“It may work out yet.”
The fight begins. Where Lionel is heavy-handed, Rigel waits, patiently blocking Lionel’s aggressive swings. When Rigel does attack, he’s fast like a serpent. The match goes on forever, and in his frustration, Lionel rips off his helmet and heaves it to the side, growling like the ogre he’s always reminded me of.
Rigel responds in kind, taking his own helmet and tossing it to the ground. They circle each other again. Lionel’s hair has escaped its tail, and it’s frizzing around his head in a mass of sweaty curls. His face is bright red, and his lips are curled back over his teeth in a snarl. He looks like he’s gone completely mad.
Rigel’s eyes are cold and calm, and if I were forced to choose, I would say his is the look that is more deadly.
With a loud battle cry, Lionel drops his shield, takes his sword in both hands, and raises it over his head, ready to attack. Rigel looks like he’ll easily block the move, but as he raises his shield to defend himself, Lionel steps forward and knees Rigel in the groin. Rigel doubles, most likely in shock as much as pain. It’s a cheap, dishonorable tactic. In a few careless, but powerful, moves, Lionel has Rigel down and unarmed.
This is nothing like the horror I felt when Archer fell. There is no pain or surprise. There is only numbness.
Leonora is speaking to me, but I don’t hear her. Father announces Lionel as the winner of the tournament. It vaguely registers that he doesn’t sound happy about it, but even that I don’t really notice.
Lionel’s won, Father says. One of the closest tournaments he can recall, he says. Won by one point, he says.
One of my points—my chosen points.
Mother tells me to stand, so I do. There’s polite applause around us, but even it seems hesitant.
Lionel’s coming forward, and he stops in front of me, waiting for his victory kiss. He leans down so I can reach his cheek. He smells like sweat and metal. I’m glad I am numb, or I’m sure I would gag.
I stand on tiptoe, refusing to meet his eyes, and barely brush the side of his cheek. My lips tingle in that horrid, crawling way they do when you accidentally get too close to a dog and it licks your face.
I slowly lower myself. Lionel takes my hand and turns toward the audience. Instead of focusing on his wet, sticky palms, I listen to Father.
“The last festival of the tournament will be tomorrow,” he says. “The promising ceremony will be before the feast that will follow in the evening. All are welcome. Titles to the winners of the individual events and runners up will be given during the feast as well. We encourage the competitors to take this night to rest. Once again, we thank you all for participating.”
With that, people begin to leave, slowly filing out of the arena like trails of ants. There is no more need for show, so I pull my hand away. As I do, Lionel leans down close to my face. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at him.
“I won,” he says. “As I said I would.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Memories
My feet don’t make a sound as I sneak through the great hall and out the garden doors. Once outside, I check that my hood is hiding my face, and I continue on, staying to the shadows where I can.
I sent a message to Archer through Leonora that I wanted to see him, and she brought his answer back. He said to meet here, in the courtyard, by the waterfall.
I see a figure by the half wall, and I slide behind a tree, concealing myself in its darkness.
For a moment the man is only a silhouette as a cloud moves away from the bright light of the almost full moon. The light illuminates the mist beyond him and makes him look ethereal. In a moment another cloud slides over the moon, and it’s dark again. I glance around, checking to see if there is anyone near, but the courtyard is empty. I cough so he knows I’m here. He nods and turns to the back gate. I follow, not too close in case someone was to see us.
A sliver of jagged lightning illuminates the horizon, and thunder follows, a distant warning in the night. A raindrop hits my cheek, and soon another follows it. There’s another rumble, and then another joins it, even louder.
Archer pauses near the back gate and motions for me to come to him.
“Pull your hood low,” he says, his voice soft. “And stay with me. Since you were kidnapped, your father has set guards at all the gates.”
I smooth my hair back and give the hood another tug. I follow Archer and keep my head and eyes lowered. My heart pounds at a frantic pace.
