The Tournament

In his thirty-fifth year of life, the paladin ran into a major difficulty. He came across a lonely boy, out in the mountains, who claimed he’d been cast out by a harsh father who favored his brother over him. The paladin enjoyed the young man’s company and hoped to train him as a successor, so he swore an oath of friendship to this boy.

But when they emerged from the mountains, the Paladin discovered that this boy was a nobleman. And, worse, he was an anointed knight. Yes, this boy, Deanor, was actually Ser Andras the Knight.

And, even worse, this boy expected to pick up his usual pursuits: feasting at manor houses, bedding scores of women, and going to tournaments.

The Paladin was adamantly against all these things. He personally was celibate, vegetarian, and mostly slept out in the open. That was the source of his power. And although the Paladin did not have a well-formed political philosophy, he felt like the nobility were bad. He didn’t necessarily have a replacement for the nobility—he just thought the world would be better off without them.

“But without a class of guardians, who would protect the people in a time of war?” Ser Andras said.

The Paladin, Erdric, didn’t have an answer. Privately, he felt like the people could easily learn to protect themselves, but he was aware that this wouldn’t be particularly convincing to a nobleman.

Still, it was extremely painful to be at this tournament, watching these grown men prance and preen in their armor.

And amongst these boys, Ser Andras was one of the most embarrassing participants, because he wasn’t even a good fighter. In the morning, he rode haplessly, losing tilt after tilt, and barely escaped being unhorsed.

"You are like all the villagers," Ser Andras said afterwards to the paladin. “You look down upon knights who barely hold their seats, but you fail to realize the immense training and courage it takes to ride straight towards an enemy lance.”

"The horse does the riding,” Erdric said. “You only sit upon it.”

“But to spur the horse into action—it takes such courage. You’ve no idea.”

“Your courage is not the issue,” Erdric said. “The problem is that you are always losing. The point of this competition is to win. There is no value in losing. It endangers you, endangers your horse—all to no purpose.”

"The fault lies with my brother—he always got the best equipment, the most encouragement. I was forced to lose. I never had proper instruction. And yet I am a knight, and a knight must ride! What would you suggest that I do?”

“Your problem is that God is not on your side. God despises your life, and that is why you lose. To gain his favor, you must live simply. Abjure women, abjure wine, abjure rich foods. Abjure tournaments as well, they are idle, frivolous. You must pursue what is good."

"Abjure tournaments—how absurd. How can I learn martial prowess by avoiding combat?"

"You do not need to avoid combat. Instead, you must seek combat where it is necessary. Look for injustice and stand in opposition to it."

"Pardon me," Ser Andras said. "But this is a coward's credo. You would have me avoiding combat, forever looking for some greater injustice, and how would I be ready to combat that injustice when I have no practice in valor? You know nothing of the knightly arts."

"There is no art to being a knight," the Paladin said.

"No art? Men ride and train their whole lives to learn to fight in armor."

"They train in order to convince themselves that their lives are blessed by God," the Paladin said. "They train so that they can continue to believe it is worthwhile for them to profit off the labor of others, off the villagers who work their land. But there is no art to what they do. Anyone could do it, if they were good."

"Then why doesn't anyone?" he said.

"Because the villagers are just as weak as their masters," the Paladin said. "They allow themselves to be enslaved."

"No—no, you're not an educated man. You don't understand."

"I understand," the Paladin said. "I understand that I am just a villager, and that I could defeat anyone on this tournament field, if I wished to."

"If you wished," Ser Andras said. "What a boast. What a brag."

"Give me your arms. Give me your horse."

"It is not allowed," he said. "You are not a knight. You are...you are common-born."

"Then see, you are afraid that you would lose."

"You would defeat me, of course. My talents lie in other areas. But these men, they have trained their whole lives. My brother is here. He is a mountain. He is a tiger. He is the quickest thing that moves."

"I will face him. I will wear your armor. I will kill him. That will allow you to inherit, and it will free me from my oath to serve you."

