My Victorious Knight

by O'Donnell, Laurel

  Either way, Julian was not giving up. He would not lose.

  As he approached, he heard the cheers and applause from the spectators. The joust before his was concluding. He needed to shake off his anger. He had to focus on the joust and winning. Julian paused before the field in time to see a knight taking his victory lap.

  Instinctively, he searched for Ellie in the stands. It wasn’t hard to spot her. Her golden hair gleamed in the sunshine, and even the blue veil she wore could not hide its brilliance. He shook himself. He shouldn’t be searching for her. He should be looking for Osmont. His gaze slowly swept the field of honor. Many knights stood along the wooden fence near the stands watching the spectacle.

  Finally, he spotted Osmont mounted on his warhorse and speaking to someone close to Ellie. Sir Edward. Rage burned through his veins at the mere sight of Osmont. Julian forced it down even as his fists clenched. One of them had destroyed his lances. He had less coin than they did. Whichever one did it had known that he could not get more lances. They laughed together, and it was more than Julian could take. He rode onto the field.

  Applause and shouts of encouragement from the spectators arose.

  Osmont and Edward stopped laughing and turned to look at him. Where they surprised? His muscles quivered with fury beneath his gambeson.

  Osmont rode across the field to him. “Where is your squire? Where are your lances?”

  Julian clenched his teeth. He knew. “There’s been an… incident. My lances were destroyed.” He clutched his lance. “I have this one lance.”

  Osmont’s brows rose. “One lance?” he scoffed. “Then, you’ll forfeit.”

  “Never,” Julian growled.

  “How can you joust with one lance?” Osmont demanded.

  Julian turned Storm in a circle as the horse danced nervously beneath him. “I will have to unseat you in one pass.” He leaned forward. “I did it before. I can do it again.”

  Osmont glared at him, his upper lip curling, and yanked so hard on the reins of his horse that the animal reared slightly. He charged down the field to his side.

  Bitter anger swept through Julian as he watched Osmont. He remembered when he was a boy, witnessing Osmont ride away from him as he lay in the dirt. He recalled looking at his father. Disgust had coiled his father’s lip as he snarled at him. Julian would never forget that feeling of failure. He had vowed long ago never to feel it again. He hefted his lance and turned Storm toward his side.

  One pass. If he destroyed the lance without an unhorsing, he was finished.

  Julian cantered Storm down the list to his side—his empty side. No squire. No Baldwin. No lances. He hadn’t even brought his shield. He had rushed into this unprepared. As he positioned Storm, he saw Ellie over Osmont’s shoulder. She was clutching Edward’s arm. Did she know about the lances? The traitorous thought festered in his mind like an open wound. He couldn’t think of her now. He shifted his gaze to Osmont. He had to concentrate on his opponent.

  Osmont pulled his helm over his head and spurred his horse down the list.

  Julian matched his movement, grateful he at least had his helmet, and charged Storm forward. The cheers of the crowd faded; the brightness of the sun dwindled as it moved behind a cloud.

  Osmont couched his lance, pointing it toward Julian.

  Julian had defeated Osmont before. He knew how Osmont jousted. But something was different this time. As Osmont charged toward him, he lifted his shield, covering his left shoulder. Left shoulder? Osmont’s weakness was his right shoulder!

  The split second of confusion almost cost Julian the tournament. He barely had enough time to lift the valued lance and lean away from Osmont. As it was, he felt the brush of the lance against his left shoulder. But it was not a hit.

  Julian turned Storm, cantering to his side of the field. Stunned silence filled the arena. As Julian rode passed Osmont, he heard one spectator shout, “You can’t even hit him when he has no shield!”

  Julian smiled in the darkness of his helmet. He was certain Osmont was not grinning. Trotting down the field, Julian noticed Gilbert racing toward him, balancing two lances and his shield. He exhaled with relief.

  Gilbert almost tripped as he hurried to Julian’s side.

  “Where did you get them?” Julian demanded.

  “Mace.” Gilbert gasped for air as he handed Julian his shield.