What will happen if I’m caught now that Lionel has won?
I hang back as Archer speaks to the guards. I don’t dare look up. There’s the sound of chains against metal, and the door opens. They’re letting us through.
Archer holds his hand out, and I take it, hesitating for a moment. Our palms meet, and his fingers wind into mine. I close my eyes and let him pull me along.
I’ll remember this moment—the thunder in the distance, the smell of the impending storm in the cooling summer air, and Archer’s warm, rough hand leading me into the black of the night.
We turn from the path and follow a trail into the trees. We walk for several minutes, neither of us speaking. I hear the horse before I see it, and I’m not surprised to come around the bend and see his mare saddled and waiting for us.
He holds out his hand to give me a boost. Instead of climbing up, I turn to him and set my hands on his shoulders. His woolen cloak is rough under my fingers, and I run my hand along the fabric. “Archer, I—”
He shakes his head, his eyes searching mine in the darkness. “Not yet.”
I nod and throw my leg over the horse. He pulls himself up behind me and wraps his arms around me as he guides the horse deeper into the forest.
I’m not sure if it’s the midnight woods or if it’s Archer, but the smell of pine, wood fires, and a dark forest floor littered with years of fallen leaves is intoxicating. I lean against him and close my eyes.
I know from the direction we’re taking he’s headed to the woodman’s cottage. It only takes a quarter hour to reach the clearing. We pass through a thick patch of trees, and then the little house comes into view. The windows glow with warm light. He must have prepared it earlier this evening.
Butterflies stir in my stomach.
He drops from the horse and holds his hand out to me. I pull my leg over, tugging at my gown so it doesn’t catch. His hands are at my waist, lowering me to the ground.
“Pippa,” he whispers.
His eyes are gray in the night, but they’re aquamarine in my mind. He pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around me. I settle my head against the rough cloak and slide my arms over his shoulders, my hands settling at his neck.
I hope he can’t feel how I’m shaking.
He pushes my hood back, and I shiver as he frees my hair from the cloak and strokes it. He sets his chin on the top of my head.
Something inside me finally breaks. Tears spill out and run down my cheeks, but for once I don’t care if I cry. My shoulders shake, and Archer pulls me closer. He wraps his hand gently in my hair and holds me like he’ll never let go, like we’ll be like this forever.
But we won’t.
I shake my head and take a step back, willing the tears to stop. This isn’t how I want to spend our last few hours together. I swipe at the tears, but Archer’s hand nudges mine to the side, wiping the drops away with his thumb.
There is a bright flash of lightning immediately followed by a crash of thunder. A raindrop falls on my arm and then another in my hair, and then the sky opens up and great sheets of rain pour from the clouds.
“Come on.” Archer grabs my hand and pulls me to the cottage. He throws the door open, and we dash under the door frame. “Pippa, I don’t know—”
I shush him, pressing my fingers to his mouth. He inhales sharply, and with trembling hands I trace his lips. I stand on the tips of my toes and lean in, committing the moment to memory.
He stops me, setting his hands on my wrists. “No, Pippa. We can’t.�
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“Why not?” I ask, though I can think of several reasons myself.
He gives me a wry smile. “The ring, for starters.”
I step away from him, never looking away from his eyes. I tug the gold ring from my finger, hold it front of him, and then throw it into the rain.
Archer watches, almost emotionless. We stare at the ring, half sunken in the mud. The firelight reflects the droplets of water beading on the metal surface. I glance back when I feel him turn toward me. In less than a heartbeat his hands are on my waist, and I’m against him.
“Pippa,” he says, his voice deep and almost irritated.
He holds me tight, and I wrap my fingers in the short, rain-damp hair at the base of his neck. “I have thousands of lonely days stretching in front of me,” I say. “Millions and millions of lonely minutes where my only happiness will come from memories. I’ve never kissed you, Archer. How can I be happy with memories if none of them are of being kissed by you?”