"You will kill him?" Ser Andras said. "Is that justice?"

"If you face another man in battle who is your superior, then you are allowing him the chance to kill you. In most cases, in this tournament, people choose not to attempt such a thing, but I see no dishonor in killing someone who spends their life taking foolish risks."

"He is one of the finest knights in the kingdom."

"Then let me ride."

That afternoon, a man appeared in Ser Andras's armor, riding his horse, carrying his lance. And from the moment he appeared, the onlookers sensed a difference. His horse was calm. His manner was smooth, without jittery movements or bravado. He did not lift his helm to show his face, instead he took his place at the lists, and he rode.

After the first day of the tournament, Ser Andras was mobbed by well-wishers. Nobody had ever seen him ride so well, and Ormond, the lord of the manor, demanded that Ser Andras abandon his pavilion and come spend the night at the manor-house, with the champions.

"Why are you out in the fields, amongst the riff-raff?" said Ormond. "And bring...bring your man."

Nobody had yet intuited the truth, which was that the Paladin rode in Ser Andras's place, but they all understood that the Paladin’s tutelage must be somehow responsible for the transformation in Ser Andras's skills.

So they went to the manor, where there was meat and wine, and all the knights and champions were gorging themselves. The Paladin stood alone in a corner, watching Ser Andras amongst the men, and feeling a glimmer of happiness for his friend. For the first time, Ser Andras was accepted by these men as one of themselves.

And it was true, Ser Andras was popular with the maids. They rallied around him, teasing him, making jests about his poverty, and the knight blew them a kiss and a wink.

"He is the favorite of the fairer sex."

This came from a woman in a fine green dress, who had come down off the dais to speak with the Paladin. He already knew her, from the elaborate announcements that'd accompanied their entrance into this hall. It was Lady Nerys, Ormond's wife.

"So nice to have a Paladin amongst us once more," she said. "It has never occurred in my lifetime. But I heard from my grandmother. We prepared your special bread."

The Paladin did not eat meat; he subsisted primarily on a bread whose flour had been specially sifted to ensure no insects had been accidentally crushed into it.

"Thank you," he said.

"We are pleased to have you,” she said. “Have you ever seen such a gathering?

He shook his head. "Men do strange things," he said. "I have accepted this."

"And what is strange?" she said. "Perhaps it won't seem so strange once it is explained to you."

"They drink," he said. "Alcohol clouds the mind. They get drunk. And this impedes their chances of winning. They are here to win."

"The best fighters only sip. Pretend to be more drunk than they are. It is a known thing."

"Why?"

"You mean why do they pretend?" she said. "It is the custom, amongst men. They are so afraid, men, of being seen to want to win. Imagine the shame, if you were known to eschew wine before a tournament, and then you lost anyway. After all, only one jouster can truly win."

"And would this shame kill a man? If a man was ashamed, would he be hunted down and killed?"

"No, he would lose face. I suppose that means nothing to you."

The Paladin looked out at the tables laden with meat, and the men wearing soft, sumptuous clothes, fringed with golden thread.

"I wonder that these men are not ashamed of this waste, of this terrible display."

And so he began a strange life, in this strange place. He was given a room of his own in which to sleep, a place with a guard on the door, and that night he was visited by the Lady Nerys, who was quite frank with him. "Give me a child," she said. "Give me a son. We have no children. Your blood will live on."

"This I cannot do."

But as they conversed, she learned more about him than many men knew—more than Ser Andras knew, for certain, and the Paladin could feel her testing him, thinking, planning.

The next morning, the Paladin wore Ser Andras's armor, and he defeated all who came against him. Now he was closer to facing the champion, Trask, the Golden Knight—the brother of Ser Andras. The man himself seemed utterly colorless. The Golden Knight was one of the sippers—he sat in the hall for a few hours, sitting silently, nursing his wine, and when he left, the hall breathed a sigh of relief. His utter silence, his impenetrability, hung over the room.

That night, when he was visited by Lady Nerys, the Paladin asked, "The Golden Knight, why does he live this way?"

