# Chapter 1: The Tourney of Meissen

  The year was 1133 Anno Christi, and the Holy Roman Empire simmered like a pot left too long on the fire. Emperor Lothair III had only just claimed his crown, but already the whispers of discontent echoed from the Rhine to the Danube. In Saxony, where the air was thick with the scent of pine and peat, House Wettin hosted a grand tourney on the outskirts of a small city called Meissen. It was meant to be a celebration of chivalry—jousts, combats, and feasts under the banners of black lions and silver swords—but beneath the revelry lurked the sharp edges of politics. Lords and knights from across the Empire had come, some to win glory, others to forge alliances or settle grudges.

  Sir Herold Tarly Glint rode into the tourney grounds at midday, his chestnut destrier, Ironfoot, picking its way through the churned mud. At twenty-eight, Herold cut a striking figure: tall as a lance at six feet and three inches, lean and muscular from years of relentless training, his brown hair tied back in a simple leather cord. His hazel eyes scanned the field with calm precision, a faint smile playing on his clean-shaven face. He wore his plate mail polished to a mirror shine, the green surcoat of House Glint emblazoned with its silver sword sigil fluttering in the breeze. Behind him rode his small retinue: Master-at-Arms Roland, grizzled and scarred in his late forties, with a perpetual scowl beneath his bushy beard; four loyal soldiers from House Glint, clad in chainmail and green cloaks; and young Squire Damian, barely sixteen, lanky and wide-eyed, still growing into his role.

  The grounds were alive with the chaos of the Middle Ages. Muddy fields stretched out, marked by wooden barriers for the joust lanes and roped circles for single combats. Smoke rose from cook-fires where vendors hawked roasted meats and ale. Children darted between legs, shrieking with laughter as they chased stray dogs or begged for sweets. Knights in mail practiced footwork or tilted at quintains, their lances splintering against pivoting shields. Outside the pavilions, camp-followers and whores lounged in low-cut kirtles, calling out invitations to knights and men with copper in their purses. The air hummed with the clang of steel, the whinny of horses, and the distant roar of crowds at the main lists.

  Herold reined in Ironfoot near the horse lines, dismounting with the fluid grace of a man born to the saddle.

  Sir Herold -

  (voice steady, carrying authority)

  Damian, tie the horses to the nearest stalls. Water them well—none of that brackish trough slop. And keep an eye on the saddles; I’ll not have straps cut by some light-fingered urchin.

  Damian nodded quickly, dismounting and leading Ironfoot and the other mounts away. The boy was diligent, but his nervousness showed in the way his hands fumbled with the reins.

  Herold turned to Roland, who was already scanning the grounds with his scarred eyes.

  Sir Herold -

  Roland, see to the men. Set up our pavilion near the Bavarian contingent. No drinking until after the combats—clear heads win fields.

  Roland -

  (gruff, with a nod)

  Aye, my lord. They’ll curse you for it, but they’ll thank you when the lances fly.

  The master-at-arms marched off with the four soldiers, barking orders. Herold stood for a moment, breathing in the familiar scents of hay, sweat, and oiled steel. Tourneys were his domain—places where honor was tested not just in blood, but in the eyes of lords and ladies.

  A shout from the horse lines shattered the moment. Herold turned, hazel eyes narrowing.

  Damian was on his knees in the mud, wrists bound behind him with rough cord, tied by a lead rope to a nervous bay gelding. Around him stood six armored retainers in blue-and-silver surcoats bearing the black lion rampant of House Wettin. At their center was a young lord—barely nineteen, tall and lean, blond hair oiled and curled, a cruel smirk twisting his handsome face. **Lord Quintin Wettin**, son of Conrad I Wettin, Margrave of Meissen and host of the tourney.

  Quintin laughed, his voice high and mocking.

  Lord Quintin -

  Look at this whelp! Thought he could stable his mangy nag next to mine without asking. Tie him tighter—let the horse drag him a bit. Or better yet… behead him and the beast. A lesson for Bavarian dogs who forget their place.

  One retainer drew a blade, raising it over the horse’s neck. Damian’s eyes were wide with terror, but he held his tongue—brave, even in fear.

  Herold strode forward, boots sinking into the mud. His hand rested lightly on Clarus’s hilt, but he did not draw. The crowd nearby—knights, squires, vendors—fell silent, sensing the storm.

  Sir Herold -

  (voice low, deadly calm)

  Release him. Now.

  Quintin turned, smirk widening as he sized up Herold—tall, composed, the green surcoat unmistakable.

  Lord Quintin -

  Ah, the Bavarian captain. Come to watch your squire learn manners? This is Saxon ground. My father’s writ runs here. And I say the boy loses a hand—or the horse loses its head. A fair lesson.

  The retainer with the sword raised it higher, ready to strike.

  Herold stepped closer, eyes locked on Quintin. The air thickened.

