His breath came to him, muffled inside his helmet. He heard his heart beating in his ears. He lifted his gaze to Osmont. The cocky bastard was prancing at the other end, pounding his chest and lifting his hands to the crowd.
Colin waited a moment for Osmont to reach for his lance before jerking the reins and spurring his horse down the field. He lowered his lance, couching it and clamped his arm down over it tightly.
Sprite charged down the field, and Colin lowered his lance. It struck true, right in Osmont’s chest. The lance splintered and Colin wind milled it over his head, riding past Osmont.
Osmont completely missed Colin. The arrogant knight teetered and the crowd seemed to sway with him.
Colin rode to his side of the field, and turned to watch.
Osmont clutched the reins, steering his horse in a circle until he adjusted himself in the saddle. He turned to look at Colin, lifting his visor so Colin could see his snarled grimace.
Colin cocked a grin. Served him right for being overly confident. And for hurting Layne. Colin reached for the next lance. He spurred Sprite, rushing toward Osmont.
Osmont raced toward him, dust kicking up in his horse’s wake.
Colin lowered his lance, aiming for Osmont’s stomach. He had to win this joust… The thought came unbidden and distracted his focus for the fraction of a second.
He felt the impact against his stomach. His breath was knocked from him as he was lifted up and flew back out of the saddle. He dropped hard to the ground. Pain exploded through his body, and for a moment he saw patches of blinding white in his vision which slowly transformed to a blue sky and thick white clouds.
Damn it. He sat up, pulling his helmet off his head.
Down the field, Osmont threw up his visor and watched him with a wicked grin on his lips. He lifted his hands in the air. The crowd around the field erupted in a thunderous cheer.
Colin began to stand, but a burning pain flared through his right leg and he sat back, clutching his thigh. When he glanced at it, he saw a piece of wood resting on the top of his thigh. It looked like it was just laying there. Strange. He touched the wooden splinter and a searing agony flared from the wood into his leg.
The white piece of lance was not on his leg, but lodged in his leg just behind his cuisses. He grimaced.
Michael reached his side. “You all right, Colin?” He followed his brother’s gaze down to his leg.
Layne’s hands flew to her cheeks. No! Michael knelt at Colin’s side. Her younger brother twisted and looked at them, locking eyes with her. She saw the fear and concern on his young face.
She jerked forward, but a hand grabbed her arm. “No, Layne.”
She struggled against Griffin’s hold, not taking her gaze from Colin. Frances leapt from the berfrois and dashed across the field to Colin’s side. “He’s my brother!” she whispered harshly.
Griffin tightened his grip. “You can’t go out there.”
For a moment, concern for her brother overrode the logic in his voice. She tried to pull her arm free of his hold. Colin was still on the ground. Frances made it to his side and spoke to Michael.
Griffin spun her to look at him. “Layne. You can’t go out there. When they bring him off the field, we’ll go to him.”
His words sunk in. She stilled her fight and turned to watch. It was with agonizing slowness that the physicians ran across the field to him. Frances knelt beside Colin and spoke to Colin. Colin shook his head. Fear and concern overwhelmed her. She reached for safety and found Griffin’s hand.
Her fingers meshed with Griffin’s and he gripped her hand tightly.
Around her, the other nobility were standing, probably to get a better view.
Colin held his leg and leaned his head back, grimacing in pain.
“He’s hurt,” she whispered. Agony and helplessness filled Layne and she squeezed Griffin’s hand. She wanted with every ounce of her being to run to Colin, to see what had happened. She could tell by the agony on his face that it was bad.
"Fear not, my dear,” Prince Edward said. "Those are the best physicians in the realm. He will be well cared for.”
Frances helped Colin to his feet, bracing an arm around his shoulders. Michael steadied him bearing his weight beneath Colin’s other arm. Colin grimaced and held his leg up. They began to make their way from the field amidst applause and cheers. She looked on in horror as it was apparent Colin was not using his leg.
Griffin pulled her off the berfrois, behind Richard, Gwen and Prince Edward, toward the entrance to the field of honor as she craned her head to see her brothers. They skirted merchants selling bread and reached the entrance to the field of honor as her brothers and the physicians emerged.
“What happened?” Layne asked, looking down at Colin’s leg. She spied the piece of lance in Colin’s leg and her stomach fell. She pushed Michael gently from beneath Colin’s arm to take his weight. “Go get Sprite.”
Michael nodded and raced back onto the field as they led Colin toward the physician’s tent. One of the physicians in a long black robe led the way across the clearing.
Layne held onto Colin’s chest and she could feel the stiffness of tension and agony though his body. “It’s all right,” she whispered to him even though she knew this was bad. Very bad.
