The night before the tournament.
Inside the palace hall, dozens of whale-oil candles burned fiercely, bathing the chamber in a brightness rivaling daylight. Ragnar reviewed the list of competitors… then suddenly grew spirited and ordered the scribe to add his own name.
"It has been ages since I last entered the lists. Hah! Let me test these young men with my own hands."
The great nobles standing on the right side of the hall exchanged varied looks.
Ivar whistled loudly:
"Father, if we end up matched against each other, don't expect me to hold back."
Prime Minister Pascal stepped forward and spoke bluntly:
"What knight would dare swing a sword at his king? Even if Your Majesty wins the championship, the title itself would lose credibility."
Hearing such joy-killing honesty, Ragnar downed several cups of wine in irritation.
"Then none of you great lords may compete either! Leave the opportunity to those young knights desperate to make a name for themselves!"
October 11th, 851 AD
A bright autumn morning.
The First Tournament of Londinium officially began.
Under countless watching eyes, the king, two queens, and five royal children (Bjørn still in Greenland) stepped off their carriages and walked up the crimson woolen carpets to the royal stand.
They were followed by Pascal, other ministers, and the realm's most powerful nobles. Once they were seated, five trumpeters on the right stand raised their instruments and blew a resounding fanfare—summoning the contestants to enter the field.
Four years earlier, Æthelwulf had Horstd the first tournament in Oxford, modeled after West Frankish custom. Since then, six more had been held, and the rules had gradually evolved.
The most obvious change: lances were now wrapped in soft felt, greatly reducing lethality.
The Joust Begins
Clop. Clop.
The iron shoes of warhorses rang crisply against the ground as over a hundred knights trotted into the arena.
They wore mail, bright surcoats of every color, and rode tall, powerful Frankish destriers.
A knightly title, proper armor, and a warhorse—these were the minimum requirements for the joust. Many knights had come to pay homage without their horses, and thus had no right to compete.
Before the royal stand, the mounted contestants bowed from the saddle.
When the mounted knights withdrew, an equal number of foot-combatants entered—common soldiers, hardy townsmen, and the occasional knight who lacked a horse.
As petals were thrown from above the stands, the opening ceremony concluded.
The tournament began.
First Clash
The horn sounded.
From the east and west ends of the field, two knights charged at full gallop. When their horses reached top speed, both lowered their lances.
Thunder of hooves.
The eastern knight's lance struck his opponent's oak shield with perfect accuracy.
CRACK!
The lance shattered—splintered felt and pale wood bursting into the air.
A heartbeat later, the two destriers passed each other, and the western knight toppled to the ground.
The crowd exploded into cheers.
Vig's brow furrowed.
He stared at the triumphant victor.
"That one fights without honor. His lance was half a meter longer—he struck before the other could even reach him."
Servants rushed the field, carrying off the injured knight on a plank; others swept the fragments away. Soon, the second match began.
As a newly introduced sport, the joust still had glaring loopholes.
One contestant brazenly used a sharp-tipped lance, driving it into his opponent "like a knife into warm butter."
The crowd roared in outrage. Ragnar, humiliated, ordered him seized on the spot.
"Treacherous tricks! An insult to the kingdom's honor!
If anyone dares use a sharpened lance again, I'll make him swallow the iron point whole!"
Vig remained stone-faced.
Ambition was endless; knighthood had not extinguished men's desire to climb higher.
Winning the tournament could mean royal Favel—perhaps even one day joining the ranks of the great nobles.
More Tricks
The crowd soon witnessed more shameless tactics:
lances artificially lengthened,
horses deliberately used to ram opponents,
one crafty fellow glued a thin silver sheet to his shield to reflect sunlight into his opponent's eyes.
"Boring—utterly boring," Ivar muttered to Gunnar.
"Is this what tournaments in Normandy look like?"
Gunnar shrugged.
"Some of it, yes. Tricks can get you past ordinary knights. But in the end, only true experts like Maurice remain standing."
Midday Council
At noon, Ragnar summoned the high nobles into an extravagant pavilion for lunch and asked for advice.
Pascal:
"The hosts should provide standardized shields and lances. Use softer wood to reduce injuries."
Vig:
"Build a barrier down the center of the tilting lane. The knights charge along separate tracks, preventing their horses from colliding."
Ragnar accepted these proposals and paused the mounted events, allocating two days to revise the rules.
Meanwhile, the foot-combatants fought in pairs.
Compared to the thrilling jousts, foot-combat was less impressive.
Usually, the larger man won—so predictable that spectators could guess the victor before the bout even began.
Evening
At the banquet, Vig mulled over the day's matches and found them disappointingly dull.
"This year's tournament is hopeless. Once the rules are revised, perhaps future tournaments will be better."
"Future?"
Ivar tore open a honey-glazed squab and mumbled:
"I just asked the clerks. The expense for this tournament will exceed eight hundred pounds. The old man wanted to showcase royal majesty and find talent… and it turned into a farce. He won't host another for years."
Then Ivar suddenly thought of the wildly popular northern football matches.
"Wait—did you introduce football… to save money?"
Knowing Vig well, Ivar understood: the man grew up poor. He cared deeply about cost.
Tournaments consumed huge sums of silver—and often injured horses and knights.
Football, by contrast, was the perfect replacement:
a flat field, a leather ball, and a bunch of energetic, idle youths.
Prize money? A few pounds of silver was enough.
Realizing this, Ivar became interested in adopting football himself.
Gold was always short in Dublin; he could never afford a tournament. A new pastime might be exactly what he needed.
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