  Sir Herold -

  If that blade moves one inch, I will slice every man here myself. Slowly. And I will start with you, Quintin Wettin.

  The retainers hesitated, glancing at their lord. Quintin’s smile faltered, face flushing with anger.

  Lord Quintin -

  (snarling)

  You dare threaten me? On Wettin land?

  Sir Herold -

  (continuing, voice like drawn steel)

  This boy is my squire. He serves Duke Henry the Proud of Bavaria. Touch him, and you touch the Duke. Touch the Duke, and you touch Bavaria. Do you truly wish to explain to your father why his son sparked open war between Welf and Wettin over a stable spat?

  Silence. The retainers lowered their blades. Quintin’s jaw clenched, calculation flashing in his eyes.

  Lord Quintin -

  (turning away, muttering loud enough to be heard)

  Not great neighbors at all…

  He stalked off toward his pavilion, retainers trailing like whipped dogs. One cut Damian’s bonds with a dagger. The boy scrambled to his feet, rubbing his wrists, eyes wide with relief.

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  Sir Herold -

  (soft but firm)

  You all right, lad?

  Damian -

  (voice shaking)

  Y-yes, my lord. Thank you.

  Sir Herold -

  (placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder)

  Next time, choose your ground better. And never let pride make you careless. Come—your place is with me. The joust waits.

  They walked a few paces when a familiar voice called out.

  Sir Charles Quill -

  Herold Glint, you old Bavarian dog!

  Herold turned, smile returning. Sir Charles Quill of House Quill approached—broad-shouldered, bearded, five years his senior, in a blue surcoat with a silver quill sigil. Quill wiped sweat from his brow, fresh from a sparring bout.

  Sir Herold -

  (raising a gauntleted hand)

  Charles! By God’s grace, you still live to shame younger men in the lists.

  Sir Charles Quill -

  (laughing, clasping Herold’s forearm)

  Come here, you tall bastard!

  They embraced, thumping backs. Quill stepped back, eyeing Herold’s pristine armor.

  Sir Charles -

  You look like you’ve never seen a day of mud. How do you keep that green so bright?

  Sir Herold -

  (smiling)

  I make my men clean their own gear first. Sets an example. Besides, filth dulls the blade—and the soul.

  They walked toward a quieter corner near the supply tents. A whore called out playfully; both ignored her.

  Sir Herold -

  I heard you were at Fulda Abbey last month. Business with the Abbess? Or did you finally decide to take vows and leave us sinners behind?

  Sir Charles -

  (chuckling, eyes serious)

  No vows for me, Herold. The Abbess wanted to discuss… tithes. And borders. The Hohenstaufen dogs are pressing their claims again—quietly, through the Church. She needed witnesses who can swing a sword as well as sign a parchment. I was there for the latter, mostly.

  He lowered his voice.

  Sir Charles -

  But there’s talk in the cloisters—strange lights in the Alps again. Pilgrims swear they saw a figure of fire walking the peaks. The monks call it a sign from God. I call it trouble.

  Sir Herold -

  (raising an eyebrow)

  Fire on the mountains? Sounds like a tale to scare children. Still… if it’s true, Duke Henry will want to know. He doesn’t like surprises on his borders.

  Sir Charles -

  Then you’ll be riding north with me after the tourney? I could use a man who doesn’t panic when steel meets steel.

  Sir Herold -

  If the Duke permits it. But yes—I’d ride with you, Charles. Always.

  A horn sounded—the call for the next single combat pairings. Children scattered, knights shouted, and the two friends clasped forearms once more.

  Sir Charles -

  Save me a dance at the feast tonight, Glint. And bring that famous smile of yours. Marianna Welf will be there—I saw her pavilion flying the Welf lion.

  Herold’s ears reddened slightly, but he kept his expression steady.

  Sir Herold -

  I’ll be there. But only if you promise not to tell her I still can’t joust with my visor down without getting dizzy.

  Sir Charles -

  (laughing)

  Your secret’s safe with me, brother.

  They parted—Herold heading back to his men, Quill toward the joust lanes.

  Herold found Damian polishing Clarus near the pavilion. The boy looked up, still pale from his ordeal.

  Sir Herold -

  Steady now, lad. The real test is coming.

  The herald’s horn cut through the clamor.

  Herald -

  For the honor of Bavaria and the Duke Henry the Proud—Sir Herold Tarly Glint of House Glint, Captain of the Sword Cavalry, against Sir Wade Greenbull of the March of Meissen!

  The crowd roared. Herold drew Clarus, the blade catching the light.

  Damian -

  (low, urgent)

  My lord… Sir Wade Greenbull. They say he’s a monster. Cruel. Relentless. He’s already killed three knights today—two in single combat, one in the mêlée. And he’s 6'6"—a giant. They call him the Bull for a reason.

  Herold glanced at the boy, smile unwavering.

