I shrug and turn back to the fire. “It’s raining.”
“So it is.”
“Will the joust be postponed?” It will be a miserable day not only for those competing but for those in the audience.
Anna settles next to me. “No. It’s going on as scheduled. Most of the men have already risen and are at their tents preparing.”
The hall will be quiet this morning.
“I haven’t seen you much lately,” I say. “Have you been feeling well?”
Anna flushes and stands briskly. “The tournament is a busy time. I have had many things to attend to, and you are old enough I shouldn’t have to watch you every moment of the day.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I’m fine,” she adds. “I will call in your maid. You are expected at breakfast.”
***
As I suspected, the hall is nearly empty. I do a quick scan for Archer, but he isn’t here. I have no idea how his conversation with Percival went. Father and Mother are speaking with Sir Kimble. Leonora is sitting with Marigold. Neither of my brothers are in attendance this morning, nor are any of the competitors. Many of the visiting nobles are loitering around, but the atmosphere is subdued—most likely due to the weather.
I sit next to Leonora and help myself to a plate of sausages near me. Unlike most mornings, I’m not ravenous. In fact, I might have trouble eating anything at all.
After meeting with Archer in the tent yesterday, I stayed in my rooms with a headache the rest of the day. It was the easiest way to avoid Lionel, and in truth, I did have a headache.
I still do.
“How did it go?” I ask Leonora when she greets me.
She drops her gaze to her plate. “Percival wasn’t upset. Alexander had already spoken with him.”
Alexander is a rat.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“If Lionel claims it is true, and demands justice, there is nothing your father can do but follow through,” Leonora whispers.
“With no proof!” My voice is too loud, and I notice several people glance our way, including Father. I lower my head and say in a quieter tone, “How can that be?”
Marigold leans in, glancing around to see if anyone will overhear—cautious as always.
Leonora shakes her head. “There would have to be another witness before Archer would be hanged.”
Lord Rigel.
Even though I’ve barely touched my breakfast, I think I might be sick.
Marigold scowls. “We would never—”
Leonora interrupts, “Not ever.”
“Rigel knows.” My chest constricts as I see their faces fall. “He saw us together in the armory.”
“Perhaps it was a bluff,” Leonora says, her voice uncertain. “Lionel might not say anything.”
I shake my head, knowing it was anything but a bluff. I promised Archer I wouldn’t give Lionel those two points, but how can I keep that promise knowing Father is helpless to stop him?
But I gave my word.
Marigold sets her hand on mine. “It will work out somehow.”
I nod, but I don’t see how it will.
A competitor’s aunt comes to our table, and Marigold and Leonora transfer their attention to her. The woman congratulates Leonora and gives her wishes that she may give birth to a boy. Leonora glows, and I am thankful I don’t have to add much to the conversation other than a few feeble smiles and nods.
I choke down a little breakfast and escape the hall as quickly as I can. Before I go to the arena, I want to look for Archer in the armory. I doubt he’ll be there. He’s probably at the tents with either Percival and Alexander or Galinor.
I pull my hood over my hair as I step into the drizzle. For a summer day, it’s cold. There are very few villagers loitering in the courtyard, and even the sheep and chickens have disappeared into their little enclosures. Like every day, guards are posted. Water runs down their helmets and mail, and they stand as if impervious to the weather.
I wave as I pass one, and he gives me a small smile.
The armory is quiet, and when I find it empty, I try the stables. The visiting horses are gone, already awaiting their turn in the joust, and it seems quiet in here without the extras.
Willowisp whinnies when she sees me, and I go to her. Her nose is warm in my palm, and I stay here for several moments stroking her forehead. Her ears twitch, and her head jerks back.
A gauntlet encased hand wraps around my waist and pulls me close to a tall, muscular frame.
“Feeling better?” Lionel asks.
I stiffen. He’s in full armor, so there’s little I can do to hurt him, though I would like to give him a hard elbow to the gut. Instead I pull away, and to my surprise, he lets me. I turn around, and glance to see if there are others near us. There is not.
