The Blacksmith's Wife by Elisabeth Hobbes

Joanna leaned forward on the low wooden bench, desperate to catch his eye but knowing he was unlikely to spot her at the rear of the stands. Sir Roger raised himself in his saddle, his eyes sweeping the crowd. The knights trotted back along the tilt, hands raised in salute to Sir Bartholomew Clifford, Sheriff of York.

Sir Roger was victorious, winning a purse of silver and his place in the following day’s competition. Joanna let out a breath she had not even been aware she was holding. The crowd surged en masse to its feet in a deafening roar. At the same time Sir Roger’s weapon caught his opponent square in the chest, shattering on impact. The younger knight rolled his shoulder back and the lance remained unbroken. Sir Godfrey’s lance smashed into Sir Roger’s chest. The flag dropped and the knights charged, roaring. Even so her hands twisted the linen scarf she held in her lap, tightening it around her fist until the blood pooled in her fingers. For three years she had known Sir Roger and could not remember him ever becoming unseated. Trumpets sounded and the knights lowered their visors once more, hefting their lances in readiness for the final encounter. Sir Roger’s chestnut stallion pounded the dirt fiercely, tossing its head, as eager to be off as its master. At either end of the tilt the knights wiped sweat from their brows, as squires brought them fresh lances. Joanna forced her eyes back to the arena. He told Joanna so whenever she mentioned her fears for his safety, laughing at her protests as he silenced her with clandestine kisses, more forward and demanding each time they met. His skill on horseback was the talk of Yorkshire. It was true that today’s encounters were between knights untried in battle but Sir Roger was the best and brightest. Roger Danby would win the joust Joanna’s certainty was iron hard.

‘He has twice the experience of Sir Roger.’ ‘Sir Godfrey will win,’ his companion replied. Sir Godfrey must unseat him or deliver a strike to the head to win,’ muttered a man to Joanna’s left. To watch was agonising, but not a watcher, high-or low-born, could bear to tear his or her eyes from the spectacle before them. In the stands the women gasped in alarm, clutching each other’s hands in excitement and suspense. The crowd roared, stamping feet, pounding fists against the wooden fences that separated them from the contestants. The riders wheeled their mounts round to face each other once more. Lances met armour, splintering on impact and sending shards of wood cascading across the lists.

Hooves thundered on the ground as the horses charged.

The Blacksmith's Wife by Elisabeth Hobbes