  Sir Herold -

  Then sit back, Damian. Polish my sword when I’m done. And keep your mouth shut unless you want to walk home to Bavaria on foot.

  Damian swallowed hard, nodded, and stepped back.

  Across the roped circle, Sir Wade Greenbull entered like a storm. Towering at 6'6", broad as a barn door, clad in blackened mail and a surcoat of dark green slashed with yellow. His helm was off—revealing a scarred, brutish face, small eyes glittering with malice, thick beard streaked with sweat and blood from earlier fights. He hefted a massive arming sword one-handed, rolling his shoulders like a bull preparing to charge. His men cheered him on—crude, loud, already counting the purse they’d win.

  The marshal raised his staff.

  Marshal -

  Fight with honor! No killing blows! Yield or be yielded!

  The staff dropped.

  Wade roared and charged—sword swinging in wide, brutal arcs meant to overwhelm. Each strike was a hammer blow, aimed to shatter shield and bone alike. The crowd gasped as Herold parried the first three—clang, clang, clang—each impact driving him back a step, mud splashing. Wade pressed relentlessly, no finesse, just raw power and cruelty: a feint followed by a low cut at the legs, then an overhead smash that would crush a lesser man’s helm.

  Herold moved with precision—never wasting energy, never panicking. He circled, deflected, let Wade’s momentum carry him past. The giant’s strikes were fast for his size, but predictable—anger made him telegraphed. Herold’s hazel eyes tracked every move.

  Minutes passed. Sweat beaded on both men. Wade’s breaths came harder; his relentless assault met unyielding defense. The crowd murmured—most expected the Bull to end it quickly.

  Sir Wade -

  (growling)

  Stand still, Bavarian cur! I’ll break you like kindling!

  Herold didn’t reply. He waited.

  Then—the opening.

  Wade overextended on a high overhead swing, putting all his weight behind it. Herold stepped inside the arc—close, too close for the giant’s long reach—parried the blow upward with Clarus, and drove his pommel straight into Wade’s exposed gorget.

  The impact was sharp—crunch of metal and bone. Wade staggered, eyes wide.

  Herold followed with a precise cut—Clarus slicing across the back of Wade’s sword arm, not deep enough to maim, but enough to make the giant drop his blade. Wade roared in pain and fury, lunging bare-handed.

  Herold sidestepped, tripped him with a low sweep of his leg, and brought Clarus’s edge to Wade’s throat as the Bull crashed to his knees in the mud.

  Silence fell.

  Sir Herold -

  (quiet)

  Yield.

  Wade’s face twisted—rage, humiliation. He spat blood.

  Sir Wade -

  (hoarse)

  I… yield.

  Herold withdrew his blade, offered a hand. Wade slapped it away, staggering up with his men’s help. The crowd erupted—half cheering Herold, half jeering Wade. Quintin Wettin watched from the sidelines, face dark.

  Herold sheathed Clarus, walked off the field. Damian rushed forward.

  Damian -

  My lord… you did it. He killed three today. Three!

  Sir Herold -

  He fought like a bull. I fought like a man who wants to see tomorrow. There’s the difference.

  The day wore on. Herold fought three more single combats—each against strong knights from Swabia, Saxony, and Franconia. He won them all: disarming one, knocking another flat with a shield bash, forcing the third to yield after a grueling exchange of blows. By sunset, the herald declared him champion of single combats. The purse was heavy—gold and silver coins, a fine destrier as prize, and the cheers of the Bavarian contingent.

  That night, the feast hall in Meissen’s keep was alive with firelight and merriment. Tables groaned under roasted boar, venison, fresh bread, and rivers of wine. Musicians played lutes and pipes; jugglers tossed flaming torches; dogs snapped at bones underfoot. Lords and ladies mingled—banners of Welf, Wettin, Hohenstaufen hanging uneasily together.

  Herold sat at the Bavarian table, cup in hand, armor shed for a clean green tunic. His smile was there, but his eyes scanned the room. Marianna Welf was across the hall—dark hair braided with silver, green eyes catching the light. She glanced his way; he felt his heart stir.

  Roland sat beside him, nursing ale.

  Roland -

  Four wins today, my lord. The men are calling you “The Unyielding Glint.”

  Sir Herold -

  (smiling)

  Let them. But tomorrow we ride home. The Duke will want a full report.

  Damian, wide-eyed at the feast, leaned in.

  Damian -

  My lord… do you think Quintin will forget what happened at the stables?

  Herold’s smile faded slightly.

  Sir Herold -

  Men like Quintin forget nothing. But neither do I.

  As the night deepened, Herold slipped away from the revelry—wine heavy in his veins, but his steps steady. He wandered into the woods beyond the tourney grounds, seeking fresh air.

  And there, in the darkness, he saw the glow.

  A man—tall, radiant, red-haired—kneeling by a tree, hand on the ground as if fetching something buried.

  Herold drew his dagger.

  The rest, as they say, was fate.

  : To be Continued