Last Knight

Hey peeps! I am sorry I have not been uploading as often, but you know, school does make it more difficult.....

I wrote this at school so it has been edited and such. Please feel free to tell me what you think.

Pranxtor ^-^

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The smashing metal sent sparks onto the flagstones. Deleane had only a sweaty grip on her sword and one strong blow could knock it to the ground. Her leather boots had a solid grip on the cobblestones and her steady stance made up for the lose hold on her sword. With each blow Deleane deflected she could feel herself weaken, leaving openings in her defence. Seeing the pleasure of her weakness in her challenger, Sir Jorge’s eyes, she tightened her grasp on the hilt, determined not make a fool of herself. The clanging of nearby fighters filled the expanse of the courtyard and the banging of the blacksmith echoed off the thick stone walls. Just as Deleane was about to slip over the end bell sounded and the pressure of Jorge’s sword lifted. Relief that sparring was over flooded through Delane’s exhausted body.

As much as Deleane loved to fight, she hated the scoffs of the men. Only a few of the knights, like Sir Owen treated her like a soldier and not a Lady. If most were to have their way Deleane would be in her room in the castle brushing her hair. She was only allowed to train with the knights because of the King. Both of her parents had lost their lives during a raid on the castle and were unfortunately mistaken for the King and his wife. Deleane’s mother had been braiding her long dark hair when the warning bell sounded. Deleane was still alive because she had been shoved into a wardrobe, hidden from the attackers. However, the raiders were weak, and the King’s forces quickly overpowered them. Deleane, being the daughter of one of the King's top knights, was made ward of the King. That was why she was allowed to stand in the overgrown courtyard, her underclothes drenched in sweat, hair cropped short at the shoulders, and train with the best fighters in the kingdom. True, her chainmail was too big, like the rest of the armour it was designed to fit a man, but Deleane wouldn’t trade the opportunity to fight for the world.

“Knights!” yelled Sir Owen over the chatting, “Official training has ended, feel free to continue practise.”

The knights started moving away from the central sparring ring, either moving off to do more training or, in the case of the older men, retreating back into the depths of the cool castle. Before anyone could get too far away Sir Owen called out, his eyes scanning the crowd, “Has anyone seen Sir Bodmore?”

There were heads shaken and murmurs of disagreement and Sir Owen’s forehead creased with worry. The fact that Sir Bodmore wasn’t present struck Deleane as odd, but she did not reflect on it as she dragged herself over to the vacant archery range.

Archery was the only form of fighting that Deleane felt was natural. Heavy armour was not required and she had a sharp eye for targets. Pushing the lose strands of her dark hair behind her ear she grasped her lightweight bow and swung the quiver over her shoulder. The target was a simple bail of hay with a cloth marked with a red ‘x’ draped over it. As she pulled an arrow out of the quiver and held it steady, Deleane fixed her hazel eyes on the cross and shot the first of many bullseyes. It was not until the aches all over her body worsened a few hours later that she emerged from the depths of concentration, where there had been nothing but her and the target.

Deleane slipped unnoticed by all but one, back to her chambers at the heart of the castle. That one stood in the courtyard archway obscured by shadow. He took no notice of her, his eyes remained fixed on a pair knights leaving for guard duty.

 Heather, a girl only two years younger than Deleane, stood waiting in the antechamber fingering her golden, braided locks. As well as being the daughter and apprentice of the court physician, Heather served Deleane.