  Julian positioned the shield on his left arm. Mace? Why would he help him? He cast the thought aside, as he couldn’t think of the consequences right now. He glanced back at Osmont, who reached for his own lance.

  Julian dropped his lance and quickly signaled for a new one. He wanted to save his only lance for Edward.

  Gasping for breath, Gilbert handed him one of the borrowed lances.

  Julian’s gauntleted fingers closed around the wooden shaft. It was a little longer than his own lances, but it didn’t matter. He would make it work. Julian spurred Storm forward, charging toward Osmont. His body moved rhythmically with each gait Storm took. His breathing slowed as he concentrated. He brought the lance down, couching it in the crook of his arm, positioning it. Because of the length and unfamiliarity, it wobbled. He tightened his arm over the lance to steady it. He desperately wanted to unhorse Osmont and aimed at his weak point, that vulnerable, unprotected right shoulder.

  Julian braced himself in the stirrups, preparing for impact. His arm, wrist, and chest gripped the lance tightly while his legs contracted around Storm. He pushed his torso and lance forward to get more force behind the collision.

  The lance wobbled at the last moment and brushed Osmont’s right arm. Julian held on tightly, but the wooden spear cracked and slid aside before he could unhorse Osmont.

  Osmont’s lance hit Julian’s shield hard with a loud crack, the power of the blow jarring his left arm.

  Julian dropped his lance. The weight of his shield suddenly pulled at his arm, and he glanced down as he galloped past Osmont. The tip of Osmont’s lance had pierced the wood of his shield. Another two inches and it would have struck the chainmail over his chest. The lance dragged through the dust of the field, and he quickly slowed Storm. Then, he reached over the top of his shield, yanking on the lance until it was free. He tossed it aside before Storm tripped over it.

  Julian lifted his helm from his head to expel a silent curse. The fresh air cooled his sweat-soaked brow. He glanced at Osmont. One more pass. He had promised Ellie to put Osmont in the dirt. And he planned on keeping the vow. He spurred Storm toward his side of the field.

  Gilbert met him. “Are you injured?”

  “No,” Julian snapped, reaching for another lance.

  Across the field, Osmont’s visor was up, his face red. He pointed a finger at Julian. “This is your last pass!”

  Cheers rose from the spectators around the arena. For the first time, Julian heard someone shout, “Sir Julian, knock him on his arse!”

  He grinned and murmured, “I shall do exactly that.” He pulled his helmet over his head. The eye slits narrowed his view. He glanced at Gilbert, who was lifting a lance toward him. The roar of the crowd was muted in his helm. Storm pranced anxiously beneath him, but Julian steadied him with a firm hold. The last pass. Determined, he gripped the shield tightly as he took the lance from Gilbert and whirled Storm, charging him forward. He steered Storm down the list before couching his lance.

  Last pass, he vowed to himself. His breathing was even, whooshing hollowly in his enclosed helmet in cadence to the pounding of Storm’s hooves. He steadied the lance with a firm arm. He concentrated on hitting Osmont’s open flaw, the right shoulder.

  They charged closed. Closer. And then… impact.

  With a sudden clash, splinters of Osmont’s lance flew everywhere like blowing leaves in a gust of wind. Pain erupted through Julian’s left arm as his body was thrown backward from the collision. He clenched his legs around Storm, holding tight to his unbroken lance. It happened in slow motion, and he saw the impact in a mere second. His lance struck Osmont
in his right shoulder, exactly where Julian had intended, pushing Osmont backward. Osmont’s body twisted and spun around, flinging him from his horse.

  Agony pierced Julian’s left arm, where Osmont had hit him with his lance. He reined Storm in and turned in the saddle to see Osmont in a cloud of dust on the ground. Elation rushed through him, warming his body. He immediately lifted his gaze to the stands, searching for Ellie. He met her stare across the field.

  The smile lighting her face was the reward he sought.

  Osmont pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. His squire ran out to aid him. Osmont tugged his helmet off and threw it aside. He spat in the dust.

  Julian had won! As one, the spectators erupted in a roar. Julian lifted his arms in victory. Agony shot through his left shoulder like burning lava. He slowly lowered his arms with a soft grunt, gritting his teeth.