He looked at her then, his eyes twin pinpoints of pain. “Not this time, little one,” he said softly.
Layne’s throat closed and her voice choked off. She helped him to the physician’s tent. The physicians took her place at his side and they helped him to a table. As Frances began to remove his armor, Michael raced up to her. “Carlton is seeing to Sprite.”
Layne nodded, but didn’t really hear him. Colin’s grimaces and valiant attempts at muffling his cries of agony twisted her stomach.
“Will he be all right?” Michael asked quietly, staring at Colin. He was cradling his own wrapped hand.
“You know Colin,” Layne said, but couldn’t finish the sentence. She had tried for a lighthearted tone, but her voice came out full and thick.
Michael looked up at her.
She couldn’t look at him for the tears entering her eyes. How could she comfort her maimed younger brother when her older brother was now in even more turmoil?
She looked down and movement out of the corner of her eye caused her to look over her shoulder.
Griffin stood behind them, a silent sentry. For that, Layne was grateful.
Layne sat on the bank of the stream close to their pavilion, beneath a large oak tree, staring at the rippling water. Colin was in their tent. Frances was with him. He had a joust coming up and Michael had gone to prepare his horse. None of their hearts were in it. Although the fact remained that Frances had to win. He was their last hope. Their only hope. He couldn’t lose.
“He’ll be all right.”
Layne didn’t turn. She let Griffin’s voice wash over her, but even his calm demeanor couldn’t replace the agony in her soul.
She heard him sit beside her.
“It is the danger of the joust,” he told her kindly.
She had always known there was danger in jousting, a fall could be severe, but not like this. This was a bad wound. The splinter from the lance had punctured Colin’s thigh.
“Colin is strong. He will recover.”
But not in time. Not in time to save their father. Not in time to buy them all a comfortable life, a corner of the world where they could be a family. She felt tears rising, but stubbornly blinked them back. Two of her family now needed to be seen to. Counting her father, it was three. Their future rested with Frances.
“Layne…” His whispered word was like a soft stroke against her skin.
She took a ragged breath and tried to get control of herself. She felt a strong tug and found herself in his embrace.
She nestled into the warmth of his arms, melting against him as he stroked her hair.
“He’ll be fine,” Griffin murmured softly, his arms tightening around her.
She h
oped Griffin’s words were true. But what of the rest of them? It all rested with Frances now. The entire future of the Fletcher family.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cheers in the distance rose and fell. Layne sat on her straw mattress, her hands twisted. Frances was jousting. She had stayed with Colin.
Colin lay on his mat, silently staring at the top of the pavilion.
They both knew that if Frances lost, that would be the end of it. They would not be able to pay for the farm. They would have no home. They could make do if it was just her, Frances and Colin. But Michael was a child. He needed food and shelter. And their father... He would not make it. Of that, Layne was certain.
Colin hit the ground with his fist.
“He’ll do what he must,” Layne said. “I’m sure he will win.”
Colin groaned softly. “I should have protected myself. I could have unhorsed Osmont.”
“You can’t think like that. It’s over and you are hurt. You have to recover for next year.”
Colin boosted himself onto his elbow to stare at her. “Next year? There will be no next year for us if we lose this. We’ll have to sell everything just to survive. Have you thought about where we will go? What we will do?”
Layne didn’t like to hear Colin talk like this. He was usually the strong one. He was their rock. “Maybe we could head south. It’s slightly warmer and --”
“How will we travel? We have two horses.”
“Then someone will walk.”
“Walk? It will take us double the time and --”
“Stop it, Colin,” she said savagely. “Of course I’ve thought about it. Every moment of every day. Everything we have, everything, was riding on us winning. We talked about this in the beginning, remember? And we all decided that we would do whatever it took to win. Losing wasn’t an option. Remember?”
Colin nodded. “And we did win. We grew over confident. Then Wolfe entered the jousts.”
Yes. Griffin had been traveling a different tournament circuit, like many of the knights. She and her family had gone to smaller tournaments, the faires. And won. They had done well. Until they had no choice but to enter the larger tournaments. At first they had been excited, overconfident from their wins. But that had all changed. “We can ask him for coin.”
“And how would we repay him? How are we to repay Farindale’s loan? No.” He placed an arm over his eyes. “No.”
“I can marry.”
Colin chuckled humorlessly. “Because those offers are so numerous?”
That stung. She could get at least one offer, she was sure. Maybe. She thought back to when it was simpler, when they were so sure that nothing could go wrong. “Remember when our only concern was if you and Frances had to joust against each other?”
Colin didn’t answer.