His curls are pulled back in a tail at his neck instead of hanging around his shoulders as they usually are. A loose fitting tunic in Vernow’s gold and purple hangs over the armor with the kingdom’s griffin on the crest. He looks imposing and confident, and for a moment I wonder if Galinor can beat him. His lips curl in a satisfied smirk, as if he can read my thoughts.
“You will make the announcement at tonight’s feast, Philippa.” He waits for me to answer, his eyes hard.
“No one will believe you are my chosen,” I say, holding my head up.
Lionel leans down, his breath on my cheek. I do my best to hide my shudder, and I avert my eyes to the wooden post near us.
“I don’t care what they believe,” he says. “You will do it, or Archer will be hanged by morning. Soon you’ll see how serious I am. Wish me luck.” He chuckles and turns on his heel. “I will see you at my victory feast.”
I run my hands over my dress as if I can wipe the feel of him off of me. My stomach churns as I think of what I have to do.
Promise or no promise, I will not see Archer hanged. Galinor better be as good as he says he is.
***
Twenty-two men are competing in the joust. Dristan, Irving, Espin, and several others are too wounded from the dragon hunt to continue the tournament. Most others, like Peter of Coppel, have made a full recovery and are ready to compete.
Sometime early this morning, a white fabric canopy was constructed to stretch over the nobles’ seats in the arena. Unlike the wispy fine fabric that was used as a sunshade over my parents during the archery tournament and peasant competitions, this material is thick and water repellent. Rain beads off of it and rolls down the edges to drip onto the less fortunate, and less royal, spectators at the sides.
Despite the rain, the seats are full. The crowd is impatient to begin, and the men seem to feel the same. Where there is room, people linger under the stadium awnings.
Galinor is one of the last men to joust in the first round, and he leans against a post. His arms are crossed, and his expression is serious. His hair is clumped in spikes from the rain, and the water has made it almost black. Even in the gloomy day, his eyes are a scorching blue.
He glances my way, and I try to give him an encouraging look. He nods back, but a smile doesn’t tip his lips. He’s focused today, and I feel bad for the pressure on him. At least he doesn’t know he’ll have two extra points to make up for. It’s best he hears the announcement tonight with the rest.
Archer is going to kill me. Better me than him.
Trumpets blare, the men mount their horses, and my father finally stands. The competitors line up and ride into the arena with one hand on the reins and the other holding their helmets under their arms. All men wear their colors and crests over their armor, and even in the rain, it’s a magnificent sight.
Bran catches my eye and nods at me. I give him a smile. He’s standing with three points from the scavenger hunt, and if he does well in both today’s joust and tomorrow’s hand-to-hand, he could win—but only if Lionel, Galinor, and Rigel all fail to place today.
The chances are slim, but I believe I could be as happy with Bran as I would be with Galinor. Neithe
r is Archer, but they are both kind, and there are far worse places to live than sunny Triblue.
I try to give each competitor an encouraging smile, skipping over Lionel of course, but when my eyes reach Rigel, my face hardens. His expression doesn’t change, and he watches me with dark eyes. I wait, looking for a sign of remorse, but he shows none. My father clears his throat, and I turn my attention to him, breaking eye contact with Rigel first.
“I want to congratulate all of you still in the competition. The tournament is, and has always been, treacherous, and it is no small feat to be standing here today. The final three competitors will be given points as follows: last seated will receive six points, second will receive five, and third will receive four. Best of luck to you all.”
Father sits, the trumpets sound again, and the men ride out of the arena.
The wooden bench is already too hard, and I shift, leaning forward. The first to compete are Lord Kellerby and Bran. I hold my breath as they snap their visors down and charge forward. Bran’s white horse looks beautiful in Triblue’s teal and white. His tail streams behind him like a silky banner.
