The man charged, and Hugo knew he left his right side open when he lifted his sword. Using all his strength, Hugo grabbed the pommel of his horse and swung his upper body out, taking the weight of his armor, using every bit of strength to draw himself up and swing. If he missed, he would unhorse himself, just by the sheer weight of his armor, but he connected, scoring a hard blow to the man's side and the force of it reverberated up his arm.
"Halt!" the king called, meaning the three minutes of fighting must be up, and Hugo reined his charging horse in. "Our knights have fought valiantly. A riveting demonstration of the skills of our nation's most honored men, as well as our welcome guests representing their nations. Now take your captives and your ransoms, and we will prepare for the next."
Hugo rode out of the arena feeling exhausted. The blow to his head was still affecting his vision, and his breath was hot and moist inside his helm. Detaching it, he pulled it off, drawing cool fresh air into his lungs. His head was saturated with sweat, his hair plastered to his head. He felt like he was boiling inside his armor, but he had survived the melee intact and he passed a second group riding into the arena for another bout. There would be more in the coming days, and Hugo would participate in more, with those remaining from this first round. But for now, he would rest, then prepare for a joust in the afternoon.
Having eaten and rested in his tent, Bertholomew, helped him don the padding and then the armor. It took time to dress as the armor was tied in place, slotting together to protect him from the lance he would shortly face. It would be a difficult joust; he was facing Basingstoke—an experienced knight, keen on defending his position.
Bertholomew placed the steps that would help him onto his horse, which was a cumbersome exercise, taking time to do gracefully. Seated, the squire pulled the stairs away and Hugo waited until it was time to go. In his youth, he had found the jousting riveting, enjoying the sheer courage over the skill. These days, it was more of an exercise in skill, knowing the hard blows that could come, as likely would with his current opponent. There was something appealing about pitting his skill against another knight, but the constant fighting in Europe might have gone some way to alleviate that curiosity.
"It's time," Bertholomew said, returning from gauging the nearness of his bout. Hugo urged his horse forward, the beast again knowing it was time to fight. His horse in France was better in a fight, but there had not been time to return him to England.
He rode into the arena, carrying his helm under his arm. Lady Henfield stood in the middle, glowing with embarrassment at the attention on her, aware of the honor of being chosen as the damsel in distress. They were fighting for a kiss this time.
Basingstoke rode over to the spectators and received a token from a lady Hugo didn't know. The audience hooted and cheered at the endorsement. Hugo didn't, instead riding around the back of the tilt, erected to keep the horses apart. If there was someone willing to endorse him, he hadn't sought it. The only woman he wished endorsement from, he couldn't receive, being from an unmarried woman.
Hugo scanned the spectators, searching for her. He wanted her to be there, suspecting he would fight better if she were. He found her, sitting at the edge of the spectator stands in the back, crouched low with her fingertips covering her mouth. She was nervous for him, he realised, and a rush of pleasure flushed up his body, soon to be wiped away by his need to focus on the task at hand. They were about to start and he would ride on the far side of the tilt.
The heralds appeared with their respective banners, and they bowed to the king, receiving a wave to commence. Placing his helm, he took the lance from Bertholomew and rode around the ground to find his holding position. His horse pranced with agitation, and he saw Basingstoke preparing.
"Go," he heard and charged down the length of the tilt with his horse’s powerful strides, aiming the lance for Basingstoke's chest. A head shot was more spectacular, but harder to land. The force of the hit shook down his arm, breaking the lance, but Basingstoke remained seated. Hugo still scored and a burgundy flag was placed on the bout rack, signifying a strike by him.
Riding to the edge, he took another lance off Bertholomew, returning to the lower part of the tilt to charge again. His breathing was harsh and ragged inside the helm, but he kept Basingstoke firmly in sight, receiving a hit in the ribs. Pain shot up his side as he tightly grabbled the pommel. He was winded, trying to draw breath into his cramping lungs.