There’s a war in his eyes, but he’s close enough that his breath tickles my lips. So close—but so far if he changes his mind.
“I want your lips to be the first to touch mine. The only ones that will ever matter to me.” I tilt my head up slightly closer, and my voice breaks. “Please, Archer.”
He groans, setting his forehead against mine. “Do you know how I’m going to miss you, Pippa? Do you have any idea? How am I going to go on?”
“With memories. If you love me, kiss me.”
And he does.
His lips barely brush across mine, and then he angles back. His hand trails from my back to my hair, and then he meets my eyes. He looks dark and reckless, and I can barely breathe.
“Archer,” I say, feeling weightless, tingly, and desperately wanting more.
“Pippa, you have no idea,” he says. He kisses the corner of my lips. “How long I’ve wanted that.” His lips move to the other side of my mouth.
I sigh in answer. I can’t speak. I’m too overwhelmed by the fierce emotions churning inside me.
Both of his hands are in my hair, twining the strands through his fingers, and then once again, his lips are on mine. Years of longing bubble from me, and I move into the kiss, feeling like everything we’ve ever been to each other finally makes sense.
There’s nothing else, only Archer. No tournament, no Lionel—just me and him and this moment hidden in the cottage in the forest.
When he pulls away, I sigh and melt against him. My heart is beating at a wild, chaotic pace. Diving from cliffs, racing Willowisp through the forest—nothing compares to this heady feeling.
His arms wrap around me, holding me close. I lay my head against his chest. I can feel his heart through his tunic, and it’s racing like mine. We stay like this until the lightning is distant and the thunder is only a far off rumble. The rain still falls, but it’s a gentle shower instead of a torrential downpour.
He finally pulls away and fetches my ring from the mud. The metal is far from tarnished, even if it has lost some of its luster.
Archer takes my hand in his and gently slides the ring over my finger. I close my eyes, feeling the ache of longing. I never knew I could regret the loss of something that was never mine.
I look down, studying the gray boards at my feet. “Never once have I thought of leaving and never coming back.” I look up, meeting his eyes. “Not until tonight.”
His lips are on mine again, soft and sweetly possessive. “You say the words and we’ll go,” he answers, his voice serious. “But know there will be repercussions.”
The insult would be too great. Vernow would declare war against Lauramore.
I shake my head, feeling lost and angry. “Will I see you again?”
“I don’t know,” he answers as he trails sweet kisses down my jaw. “But know that no matter where you are, I’ll be wishing I were with you.”
How do I go back? How do I walk away from this?
The rain is now a light drizzle, and from the darkness I hear the first bird of the morning sing from a nearby tree.
“It’s time, Pippa.”
“Wait,” I say, pulling his chin down so he’s looking in my eyes. I take a deep breath. “I love you, Archer.”
He smiles, though his eyes are sad. “I’ve always loved you, Pippa.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Promising Ceremony
I stare at my reflection in a fountain in the gardens. My gold gown shimmers in the water, the material catching the sun’s rays and radiating their glow back to the world. Mother had the dress specifically made for the promising ceremony. The silk was imported from Ptarma, and it feels feather-light against my skin. The long sleeves hide my bandaged shoulder. As lovely as it is, I can’t help but think I look like a piece of gold from the winner’s purse.
Ginna has intricately braided my hair, and it’s coiled on top of my head with strands of pearls and more gold. Lionel has never liked it down, so Mother told me this was how it was to be worn.
Despite the finery, there are dark circles under my eyes, and my skin looks pale.
I sip from a goblet of cider I’m nursing and move away from the fountain, pretending to study the flowers. There are people everywhere, and they all seem to want to offer me their congratulations—or condolences, depending on how well they know me.
I’ve seen Lionel only briefly. Since his win, he seems to have little need for me. I’m all right with that.
“Pippa,” Leonora says, her voice soft behind me.
