Rafin clearly remembered the looks and words that belittled him for being young and for not being a knight. He wanted to shut their mouths.
In his past life, horses had no stirrups, yet even so he had been able to wield a lance skillfully from the saddle. Now there were stirrups. Compared to the past, they gave a far greater advantage for moving on horseback.
People today had only ever ridden horses with stirrups, so they wouldn't know firsthand how much difference stirrups made to fighting strength.
But Rafin knew it from experience. It was like running with heavy sandbags strapped on, then throwing the sandbags off and running again: the body felt far lighter.
Ivan was helping Rafin into his armor. A little later, he was ready to go out for the match.
Natye called out.
"Next is the match between Sir Willas and Rafin. Please get ready."
Rafin had been closely watching how Willas walked and how he talked with the people around him.
He was in his 30s and big. Judging by how he treated his squire, he seemed hot-blooded and short-tempered. He would ask for a chair to be brought, or for water, and if his squire was even a little slow, he would flare up in irritation.
Rafin thought he would be an easier opponent than someone cool and composed. He knew how to deal with a man like that. And if he turned that temper against him, winning wouldn't be hard.
A man of Sir Willas's temperament would look down on Rafin, since Rafin was young, not a knight, and had come to the tournament with an older man who wasn't even a squire.
Ivan spoke to Rafin as he headed for the arena.
"He may be strong, but his movements look a little sluggish. Make good use of that."
"I don't necessarily have to finish the match quickly, do I?"
"Eh... What do you mean? If you can finish quickly, that's better. It saves your stamina."
"I could probably bring Sir Willas down in one blow, but the longer I drag the match out, the more impatient he'll get. An anxious man is bound to make mistakes. That's what I'll aim for. And I need to loosen up a bit, too."
Ivan thought that with Rafin's skill, he would beat the likes of Sir Willas. Even so, he thought that warming up in an actual match could be a little dangerous.
Mounted on his horse, Rafin looked across at his opponent in the distance. At that distance, once the horses broke into a run, they would meet within 5 seconds. Far off, Sir Willas's armor glittered in the sunlight.
Rafin's armor was old and poorly kept, so it didn't shine like Sir Willas's.
In the middle of the arena, the judge held a blue flag.
The judge looked left and right, from Rafin to Sir Willas and back. Rafin gave a slight nod to show he was ready.
The judge brought the blue flag down hard.
The two competitors galloped toward each other. Rafin held his shield in his left hand, pressed tight against his torso. With the lance tucked under his arm, he readied himself to change its direction at any moment.
— Clop, clop
The distance between the two competitors was closing steadily.
Sir Willas had his lance aimed straight at Rafin's face, as if he meant to settle the match in one go.
Rafin watched the direction of the lance Sir Willas was leveling as he came on, gauging the line of attack.
Sir Willas's lance was much longer than Rafin's. It was the moment his lance would reach Rafin first.
In that instant, Rafin leaned his torso far to the side. Sir Willas's lance failed to hit Rafin's face.
Now came the moment Sir Willas entered the reach of Rafin's lance. Rafin struck Sir Willas's shoulder squarely with his lance.
If he had gone for the head, he might have finished it in one blow, but instead he struck the shoulder to make him drop his weapon.
Sir Willas's lance fell to the ground, and the match was briefly halted. Rafin had gone on to the far end.
Sir Willas shook his head, apparently having been sure his lance would hit Rafin's face. He picked his lance back up.
The murmuring in the stands was growing louder. Sir Willas was furious, not only that he had failed to finish off this greenhorn-looking Rafin in the first round, but that he had dropped his lance.
The judge declared the second round and lowered the flag.
Again the two competitors galloped toward each other. This time, too, Rafin struck Willas's shoulder and made him drop his weapon.
This time, too, Sir Willas couldn't touch a hair on Rafin. Instead, he was seething that he alone had been struck on the shoulder twice in a row and had dropped his lance.
His shoulder throbbed, but it was bearable. This time he meant to smash that little brat's visor.
From the two strikes on the shoulder, Rafin had gotten a feel for what slight angle his lance needed to hit Sir Willas's face.
The 3rd round began.
Rafin started out at an easy pace, then spurred his horse and sharply picked up speed. Sir Willas's lance lost its aim on Rafin, who was suddenly bearing down on him fast.
When the tip of Rafin's lance slammed into Sir Willas's visor, Sir Willas's body flew up into the air with the sharp sound of iron striking iron. Then he crashed to the ground with a thunderous clatter. Red blood seeped from the gaps in his visor.
People brought a stretcher and quickly carried Sir Willas out of the arena. Struck in the head and then jolted by the fall from his horse, Sir Willas had passed out.
