[Quiet Man Cometh]

Mistral blinked her eyes, rapidly. Claude was walking in circles and she realized that she was leaning heavily to one side of him, and she forced herself to sit upright and settle properly into her saddle. The supporting arms she had felt were withdrawn and it took much effort to keep herself steady. She abandoned her broken lance to one of the pages and looked to see how her opponent had fared.

Not well, it appeared. She was off her horse, and doubled over, spitting blood as she groped for something at her side. Was that me? flashed though her mind as she watched the other knight leave the field. She had unhorsed people before, usually the bullies at school when they were practicing, and she had hit the dirt several times herself, but this was an altogether new image.

Mistral debated in her head whether she should apologies, or offer a rematch, when a brutish voice yelled from the stands:

"Oy, you! Better luck in the kitchens! Let's hope for your husband's sake you can handle a spoon better than you can a lance!"

She bristled inside. That was something she had heard many times before, and she had the same response to it. She called to the man sitting by the Emperor,

“And you think you have enough practice with yours that you can so surely insult another’s prowess? You insult my fellows and you insult me! His Holiness permitting, I challenge you to a joust, here and now.”