Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2) (12 page)

Brangien tugged again at my arm, this time in astonishment. “Do you see?” She pointed needlessly. “It’s your harper! Is he really a knight?”

Belatedly I found my voice to cheer him.

Father beckoned to me from his seat. This time I couldn’t pretend not seeing and, though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I hurried to his side.

“What do you know of this? Who is he in truth?”

I shook my head. “I thought he was a harper.”

Mother added her silent frown of disbelief.

“Arrogant at times, maybe. A bit above his rank, taking liberties beyond his station. Harmless ones,” I added hurriedly. “I put it down to differences of customs between the Houses.”

“He never told you where he came from or what his true station was?”

Again I shook my head. Suspicion that he was more than he’d said he was had always gnawed at me, but nothing he’d ever confided to me had confirmed it.

Father’s hard gaze softened, apparently satisfied I told him nothing but the truth. I prayed he would dismiss me then, but instead, he said, “Yseult, about Mark—”

I cut him off. “I am prepared to go to him on Monday. Is there something more, Your Grace?”

For a moment, he looked genuinely upset, then the next he was king again. “No. Nothing. Go. Enjoy the tournament.”

I curtsied, more out of habit than need, and fled back to Brangien.

It was an hour and a half before Des was called to the field. There were two lists to speed up the games, one pair of knights challenging each other on one while the pair on the other picked themselves, their armor and their weapons up from the dirt and led their horses back to the sidelines.

Des and Hector wound up on the nearer list. When Des rode out, white surcoat against white horse, blazing together like a small sun on the open field, and dipped his lance in courtesy toward Brangien, she nearly swooned against me. His gaze, though, never fell on her. It was all and solely for me.

Two passes only and his bout was done. The first pass a
pas d’armes
to test one another and show off their skills—and by the collective feminine gasp when he lifted his helm in courtesy after, it was clear his most obvious skills had not gone unnoticed. The second pass was all business. Calannog thundered down the field, barely breaking stride as he took the impact of Des’ lance striking Sir Hector full on and tipping him from the saddle. Just that quickly and it was done. Along with Brangien and myself, Des’ newest supporters cheered him from the pavilions.

We waited another hour for Drustan’s bout, and as he was readying himself with only the help of our horse master, I realized what vital piece was missing from the borrowed armor that fit him so ill. Unlike Brangien, I had not spent hours embroidering a gay ribbon to adorn a lance, but I did wear a necklace with a precious opal.

“Unclasp it. Quickly,” I bade Brangien, lifting my hair away. And as Drustan trotted on the field, I stepped outside the pavilion and beckoned to him. He could not have missed me. Like Des, he’d sought me out before even acknowledging his challenger.

When he dipped his lance to me, his eyes bright with anticipation, I slipped the necklace around its tip. As the lance lifted skyward, the chain fell smoothly down the long shaft until it caught on the vamplate. Drustan had to pull a glove from his hand to fasten the chain tight behind the guard where it wouldn’t be lost or damaged. Once done, he bowed his head in thanks before trotting back to the lists

Black surcoat on black horse, Drustan seemed to swallow the sun. In the first
pas d’armes
as the big courser responded effortlessly to Drustan’ subtle commands, it was clear he and the horse had spent long hours working together. Secreted off somewhere, I suspected. I wasn’t sure whether I felt thrilled or betrayed by that… by him.

When he easily unseated his challenger in the next run, I decided to feel thrilled.

From the field of one hundred knights, forty were passed on to the next round, narrowed then to sixteen, then, by late afternoon, to a final eight. As expected, the four Orkney brothers were among them. Of surprise to all, Des and Drustan stood among them too.

The far list was closed for these final bouts, the pairings decided by lot, though the brothers would not tilt against each other so long as there were challengers left to face them.

For the next hour, Brangien and I clung to one another as the final four pairs collided one after the other, Des defeating Gareth of Orkney and Drustan unhorsing Bors the Younger.

Only two Orkney brothers stood against them then. Gawain and Uwain, whose songs were known through the isles. Knights who’d fought at King Arthur’s side when the spirit stirred them. Seasoned knights who walked among the legends. To fall to knights such as they would be honor not shame.

I needn’t have worried so nor made apologies for Drustan and Des. Some days God favors even fools.

It took five passes and both men were reeling in their saddles from the battering blows to their shields, before Gawain went down beneath Des’ powerful thrusts.

It took four runs for Drustan to claim victory over Uwain.

Rumors that the Orkneys didn’t lose well seemed confirmed when Uwain led his mount from the list, protesting loudly to his brothers, “Did you not see my horse stumble there at the end, throwing my aim?”

“Poor horse,” Brangien whispered with a nudge and a giggle.

Now, though, as the shadows lengthened and the spectators closed around for the final bout, I saw what many of them would not. “Watch Drustan,” I told Brangien. “See how he’s carrying his lance? His shoulder’s not healed completely yet, and he’s not getting time to rest it now.”

Apparently I wasn’t the only one to notice. At the end of the list Drustan lifted his head in response to—

—a gesture from Des at the list’s opposite end.

They rode at an easy trot to the center of the field, contrasting one another like the knights on a chessboard. Des had established himself the White Knight of the game the day he first came to Whitehaven. I had to believe Drustan made a deliberate choice of black, two sides of the same coin. That his borrowed horse was black too, as rare a beast as Des’ white one, was likely lucky happenstance. Or perhaps Fate had lent a hand in its choosing.

What they argued on the field was for their ears alone. From where I sat, they both looked tired and exasperated. What they didn’t look was like two combatants eager to strike one another down.

That they had been training together was clear to me now. That they had become friends, even clearer.

