A few minutes later, he was suited up and ready to go.
The door leading to kitchen opened, and he saw his mother standing there. “Hey.”
She leaned against the doorframe, her hands resting in her jean pockets. She motioned at the punching bag. “You were punching that thing for all it was worth.”
“Just getting some exercise.”
“So, I noticed,” she said dryly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He didn’t have to look at her face to know that she wasn’t buying it. He was a terrible liar where his mother was concerned. She could see right through him.
“You sure about that?”
“Yep.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
Wisteria raised an eyebrow. “She’s not worth the effort. A zebra doesn’t change its stripes.”
He let out a ragged chuckle. “You’re right about that.”
“I ordered a pizza.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry right now. I’m going for a ride. I’ll be back soon.”
She looked at him for a long moment, and he feared that she might tell him to stay home. He felt like he would burst if he couldn’t release these pent-up emotions. “Okay, be careful,” she finally said.
His shoulders sagged in relief. “Will do.” He gave her a slight smile before revving up the engine and backing out of the garage. He turned out of the driveway and onto the street, making sure to keep the speed low, in case his mother was watching. It wasn’t until he turned onto the open road that he let it go. Adrenaline surged through his body as the bike raced forward. The cool air felt good against his face, and he was one with the bike. The raw power was intoxicating. He leaned forward. Faster … faster! He saw the headlights coming at him in the distance. Closer … closer … The bright lights blinded him. “Turn your lights on dim, idiot!” he shouted, but the words got lost in the night air. His heart lurched when the lights swerved into him. He jerked the handlebars in an attempt to avoid a head-on collision. The vehicle whizzed past, narrowly missing him. That’s when it registered in his consciousness that he’d overcompensated to avoid the jeep, and now he was barreling through a field. He hit the brakes, but he was going too fast to stop. The wheels locked, skidding, and he braced for the impact. For directly ahead was a black ribbon of water, and he was headed straight towards it. At the last second, before the bike plunged into the water, he dove off.
* * *
The scent of roasting boar mixed with human excrement was the first thing Rushton noticed when he awoke. Then he heard the music in the air, mingling with the dull roar of the crowd. It was the smell of Tournament, where all of the classes came together in a mottled mound of human flesh that was comprised of royalty, nobles, and commoners. The tournament was the one event in the kingdom that yielded a paradoxical blending of opposites: the noble mixed with the poor, the beautiful with the ugly, the savory with the unsavory. Hence the mound of manure with flies buzzing around it, not five sword lengths from where he was sitting. He cringed and averted his nose. That had most assuredly not been there when he first sat down. Rushton became aware of the hard ground underneath him and the tree at his back. A nearby commotion caught his attention, and he looked to where a fire breather was bellowing out bursts of flames amidst murmurs of awe. A dainty young maiden walked past him, giving him a tentative smile. When he lifted his hand to wave, she blushed. She was pushing a cart loaded with bread.
“Bread for sale,” she yelled. “Get ye a fresh loaf of baked bread for only one farthing.”
His stomach growled, reminding him that he’d not eaten since midday. Strings of sausages were strung over her shoulders.
“Sausages for sale,” he heard her bellow as she continued walking away from him and through the throng of people.
He shielded his eyes and looked up to see a man standing over him; but he couldn’t make out his features because the afternoon sun was directly behind him, casting a shadow over his face.
“No time for napping, squire.”
He recognized the voice instantly as Prince Edward extended a hand to help him to his feet.