  “No! No! No!” Osmont stood, stomping his feet like a child.

  Julian grinned despite the agony in his arm. He trotted Storm past Osmont, being careful not to move or bump his left arm. He didn’t acknowledge Osmont or anyone else. He didn’t even take his victory lap.

  Gilbert met him at the end of the field with a beaming expression. “You did it!”

  “I’ll meet you at the camp,” Julian said through clenched teeth of pain.

  Gilbert nodded, but his excitement dissolved, to be replaced by concern.

  Julian rode from the field without looking back.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As Elora watched Julian depart the field without taking a victory lap, she knew something was very wrong. She gasped, a shiver of panic seizing her as the crowd cheered around her.

  “He’s good,” someone admitted in admiration.

  “Undefeated against all he has stood,” another agreed.

  “He’s hurt,” Edward observed, confirming Elora’s fears.

  She turned to Edward with a worried look. She snapped her stare back to Julian’s retreating form. That must be the reason he’d left so abruptly. It explained why he didn’t take a victory lap and the rigidity in his posture. Her throat constricted. She desperately wanted to go to him, but she dared not with Edward so close. Her breathing came in quick gasps. She clutched her hands tightly until her knuckles were white.

  Mace raced up to Edward’s side, out of breath as if he had run the entire way from the citadel. “Did you see that? He knocked Osmont off his horse!”

  “Those were your lances, were they not?” Edward asked.

  Elora glanced at Edward, confused. Why would Julian need Mace’s lances?

  Around them, nobles shifted, exiting the stands as others entered.

  “I loaned him a few,” Mace admitted. “His squire said his lances were destroyed.”

  Shock shot through Elora, sending prickles up and down her spine. “Sabotaged?”

  Mace shrugged, holding his palms up. “It doesn’t look to matter because he won anyway.” He punched Edward in the shoulder playfully. “You may finally have the competition you wanted!”

  “Osmont will not like that you gave him your lances,” Edward warned.

  “Apparently, it didn’t matter,” Mace replied. “Osmont couldn’t even hit him when he had no shield! I’m beginning to really like this knight.”

  Elora looked out over the field of honor, her eyes following the path Julian had taken toward his tent. She gently bit her lower lip. She had to get to him but couldn’t because Edward would never allow it. Elora squeezed her hands together before her.

  The Grand Marshall had announced the two knights for the next joust, and one of them was racing his black destrier onto the field. The crowd joyously roared. Elora’s stare was locked on the path Julian took to retreat. He had defeated Osmont, as he had promised. Her fear of Julian’s suffering eclipsed the joy she should have felt. She needed to find a way to get to him.

  “Mace,” Elora said, straightening. “Will you escort me back to the citadel?” She glanced at Edward and whispered, “Womanly items.”

  Edward nodded in understanding.

  “Of course,” Mace agreed and offered her his arm.

  Elora hooked her hand through Mace’s elbow. “I shall return later, Edward.”

  Edward stood aside to let them pass.

  Elora and Mace strolled from the stands, making their way through the crowd of spectators to finally emerge on the well-trodden grass path to the citadel. Elora cast a worried glance toward Julian’s tent. Maybe once Mace returned her to the citadel, she could find Sarah and…

  “You really are taken with him, aren’t you?” Mace asked.

  Shocked out of her reverie, Elora snapped her gaze to Mace. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Mace grinned. “I may not be the brightest knight or the most educated, but I know women. I’ve seen that look in a woman’s eyes many times before.”

  Her stomach dropped, and her hand curved over his arm. “You are mistaken.”

  “Am I?” He chuckled softly. “That’s the third time you’ve looked toward his tent since we left the stands. You haven’t shown your own cousin nearly as much concern.”

  She lifted her chin. “Osmont doesn’t deserve it.” She stopped and faced Mace. “You’re a chivalrous knight. May I have your word you will not repeat your suspicions to Edward?”

  Mace smiled; his eyes twinkled. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  She chewed on her lower lip in indecision. She didn’t know whether to tell him the truth or to stick to her story. She couldn’t risk Edward finding out. She looked toward Julian’s tent again. “Do you think he was badly injured?”

