One Of Us

"Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake."

Lisa Friesen tightened the leather strap on her borrowed vambrace and stared at her reflection in the washroom mirror of the university student center.

The armor didn't fit particularly well.

The breastplate had belonged to someone at least six inches taller. The gauntlets looked like metal oven mitts. The padded gambeson underneath smelled faintly of sweat, old grass, and history.

She grinned.

It was perfect.

The twenty-year-old history major pushed her glasses back up her nose and adjusted the braid hanging over her shoulder.

Today was her first official gathering with the local branch of SCA Canada.

The Society for Creative Anachronism.

A medieval recreation society.

A place where people learned historical crafts, sword fighting, armor-making, dancing, calligraphy, cooking, archery, falconry, equestrian skills, and countless other arts from the Middle Ages.

A place where knights still existed.

At least in spirit.

And Lisa Friesen intended to become one.

The moment she had announced that goal, people started laughing.

Not everyone.

Just enough.

Which was somehow worse.

It had begun two months earlier.

Lisa had been eating supper with her family when she casually mentioned finding the local SCA chapter online.

Her mother had smiled.

"That sounds interesting."

Her father had nodded.

"History club?"

"Kind of."

Her younger brother Kurt had immediately perked up.

"Do they have swords?"

"They have lots of swords."

"Cool."

Then Lisa had made her mistake.

"I want to become a knight."

The table went silent.

Her older brother Wesley slowly lowered his fork.

"What?"

"A knight."

"Like..." Wesley blinked. "A knight knight?"

"Yes."

Kurt snorted milk through his nose.

Their mother grabbed a napkin.

Their father tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

Wesley looked genuinely concerned.

"Lisa."

"What?"

"You weigh, like, a hundred and twenty pounds."

"One hundred and twenty-seven."

"That's not helping."

"I didn't ask if it helped."

"You've never played sports."

"I hike."

"You got winded climbing two flights of stairs last semester."

"There was a backpack involved."

"It was a laptop."

"It was a heavy laptop."

Wesley rubbed his temples.

"Lisa, you're a history major."

"And?"

"You read books about knights."

"Correct."

"You aren't supposed to become one."

"Who made that rule?"

"Reality."

Reality became considerably more annoying when she attended her first SCA newcomer event.

The gathering was held at a community hall.

Colorful banners decorated the walls.

People wore everything from simple tunics to elaborate medieval outfits.

One man was carrying a harp.

Someone else had a hand-sewn Viking cloak.

A woman demonstrated period weaving techniques.

The place looked like a medieval fair had crashed into a university lecture.

Lisa loved it immediately.

She spent the first hour speaking with artisans, scribes, and musicians.

Everyone was welcoming.

Everyone was friendly.

Everyone seemed delighted to answer questions.

Then she reached the armored fighters.

The knights.

The moment she saw them training in the adjacent field, something inside her clicked.

The thunder of rattan weapons.

The clatter of armor.

The disciplined movements.

The camaraderie.

It looked less like a sport and more like stepping directly into history.

One particularly large fighter blocked a blow with his shield and countered with a strike that rattled his opponent's helmet.

The sound echoed across the field.

Lisa's eyes widened.

"That's amazing."

A nearby fighter laughed.

"First time watching heavy combat?"

"Yes."

"You interested?"

"Very."

"Thinking of joining?"

"I'm thinking of becoming a knight."

The fighter paused.

A second fighter looked over.

A third one lowered his helmet.

For a moment nobody spoke.

Then they all laughed.

Not cruelly.

Not viciously.

Just enough.

The kind of laugh people make when they assume you're joking.

Lisa felt heat creep into her face.

"I'm serious."

One of them chuckled.

"Nothing wrong with ambition."

"I mean it."

Another fighter shrugged.

"Most newcomers start with arts and sciences."

"Calligraphy's popular."

"Embroidery too."

"We've got an excellent baking guild."

The first fighter nodded.

"You might enjoy that more."

Lisa crossed her arms.

"Why?"

The men exchanged glances.

"Well..."

"You know."

"No," Lisa replied. "I don't know."

The silence that followed said everything.

That evening she sat in her dorm room fuming.

Her roommate Sarah listened patiently while eating instant noodles.

"They actually told you to try embroidery?"

"Yes."

Sarah nearly choked laughing.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"Sarah."

"They basically looked at you and thought, 'Ah yes. Decorative cushions.'"

Lisa threw a pillow at her.

Sarah caught it.

"Okay, serious face."

She adopted an exaggerated expression.

Lisa remained unimpressed.

"What are you going to do?"

"What do you think I'm going to do?"

Sarah grinned.

"Become a knight out of pure spite?"

"Exactly."

"Healthy."

"I know."

The next day Lisa returned.

And the day after that.

And the week after.

She started learning.

Really learning.

Not the romantic version of knighthood.

Not the movie version.

The real work.

Conditioning.

Technique.

Footwork.

Discipline.

Patience.

She discovered that armor was heavy.

Very heavy.

She discovered that shields bruised your arm.

She discovered that helmets became ovens during summer practices.

She discovered muscles she hadn't known existed.

Most importantly, she discovered that swords did not care about anyone's opinions.

A sword only cared whether you knew what you were doing.

Three months later.

The field was muddy from recent rain.

Fighters sparred under gray skies.

Lisa stepped into the list field wearing borrowed armor.

Across from her stood a veteran fighter named Marcus.

Marcus wasn't one of the men who had laughed.

He was worse.

He was one of the men who hadn't.

He had simply watched.

