Hand in Violent Hand

0 - A tournament (bonus content)

A joust

A series of jousts across over a hundred and fifty years of english history as varying members of of the royal families, men who would one day take each others lives, compete in sport in the time honored tradition, of the tournament.

Chapter 1 - The Knights

1492

Jasper Tudor
The sun is shining. It's an early spring day. The fields are green in western england. Got out of London for the summer. I can work from here and my nephew doesn't need me like that anymore, I go back in the fall. This is fine. This is my bloody castle. I should be enjoying being in my bloody castle, where I'm free to move about. I've spent too much of my life running. This is peaceful. And quiet.
It's been one day. I'm bored. All right. I'm just going to go back to London. It was a good day. I assume the rest of england is hunting me again I'll believe that less in London I'm going there.
I'm not moving. This chair is actually comfortable and no one has talked to me all day. It was a brilliant idea to ban women from this floor of the house. I'm married now. We exist fine on separate floors.
"M'lord."
Should have banned men as well. Should have banned everyone.
"Yes, Edward? You don't have to call me that, you know, Jasper's fine," probably the only thing I reliably respond to. I sit up, squinting into the sun.
"You looked asleep," he says, tugging his hands a bit. A chubby faced, sad boy. My wife's eldest. I was somewhat tangentially responsible for his father's death. That's not a surprise I was tangentially responsible for the deaths of an entire bloodline. Their fault for being in my way and being killable.
But the lad is lonely, he's barely fifteen. Technically he's under my mother's care which is a nice way of saying while the money goes through her I actually lacking other things to do, that's sarcasm, mind him. He's home with his mum and little siblings for the summer. He's got a brother a year or two younger than him running about.
"Yeah I don't sleep these days. What are you doing creeping about up here," where I expressly ask people not to go, "on a fine day like this? Surely you've got a brother to be filling with stories of London?" He's been with me in London all winter to see court and I don't know, be fourteen. I didn't have a better explanation for idiot things I did in a castle at age fourteen but his mother was satisfied enough.
"There's a tournament, a few miles south, towards Devon," the boy says, putting a hand through his dark curls.
"Ah. And you think if I say yes you can go because I'm old and ill tempered, then you don't have go to ask your mum who will likely say no?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"Something, of that kind," he winces.
"Hm, thought as much," I nod. His mother isn't a sticking point but she's close. In that magical age bracket of 'young enough to be my daughter' she's a very nice girl, with four children already. I've never been inclined for a wife much less one young enough to be my daughter. It's a political match to stop her from marrying someone worse. I translate worse as being someone who would use her money to oppose my nephew on the throne, she translates someone worse as someone who actually wants her bed or minds her having the kids about. I don't mind her as a person I also don't need to have a lot to do with her. She doesn't mind me I suppose in that I don't infringe her life or bed. I think she does mind me in that I'm directly or indirectly responsible for the deaths of some of her family members and close friends. So that is a sticking point. All of which to say, I don't really go out of my way to talk to the woman more than is necessary for a business relationship between her, a barely past thirty war widow, and me the winner of war.
The boy was too little to remember half of that which is probably best. But for the past few years I'm just the old man who married his mum and hangs about his house. He's been told and he's heard whispers but he's fifteen. When you're fifteen you're thinking about having fun with your mates.
"Please? If I say you're watching and said it was fine she'll not mind," he says, hopefully. He's nearly grown he's old enough not to need his mum's permission but he's a good boy so he's getting it.
"Your mum knows you're a knight and going to be entering tournaments if this some local do just tell her and take some of my men," I say, because I might get bored and go back to London or I'll go back to sitting here pretending I'm eighteen and nothing bad has ever happened to me. It could go either way.
"She gets worried about me after—you know—what happened to my father," he says.
"I sort of happened to your father," I seduced him to my side through blackmail which was so easy he should have been ashamed, I hope he died ashamed of how easy he was to corrupt, "And I definitely happened to the people who happened to your father. You don't go in your colors no one will know it's you anyway."
"Me being safe because you're the biggest threat to England or anyone in it—isn't comforting—to my mum. I know. I tried that. And her excuse was you think bad people are out there after you that's why you carry knives—,"
"I carry knives because I'm old and paranoid I know it's a problem, I'm well aware I am a problem," I say, hand on chest, "It's too late for me we're keeping moving."
"Right. Whatever. Point is she'll feel better if I say you're coming you don't have come! Just confirm if she asks you said it was okay and you minded me," he says, "I'll be fine."
"You've never been in a tournament before. Have you? Unless you sneaked off in London which would be lovely for you?"
"No, I've not," he shrugs.
"Where is this?"
"Bit north of Devon."
"Right then I'm coming," I say, he's terrible at it. I've watched him tilt he's not great.
"Really? You don't have to," he says.
"If we're telling your mum I am I do. I wasn't—busy," I say, glancing at my cup of wine which was all I was doing all morning.
"I only wanted to go for some fun. And I know I'm terrible I might get better if I practice," he says, hopefully, "Just don't let me my mum know I'm terrible? As I am?"
"Yeah, good for you," I say, getting up, "Let's go find your mum and tell her we're doing that then, and not mention if you are or aren't terrible. Then I'm watching you tilt."
"I'm as bad as when you last saw me, you don't have to," he says.
"I am your step-father for a reason boy."
He smiles then, pleased I actually am offering to help him. Christ. He should have gotten someone better. "Did your father teach you how to joust?" The boy asks, hopefully.
"My father?" I laugh a little, "No."