  He beamed. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “You’ll go to him?”

  “I’ll take you to him.”

  “Really?” Elora gasped and threw her arms around Mace’s shoulders, sighing, “Thank you!” Then she stepped away from him, her cheeks burning.

  Mace laughed softly. “You’re welcome,” he murmured and put a hand to her back, escorting her toward the campgrounds.

  Elora halted and faced him, clasping her hands to her neck as if praying. “You won’t tell Edward?”

  The side of Mace’s lip quirked up. “He’d run me through. If I take you there, I’m as guilty as you.”

  Elora nodded in agreement. Two accomplices. Edward would be as mad at Mace as he was with her.

  Mace tucked her arm beneath his and started across the field toward the campgrounds.

  Elora couldn’t help her rapid stride. Her rushed steps practically dragged Mace along with her. She knew the way but didn’t want Mace to know that. With that realization, she slowed her walk and let Mace lead her. But his pace wasn’t fast enough. Her fingers dug into his arm in anxiety. How badly was Julian injured? Her heart pounded with concern.

  The sound of the crowd in the arena faded as they entered the campgrounds. They passed brightly colored pavilions. The clang of knights practicing with swords rang out from an area farther down the river. As they hurried by a pavilion, the thick scent of cooking meat from a campfire surrounded them.

  Elora looked at Mace. “It was kind of you to let Julian borrow your lances.”

  Mace chuckled. “I had purely selfish reasons. I wanted to see him unhorse Osmont. I have to admit when I heard he was jousting without a shield, I believed he would lose.” He shook his head. “I was pleasantly surprised.”

  “He’s good.”

  “He’s very good. Edward doesn’t know what he is up against.”

  Elora knew Edward and Julian would soon joust, and trepidation snaked through her. Who would she root for?

  Julian’s plain cloth tent came into view, erasing all thought but his injury. Gilbert stood outside, looking into the open flap; he still held Storm’s reins. Beside Gilbert, two men peered into the tent that Elora didn’t recognize.

  She released Mace’s arm and rushed to Gilbert’s side. He lifted a concerned gaze to her. They locked stares for a moment before Gilbert shook his head.

  St
orm neighed. Elora put a calming hand against the horse’s nose before stepping past Gilbert. One of the other men caught her arm, preventing her from entering the tent. She looked at his hand and then lifted an imperious gaze to his. After a moment, he released her, and she entered.

  Muted darkness was interrupted by daylight from the open flap. Baldwin stood beside Julian with his arms crossed. Julian sat on a straw mattress. His chainmail and gambeson were off, revealing his muscular torso. His moist skin glistened in the rays of sunlight from the entrance. He bent forward; his long, dark hair fell over his face. Another man with cropped brown hair and a light tunic knelt at his side, inspecting his arm.

  For a moment, Elora stood in the opening, afraid to move forward. Julian’s hands balled into fists on his legs, his body rigid. As the brown-haired man probed his left shoulder, Julian’s teeth clenched, and his eyes closed in agony.

  When the man gripped Julian’s left wrist and began to lift it, Julian barred his teeth and yanked his arm away, clutching it to his side.

  Baldwin shook his head. When he noticed Elora standing in the opening, he moved to her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Elora didn’t take her stare from Julian. Worry sent tingles racing across her shoulders. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Don’t know. He can’t move his arm up. It seems to be his shoulder.”

  Shoulder? Elora snapped her gaze to Baldwin.

  “He can’t joust like this,” Baldwin whispered.

  “His shoulder?” she echoed with newfound hope. She whirled and left the tent, searching for Mace. “Mace!” She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the tent. “Help him,” she pleaded.

  “Me?” Mace asked, shocked. “I’m no physician.”

  Elora faced Mace. “You helped Edward when he was wounded with a shoulder injury. Help Julian.”

  “I know nothing about his injury. If I guess wrong, it could be disastrous for him.”

  “He’s in pain. Just like Edward. Please, Mace. At least look at him.”