Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2) (14 page)

I had no delusions that true battle held much similarity to the mock sport being played before me. Real battle was something I never hoped to see. Real battle was burying my uncle. Real war was burying brothers, fathers, friends. Real war had only one prize worth winning: life.

I preferred the fantasy instead.

Not that the fantasy was always kind. Not that men weren’t maimed and killed on the melee field as well. Not that many here wouldn’t have been avid spectators at the bloodbaths held by Roman gladiators. Blood called to each of us in different ways. As a healer, I preferred my blood in its original vessels.

Beside me, Brangien seemed to forgive me more as the day drew on, especially as Drustan and Des proved themselves over and over. Horsed, Calannog made them incredibly easy to spot from afar, his clean white coat shimmering like a beacon in the sun. Unhorsed, they could be found by looking for the knot of battle where the fighting was heaviest.

“Why hasn’t anyone seen our knights before?” Brangien asked sometime after noon. Inwardly I smiled at her proprietary use of
our
. “Servants I’ve spoken to all say the same—that even the other nobles don’t know who they are.”

“Do you doubt them?”

The shock on Brangien’s face was as genuine as I knew it would be. I baited her to pass the time, nothing more.

“Of course not! But—”

“What?” I prompted.

“I heard a… rumor… last night. Gossip only, I’m sure. But… Well, the harper has already deceived us about his trade, so perhaps it’s not so farfetched to think he might be deceiving us about his name.”

“Drustan?”

She nodded. “The rumor goes that he is Tristan of Lyonesse.”

“The same who slew my uncle?” I shook my head, hard, in denial. “Impossible. Just being here would be certain death. My father would not tolerate it.”

“Wouldn’t the king first have to know it was him?”

“You’re building a straw man. What proof have you?”

“None, of course, my Lady.” She stressed the formality of my title, her way to calm me down. “It is a rumor, nothing more. I should not have repeated it.”

But she had, and I knew why. To punish me for my earlier behavior. Rumor or not, she had planted a seed of doubt within me. “No. I deserved it.”

Her smug look fluted by. The knot quietly twisting my stomach, however, persisted.

Drustan and Des were no less magnificent today than the two days past. I knew their strength, for their bodies were forged steel. Their endurance grew from that strength, but it was surprising still to see them meet challenger after challenger with the same inexhaustible spirit. Working together they could help spell one another as the day dragged on, merciless and without respite. Though all were flagging by mid-afternoon, it was clear Drustan and Des stood as the champions to best. Breaking them would be the only way another could win. In that, all other knights were allies, keeping the pace of battle relentless, no single challenger enough to wear them down as no single trickle of water can erode a hillside while a steady flood can bring it crashing to the sea.

Undaunted, they fought on, until one by one all others conceded victory before them. Until they two were the only ones left for the sun’s slanting rays to bathe in fire. Shields hanging low, panting with the effort of a thousand strokes, they slowly faced one another.

A hush… and all eyes riveted on the two gods mid-field. We held our collective breath. Somewhere a chant began, low like distant thunder, picked up voice by voice till it was a crescendo rumbling across the field. “Fight. Fight. Fight.”

How could a simple game of arms affect me so?

My chest squeezed the breath from my lungs. My lips went dry. The anxious racing of my heart drove away all the hurt between Brangien and me, and we clutched to each other’s hands. Was it hers that trembled or mine or both as the chanting grew ever more insistent, driving friends to battle.

Bloodied, muddied, wearied, they raised their swords. I couldn’t bear to watch. Yet neither could I bear to turn away.

They saluted one another—no rote gesture performed out of habit or demanded courtesy but a gesture of genuine respect, an acknowledgement of equals. There was no tenderness on the melee field. There it was all hard steel and masculine power. But I was not on the melee field and my heart recognized the moment for what it was under all the posturing.

I never loved more than at that moment.

Yet they were not done.

How could my heart encompass what they did next, no word spoken between them, nothing but a tiny, weary nod that even I, my world focused solely upon them, almost missed.

As one, they fell to their knee, each surrendering to the other.

What I took first as my own heart erupting was the wild enthusiasm of the crowd, stomping boots, banging cups and shields, and cheering their appreciation. If not the fight they’d demanded, this selfless tribute was a most satisfying substitute.

Amid the tumult, Drustan and Des walked off the field together, no victory lap to incite the knights they’d already made enemies of or to satisfy the ladies craning necks and squinting eyes to better see them unhelmed.

“My Lady.”

I watched Drustan and Des until they disappeared into the throng off-field before acknowledging Cormac. He waited patiently for my, “Yes?” then said, “The king commands your presence at the feast tonight.”

I froze. Of course he would. That’s when the tourney prizes would be handed out, and I was one of them. Or at least the honor of keeping me safe between here and Tintagel was. That would go to one of father’s trusted men.

Des, Drustan and the Orkney brothers would clearly take the top prizes. Who then would be stuck with me?

“Ennis, perhaps. Or Guenelon,” Brangien guessed. “They both fought well and your father seems to love them best.”

I nodded. Ennis’ braided red hair made him easy to spot in the lists, and I had seen Guenelon in his blue tabard with its spitting white snake late into each round.

“Not that it matters who does honor of escort…” I trailed off, my heart heavy, self-pity snatching at me. In less than two days I—we, for I remembered Brangien was caught in this too—would be on our way to Cornwall. I had yet to adjust to that. Not just being wed to a man I didn’t know, but living in a new home, a new land where I knew no one, without even the comfort of a familiar room or garden. Selfishly, I was glad it was Brangien’s duty to accompany me, just as it was my duty to go. She was my stanchion, my compass, my rock. Without her, I would be lost. With her, I would always be my strong Irish self no matter upon what shoal Fate might strand me.

