The knights were now arriving in the little town of Nordingham and, as was predicted, the inns were quickly filled. All road were trailed with incoming riders and the people of Nordingham stood on the sidelines watching in anticipation, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite contestant.

Some were famous, some were not, but in this town it didn't matter where they came from, Chroferus of Tristram was their favorite and it was up to him to keep the title. Newcomers and old timers all made their way into the village days before the grand ball that would be held at Warham.

The crowds cheered, welcoming the new jousters, waving flags and dancing about in excitement. Upon the last rider people grew silent. He was in full armor of black and only a few recognized him. Unlike the rest, he did not stop at an inn, but continued riding down the road out of town. People walked out onto the street watching in wonderment and whispering among themselves.

"Who is he?" A short man asked, stepping out from a pub.

"I have never seen him, a taller man with pallid features replied, "but I have heard of him."

Several men turned to look at the strange man who had just spoken. He had dark circles under his eyes that contrasted with his pale complexion. He turned to look at his audience, his eyes turning strangely dark.

"He is said to be the best knight in all of England," he answered their questioning eyes, "but no one knows his true identity. He has killed many in the joust."

The men gawked at the mysterious rider as he made his way through the streets, wonderment spreading across their faces. Would this new rider best their dear Chroferus?

Their questions were soon forgotten as their hero came riding in. The shouting and cheering returned even louder than before as Chroferus road his majestic horse through town. Flowers and treats were thrown in to the air by children in welcoming their famous rider; men cheered in anticipation, and women swooned in delight. It was a grand time for the city and nothing pleased the town more than the season's festivities and tournaments.

This year would be the most ostentatious season Nordinghma would ever see, because it was the tournament that King Henry XII himself would grace Nordingham with his presence at the final joust bewteen the last two nights. The whole village knew it would be Chroferus who would be one of the two to finish, but who would the other knight be? Who would go home with the title and fame? Most in the village hoped and expected Chroferus to win, but no one could be sure.

***

The road through Nordingham turned lonely as the rider guided his horse down towards a small manor. His black cape billowed in the wind as the skies turned gray and the gentle breeze chilled the dusk of the approaching night. He was a Baron who kept a simple home with few servants and a peaceful life. He was not so very old, but twenty-five in age, and his name was Jucentius of Wombell.

Now, in the passing years Chroferus and he ahd become quite good friends. They would often go riding and hunting along with discussing current events in London, which was one of their most intriguing topics.

Jucentius stopped in front of his home, giving the reigns to one of his men and heading towards the front doorway.

"Sir," the man stopped him, "a man came and left a letter.

"Oh? Who was it?"

"I don't know, sir," he responded to Jucentius, "he was a short man, very curt. He seemed to be in somewhat of a hurry."

"He called? Hmm," Jucentius replied, thoughtfully, "where is the letter?"

"Yes, sir, I shall get it right away."

The stable man quickly took his horse towards the keep. Jucentius entered his home and made his way to the main hall, taking a seat by the hearth. Many letters were brought; he stirred through them and picked up the one from his visitor. Jucentius knew who it was from immediately. His name was Hieronimus. He put it aside and picked up a second letter with the Warham's crest. He hadn't been home in some time and realized he needed to call on the Duke Thadeus to confirm that he would be attending the annual ball. He quickly prepared a messenger to be sent directly to the castle.

Realizing he could no longer ignore the letter from Hieronimus, he prepared to open it. He dreaded opening it up. Hieronimus was a father figure to him ever since his own birth father died when he was five. Hieronimus raised him as his own when he became the only heir to Wombell. Jucentius loved him to be sure, but whenever he left a letter it was a bad sign. His letters were not ones of general talk, but more of warnings. This one would be no different. Hieronimus worked with the King somehow, he was always a dodgy about how connected he was, but everything seemed to point back to him.

With a strong, calloused hand from his many hunting expeditions he brushed his light brown hair out of his eyes before finally ripping the note free of its cover.

Jucentius,

This letter I must write with great despair. I must tell you that it's coming. The season is near, you must be careful. Watch your step, your friends may not be who you think they are. Stay low, do not make a spectacle of yourself for it may be the last you do.

He was always worrying about this unsaid danger. Hieronimus was a very cautious man. He didn't even try to realize that Jucentius had everything under control. He was smart. He had been in these situations before and he would handle this one the same way he had with all the others.

To be continued. A Steemit series written by Tabi Slick.

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