I am wearing fifty pounds of plate armor, sitting astride my horse, waiting.

     I hear the sound of the crowd, over three thousand voices screaming and chanting. It's an amazing sound, like the surging of a disembodied sea. I close my eyes for an instant, letting the sound rush over me. I take a deep breath; my throat is dry. I lick my lips, tasting salt and sweat, as I impatiently prepare for my big entrance.

     Trumpets sound. I listen through the fence as the king and his royal court are introduced and take their places. The crowd is shrieking, laughing... they don't want to listen to His Majesty. I can sense their impatience, even from behind the fence. The natives are restless. They want action, they want blood. My stomach clenches fitfully, butterflies dancing within. I try to maintain an aloof sense of calm. I'm as ready now as I'll ever be, as ready as I ever get before the third show. I'm tired from the first two performances of the day, and I ache all over.

     The crowd hushes, and over the new quiet I hear another voice. It's Richard's voice, deeply resonant. Richard is the managing general director of our company, and a fellow performer. He'll be participating in the third show but he won't be doing what I will, not today. Today is his day off. He jousted in the final show yesterday and put on a great show, as is his wont. Richard is a veteran at this with seven seasons under his belt. This year marks my fourth with the company, my third on horseback, so I'm not as confident as he seems to be about this whole mess. My stomach still clenches up and I still get a bit antsy before I go in. It's also my habit to pray a bit, just before I enter the arena-- a few whispered words to whatever powers there might be who happen take an interest in jousters-- but that's not so odd. I suspect we all pray a little bit on show days. Every little bit helps.

     I glance over at Bryan, my opponent. We're actually very good friends, meaning we hang out together on our days off. Our friendship dates back to 1987. We started with the company at the same time, but he sat out for a few years while I finished my training and started riding. This is his first season as a jouster and he looks more nervous than I feel. He tries to hide it, to look like the confident hero he portrays, but he can't fool me. He's pretty fluttery over there.

     Great. I have faith in his abilities, but I suspect he's relying on me to pull his fat out of the fire if one of us screws up out there. Three years of jousting is supposed to qualify me to break in rookies. I hope I'm up to it... we all have bad days, but in our line of work a bad day can really ruin your week. When we fuck up somebody gets hurt, usually ourselves.

     He's looking back at me now. "Break a lance," I tell him, our ritual pseudo-actor salute. He nods and looks away again, already lost in concentration. We all try to psyche up a little before the show. "See you on the other side," I say. MY ritual salute. I started saying that, just before I enter for the final joust, two years ago, and I haven't been injured since. Maybe it's lucky. I notice some of the other guys have since started saying it, too. I hope there's luck enough to go around. I don't blame them for attaching superstitious value to something like a phrase, or a lucky charm. We all know what's waiting for us in the arena.

     The dragon.

     Two of us are about to ride onto that field, but only one of us will ride back through the gate. The other will be carried out while Richard and the rest of our company chant dirges to our passing. That's one of the things people like about our shows; they're very well-defined. At 11:30 we display our riding skills. At 2:30 we display our combat skills. At 5:30 someone dies, sometimes twice in the space of a weekend.

     Within minutes I'll be involved in another battle to the death with my friend Bryan, and it's my turn to "die" today. An oft-quoted cliche comes to mind as I wait to go in, brought into sharper focus than ever by the lance in my hand and the horse between my legs. Hoka-Hey. It's an old Apache war-cry; when translated it means: "Today is a good day to die."

     I certainly hope so. It rained all last night and the field is almost too slick for a safe performance, much less to steer a charging horse across it and simulate deadly cavalry maneuvers while strapped inside fifty pounds of armor and harness. Is today a good day to die? Or is today a good day to call this whole thing off?

     It doesn't matter anymore. It's too late for regrets now... we had our chance to cancel but decided to go on despite the dangerous field conditions. So here we go, come hell or high water.

     From the other side of the fence I hear Richard's voice as he cues the first entrance: "I call forth William, Lord of Whitehall!" William is Bryan's character-name. He nods almost imperceptibly at the sound. His face is toward the entrance; I can't see his eyes. The gate swings open and he canters through onto the field. From my vantage point I get a glimpse of the crowd before the gate closes behind him. We're packed... wall-to-wall spectators howling for combat. They roar as Bryan enters, almost drowning out the accompanying fanfare of trumpets. Me next.