I turn and cringe at the pity in her soft brown eyes. She’s dressed in light lavender, a gown that a seamstress has expertly gathered at the middle to hide her growing belly. I won’t be here when the baby’s born. I’ll be the last to know if I have a niece or a nephew.
“I’ve been called to fetch you,” she says. “The ceremony is about to begin.”
This morning there was plenty of time to decide how I was going to endure the promising ceremony, and I settled on quiet dignity. I follow her through the gardens to the large chapel where she and Percival were wed. I feel sick to think I will be promised to Lionel where that beautiful, happy day took place.
My parents, brothers, and Lionel are waiting for me. Guests have already begun to take their seats, and villagers are milling around outside to watch from the doorways and windows. We skirt around the back to avoid them.
We reach the back entry, but before we go in, Leonora stops me. “Pippa, I’m so sorry.”
I shrug instead of answering because my eyes are beginning to sting. I give her a wide, fake smile. “I’ll pull through.”
Her face crumples, but she nods and darts through the door. I linger for a moment longer and lean against the carved wooden door frame. The sound of harps and stringed instruments drifts through the halls. I start to feel dizzy, so I take several deep breaths, willing myself to pull it together.
Alexander is waiting for me in a chamber just outside the chapel’s main hall. He looks handsome in his tunic and crown. I seldom see him dressed as the prince he is; he’s always dressed like one of the knights.
“Pippa,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I am.”
Part of me, a large part, knew the tournament only delayed my marriage to Lionel. I feared he would win from the beginning. After today, there is no turning back. In a month there will be a huge, luxurious wedding in Vernow, and I will be married to their heartless, mirthless ogre prince.
“Let’s get it over with, shall we?” he asks, holding out his arm.
We enter the small room where my parents and Percival wait for me. Percival looks agitated. His eyebrows are drawn low, and his fingers anxiously drum on his crossed arms. Mother is twisting her gold necklace, twirling the emerald pendant in her long, artist’s fingers.
“Lionel is waiting,” Father says, and I step away from Alexander and go to him. Together, with my family behind me, Father and I step into the main hall. Lionel is at the front. His face
is twisted in a smile that’s both smug and arrogant.
I glance into the room and scan the faces staring up at me. Irving is with Marigold. She clings to a crushed handkerchief in her lap. He gives me a tight smile.
My heart leaps with temporary happiness when I see Dristan seated next to Bran. He’ll be all right. But Galinor is standing in the back, close to the door. His expression is as cold as I’ve ever seen it.
The one face I’m looking for isn’t here, not that I expected him to be. If he was being promised to another, I couldn’t watch either.
It’s warm in here—too warm. The garden maids have picked flowers, and they are in large vases near where we stand. There are spices infused in the air—an aroma I remember from my visits to Vernow. The scent is overpowering.
Father steps in front of us. “Lionel, you are the rightful winner of the tournament, and as such, it is your right to have Princess Pippa’s hand in marriage. Do you wish to take her as your wife?”
For a moment, just one heartbeat of a moment, I hope he might say no.
Lionel turns toward me, his eyes flashing in the sunlight streaming in from the glass skylight above us. “I do.”
Father turns to me and says, his voice soft, “Pippa, do you agree to wed Prince Lionel in a month’s time, as was promised to the winner of the tournament?”
There’s no air in the room. It’s too hot and too crowded. Dark spots dot my vision, and I hear an anxious pause in the music. Before I can answer, a dark shadow blocks the sun above us, and it’s startling enough I catch my breath. In a moment the sunlight streams through again. I blink several times, wondering if I imagined it, but no—others are standing, startled by the interruption.
“What was that?” Percival asks, and already his hand is on the hilt of the sword at his side. There’s a scream from one of the villagers outside, and through the windows I see many women and children flee to the sides and around the chapel’s back.
Without thinking, I run down the steps. Lionel yells for me to come back, but I ignore him. I burst into the sunlight, and my heart leaps to my throat.
Pippa of Lauramore Page 23
