John of Lancaster was not in a hurry at all.
He sat in the castle every day, staring into space, waiting for battle reports to arrive. Occasionally, he lingered in various red-light districts, leading a carefree and leisurely life.
Young Robert's army was blocked at their first stop, Rochdale. Now, his troops were stationed there, completely stuck. John had no idea how Robert felt, but his army had not made any moves for half a month.
Of course, John was not doing nothing.
Seizing the opportunity, John organized a knight tournament, gathering all the knights from the Lancaster earldom.
Indeed, knight tournaments are a distinctive feature of the medieval era.
Modern impressions of knight tournaments are somewhat stereotyped, imagining two knights charging at each other with lances, with the loser eating dust. This type of jousting is actually from the later Middle Ages, representing a more civilized form of knightly combat.
In John's time, knight tournaments were still filled with primitive brutality. Essentially, it was a large group of knights having a brawl. The losers could choose to surrender, while the winners could take their equipment, demand a ransom from their families, or even sell the equipment back to them for another profit.
Some might find this method too barbaric, but that was the Middle Ages.
Using this barbaric method, John could select a group of suitable knights to supplement his royal guard. Although it might not be friendly to those who perished in the process.
Pierre registered with the new county steward, Roger, and then arrived at the tournament grounds.
It was a temporary setup, surrounded by high wooden platforms, sturdy fences, and fluttering banners. This was the first time in his life he had participated in such a large-scale tournament.
"This is quite a big event," Pierre said to his companions. "Have we ever had such a large tournament here before?"
His companion shrugged. "No way. If it weren't for His Highness, I doubt we would have had any tournaments this year."
The knights attending this feast were not only from Lancaster but also from other counties, drawn by the fame, hoping to make a name for themselves in the tournament.
If not for some mishaps on the way, Pierre would have arrived several days earlier.
They had just arrived in the morning and were thrown into the tournament in the afternoon. It could be said that they hardly had any rest. When they entered the waiting area, they found themselves surrounded by knights from many nearby regions.
"Those are from Northumberland," whispered a few knights, catching Pierre's attention. He glanced at the tall, fair-skinned, blonde-haired knights.
Pierre touched his own brown hair, unsure of his own ethnicity. His grandfather was a Norman knight, his grandmother was Flemish. His mother was Anglo-Saxon with Welsh blood.
Such a mixed heritage left Pierre unsure of his own identity. However, so far, no one dared to discuss Pierre's lineage directly, given his status as a knight's grandson.
"I think we're in over our heads this time," his companion whispered in his ear. "Maybe we should capture one and then withdraw. I'm serious."
Pierre glanced at his companion and said uncertainly, "Are you sure you can capture an opponent?"
His companion didn't catch the underlying sarcasm and nodded earnestly.
Feeling helpless, Pierre could only brood internally. Looking at the tall, burly figures and those who appeared to be seasoned veterans, he couldn't shake the feeling that today might be his last.
Today's knight tournament could very well turn into a brutal free-for-all.
"...Let us thank the Earl for his generosity, the King's grace, and God's favor. Now, let's welcome the participants of this knight tournament—"
As the host's words ended, Pierre was pushed onto the field by the staff, without even a chance to escape.
He stumbled as he led his warhorse, nearly dropping his helmet, and was pushed onto the battlefield by the jostling crowd. Before the referees could give the order, the knights had already started exchanging taunts to boost their courage.
"Hey, young man, don't be afraid. Just do your best," an old knight said, patting Pierre on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.
Out of ideas, Pierre randomly chose a spot, mounted his horse, and waited for the horn to sound.
"Uuuu—"
As the long horn sounded, the knights, haphazardly divided into two sides, began shouting and charged at each other. In those days, knight tournaments were straightforward: a head-on collision where the winner takes all.
Typically, the side that won the first impact would turn their horses and launch a devastating second charge against the losing side, crushing their ability to regroup.
But all this depended on winning the first encounter.
This seemed too far-fetched for Pierre. All he hoped for was not to be immediately knocked off his horse, as that would mean certain defeat.
His eyes were fixed ahead, a result of years of knightly training. Even if a lance was pointed directly at him, he wouldn't blink.
"Charge! Charge!"
"For glory!"
The chaotic shouts filled Pierre's ears but did not affect his focus.
Pierre gauged the distance, gradually increasing the speed of his warhorse along with the knights ahead. As the horse's speed increased, Pierre began to level his lance.
As the distance between the two sides closed, Pierre's heart tightened.
Would this be the end for him?
In an instant, lances shattered, horses neighed. Screams and shouts mixed together, and splinters and blood sprayed everywhere, turning the battlefield into a chaotic scene.
Pierre, having just unhorsed an opponent, glanced at the broken lance in his hand and decided to discard it. Although a lance was somewhat costly for him, his recent performance would likely earn him a share of the spoils once the tournament ended.
If that were the case, the loss would be acceptable.
Turning his horse around, Pierre launched another charge at the enemy.
John, standing in the grandstand, watched the battlefield intently. The primary purpose of this grand knight tournament was to select suitable talents for war.
As the number of combatants dwindled, John noticed someone different.
It was a young man, wearing a sky-blue surcoat that John had never seen before. Even as the battle neared its end, this knight remained full of energy, defeating another knight in a melee and skillfully avoiding attacks from mounted opponents.
"This lad has some skill," John remarked with admiration.
The young man's combat prowess was terrifying. He seemed adept with any weapon, having swapped out numerous swords yet wielding each one with effortless mastery.
Guillaume commented, "Among those left, the knights with horses should have the advantage..."
Before he could finish, the young knight casually picked up a lance and, like throwing a javelin, impaled a charging knight, unhorsing him, and then mounted the horse himself.
Such a stunning display of skill shocked Guillaume and everyone present.
This guy was truly terrifying.