     I wait. It seems to take forever. Then, at last: "I call forth Markus, Baron of Spencer!"

     That's my cue. The gate yawns open. I nudge my horse Gareth to perk him up; he's a good animal but like me, he's had a busy day and is mildly sluggish. "Wake up," I mutter to him, "we're jousting." Couching my lance I dig my heels into his ribs. Lo and behold he wakes up fast, and we're off.

     We streak through the gates and the sound of the crowd hits me like a tidal wave. The gate is conveniently located on my end of the field, so whenever I enter the arena I ride right past my supporters, those gathered at that end to cheer me on. That's one of the little perks you get for being a villain at this show... you have to die more often, but the crowd always loves you. Everyone loves a bad guy, at least in the pseudo-middle-ages of the modern Renaissance Faire.

     As I circle the field on my entrance lap I'm already experiencing minor technical difficulties. My regularly assigned horse, Thumper, is a tall bay mare with lots of spirit. She's a hotter horse than Gareth and I'm really missing her vim and vigor at the moment. Thumper strained a muscle in her hock and was slightly off-gait after the 2:30 show so I'm riding Gareth for this joust. I haven't ridden Gareth all season; he's used to a different rider and I can feel him resisting my commands, so I cut my circle short and sidle up next to Bryan in the center of the field. Outwardly I'm calm and collected. Underneath I'm sweating bullets, having noticed the unusual slipperiness of the muddy field beneath me. My armor is heavy and uncomfortable and my chain mail is sticking to my chin. Yuck.

     We are introduced yet again and our respective supporters cheer. Richard announces that we will now tilt at the quintain and we split to separate ends of the arena. Inwardly I curse at the prospect of tilting the quintain. I hate hitting the quintain at the 5:30 show-- it requires a lot of effort and saps one's strength somewhat. I have often suggested we cut it from the third show entirely, but we keep it in to fill time.

     The squires, our medieval prop-men, drag it out and set it up. The quintaine we currently use is a seven-foot tall heavy wooden frame with a target attached. Medieval knights used such a device in training exercises to learn lance control and such. Ours is built out of rough-cut four-by-fours and looks like it weighs a ton. Actually it's not quite as heavy as it looks, but when you're trying to knock it over with a ten-foot pole from the back of a cantering horse it's heavy enough to unhorse you if you hit it wrong. We make it look easier than it is, but when we strike it our lances still leave ugly bruises on our arms and chests. Sometimes the friction from the impact draws blood. Needless to say, the quintain is one of the most difficult and least appreciated parts of our show.

     Bryan rides by and blasts it over. The squires reset it and then it's my turn. I coax Gareth into a respectable canter and pound the hell out of it as I go by.

     It falls. I thank providence for small favors and return to center field. Richard announces that we shall now test our accuracy by lancing at the rings, and once again we split to our respective ends of the field. The crowd on my side is cheering and yelling encouragement but I block it all out and concentrate on keeping the damn horse moving. Some of the newer knights wear spurs on Gareth but I try not to use them unless absolutely necessary. I'm REALLY missing Thumper but that's too bad, I'll adjust.

     Concentration is the key to jousting, so I focus. Our company's official motto is "Operae Manus Lavent," a little joke in Latin that someone dreamed up years ago, but right now I'm concentrating on the company's unofficial motto: don't fuck up.

     The squires run out onto the field, gripping small copper rings, each ring about five inches across. They take their positions and hold the rings out away from their bodies, and Bryan and I take turns cantering by and skewering them out of the squires' hands with our lance-tips. Once again, this little feat is tougher than it looks. Accuracy is paramount; otherwise the squires wind up with smashed hands. Both Bryan and I successfully lance all of our rings. The spectators love it-- they go ape-shit. I'm just biding my time, saving my strength for the joust itself.

     A ring is thrown into the air as a final test, and Bryan rides by, catching it in mid-flight with his lance point. I do the same; our big finish. The rings are over. Now we will accept favours from the crowd.

     First we ride to pre-chosen ladies in the audience, Bryan to his and I to mine. Impatiently we wait as the girls tie brightly colored ribbons or scarves onto our lances. At this point I'm mildly concerned. Forcing Gareth to work for me has really worn my legs out... I'm already tired from the quintain and rings, and the actual joust hasn't even started yet. This could be interpreted as a bad thing.