Rushton nodded and brushed off his clothes. He’d only meant to rest against the tree for a few moments. His exhaustion was understandable, however, due to the rigorous training that preceded each tournament. They’d been practicing for the tournament for over a week, going through all of the perfunctory drills: two-handed sword, battle axe, mace, dagger, and the lance. While the squires were required to go through the training alongside the knights, they normally weren’t allowed to participate in the actual tournament. This time was different, however. King Aalexander had decreed that a portion of the tournament be reserved for squires. Of course that meant that every squire over the age of twelve had rushed out to sign up on the lists. For as long as Rushton could remember, the tournament for the squires was held the day before the main tournament. Never before had the squire competitions been part of the actual tournament. Rushton suspected that the change in protocol came about because Prince Edward was nearing the age of adulthood, and the King wanted him to be able to participate. For a brief moment, Rushton allowed himself the luxury of wondering what it must be like to have the rules of a tournament changed on your behalf. He wondered what it would be like to walk in Prince Edward’s shoes and have every request met with the flick of a finger, but then he squelched the thought. Edward was not only the prince but also his friend. They’d been inseparable since they were lads. He didn’t begrudge Edward for the privileges he enjoyed because with those privileges came a heavy mantle of responsibility.
Edward seemed oblivious to the attention he was getting as they walked through the crowd of people. An aged man with thinning hair and his plump wife bowed ceremoniously. A mother, holding a babe in her arms, paused and gave them a curtsy. Rushton acknowledged the gestures with a nod of his head, but Prince Edward didn’t even look in their direction. Instead, he gave Rushton a sly smile. “A nap in the middle of the day? During Tournament?” He made a tsking sound with his tongue. “I hope thou art not going soft on me. I’d hate to have to best thee tomorrow.”
Rushton chuckled. “Best me? Aye, that would be a first, mi’ lord.”
Edward scowled, but his eyes were twinkling, and Rushton knew he was grateful to have a formidable opponent—one that wouldn’t lie down like a sick dog and let Edward win, solely because he was the Crown Prince. Rushton didn’t blame the other squires for being intimidated. Willfully injuring the prince could get a man beheaded … or worse. Still, Edward deserved a fair challenge, and Rushton was more than willing to give it to him.
Rushton began rubbing his aching shoulder. Edward gave him a concerned look. “Shall we stop by the physician’s pavilion and get that checked? I want you to be in tip-top shape for our challenge. That way, you won’t have an excuse when I win.”
He made a face. “Unfortunately, there’s no treatment for sore muscles. They’ve been working us like cattle all week. I’ve lanced so many wooden targets that it’s a wonder that I can still move my arm.” He shot Edward a sideways look. “Not all of us receive the royal treatment, your highness.” He couldn’t resist getting in a jab, considering that Edward had only come to practice the first two days.
Accustomed to Rushton’s candor, Edward was not affected in the least. He waved the comment away with a flourish of his hand. “My father summoned me to the castle. I prithee, what else could I do?”
Rushton rolled his eyes. “Of course.”
Male laughter and easy banter filled the air as they maneuvered through the brightly colored pavilions that housed the apothecary, physicians, and tournament participants. Just outside of those were the blacksmiths, armorers, clothiers, and attiliators that made cross bows. During tournament, an entire city sprang up from what were previously empty fields. They made their way to the massive grandstand with its elaborate seating and balconies. It was built tall enough so that the royals and nob
les would have a bird’s-eye view of the field where the tournament would take place. They walked to the lower field to where there weren’t as many people and paused, leaning against the wooden fence that encircled the field, providing a barrier between the combatants and spectators. The field was a picture of tranquility, belying the turbulent events that would take place the following day. Edward looked at Rushton and asked casually. “Hast thou chosen a maiden?”
The comment took Rushton off guard. He coughed and then stumbled around trying to come up with answer. “Well … I’m … I’m keeping my options open.”
Edward laughed. “Fair enough.”
The truth was that Rushton had eyes for only one maiden—Cinderella, and he’d chosen her long before the tournament. Thanks to his mother, Cinderella was now a Lady in Waiting at the castle. That meant that she would participate in the Parade of Maidens, and more importantly, that he would be able to choose her. He would no doubt win the jousting section of the tournament for her and perhaps the sword. A warm glow settled in his chest as he considered what that would mean for Cinderella. The victors of every tournament, along with their chosen maidens, led the first dance at the Victory Ball. It was one of the highest honors a maiden could receive, but more importantly, it would give Cinderella the confidence boost she needed in order to feel that she belonged here amongst the royals, with him. Since her arrival, the other Ladies in Waiting had treated her mercilessly, letting her know in no uncertain terms that even though she was now a lady of status, living in a house adjoining the castle, that they would always consider her a commoner. Rushton pushed aside his private thoughts and focused instead on the conversation at hand. He knew Edward well enough to know that he had an agenda, otherwise he wouldn’t have taken the time, on the eve of the tournament, to seek him out. With Edward, nothing was happenstance or coincidence. Everything about him was precisely controlled. Rushton gave him a speculative look. “And which fair maiden has been fortunate enough to catch thy eye, mi’ lord?”