At the dramatic result, a shout burst from the crowd, and everyone had something to say about it.
"I was sure Sir Willas would win. They said his opponent wasn't even a knight."
"You don't know which stick is longer till you hold them side by side. I knew Rafin would win."
"Heh. You're lying!"
Rafin got off his horse and went into the waiting room. The people in the waiting room applauded him.
Ivan could tell that Lord Rafin had deliberately not ended the match quickly. Lord Rafin could have hit Sir Willas in the face with a single blow, yet he had deliberately struck his shoulder to make him drop his weapon.
Ivan had thought he could win, but he hadn't expected Rafin to be skilled enough to drag the match out to the 3rd round on purpose and end it whenever he pleased.
Ivan took Rafin's lance and shield from him and said.
"Well done. If you can get a feel for real combat that way, there's no better training."
"Sir Willas looked down on me from the start. I could tell from how he sat his horse and how he held his lance."
The lord of House Rosrad, Anchin, had also watched Rafin's match, but seeing Rafin win only in the 3rd round, he judged it a hard-won victory.
The scholar Varter was sitting beside Anchin. He thought much the same as Anchin.
Neither had any experience riding and handling a lance in real combat, so they didn't catch on that Rafin had dragged it out to the 3rd round on purpose.
Anchin and Varter merely thought that this young man, neither knight nor squire, had fairly decent skill.
Varter looked over the roster again. Rafin was listed as coming from House Valone, a frontier house. Whatever his origins, he had beaten a big, strong knight at a jousting tournament.
When putting the son of a renowned noble to work, one had to read the mood. But with Rafin, who came from a humble house and wasn't even of age yet...... if Varter gave him an order, he would most likely follow it without a word of complaint.
'He won't win the tournament, but with skill like that, he can't be ignored. If I put him under me, he'd be quite useful.'
Varter spoke to the lord.
"What did you make of that match?"
"The greenhorn went to 3 rounds and won by luck. Wasn't even a knight, I hear."
"Yes. That's right. He's from House Valone."
Anchin was startled to hear the name Valone.
"House Valone is insignificant now, but I owed a great deal to the previous lord, Gawilt. Rafin must be Gawilt's grandson."
"Now that you mention it, you've said the man who saved your life was Gawilt Valone, my lord. I remember. That young man has little hope of winning the tournament, but judging by his first win, his skill seems decent. Someone like that might be worth keeping close and putting to use...."
"Well, let's take our time thinking about that. There are still matches left."
***
The first day of the jousting tournament ended. The next day was when the winners of the first matches would compete.
Rafin won against a knight on the second day as well. This time he dragged the match out to the 2nd round, then finished it in one stroke. On the third day, he ended his match in the 1st round outright. The last day of the tournament was the final.
His opponent in the final was Folke of House Menimrast. House Menimrast was not one of the Northern Grand Duke's vassal houses. It came from the southern region.
Folke was also highly skilled.
He had swept his way to the final, beating every opponent in the 1st round.
Everyone who had watched the tournament took a keen interest in the underdog, Rafin. Folke was already a famous knight in the southern region.
He had come all the way north at Anchin's special invitation to add luster to the tournament.
The day before the final, Varter was talking with the lord.
"I never expected Rafin to make it all the way to the final."
Varter thought it was remarkable enough that a youth like Rafin had reached the final. He was certainly material worth keeping and raising at Barad Castle, Varter thought. Just by reaching the final, Rafin had made a name for himself through this tournament.
With that much, he could easily be put to use as a squire to a knight of Barad Castle. Varter wanted to meet him in person and talk with him to see what sort of temperament he had.
With results like these, the lord would surely allow Rafin to be brought into Barad Castle.
"There were plenty of formidable knights. I can't understand how a boy with no experience even as a squire made it to the final. On top of that, he barely won his first match after going to 3 rounds. But the next match he finished in 2 rounds, and the one after that in the 1st. It looked as if he had a plan to drag the contest wherever he pleased and then finish it."
"I think we should look into what training House Valone gave him to produce results like these."
"Yes. Look into that."
"Given the skill Rafin showed in reaching the final, how about bringing him to Barad Castle as a squire?"
It also seemed odd to Anchin to simply hand Rafin, who had performed far better than expected, his prize money when the tournament ended and send him home.
"If he's good talent, we should keep him close and use him. When the tournament is over, take Rafin in as a squire."
"Then we can take him in as the Knight Commander's squire?"
"Gerhardt will teach him well. Gerhardt is of common birth, but his martial skill is superb. He and Rafin have something in common."
"Quite right. Then I shall proceed as you say, my lord."
It was the day of the jousting tournament's final.