     I feel a core of panic welling up within me but I fight it down and set my brain on idle. My body knows what it's supposed to do so I let it. Now is not the time for paranoia. I've done this show for three years now and I know that I can do it. The dragon is out there, waiting for me as always, but I will not choke. I will not fuck up.

     I am Markus, Baron of Spencer, veteran jouster. I earned my spurs the hard way. I am a professional. I will NOT fuck up.

     The king announces that we shall now parade our favours before the people. Despite any theatrical misgivings, this little bit of pomp is an important part of the joust. Not only is it historically accurate but by choosing a member of the audience to tie a "favour" on our lances we are acknowledging the presence of the spectators. We constantly strive to break down the invisible barrier between performer and spectator, encouraging our crowd to cheer and otherwise involve themselves. Modern theatrical jousting is an audience participation event, similar in that regard to pro-wrestling. Also, accepting and displaying tokens given to us by watching ladies simply reeks of chivalry, and chivalry is a large part of our job description.

     Bryan and I circle the arena, parading with our favors. We return to center field for the last time and the arming ceremony begins.

     The dragon has arrived.

     Our metal helmets, more accurately "helms," are large fourteen-gauge steel barrel-shaped affairs, historically correct for fourteenth-century field combat. They have no hinged visor, just two small ocularae (eyeslits) and a series of tiny holes for ventilation. Richard acts as my "second" and presents me with mine. I take a last deep breath and pull it onto my head.

     I can almost hear the rustle of leathery scales crawling up my back... but reason tells me it's only the scrape of chain mail against the padded interior of the helmet. I swear I hear the muffled hiss of reptilian breathing but I know that it's just the rush of blood pulsing through my temples. I breathe in the smells of oiled metal and dust and sweat. The sound of the crowd is muffled and I can barely see through the damned eye-holes, but I know.

     The dragon is here, with me, inside this helmet, trying to back me down.

     It's trying to blow my concentration. And above all, it's reminding me of what might happen if I DO fuck up.

     No one on this field can help me now. This is my own private battle, the same battle each member of my troupe must fight inside his own head each time he puts on the armor and helmet, preparing to thrust himself into harm's way for the entertainment of the spectators.

     All of us have discussed this aspect of the joust at one time or another. In order to do what our job dictates we must temporarily put concern for our physical well-being on hold and, quite literally, hang our asses out past the safety line. Most of my comrades think of it as qualified risk-taking; I call it baiting the dragon. Once the joust begins, everything hinges on the jousters themselves, the two men in the metal suits. Only the man jousting can drive himself through it... any mistake can be disastrous. Each member of our group must pit his will and his body against any of a thousand unpredictable foul-ups and bring himself out of the arena unharmed. To accomplish that, he must face himself inside the helmet and deal with the fear of personal injury.

     The rest of the world is shut outside and we are alone with our fear. I call it the dragon, my pet name for that moment of solitary worry, but there is no REAL dragon.

     I have met the dragon and he is me.

     Bile rises to the back of my throat. I choke it down and concentrate, concentrate. Bryan and I are presented with our shields: solid steel, like our armor, they weigh in at about ten pounds each. We wear them on our left arms, and carry our lances in our right. This means we must control our horses with only the fingertips of our left hand on the reins, and with isolated leg commands. Gareth is still being difficult, so I choke up on my reins for more leverage. I choke up on the reins a second time, unsure if it's enough. It will have to do; there's no time to readjust. The king is droning out a final prayer for our safety-- again a scripted part of our show. Ad-libbing in character I tip back my helmet and interrupt the prayer with a snarled wisecrack. I am, after all, a villain, and I have a certain knack for knavery. My crowd loves it, jeering along with me, and then the knights and seconds form up and salute one another in accordance with the rules of knightly courtesy.

     This last formality complete, the two teams head for opposite ends of the field and the joust-to-the-death begins. Richard runs alongside me giving last-minute advice and instructions. At the opposite end of the field Bryan's second Maurice does the same for him. Communication is vital... if there is a problem or technical snafu every man on the field should know about it at once. Real-life jousting is a dangerous proposition and the non-jousting knights, our seconds, act as a safety network in the event of an emergency.