Gathering what courage and resolve I could muster, I prepared myself for one last feast in my father’s House.

Had there not been great need for me to be there, I would have avoided the tourney feast altogether. Though I’d kept myself as much apart from any close contact as possible to escape recognition, the irony was to win in combat meant being as visible as possible. That someone must recognize me or my fighting style seemed inevitable. Fate had ensured those who knew me best—Arthur, Lancelot, Bors, and the other great knights of the kingdoms—were not in attendance. But the Orkney brothers I had met on fields past, as well as a few of the lesser knights. So when the rumor reached my ears that I was indeed Tristan of Lyonesse, I could only pray King Anguish would not be approached with it.

As a tourney winner, I had a seat in the Great Hall for the feast, claiming my place and one for Des who seemed always late to these evening activities. Festivities, however, weren’t confined to the Hall, spilling out across the camps that littered the grounds. Serfs for days had roasted meats enough to feed the masses. There would be enough drinking and dancing and debauchery tonight that even the bishop knew enough to delay Mass till the early afternoon Office of Sext when folk might be sobered enough to ask forgiveness for conduct the night before.

I was already halfway through my first trencher when Des finally arrived looking tired and disheveled. When he sat on the bench beside me where I’d motioned him with a wave of a half-eaten partridge leg, I found he also stank of recent sweat.

“Been off swiving?” I asked, arching a brow in mock indignation.

“Yes, with Yseult,” he replied smoothly, reaching for the partridge’s other leg off my trencher.

I scowled, fairly caught, though I still couldn’t resist sliding a glance to where Yseult sat at the high table beside the queen. “Where
do
you go off then?”

“To run with the Gabriel Hound.” He sniffed the spiced leg, then tore the meat off just as one of the servants hurriedly placed a loaded trencher in front of him.

I helped myself to some of the lamb his plate held that mine had not. “Why is it so great a secret what you do?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps Sir Tristan can tell you that.”

So he, too, had heard the rumor. “I’ll ask him when he returns from running with the faery hound.”

Des grinned wide, apparently in appreciation of my wit, but he’d hit upon an uncomfortable truth. Beneath the banter we both knew there were important secrets left unshared. We had proven on the field we had little need to prove ourselves one over the other in show of strength and arms. We had proven ourselves comfortable with Yseult as well, where neither of us could win her regardless. Why then should we need keep secrets any longer? With Yseult gone from Whitehaven, so would I be gone too. Whatever else Monday brought, I resolved to come soul-clean with Des before I left.

The clang of a bell from the high table turned my attention there. King Anguish stood, looking well-pleased with the feast, the tourney, the coming truce with Cornwall, and life in general despite the shadows that haunted his wife and daughter’s faces.

“I think,” he said when the noise in the Hall died down, “all of you are as curious as I about the identities of the two knights who bested all this week. We’ve all heard how many of the great knights take up blank shields and arms and compete disguised as novices or uncountried Saracens. What is clear is that Sir Drustan and Sir Palomides are seasoned combatants, possibly even knights of renown or else they soon will be, and are due all honor for their conduct on the field.”

The drumming on the tables agreed with his assessment.

“So as to the awarding of prizes... I declare winner of the jousts to be Sir Palomides and this wreath his for the cunning of his lance.” The king held up a wide circlet of gold inlaid with a large red gem—garnet or ruby, I couldn’t tell—in its band.

“Of swords, the winner is Sir Drustan, and this wreath, brother to the first, his prize.” The circlet was the same, only in this one lay a blue sapphire. Though it could have been a wreath of flowers for all I cared right then, for it wasn’t the prize I truly sought.

“For today’s melee, judgment was… shall I say,
difficult
.” The bang of cups and loud guffaws agreed. “But as host of this fine tournament, I must judge a winner. And as king, I can make the rules. I found in my stores a brace of daggers gifted to my father in tribute from King Mark’s sire. They seemed a fitting prize this day in lieu of the emerald circlet my smithy had made. So a dagger each to Sir Drustan and Sir Palomides!”

“Huzzah!” The cry resounded through the Hall, then carried through the open doors, finding voice outside as the king’s decision made itself known from camp to camp.

Not everyone, however, shared the same satisfaction. Grumbles from the Orkney table and peppered beyond threatened to sour the affair but were in the end outshouted. Nor were the detractors inclined to feel insulted enough to leave in protest.

As the cheering died, Anguish held up a hand. “Indulge me, please, in one more award. My daughter, Yseult, leaves on Monday to wed King Mark of Cornwall, and I would name her escort and the champion of Whitehaven from among our knights who fought this week.”

From the corner of my eye I caught the determined look on Des’ face and very nearly laughed like a madman. It seemed he, too, harbored the same foolish plan as I.

Together we rose.

“If it please Your Grace,” I said, “we two would be considered as knights of Whitehaven in this.”

“Your hospitality has been generous,” Des added. “We would repay you with Yseult’s safety should you choose one of us her champion.”

King Anguish glanced about the Hall looking for open dissent. There was none. In truth, I believe most of the knights were remembering what happened to The Morholt, the last Whitehaven champion to sail to Cornwall.

“We will indulge you,” Anguish agreed with an expansive wave that included his queen and daughter as well. The queen looked startled, Yseult like she’d prefer to be anywhere but where she sat now. Still, there was an anticipation in her eyes that indicated she was far from indifferent to the outcome. “And, as Sir Palomides rightfully pointed out, since the champion is to be hers, I would let her choose him.”

A moment of panic turned to apprehension then to careful consideration and finally settled on resolve as I watched the emotions play across Yseult’s delicate face. For a breathspace, her gaze caught ours in brilliant understanding.