After a few moments they touched lances—in respect or agreement, or both perhaps. Then they turned to Brangien and me. We were in shadow, they in the slanting sun. They couldn’t see us nor pick our small voices out from among the throng cheering for the start of the final round. They simply trusted we were there for them.

Sunlight caught the pendant that dangled bravely still from Drustan’ lance just as Brangien’s ribbon fluttered yet from Des’. Good omens both, but not enough to assuage the fear that had been collecting in me.

“I wish he didn’t have to win like this,” Brangien said.

Gripping her hand, I waited for the joust to begin.

They galloped full tilt at one another, their wise horses’ gaits straight and true. Lances couched, shields at the ready to absorb the bone-jarring blows. This was no
pas d’armes
to test their opponents. They already knew each other well.

As they closed, Brangien gasped, my own involuntary strangle echoing hers, waiting for the crash of giants sure to come.

At full tilt they galloped past each other.

By each other… lances never connecting.

Drustan hauled his horse to a halt. Startled, confused, the beast nearly sat on its haunches. Deliberately, Drustan slid from the saddle.

Smoothly circling Calannog, Des, in one fluid motion, hung his shield to his saddle, leaned over and caught the reins of Drustan’s steed before it could panic.

Then Drustan dipped his lance to Des, conceding the victory to him.

I almost feared Brangien would rent my hand off in her excitement. In our pavilion, where many of the knights had seen Drustan’s wound when he’d first come to us, there were nods and agreement that, “It’s a contest, not a battle.”

Such sentiment, however, wasn’t shared by all, especially the Orkney camp who bit their thumbs at Tris and Des in contempt.

For my part, the good sense and easy friendship that act demonstrated only amplified the adoration I’d developed for these two knight who continued to deliver surprise upon surprise. I could almost wish they had been fools instead of the men they were.

Fools, at least, would never break my heart.

Save for the brief showers that plagued the day, Friday’s contest at swords proved in almost every way equal to Thursday’s jousts. This tourney belonged, to no one’s great surprise, to the Orkney brothers and, to the surprise of all, to Drustan and Des.

Brangien brought another embroidered ribbon and I another jeweled pendant.

I glanced at her ribbon in sympathy. Not because it wasn’t a worthy favor—its fashioning was as exquisite as the last and no token would be gifted in any more heartfelt manner.

“Brangien—”

“I know. You want Des to carry
your
favor today. Perhaps Drustan will carry mine if no other lady has the courage to ask. Unless, of course, he’s already asked another himself.”

“Aside from the queen, I’ve not seen Drustan express an interest in anyone else in the court. Or Des either.”

“It’s as if God made them just for us.” Brangien laughed delightedly at her words, making light of them, though I knew the very real hopes she harbored for Des.

I smiled too at her little joke because I loved her as dearly as any sister.

“Cormac!” I called to one of my father’s young cup bearers. “Do me a service, please.” I gave both favors into his safekeeping and watched him go off to find the men who would wear them. Then we settled in to watch the competition.

For the sword contests, the field was first divided into ten smaller lists. In those, one hundred contestant knights became fifty, then twenty-four, then twelve. Those twelve paired off in six of the lists, and when those contests were done, Drustan, Des and the Orkney brothers once again held the top positions.

If any had thought Des and Drustan’s showing yesterday quirk or luck, today’s contests proved the legitimacy of their previous wins. Des danced with his sword, all fluid grace and style with an undercut of power that made his swordplay mesmerizing to watch. Drustan dominated through power refined by agility and dexterity. His sword flowed from right hand to left and back again seamlessly as his shield followed where the sword had been. That gave him the advantage he needed to counter the disadvantage of his still mending shoulder.

The last six knights fought each of their matches separately for the pleasure of the crowd. What was not to love watching such skill and prowess on display? Whatever political and personal differences we had with Orkney, there was no denying King Lot’s sons deserved the acclaim they had won by right of arms. Precise, ruthless, powerful, each was magnificent on the field before an appreciative crowd, seeming to take strength and motivation from the world around them.

Only a handful of knights between Ireland’s blue oceans and the sands of Egypt’s deserts could best the brothers at their peaks in a game of swords. Sirs Lancelot and Tristan came first to mind. And today I could add two more—Sirs Palomides and Drustan.

At day’s end, in the long shadows of the setting sun, only three remained matchless this day—Gawain of Orkney, Drustan and Des.

By the drawing of lots, Gawain and Des would fight first while Drustan was granted the small advantage of resting out the match before going up against its winner.

It was a different Des who fought Gawain. Perhaps the Orkney champion’s style demanded it. Gone was much of Des’ grace and artistry. Not that every stroke wasn’t precise and calculated and masterful still, but there was an air of impatience to Des I hadn’t seen in his other rounds. A desire to end the match quickly despite the crowd so obviously ready for it to go on. Playing to them, Gawain tried to drag the fight out, delaying its end with useless circling and posturing tactics. Des, however, beat him back time after time, driving to an end that came far more quickly than the crowd was ready for.

A final blow from Des’ shield and a smashing from his sword staggered Gawain. A courteous act, though not required by the rules of this field, would have been to allow Gawain a moment to recover. Instead, pressing the advantage, Des inelegantly hooked a leg behind Gawain’s knees and toppled him, ripping the sword from his hand as he fell.

With a glower, the dark-haired visiting champion who’d been bested picked himself up and stalked off the field.

As the Orkney supporters grumbled and the rest of the throng cheered, the list marshal met Des in the middle of the field, obviously offering Des a few minutes to rest. Des shook his head, pointing to the fast-setting sun. Then he brushed the marshal brusquely away and waved Drustan to the list.