Riding around yet again, he tried to recover, knowing he had to go again. A gold flag had joined his on the rack and they were equal. One of them needed three strikes to win. Breathing heavily, he took his place, charging when they were ready, aiming for the head this time, connecting with Basingstoke, but not enough to score a decisive blow. Basingstoke would come back with a vengeance now, and he did, hitting Hugo on the shoulder shattering the lance. Hugo felt pierces of it make its way under his armor and pierce flesh. The wound was high, which was good—better than a low wound risking vital organs.
Hugo's thoughts immediately turned to Eloise, knowing she had seen it, suspecting she did not receive this tournament and its sports with the excitement and joviality that others did. He didn't have time to seek her out and the helm's vision wasn't broad. He had to focus. This was a deciding strike.
Charging down the tilt, Hugo braced his lance against his hip, striking low. The lance shattered again, but he received an equal blow. His upper body flew back with the force, but he held his seat, using his strength to draw himself back up.
He'd lost the bout. Even as he'd struck, so had Basingstoke, which meant the other knight had scored three blows and won. Hugo growled with annoyance, but didn't take the loss as harshly as he had done in previous tournaments. Having proved himself in real battle, these mock battles paled in comparison, and provided he didn't embarrass himself, his regard with the king went beyond the results of tournaments.
Ripping his helm off, he threw it to Bertholomew, breathing heavily to explore the tightness of his chest. He wouldn't truly know his injuries until the armor came off. Blood ran under his padding; he could feel it. It wasn't unheard of that knights bled profusely after the armor was removed, relieved of the pressure of the padding and steel.
Riding back to his tent, he wished the armor off to let the air cool him, even if unwelcome news came with it. A grave injury would force his withdrawal him from the rest of the tournament, but for now the heat of the armor was a hazard all its own. More than a few knights had perished enclosed in relentless heat, particularly during hours of battle.
Chapter 27:
* * *
Eloise burst into Hugo's tent, stopping short when she found him wearing only the soft linen breeches, wet and clingy from sweat. Blood stained the cloth over his hip, having trickled down over his chest from a wound near his shoulder.
"I don't understand this idiotic sport," she yelled. "Why in all heavens would you do this? How is this honorable, going around and bashing other people until they can't take anymore?"
"You can't be in here," he said, his voice coarse with tiredness, but there was impatience there, too.
"Riding at each other with poles, just to do damage to each other. How is that even comprehensible?" she ranted, anger firing every part of her, having watched Hugo being rammed with lances again and again, hard enough that the damned thing splintered. If everyone else hadn't been screaming, they would have noted her yells of protest. "Do you not have enough violence in France? Must you make sport of it?"
"It is not appropriate that you are here," he said sternly, then closed his eyes when she crossed her arms, making no attempt to move. "Eloise, go away."
Raising her eyebrows, she pressed her lips together, refusing to budge. "And you're injured—not that you don't deserve it. You could have been killed."
"Yes, I could have. That is part of it. This is what we do. We're knights."
His squire stood back, not knowing what to do in light of this exchange. "I should perhaps …" the young man said
and awkwardly stepped aside, seeking the opening to the tent.
Hugo growled. "You chased my squire away," he accused. "I need my squire."
"Is there no end to your violence?"
"No, Eloise! It doesn't end. This is what I am," he said, stepping closer. "It goes on and on."
"It's stupid," she replied, going to poke him in the chest for effect, but he knocked her hand away, seemingly angry now. "Ritchie died because of it, now you're—"
"Don't speak of Ritchie."
"Oh. I'm not allowed to speak of him now? I knew him, too."
Her anger rose even higher and she ignored a warning that it was completely irrational. Well, not entirely—hacking each other down for sport was stupid and she'd never be convinced otherwise. And him telling her not to speak of Ritchie, as though she didn't deserve to utter his name. Withdrawing her hand, she went to slap him, but he interceded again, twisting her arm behind her back. "You don't tell me who I can talk about."