     Despite the fact that my job is a dangerous one, my company has an exemplary safety record. Each of us has been trained to very demanding standards, and we are taught to react expertly in any situation which could conceivably result in injury. Our task is to put on a choreographed theatrical display in which we re-create one of the most lethal forms of combat devised by historical cavalry, the armored joust and melee. While performing we take every suitable precaution to minimize the risk of physical danger.

     Not that it isn't dangerous; we are, however, trained not to get hurt doing it. Skill is the primary pillar around which we build our safety strategy, and through rigorous exercise and rehearsal we try to prepare ourselves for any contingency. We trust in the adage that practice makes perfect.

     Practice comes to my aid now. With minor difficulty I move Gareth into "the chute," or starting area, and set up for my run. I squint through my eyeholes and look down the imaginary "pipe," the jousting lane. Bryan is in position for the first pass. Richard gives me the thumb's up--- we're ready. I lift my lance, signaling Bryan, and he returns the sign. We lower our weapons into couched position and kick our horses into action, cantering toward each other. A flurry of trumpets and drums heralds our first run.

     The first hit is mine. I sight in on Bryan's shield, checking my target for point control. We pass by one another at a fast canter, with less than eight feet between us. I brace for shock and smash my lance into his shield with a clang, the sound of a sledgehammer striking metal. It's a clean hit, knocking out a neat round dent in his shield, and his lance-tip whistles harmlessly over my left shoulder as choreographed. The instant I feel my lance strike Bryan's shield I rein Gareth in, starting the slow deceleration; otherwise he'll slam right into the fence at the far end.

     Sir William has been struck! Bryan rocks back in his saddle, feigning injury for the benefit of the crowd. My fans cheer, his fans boo. We trot back to our respective ends for the next pass. Each such pass requires supreme concentration and adaptability, involving hundreds of instant judgments and swift readjustments. A typical joust-pass lasts about nine seconds in its entirety, with less than four seconds before actual contact must be made--- not much time to make major corrections while controlling a charging animal.

     The physics involved in scoring a successful hit are often difficult to predict. The two horses charge almost directly at one another at between fifteen and twenty miles an hour, making for an effective collision speed of around 35 mph. Each horse and rider tips the scales at over a thousand pounds. Their combined weight is over a ton, and all that collected mass is focused into the two-inch tip of the striking lance. The shield must take the hit at an oblique angle, otherwise the lance-tip could take a bad bounce up into the target rider's helmet, or worse, down into his midsection. I've been struck both places--- each time I was thankful for the protection my helm and armor offered. Both armor and helmet displayed serious dents afterward and I had bruises to match.

     The joust continues with Bryan and I trading hits on each pass. Once my lance hops up-- Bryan presented too flat a target or my aim was off, it's impossible to be sure which--- and my tip clips his helmet. He's okay; his bell was rung but not too bad--- and Richard signals for us to continue.

     The impact of a good hit is substantial, though most of it is deflected; just a loud clang and a sudden shock, similar to the recoil of a 12 gauge shotgun. A bad hit is different. It rocks your whole body and your elbow hurts after the show, sometimes tingling for hours. Bad hits are just an unpleasant part of the job. Besides, sometimes a bad hit is better than no hit at all.

     Occasionally we miss one another entirely, usually due to unplanned problems with the horses or equipment. Misses like that are fortunately very rare, since we consider them embarrassing and unpardonable; they don't even count as part of the planned show, so the two jousters must continue making passes until the lost hit is accounted for and the show can continue. On such an occasion the crowd gets a little more for their money, an extra pass or two, but there have been occasions when the horses were so hard to handle that the joust ran for eight passes or more. This is pure torture on the jousters... each extra pass requires additional time and energy, and one's energy level gets depleted quickly when one is struggling with an uncooperative horse.

     No misses and no extra passes today; Bryan and I make three clean passes, trading hits, and then comes the first saddle-fall. On the fourth pass my lance slams into his shield and he topples backward, exiting cleanly from his saddle and striking the ground. I hear the crowd cheering and screaming but I don't see the actual saddle-fall; I'm already past him, locked into tunnel vision by my helmet's eye-slits. As I near the end of the field I turn my horse and look down the pipe at him. He's up, feigning grogginess from the rough landing (at least I hope he's feigning it) and the squires have rushed in to clear his horse out of the lane.

