Page 96 of Pippa of Lauramore
Twenty-two men are competingin 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 inspikes 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. Neither 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 histhroat, 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. Lord Kellerby and Bran are the first to compete. 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, and I grip the wooden bench so tightly, it cuts into my palms.
“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 about it anymore. Galinor isnext. 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.