"Only the king seems able to tell you what to do. It's—"
"What? Unnatural? Maybe that's just your colloquial small-mindedness."
Hugo snorted. "We can't all just run away from our obligations."
Eloise gasped, furious. "You … " she accused, but couldn't find a strong-enough word. She struggled against his grip, but he had her wrists behind her back, and she chose to hurt him by whatever means she had.
"You bit me," he gasped, still holding her tightly, flush against him.
"Well, you were supposed to let go."
He raised an eyebrow. "I just took two lances to the chest. I can take a small bite."
Frowning, she looked up at him, unsure what to do now or how to react. His arms were effectively around her, his body warm and firm, and she was so angry with him—partially because he was growing further and further removed. His life here was everything that was anathema to what she believed.
She'd run out of things to say, and she frowned deeper. She missed him and didn't want to know that she'd parted with him to be surrounded by this constant violence. It seemed so bleak. "I hate how you put yourself at risk," she admitted.
He just stared down at her, his face expressionless, then softening. "Eloise, … You should go."
Leaning up, she found his lips, straining against the grip he had on her. She hadn’t intended to; it had just happened, the softness of his lips opposite from the hardness of his body. He wasn't encouraging her, but he wasn't pulling her away either. Eloise sighed as the kiss broke, feeling his hot, heavy breath on her cheek. He didn't move for a moment, just stayed where he was and Eloise feared he'd deny her again.
Bringing his hand to the back of her head, he drew her in, kissing her fiercely, stepping to her, pressing their bodies together further. His tongue invaded her mouth, seeking more, further into her, and her braises grew wet with want. She groaned within the kiss, letting her hands roam over his back and down his side. She needed him inside her, feeling she'd been holding her breath since the last time he touched her.
Grabbing her by her backside, he lifted her up to him, letting her feel the hard length of him. He wanted her just as desperately. "My ties," she said, panting with heavy breath, and Hugo complied, forcing the the fastenings open. He might have torn the material of her dress, but she didn't care. What she needed right now was his skin along hers, and if a torn dress was the price, she would pay it.
Leaning over, he cleared a table of the armor lain there, sending it clanking to the ground. He placed her down on the table and tugged her dress over her head, revealing her heated body to the cold air and the welcome touch of his skin. Her eyes roamed the beauty of his chest and stomach, then settled on the wound. She gently touched the edge of the torn skin, wishing she could heal it with her touch, but his focus was far from the wound, instead ripping into her braisies, baring all of her.
Eloise's hand shifted to the knot holding his linen breeches around his hips, struggling to undo the tight knot. His breath convulsed his abdomen furiously and Eloise almost wished she could stop and admired him, but the urgent need wanted him inside her. Finally the knot gave and she pushed the soft material over his hips baring his rock-hard manhood. Tenderly, she ran her fingers down its smooth skin, admiring the member that would soon give her such pleasure.
Leaning back, she bared herself to him and he shifted, placing himself at her entrance, shaking with need and restraint. She parted her legs further as he pushed in, wanting all of him, as well as the glorious feeling of him coming into her as her body yielded, taking the thick length of him. She groaned with intense pleasure as he sunk into her to the hilt, pressing her to him with firm hands on her hips. His breathing was frantic, but he tried to slow himself, rolling his hips slowly, pressing hard against her. Waves of pure heaven washed through her, forcing her to arch her back to draw him deeper.
One thing was for certain; it wasn't the potion in Baghdad that had made their coupling so intense. It was every bit as urgent now, maybe even more so as this had a bittersweet quality that hadn't been there before. A minute ago they had fought as fiercely as they ever had, but it was different now, more raw. It hurt that they were so far apart, that she was losing him.
"Please, Hugo, more," she urged through constrictive pants, needing him to be harder and more forceful. Drawing back, he pushed into her, picking up speed until he pounded into her. Drawing her knees up higher, she arched further, opening herself as much as she could, wanting him in her very being.
