the following day’s competition.

The two knights trotted back along the tilt, hands raised in salute to Sir Bartholomew Clifford, Sheriff of York and the king’s representative at the tournament.  Sir Roger raised himself in his saddle, his eyes sweeping the crowd.  Joanna leaned forward on the low wooden bench, hoping to catch his eye, knowing he was unlikely to spot her, seated as she was with the other wives and daughters of the guild merchants towards the rear of the stands.

She peered along the rows to the central stand where the noble ladies sat, dressed in a dazzling rainbow of silks and velvets and she felt a pang of longing.  Perhaps this would be the year Sir Roger would ask for her hand in marriage and before long she would be Lady Danby.  If he continued to win tournaments he would soon have the riches he claimed were all that had prevented him asking so far.

The thought of Sir Roger as her husband, with all that would entail sent heat coursing through Joanna’s limbs.  The early morning frost had melted quickly and it was a surprisingly warm day for March.  She shifted uncomfortably, pulling at the sleeves of her thick woollen dress, wishing she had not brought such a heavy cloak.  The riders left the lists to loud cheers and the next pair of contestants entered.  Joanna sat back, her mind wandering as the bout passed by almost without notice.  Only one man claimed her interest and he would not be competing again until tomorrow.  When sun began to sink below the treetops she left the stands, threading her way through the rows of stalls, past trinket sellers, food vendors and entertainers.