Both men prepare for the impact. A loud crack rings through the air, and Lord Kellerby loses his seat. The crowd roars for the first win of the joust. Bran pulls off his helmet, shakes out his blond hair, and acknowledges them with a grin.
With the hand-to-hand event tomorrow, the round ends with the unseating, and Lord Kellerby’s men come to collect him and his horse. Fortunately, Kellerby doesn’t seem to be injured and rises from the ground himself. He’s out of the joust. Bran will move on.
I let out a breath and take another.
“Tense already?” Leonora asks from beside me. “The joust has barely begun.”
I pop my knuckles—a habit Anna abhors—and shrug. “Is Archer with Galinor? I think I may go and wish him luck.”
“You can’t.”
Two more men enter the arena, and both nod to me before they take their positions.
“Why?” I give the men indulgent smiles.
She rolls her eyes. “Your absence would be noticed.”
I frown, but I know she is right. I stay put.
***
Nine pairs have gone, and so far no one has been seriously injured. It’s been several hours since we began, and the audience is becoming restless. The rain hasn’t let up, and people are looking soggy.
Lionel is next. He rides into the arena, his expression cocky. What I wouldn’t give to see Lord Gregor knock him off his horse. The two men charge each other. The wooden bench cuts into my palms, I’m gripping it so tightly.
“Fall, fall,” I whisper over and over.
Their lances meet, but it is Lord Gregor who finds himself on the ground. My cheeks puff out as I exhale the breath I was holding. There is always the next round.
Lord Gregor seems to be injured, and his men help him from the arena. The crowd murmurs, and none are happy Lionel bested one of our own. The prince seems oblivious to the crowd’s reaction, and his smile is closer to a sneer. I steal a glance at Percival and Father. Neither is impressed with Lionel’s lack of charity.
I don’t have time to think on it anymore. Galinor is next. I tap my feet on the wooden boards beneath me, and I’m barely able to keep my seat.
Galinor’s eyes meet mine, and his gaze stays on me as he snaps his visor closed. Beside me, Marigold sighs. I think the entire female half of the audience sighs along with her.
His page hands him his lance, and, long before I’m ready, he is charging. I don’t know the man he’s against, and I don’t wish him harm, but I want nothing more than to see him on the ground.
They connect, and I can’t look. I close my eyes, not wanting to face the outcome.
The crowd screams—deafening, wonderful roars that can only mean one thing. I open my eyes, jump up, and scream like the peasants in the seats below me. Leonora tries to pull me back—she’s murmuring something about improper behavior—but I barely notice her.
Something is wrong.
He is still seated, but instead of the easy, humble expression he wears when he’s won something, his jaw is locked, and his smile looks forced. He looks at me, and a ghost of a grimace crosses his face.
Galinor is injured.
***
I rush from the stands as soon as I won’t be missed. Leonora and Marigold are behind me, but they both think I’m overreacting.
I know, though.
Bran is standing outside Galinor’s tent, and it looks like he’s keeping watch. His expression is solemn. “Princess, you might not—”
I push past him, knowing I’ve seen worse in the last few days while I helped Yuven and Clarion tend the wounded. Marigold and Leonora don’t follow me in.
“What happened?” I demand when I see Galinor is propped in a chair, bleeding. Archer is wrapping bandages around his midsection, trying to slow the flow of blood.
“I’m fine,” Galinor says, but I don’t believe him. His head is back, and his eyes are closed.
“You’re not.” I kneel at his side. “What happened?”
“Lionel,” Archer says, his teeth gritted.
I shake my head, not understanding.
“We had a disagreement this morning,” Galinor answers. “He took a stab at me with a dagger he had hidden. He barely grazed me, and then he heard a noise and took off like the coward he is.”
“Barely grazed you?” I say, incredulous. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”
Galinor chuckles, but it sounds more like a groan. “That’s not something I expect a princess to say.”
“Let me see.” I ignore him. I’m already lifting the bandages.
Archer steps forward. “Pippa, you shouldn’t—”
I cringe when I lift the fabric. Not only is blood pooling from the wound, but the skin around it is a sickly blue color.