Edward gave him a stilted smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It mattereth not which maiden I choose because my father hath already chosen for me.”
Ah, the picture suddenly became clear. Edward was opening up a topic that they’d previously discussed too many times to count. Rushton blew out a breath. “Aye, ‘tis a terrible plight, indeed. I do empathize with you, Edward, I really do, but that which you ask … I cannot do. The risks are too great. Magic is forbidden. If we get caught …” He shook his head. “Nay, you must not ask this of me, I prithee. Nay!” He spoke the words low and urgently, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening.
Edward clenched a fist. “I beg thee! Help me! I’ll die before I marry Princess Helsin, that atrocity to her kind, that man bride.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “If you will take me to the sorceress, so that she can foretell my fortune then I shall be able to discern the path that I should take.” His voice was low and urgent. “No one has to know. I will forever be in thy debt.” He gritted his teeth. “I have to know if there’s someone—a love out there for me. Please … help me, Rushton, as my closest friend … my brother.”
Edward had only referred to him as a brother once before, in the heat of battle when they were staring death in the face. Either he was laying it on thick, or he was truly desperate. As he looked at Edward’s crestfallen expression, sympathy welled in his breast. He couldn’t imagine being forced to marry that horrible princess that had visited the castle last autumn. No wonder Edward was panicking. Still, what Edward was asking him to do was treason. The Sorceress Griselda was known and feared throughout the land. Few had ever seen her, and even fewer knew where she lived. Rushton knew because he’d gone there several times with his mother, but if anyone found that out, he’d be a dead man for sure, and his mother would be burned at the stake for practicing magic. Rushton had never intended to tell a soul about Griselda, but once when they were ten years old, Edward, curious to see where his friend was going, had followed them partway. Later Edward had questioned Rushton relentlessly until Rushton admitted that they were going to see Griselda. Telling Edward about Griselda was a mistake—a mistake he was still paying for.
A bugle sounded, announcing that The Parade of Maidens would be beginning soon, shortly after the ringing of the midday bell. Rushton’s heart picked up a notch as he thought of Cinderella. She would offer her scarf, which he would wear as a tribute to her.
Edward caught his arm, a stricken look on his face. “Don’t make me beg.”
A man hurried towards them. When he reached them, he paused just long enough to give a hurried bow before rushing into conversation. “My Prince, I’ve been searching all over for thee. The Parade of Maidens is about to begin, and thou must take thy honored placed beside the King and Queen.” His disapproving eyes trailed over Edward. “And Sire … thou art not yet dressed in thy Royal Robes.”
Edward looked him over with an expression of part amusement and part disdain. “Methinks my mother sent the steward after me.”
The man’s face colored slightly. “Aye.”
Edward lifted his chin, a stubborn glint in his eyes. He cast a sidelong glance at Rushton and muttered. “The mouse hath been sent to fetch the cat.”
Rushton chuckled despite himself.
“Inform my mother and father that I’ll be riding with the squires and knights this go around.” Edward flicked his hand as a form of dismissal.
The man’s face paled. “But, your lordship, the Queen, she gavest me express orders to fetch thee.”
“Did she now?” His mouth twitched. “I’m not a dog to be fetched, Bentley. Give that message to my mother, prithee.”
Rushton bit back a smile. He felt a little sorry for the feather of a man that looked like he might faint into the dust, but he understood where Edward was coming from.
The man kept standing there, wringing his hands. “That will be all, Bentley.” He kept standing there, his eyes pleading with Edward’s, his lower lip dangling. “Thou mayst go now, Bentley.” Edward’s eyes narrowed. “’Tis an order.”
