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Ilya lowers the visor on his helmet and wishes, not for the first time, that he’d used the gold from one of his tournament winnings to buy a replacement. Andrei’s old armor has never fit Ilya’s lankier form very well, but he’d sent every spare copper back home to his father’s estate; leaving very little for such trivialities as properly fitting armor.
“Ilya! Stop!” Svetlana hisses, and even Ilya’s horse twitches at her murderous tone.
Patting one gauntleted hand against Porscha’s neck to calm her, he looks down at Svetlana.
“You know that the rumors about the Blue Knight being a secret royal are probably true. You cannot joust against him.” Svetlana says firmly.
She knows every lineage of every jouster of every tournament they’ve ever gone to, so it's no surprise to him that she's heard this latest piece of gossip. The tournament had been going well so far; it must be very fresh news indeed, as there hadn't been any hint of reluctance in the Blue Knight's opponents thus far. Not that Ilya had been paying that close of attention.
He thinks of the letter he received this morning, calling him back home to the family estate. His father is marrying him off. There will be no more travelling, no more jousting tournaments with Svetlana and his friend Marleau; what does it matter if he fights this mystery nobleman and loses? Or if he hurts some stuck up royal, sneaking around and causing a fuss because no one knows who the Blue Knight really is?
Ilya doesn’t know who he is, but he’s convinced he doesn’t need to; whoever is under that polished armor is the only knight that he’s felt any real competition from since he started travelling for tournaments.
“Or what? Papa will disown me?” he snorts. If it weren’t for the money he sent back to his family, money they desperately needed to maintain even a modicum of their former lifestyle, he probably would have been disowned already.
“You could be hanged.”
The perfect retort is on the tip of his tongue, but Svetlana raises a threatening finger at him with a knowing look in her eye.
At the other end of the list field, the Blue Knight’s horse snorts, pawing at the ground. It’s a sturdy, sensible beast, better built for plowing than jousting. Hardly a nobleman’s steed.
Ilya swallows.
This tournament is not unlike his current life circumstances.
On the list field, he faces an unnamed opponent; whoever they are, the Blue Knight doesn’t participate in any of the more social aspects of the tournament, and always leaves as soon as the closing ceremonies are done. No one knows his real name.
And on paper, Ilya's father’s handwriting has him facing down another unknown foe; the sole heir of the wealthy Hollander family, Ilya’s soon-to-be husband. Whether he likes it or not.
The Rozanov’s had a powerful, well respected name… and a lot of debt. The Hollander’s were an incredibly wealthy family, with massive farm holdings and a matron that was conniving enough to turn the courts on their heads; if she could only attain the coveted invitation.
Apparently, she was not above selling off her son for the chance to rub elbows with the royal court.
All of this and more weighs on Ilya as he looks down the list field again. He turns his horse, Porscha going easily at his command. From his peripheral, nearly blocked by the limited vision afforded to him by the helmet’s visor, Ilya catches sight of the Blue Knight; his shining shoulders slumping in disappointment.
If the rumors are true, and that is some royal’s son, no one would risk harming him in a tournament; not if it would draw a powerful father’s rage down on their family and holdings.
But-
What did Ilya really have to lose here?
Locking his lance into the cradle, Ilya whips Porscha around, the mare dancing on her hind feet for a moment and letting out a startled cry; one that’s echoed by Svetlana as she hurriedly steps back.
And then he’s flying, charging down the list field towards the Blue Knight, who locks in and urges his own steed forward.
Beneath his helmet, Ilya grins.