Evaluated.

Waited.

The man had the unsettling habit of saying exactly what he thought.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No."

"Good answer."

The marshal signaled.

The bout began.

Marcus attacked immediately.

Lisa blocked.

Barely.

The impact rattled through her shield.

A second strike followed.

Then a third.

Lisa retreated.

Marcus advanced.

His movements were calm.

Controlled.

Relentless.

Lisa's arm already hurt.

Her lungs burned.

Every instinct screamed at her to panic.

Instead she remembered her training.

Footwork.

Distance.

Timing.

Breathe.

Move.

Think.

Marcus swung high.

Lisa blocked.

He rotated.

A feint.

She nearly fell for it.

Instead she shifted.

Countered.

Her sword connected with his shoulder.

The marshal called the shot.

Marcus stopped.

"So."

Lisa blinked.

"So?"

"You've been paying attention."

A smile tugged at his beard.

"Again."

Word spread.

The university girl who wanted to become a knight wasn't quitting.

She wasn't disappearing.

She wasn't getting bored.

She wasn't switching to embroidery.

Instead she kept showing up.

Rain.

Heat.

Cold.

Exams.

Assignments.

Part-time job.

None of it mattered.

Every week she trained.

Every week she improved.

And slowly the laughter began disappearing.

Not entirely.

But enough.

At home, however, her brothers remained unconvinced.

Wesley watched her carry a duffel bag full of armor into the house.

"You're still doing that medieval thing?"

"It's called historical combat."

"You got hit in the head last week."

"I was wearing a helmet."

"You got hit hard enough to dent it."

"That's what helmets are for."

Wesley stared.

"You're impossible."

Kurt wandered into the kitchen.

The sixteen-year-old took one look at the armor.

"You know what this reminds me of?"

"What?"

"Those videos where cats think they're lions."

Lisa narrowed her eyes.

"Careful."

"No seriously."

Kurt pointed.

"That's you."

"I'm not a cat."

"You're absolutely a cat."

"A lioness."

"A housecat."

"A lioness."

"A housecat wearing cookware."

Lisa threw a dinner roll at him.

He ducked.

Wesley laughed.

The following spring brought a major regional event.

Hundreds attended.

Colorful tents filled a sprawling field.

Banners snapped in the wind.

Merchants sold handmade goods.

Archers practiced nearby.

Musicians played period instruments.

And for the first time, Lisa saw a live falconry demonstration.

The hawk launched from its handler's glove and soared into the sky.

Its wings cut across the sunlight.

For a brief moment the bird seemed impossibly free.

Lisa watched in awe.

One day, she thought.

One day.

Not because someone expected her to.

Because she wanted to.

That afternoon she entered a novice tournament.

The same fighters who had once dismissed her stood around the lists.

Watching.

Evaluating.

Curious.

Her first match ended in victory.

Her second nearly didn't.

Her third required every ounce of concentration she possessed.

By the time she reached the semifinals, her legs felt like jelly.

The crowd had grown noticeably larger.

People whispered.

Pointed.

Watched.

Lisa tried not to notice.

Then she spotted Wesley.

And Kurt.

Standing near the back.

Both looked bewildered.

Apparently their parents had informed them where she'd be spending the weekend.

Neither brother had expected to find a crowd cheering for her.

Lisa couldn't resist.

She waved.

Kurt blinked.

Wesley slowly waved back.

Her semifinal opponent was enormous.

Not merely tall.

Enormous.

The sort of man who looked capable of uprooting trees recreationally.

Someone in the crowd muttered, "This won't take long."

Lisa suspected they weren't referring to her victory.

The marshal signaled.

The fight began.

The giant attacked.

The impact shook her shield.

Another strike followed.

Then another.

Lisa gave ground.

The crowd murmured.

Her opponent pressed harder.

He expected her to break.

Expected her to panic.

Expected her to quit.

Lisa had spent most of her life being underestimated.

She was getting tired of it.

The next attack came high.

She slipped aside.

The giant overextended.

For half a second his flank opened.

Half a second was enough.

Her sword struck cleanly.

The marshal called the blow.

Silence.

Then cheering erupted.

Lisa stood frozen.

Her opponent laughed first.

A booming laugh.

Then he removed his helmet.

"Well struck."

The crowd applauded.

And for the first time since joining the SCA, nobody laughed at the idea of Lisa Friesen becoming a knight.

Not one person.

Except Wesley.

Because Wesley wasn't laughing at her.

He was laughing at himself.

As Lisa walked toward the sidelines, he shook his head.

"I owe you an apology."

"You do."

"You actually know what you're doing."

"I do."

"This is deeply annoying."

Lisa grinned.

"Thank you."

Wesley folded his arms.

"You realize this means I can never make fun of you again."

Kurt looked horrified.

"Oh no."

"What?" asked Lisa.

"If she becomes an actual knight, she'll never let us forget it."

Wesley gasped.

"She's right."

The siblings stared at one another.

Then Lisa smiled.

A dangerous smile.

The smile of someone who had just won an argument two years in the making.

And somewhere beyond the cheering crowd, beyond the tournament field, beyond the banners and tents and armored fighters, another possibility waited.

Not merely tournaments.

Not merely victories.

But falconry.

Equestrian training.

Jousting.

The long path toward knighthood itself.

The road ahead would be difficult.

She knew that now.

It would demand years of work.

Years of discipline.

Years of proving herself.

But for the first time, people could see it too.

Lisa Friesen wasn't playing knight.

She was becoming one.

And this, she suspected, was only the beginning.