Her breath faltered as strong convulsions flashed through her, intensifying with his hard thrusts. With a sudden stillness, they took her, ripping her from her consciousness into an utter bliss so intense she felt like she would never withdraw. She felt Hugo freeze, and he ground into her—a deep, guttural groan tearing from his throat, shuttering as his seed spilled inside her.
Focusing her eyes on him, she saw him arched with his head back and a look of sheer ecstasy, every muscle of his chest and abdomen straining before he softened, crumpled and sank down on her, pressing her into the table with his weight.
Still breathing deeply, she sighed as he lay on her, wrapping her arms around him. She turned her head to kiss his temple, tasting salt and the compelling muskiness that was Hugo. Her heart soared and she held him tighter.
He looked groggy when he pulled away from her, unstable and leaning heavily on his arms, his head sinking down. "You have to stay away from me, Eloise. I have no control with you. We can't do this. It is not our right." Withdrawing from her, he stepped away, drawing up his linen breeches and redoing the knot, his arm muscles cording as he did.
Eloise wanted to linger in her nakedness, in the glorious feeling still pumping through her body. She wanted him again, feel the tension build in her core yet again. "I don't think I can."
"You must. It will do us both great damage if we are discovered, and what just occurred in this tent wasn't unknown to anyone walking past."
On one level, Eloise didn't care, but she didn't want Hugo damaged by it either, feeling the impossibleness of their situation. "Please don't be angry with me."
Hugo smiled weakly. "I'm not sure that's possible. You drive me to utter distraction." He stepped forward and stroked down her cheek. "Promise me you'll stay away from me. You've become my weakness."
"Promise me you won't joust again."
"I can't."
"Then maybe I can't either."
"I will have to ensure Bertholomew never leaves us alone together again," he smiled.
Eloise slipped her dress over her head. "Need a chaperone to protect you from me?"
"Yes." He whipped her around, redoing the fastenings up the back, pressing her to him in the process. "You are much too dangerous, Eloise Chanderling, and I seem to have lost my armor."
Eloise got the feeling he wasn't referring to the pieces lying on the ground around them.
Chapter 28:
* * *
The relentless cheering of the crowd was doing Eloise's head in, but she couldn't l
eave. There was only so many times she could walk around perusing the merchants’ wares without a single coin in her possession.
She sought out Lady Turrell in the evenings, when the banquets would bring everyone—still standing—together. Eloise watched as Hugo arrived, being congratulated or commiserated on his achievements or ill luck during the day, young women openly flirting with him.
He stayed far away from her, and she conceded that he had a point in doing so. She still burned with desire for him whenever she closed her eyes, but what use did that serve her? It would only serve to torture her when she left. She had to watch herself or she would grow much too attached to him.
She also saw her father arrive, sitting with the king's closest friends—a group too aged to participate in the tournament, but reliving the glories of past ones. He was much occupied and Eloise ignored his gaze whenever she felt it on her, feeling her stomach constrict with dismay. He hadn't tried speaking to her again, which she was relieved about, but knew it would likely come.
A lute and horn played lilting music accompanied by a drum that whittled its way into her mind as she watched the dancers entertaining the royal couples and gathered crowd. She watched as parties tried to engage the royals, entertaining and propositioning them. An older man brought his young daughter to be presented, and the girl curtseyed awkwardly. If things hadn't gone so awry with Eloise, she would have done that exact thing, being introduced by her father, proposed for a beneficial match with someone.
Surveying the open-air hall, she watched as compliments were paid and secret assignations made. Flushing furiously, she thought of her own, knowing he was compelled but not entirely willing. She'd never considered herself a vixen before, drawing men into temptation. It hadn't been something she was interested in until she'd met Hugo, and now she thought of all the time they'd wasted on their travels, sleeping apart when he could have been buried deep inside her, giving her such complete pleasure. But she hadn't been ready to accept him then and it had been a long road getting her to the point where she wanted him as she did now.
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