from the fertile imagination of the weasel

Sir Leik O'Reish reined his horse up next to his tent. Both knight and horse were winded. He popped his visor up and lowered his head so his page, Marcus, could wipe away some of the sweat. As the rag receded from his face, he looked at the line of jousting lances leaned up against the wall. Three left.
"Did Sir John break his lance on that last pass?"
Marcus nodded. "He also has just three left, sir."
Sir Leik smiled. "He might not make it. He is getting tired. His shield is riding just a bit high and his lance was lower last time. He is carrying his shield a little high trying to convince me the fatigue has not set in."
Marcus nodded wordlessly, continuing to wipe down the heavily breathing charger.
"What do you think, Marcus...on the next pass should I try to unhorse him with a center shield strike or should I try to make him move with a pass at his helmet? He might be tired enough to fall if he has to move."
Marcus paused from wiping down Tior, the mighty charger Sir Leik rode exclusively during jousts. Marcus had been training in jousts and showed great promise but pages were not allowed to compete in the real thing. Sir Leik, however, was a champion jouster who had won countless tournaments. For Sir Leik to ask Marcus his thoughts was a huge honor for Marcus.
"How fatigued are you, sir?" he asked.
"I am feeling it, Marcus. My shoulder is pretty stiff, I think I might have knocked it loose the second time he unhorsed me. It is hard to hold the lance steady right now."
"Sir, I would never question your skill but it would seem wise to me to select the larger target. Trying to make him move by hitting his helmet seems more risky. If you are both fatigued I believe it gives you the advantage."
"Excellent analysis, Marcus. You will be a fine jouster some day."
At that moment the trumpet sounded signaling one minute before the next pass. The crowd gave a frenzied roar. Sir Leik was facing his most challenging opponent in years and they were tied with two unhorsings apiece. Both Sir leik and Sir John were hugely popular and to finally see them tilt was a treat most of the assembly would get a chance to see perhaps once or twice in their entire life. It had already been a thrilling day and now it was being topped off by a fine combat.
Marcus hurriedly selected what he believed was the sturdiest and straightest remaining lance and passed it up to Sir Leik, who grimaced as he accepted it.
"Are you okay, sir?" inquired Marcus.
Sir Leik flipped his visor down and nodded. His muffled voice emerged from the visor. "Just a few more aching joints than usual, Marcus." He wheeled Tior around and took his place in the lists.
At the far end Sir John was wheeling his charger into place. They saluted one another with their lances and lowered them into the rest position. A tense hush settled over the crowd as they anticipated the next collision. Should either combatant unhorse his opponent once more without being unhorsed himself he would be declared the winner. If neither or both were unhorsed they would make another pass. If either broke all his lances before the other he would find himself at a severe disadvantage as he would then be reduced to using one of the hardened wood swords.
Sir Leik sighed as he looked at the wood fist that covered the end of his lance. It seemed so pointless. He knew he could beat Sir John and anybody else he had encountered. For the first time in his life he wondered if he should stop. To be certain, when he first attained knighthood the joust had been among his greatest pleasures as it was probably the closest he would ever come to genuine combat. But now, after 7 years in which he had never tasted defeat but had only ever fought with fist-tipped lances and dull wooden swords. There was no real glory in fake fights for monetary prizes. He grinned inside his helmet. To be sure, he had grown independently wealthy from those monetary prizes, but still...there was no glory in defeating outmatched opponents any longer.
The trumpet sounded and Tior leapt into action. His hooves pounded their frenetic song against the hard-packed earth as Sir Leik and Sir John charged towards each other. With the practiced ease of familiarity Sir Leik noticed the slight tilt to the head, the slightly higher than normal placement of John's shield, the almost imperceptible extra quiver in the already unsteady lance point as it rocked up and down in time with the movements of the horse. He knew John was tired and a solid blow might end the joust here.
In a move so subtle not one jouster in a thousand would notice it Sir Leik twitched his shield to deflect the anticipated strike from Sir John's lance while also slightly moving his own lance ahead so it would strike first by the smallest split second margin.
Their lances struck with a thunderous crash. To the watching crowd it seemd their lances struck simultaneously but the milisecond Sir Leik had gained allowed him to redirect a large amount of the force of Sir John's blow. Still, the impact was so great it knocked him back with tremendous force. He struggled to reatin his seat. The lance had slpintered under the impact so he let it fall and grabbed for the reigns, barely retaining his seat.
Just as he regained control he heard the roar of the crowd that told him Sir John had fallen. Once more he had won. He reined in Tior and circled back to the lists, riding quickly up to wear Sir John lay. The heavy armor prevented Sir John from rising without assistance and already several pages were running forward. Before they could arrive Sir Leik dismounted and offered his fallen opponent a hand, helping him to his feet.
The crowd roared again. They appreciated the extra level of graciousness he exhibited at such a young age. Sir john shook his hand and someone brought him his mount. Together the two knights approached the viewing stand.
With the panache he often displayed, Sir Leik guided Tior into the kneeling bow he had taught the charger for just such occasions. The crowd applauded appreciatively at his show of horsemanship.
The Baron raised his hand. "You have had an outstanding tournament yet again, Sir Leik o'Reish. All have fallen before you." He raised a hand to forestall another outburst of applause. "But there is one competitor you have yet to face." A hush fell over the crowd. This was unexpected.
The Baron pointed to the list. "Now entering the lists, all welcome His Highness, the Prince of Sharpdon."
A gasp and then a hush arose from the crowd. The Prince was known for his ineptness at all the knightly pursuits. He was unhorsed at almost every pass in jousting, was as dangerous to himself as his opponents with a sword, and some people whispered he could not even lift the lance without the aid of a special device installed on his armor. He had no chance against the talented Sir Leik o'Reish and everyone knew it.
Grimly Sir Leik returned to his tent to ready himself. The one ironclad rule of the joust was anyone who had not been defeated in that tournament was allowed a single challenge. It was one way for a new knight to make a name for himself.
"Or get himself killed," thought Sir Leik to himself.
Silently Marcus handed up a lance. He did not bother to choose the good one, they both knew it would not matter against the Prince.
Sir Leik went through the motions of preparing, but his heart was not in it. His shoulder hurt abominably, he was tired, and he was afraid of causing harm to the Prince who, while an idiot, was still the Prince. Almost before he was ready the trumpet sounded and they began their charge.
Sir Leik dropped his lance on target. He noticed the Prince weaving already and knew he would unhorse him easily. Dimly he was aware of the crowd roaring. Something about seeing royalty knocked around always gave them a thrill.
Sudden disgust overwhelmed Sir Leik. He was tired of it all. The fake combat with fist covered lances, the easy victory over an incompetent knight allowed to joust simply because he was royalty while talented men such as Marcus could not because they were mere pages...it was ridiculous. He reigned Tior to the side and allowed the Prince to pass unscathed.
A sudden hush fell over the crowd. Failing to complete a joust, turning aside for any reason was the basest act of cowardice. Yet before their very eyes their hero, the great Sir Leik o'Reish had just performed the worst act of cowardice they knew of.