Bentley offered a curt bow before scampering off.
Rushton chuckled. “You nearly gave that poor man a heart attack.”
A smile played on Edward’s lips. “Nay, the heart attack will come when he has to face my mother and tell her that I’ll be riding in the line of squires and knights, choosing my own maiden.”
“Good for you,” Rushton said, giving him an appraising look.
Edward’s eyes met his. “About the sorceress.”
Rushton groaned. “Let it go, Edward. I prithee, let it go!”
“I’ll make thee a wager.”
Rushton lifted an eyebrow. He never could resist a good wager, and Edward knew it.
“If you win the joust, then I’ll never ask again.” His eyes cut into Rushton’s. “But if I win, you will take me to the sorceress.”
Rushton gave him a calculated look. “The joust? Not the sword?” Edward and Rushton were evenly matched with the sword, but the joust? Not once had Edward even come close to beating Rushton in the joust. No one had. To think that he would beat him now was either madness or desperation.
“The joust,” Edward said evenly.
He had to hand it to Edward. He was fair-minded to a fault, always choosing wisdom and practicality over passion and sentiment. In that regard, he was the perfect Crown Prince. Any other man would’ve made the wager contingent upon his strength rather than his weakness, but not Edward. Edward had to be fair above all, always doing the right thing, regardless of what it cost him personally. Edward thrust out his hand. “Deal?”
What could it hurt to make the deal? At the very least it would pacify Edward and give him time to assess the situation. There had to be some other way he could help him without putting them both in mortal danger. “Okay, deal,” he said, clasping Edward’s hand.
Edward looked toward the grandstand that was starting to fill with royals and nobles. “We’d better get s
uited up in our armor.” He offered a fleeting smile. “‘Tid be a shame to keep the maidens waiting.”
“Or thy mother.”
A look of surprise flickered over Edward’s features, and then he laughed. “Certainly not my mother,” he said, shaking his head.
* * *
“Ladies, come hither, step right this way. ‘Tis time for the parade.” The Clothier with the worm of a mustache nearly came out of his surcoat when Josselyn stumbled and narrowly missed a patch of manure in trying to catch herself. “Nay, nay!” He lifted his hands in the air, an indignant expression on his soft face. “Didst they not teach thee anything in the castle? Methinks not! Grace! Take light and graceful steps. Thou art a delicate deer, picking thy way through the forest.” He glared at Josselyn. “Not a cow, tromping through the field.”
Cinderella wanted to throttle the man when she saw the horrified look on Josselyn’s face. She looked as though she were about to burst into tears. For days now, the clothier had been hovering over the Ladies in Waiting, teaching them the proper way to parade across the stage at the foot of the Grandstand. He taught them how to give a proper curtsy, demonstrating how a lady should lower her eyes demurely and bat her eyelashes just so, in order to make a lasting impression. How to cock your head a certain direction in order to look coy, or how to offer a mysterious smile that was sure to send the knights clamoring. It was all so tedious and exhausting! As hard as the new lifestyle was on her, it was much harder on Josselyn. When Cinderella left for the palace, Seraphina insisted that Josselyn go with her. “You may go on the condition that Josselyn goest with thee,” Seraphina said, her expression rigid and final. Cinderella had despaired. It had been hard enough for Rushton’s mother to secure one slot, much less two. By some miracle, Rushton had managed to work it out, and here they were. But try as she might, Cinderella couldn’t bequeath grace to Josselyn anymore than one could turn a duck into a swan. On Cinderella, the gowns looked elegant. On Josselyn they looked bulky and awkward. Josselyn’s sturdy fame drew undo attention from the Clothier, making her the target of his condescending remarks. Nothing she did was good enough to please him. In a strange turn of events, Cinderella felt the need to defend her. In Seraphina’s house, Cinderella had been the poor relation, the outsider. But here, in the splendor of the palace, Cinderella was the shining star and Josselyn the dowdy stepsister.
Banished: Book 1 of The Grimm Laws Page 15