“We wrapped it before he went out. We can’t seem to slow the bleeding,” Archer murmurs. “It wasn’t much more than a scratch this morning. There’s something unnatural about it.”
“Wrap it again as best you can. Apply pressure. I’ll get Yuven.” I’m already rising.
“Hurry,” Galinor manages to say between clenched teeth. His face is as pale as death, and there are beads of sweat on his forehead. “I have to go back out soon.”
“You won’t be competing again today.” Right now I’m more worried about him than my future, but the tent still swims when I say the words.
Galinor opens his eyes and grabs my wrist. “No. I will not lose this.”
“I’ll compete in his place,” Archer says, already reapplying the wrap to Galinor’s middle. “Is it Leonora I heard with you?”
“Yes.”
“Have her fetch Percival.”
I shake my head. “He can’t know. He’ll never let you compete for Galinor.”
Archer gives me a sharp look—one that reminds me my future is resting on this tournament. “I need him to help me with the armor. You aren’t strong enough, and I can’t trust anyone else.”
“But—”
“Go.”
I finally nod. “Hold on, Galinor. I’ll be back with Yuven.”
His only response is a labored breath.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Poison
“Poison,” Yuven says as he tosses open cabinets. He grabs bottles and tins, bumping tinctures out of order, not even bothering to close doors. “I need to see him as soon as possible.”
I’m breathing hard from the run to the castle and then even harder from the near heart failure I had when I couldn’t find Yuven in his quarters or the herb garden. I never expected him to be anywhere else. I finally found him speaking with Lissy, his maid, in the flower garden by the falls. They looked cozy watching the rain from under a canopy, and Yuven wasn’t impressed when I first interrupted. Once I explained, he started muttering herb names I’ve never heard of and walking as fast as I’ve ever seen his gangly legs carry him.
“We need to get Cla
rion,” he says.
“There is no time.” I shake my head, impatient. I’m already dancing to the door, hovering back and forth, waiting for him to collect his things so we can go.
He finally looks up after having stuffed the last tin in his leather pouch. “Pippa, this could be fatal. I won’t know what we’re dealing with until I look at Galinor. We need Clarion.”
“First, let me take you to Galinor’s tent, and then I will go for Clarion.”
How I am going to pull him away from the tournament without causing a scene, I’m not sure. Right now Clarion has half a dozen patients with minor wounds from the joust.
He nods and follows me out the kitchen doors. We cut through the gardens, and luckily everyone is watching the joust so we don’t have to explain our rush. It seems like it takes forever to reach the tents, but we finally make it.
Bran is still on guard, and he looks relieved to see Yuven behind me.
“He’s unconscious,” he says, his voice low as he steps away so we can enter. I stop abruptly when I see the amount of bloody rags they’ve already gone through. Yuven bumps into me and then shoves me out of the way.
As Bran warned, Galinor is lifeless, now stretched out on a cot. Marigold is leaning over him, pressing a bandage to the wound to slow the flow of blood. She looks up when we come in, and her eyes are red and puffy. Percival is pulling Galinor’s tunic over Archer, who is already in Galinor’s armor. Archer looks grim.
Yuven rushes to Galinor’s side, and Marigold scrambles back. I look away as he pulls the bandage aside, but it’s not soon enough. The wound has spread. It’s now a great gaping lesion of red, and the blue bruise has stretched from his side to his back and his abdomen.
“Pippa, get Clarion now.”
“I already sent Alexander for him,” Percival says, glancing my way. “We were getting worried when it took you so long.”
My throat is closing, and I choke a little. “I hurried…”
Percival leaves Archer’s side and takes me by the shoulders. “We know, but we’re running out of time. His heartbeat is weak.”
“What is it?” I ask, aghast. “What did Lionel put on the dagger?”
Bran pokes his head through the tent. “Archer, they are ready for Galinor.”
Pippa of Lauramore Page 20