     Second phase of the joust: combat between a mounted horseman and an unhorsed opponent. I lower my lance and charge at him, as if to ride him down. Gareth balks but I snap him back into position; should the horse decide to unexpectedly jump to either side the result could be pretty unpleasant for Bryan.

     Originally Bryan was supposed to retain his shield as he fell; I was supposed to ride by and knock it from his hands on this pass. Somehow he's lost the shield... so much for choreography. It's too late to halt my charge so I improvise, intending to broadside him with my lance on his armored shoulder. If done properly there will be no danger to him and it will appear as if I have struck him a vicious blow.

     Unaware of my intentions Bryan ducks nimbly out of the way as I pass him. His reaction catches me off guard but it is an acceptable substitute, considering the situation. Score one for Bryan: good thinking. It looked realistic and it brought us into position for my next "attack."

     I change direction and charge him again as originally choreographed. By now he's located his missing shield and ducks behind it as I approach, as if to protect himself with it. At the last moment he drops the shield and grabs my thrusting lance, as if "jerking" it from my grasp. I release it immediately and he retains it. He will be using it against me on the third and final horse-to-ground pass.

     I ride past Maurice, who stands at the end of the field, watching the action. I reach to my scabbard, intending to draw my sword, but to my surprise it's not there. I stupidly forgot to wear my blade during this phase of the joust as originally planned, but Maurice is one step ahead of me and passes me his own weapon as I circle the end. As I said before, our seconds, the non-jousting knights, are our failsafe in such a situation.

     I now have a sword with which to attack Bryan. I point Gareth in his direction and brandish the weapon menacingly as I bear down on him at a canter. He awaits me, my stolen lance poised in his hands. As I draw my sword back to strike him Bryan strikes first, spinning and smashing me over the back with the lance shaft.

     This is it: MY saddle-fall. Adrenaline blows my neurons sky-high and I go, launching myself out of the saddle in an attempt to get myself far enough away from the running horse to avoid a trampling. I get clear and land hard, rolling over and over on the packed dirt of the arena floor in a cloud of dust. My whole body is jolted from the impact... despite what you might think, the armor just adds more mass to the impact, making it even harder to roll out of it safely.

     It's a clean fall. I take a second to run a quick damage assessment: I wiggle my fingers and toes. I'm okay, no broken bones, nothing torn or sprained. All systems go.

     The crowd loves it! They go off like a rocket, their roar just a dull thrum to my ringing ears. I leap to my feet and discard my helmet, breathing fresh air at last. Richard hands me another sword; the blade I carried before my fall is lost in the dust of the field. Richard then passes me a blood capsule in a quick hidden hand-off unnoticed by the crowd's eyes. I turn to face my opponent Bryan, and he draws his own sword and rushes me. The fight is on.

     We choreograph our various fights using many different weapons: swords, axes, maces, flails, daggers, assorted spears and the like. Like the rest of our equipment these weapons are the real thing, solid hardwood and steel. Flimsy stage props can't hold up to the abuse to which we subject our weapons. Although plastic or rubber weapons might seem safer, in actuality they don't function very well under such conditions as ours.

     Each fight is different. The weapon combat styles from which we draw are numerous, from actual competition-type fencing to Kenjutsu katas, blade-drills evolved from the Japanese martial arts. Our hand-to-hand combat style is a weird mish-mash of boxing-type fisticuffs, Akido falls and traditional stage combat technique: whatever works consistently and looks realistic.

     To my personal knowledge there is no other profession in this country where someone can be trained in cavalry horsemanship, all around weapon proficiency and stunt wrangling as we have developed it, with the possible exception of an elite Armed Forces equestrian drill team or one of the better stunt schools in Hollywood. All personal bias aside, our training program is dynamic in its effectiveness: it works. I am privileged to be part of a unique and marvelous thing--- I am a member of what I am convinced is the foremost theatrical performance jousting troupe in the nation.

     I like to think of myself as one of the best of the foremost, although my boss might not concur with me; nevertheless my jousts with Bryan are fun to watch. Especially this one.