"Because men cheer for him when he knocks another man off a horse, and that is the only time anyone has ever seemed thankful for his existence," she said. "There is an artistry to him on the field, no?"

"So you too are a believer in the art of knighthood," he said.

"It is what men do," she said. "A man must be strong."

"I am strong," he said.

"And your son will be strong."

"No," he said.

"Men gain strength from their fathers. That is known by all," she said.

"Men gain strength from goodness," he said. "And you cannot teach a son to be good. That is why you ought to be thankful you have none."

After these words, she wept for some time, and the Paladin rubbed her back. He was used to this behavior from women denied his attentions.

On the morning of the third day, he was due to face the champion, the Golden Knight. And while he was putting on his master's armor, the Paladin waited for his master to speak.

"You have proved your point," Ser Andras said. "But I am not so good as you. What works for you—this abstinence—I am not so strong"

"I will kill your brother," the Paladin said. "And then you will inherit your father’s lands, and I will be free from my oath."

"N—no," Ser Andras said. "Not like that."

"Why?"

"Because it would not...it would not be good."

"Why?"

"Because...because...it...it would be murder."

"So be it."

The next morning, a wave of derision swept the field when the man in Ser Andras's armor appeared. The rumor had circulated that it was really the Paladin riding for him. And now as he took up his place in the lists, there were groans and jeers.

And when the Golden Knight appeared, all went quiet. When Trask had heard the rumor, he had loudly boasted that he would kill the Paladin. He knew the way—it would just take a lance right to the throat.

The two of them faced each other for long moments. And then they rode.

When it was done, it was the brother, Trask, who was unhorsed. He flew to his feet, and he gestured for his mace. It was thrown to him by a man at arms, and he thundered over to his opponent, shouting, "You are not my brother."

And then the man lifted his helm, and the crowd stood, for a moment, shocked. And then they cheered for their hero, for their champion, Ser Andras.

That night, while Ser Andras was feasted and feted, his Paladin was visited for the last time by Lady Nerys.

"How?" she said. "How did...I have seen Ser Andras ride at a dozen tourneys and never like—"

"He was destined to win," the Paladin said. "I am not special. My seed is not special. Whoever is favored by God—that is the person who will win."

"But...that cannot be true."

"It is," he said.

"And am I not favored? I have prayed these many years for a son—why am I not favored?"

"I do not know. But this way that you act, it is not holy—so why would God favor you?"

And after that visit from the Paladin, the Lady Nerys took to praying. She prayed many hours for guidance. Year succeeded year, and still she prayed. And then word came to her, that there was an unclean woman down in the village who had a strong baby boy. And she put on a cloak, and she went down to that unhallowed cottage, and offered to educate that youth, because he was Lord Ormond’s son.

Ormond was aghast. He shut his wife in her room and gave her just bread and water, and he ordered the child gotten rid of, shipped off into service somewhere.

But Lady Nerys wouldn't comply, wouldn't keep quiet, and the manor rang with her shouts. Ormond pleaded with her, saying the boy wasn’t his, and Lady Nerys told him, in private, that she believed him. It didn’t matter. This boy was strong, and they could teach him to be good. It was better to have a stranger than no son at all.

Eventually, Ormond had no choice. He could either kill his wife, or he could claim the child as his very own, his bastard, through and through. The boy’s mother was brought into the castle and given fine dresses; the boy was made a knight. He was mocked, and he had to fight for his place, but he won those fights and eventually they stopped.

The child grew up tall and strong, and he listened to stories of the Paladin, and others like him. And, yes, the boy practiced the knightly arts. He didn't often ride in the lists, but when he did, he won.

The Temperate and the Intemperate, Master of the Dresden Prayer Book, miniature from Valerius Maximus, The Memorable Deeds and Sayings of the Romans, Bruges, about 1470-80. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Ms. 43. Source

P.S. This is the second Erdric tale. Each Erdric story stands alone, but you can read the first one here.