     Bryan and I circle warily then come to blows, thrusting, slashing and parrying with practiced style. This is an exciting fight, with lots of flashy moves and posturing. It really keeps the crowd guessing; they rarely know who's going to win. Just as it looks like Bryan, Sir William, is starting to get the upper hand, I do something unchivalrous and the tide turns. I like to keep the audience on the edge of their seats, even if this particular arena isn't equipped with seats to speak of.

     By the time the fight ends the crowd has screamed themselves hoarse. You don't get that kind of response in an indoor theater; jousting outdoors is more like gladitorial combat in the Roman coliseum. Sometimes the audience insults the loser, sometimes they even throw things (especially the fans of the villain du'jour), but the fact remains: our crowd never goes home unsatisfied. They always get their money's worth.

     That means someone must lose. Not just lose--- this is a joust to the death, and someone must die. Today is my day. As our swordfight winds to a close, Bryan steps in and delivers the simulated "death blow." I burst the concealed blood packet and gore flies. My supporters are outraged, but it looks like this time the good guy has won the day. Yesterday the villain won. We change the outcome at random, so nobody will know who wins until the very end.

     I collapse to the ground in a bloody heap and my second rushes over to check on my status. He turns to the king. "Your Majesty," announces Richard, "Markus, the Baron of Spencer, is dead. All hail the victor, Sir William Lord of Whitehall!"

     That's it. The trumpets flare. Bryan wearily remounts his waiting horse and salutes the king. As he circles the field in victory my limp body is loaded onto a rickety wooden cart for proper disposal. The other knights fall in behind it as it carries me off the field to our backstage dressing area. The accompanying knights, Sir Richard among them, are chanting a mournful dirge in Latin, celebrating a fallen comrade's entrance into the underworld. Covered with artificial blood I lay in the cart, sensing the activity around me through closed lids as I'm wheeled away.

     I'm utterly drained, exhausted. I struggle to hide my wheezing gasps for air from the watchful audience. I am, after all, officially dead for the rest of the day.

     Jousting, the way we do it, is one of the most demanding physical tasks I have ever performed. It requires concentration, stamina, and the utmost dedication to both the audience and to my fellow jousters. I hurt in every fiber of my being and I know that tomorrow my body will be sore all over, covered with bruises and scrapes of untraceable origin. Tonight I'll take it easy and drown my aches in aspirin and the congratulations of the other knights. It was a good joust and we'll rehash it over dinner, discussing the finer points of our technique and dwelling on any minute mistakes we might have made. Then we'll all hit the sack and tomorrow we'll start packing our equipment and loading the horses for the long trip to our new location. This Faire is over, but somewhere down the road another show is gearing up to begin its run. After ten weeks there we'll move on again. And so on, until the end of the season.

     Although my job can be dangerous at times I'll continue to do it until I am no longer able. I intend to go on baiting the dragon until it backs me down and I'm no longer daring enough to brave those brutal lances, until I'm too afraid to throw myself from the back of a speeding horse. But until that day I'll keep on jousting, because if or when our company quits performing then something special might disappear from the world, that strange spirit of risk and daring which first coaxed an armored warrior onto a horse and bid him challenge fate by riding against his enemy in single combat.

     When our troupe ceases to exist, leaving armor to rust and saddles to rot, then I think something ancient and magnificent might die with it. Oh, there will still be actors in fiberglass armor and real life warriors who do battle with machine guns and computer-guided missles, but when my companions and I, and those like us, lay down our arms, chivalry might wilt and become only a mildewed antique, the subject of romantic greeting cards and countless coffee-table books. I live in dread of that day.

     Each time I leave the arena, whether I ride out in a funeral wagon or gallop away in triumph, I listen to the voice of our audience; cheering and applauding, some chattering avidly about our theatrical re-creation of days and ways long forgotten. When I hear them, I forget my little pains and lumps, and I think that what I do is a good thing, that it satisfies a deep buried need which we all feel occasionally: the need for heroes, even if they are only fantasy heroes.

     This joust is over but the dragon lurks on in the shadows, eager for another challenger. Although Sir Markus the Baron of Spencer has been slain today, the crowd chants his name over and over as I leave the tournament field. In my funeral cart, I smile to myself; I can hear everything they say. They love us for what we do, and perhaps they need us, too, just a bit. We could all use a little dose of medieval chivalry every now and then.

     Chivalry will live on, as long as there is someone who dares to bait the dragon.