Layne pulled her knees up to her chest and buried her face in them. She remembered, but it did no good. She had to come up with a plan in case Frances lost. “He can win,” she whispered, trying to convince Colin as much as herself.
The tent flap swooshed open. Griffin ducked his head inside.
Dread and trepidation filled Layne.
“He won.”
In a rare turn of events, Osmont had lost to Talvace. Griffin had to smile as the overconfident knight rose from the dust, throwing his gauntlets to the ground in a fit of anger. It had been a lucky strike, one that caught Osmont off guard. Griffin wished Layne had been there to see it. But she was with her brothers, practicing. He missed her smile, her laughter.
All the Fletchers seemed to have taken an emotional turn for the worst. Ever since Colin had been hurt, he did not see them smiling or playfully sparring words or fists with each other. They were subdued, as if the joy had drained out of them.
Griffin moved through the corridors of the castle. He wanted to take time before his own joust to clear his mind. He entered the Great Hall and moved through the room. He stopped midway when he saw a hunched form sitting by the hearth, a blanket draped across his shoulders. His father. He glanced at the door, thinking to make a quick escape. But as soon as he did, he heard him call, “Griffin, boy. Come sit here.”
Griffin straightened his back, mentally preparing for a fight, and headed over to his father. He grit his teeth as he took the chair beside him.
“I’m old, boy,” he said softly with the hint of remorse. “I’m afraid my time will come soon.”
Griffin didn’t say a word. The old man had used his death as a manipulative tool for a long time. Griffin even had suspicions of how ill his father really was.
“I’m tired of fighting with you,” he sighed and his shoulders drooped further. “I want to go to my death knowing that we are not at odds.”
“Father,” Griffin said softly, “I cannot be head of your castle.”
“It is your legacy, son.”
“It is Richard’s legacy. I must forge my own path.”
His father put a hand on Griffin’s leg and for the first time, he noticed how wrinkled and thick with veins it was. It looked fragile, as if a wind would blow it away. “You already have. You’ve proven yourself a capable warrior, the winner of every joust you’ve been in. What more could you possibly want?”
What did he want? What was he trying to prove? He had already proven his independence.
His father squeezed his leg. “It’s time to come home, son. To take your rightful place.”
Griffin shook his head. “Richard is rightful heir. He was raised to be lord of the castle.”
“You have more common sense and more leadership abilities than Richard ever did.”
Griffin’s lips thinned. “I won’t do that to Richard.” He shook his head firmly. “I won’t strip him of his title. I won't betray him like that.”
His father withdrew his hand and sniffled, running his sleeve across his nose.
The flames in the hearth snapped and crackled.
“Your loyalty is admirable. Have you considered that Richard does not want to be lord?”
Griffin glanced at him in surprise. “He told you this?”
“Not in so many words.” He shook his head. “You have no idea. No idea what has been going on since you left.”
Griffin leaned back in the chair, stretching his long legs out before him. Here it was again. He had heard this before. Richard was cleaning out the coiffeurs. Jacquelyn wanted gold and elaborate dresses from France.
“I think you could convince him to step down.”
“No,” Griffin said. “It is not my place to offer Richard council. He has advisors to do that.”
“Advisors that have their hand in his pocket and strings on his wrists. While you have been gone, Richard has become a toy to his advisors. Because he wants to please everyone. He wants everyone to adore him. He only wants to have fun. That’s why he’s here. He wanted to joust like you. He does not take his role seriously.”
Griffin stared into the fire. The last time he had been home, Richard had been a capable leader, charismatic and loved by the people. He had to admit that Richard had come to him seeking his guidance and advice many times. Still, that did not prove Richard was not a capable leader. “Then why haven’t you stopped it?”
“Me?” A fit of coughing took over his father’s words and he stopped to wipe his mouth. “Richard does not listen to me. I have told him to be rid of that pack of wolves, but he scoffs at me. I’m just an old man.” He wiped the spittle from his lips again. “No. It must come from you.”
Griffin leaned forward, his arms on his thighs. He wouldn’t tell Richard that his own father wanted him to step down. No. He knew how being second best in your father’s eyes felt and it was not something he would do to his brother. “I can not tell him what to do.”
His father sighed softly. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?”
Griffin looked at him. His father watched him with those aged eyes, eyes that seemed to be able to see into his soul. Griffin looked at the fire. His father had not shown him so much interest in all of
his life. Why now? Wariness tightened the muscles across his neck. “What girl?”
“Richard’s wife.”
“Jacquelyn?” Griffin asked in disbelief. “She means nothing to me.” And then he straightened, snapping to a sitting position with realization. He was searching for some way to control him, to manipulate him. He rose. “No. There’s nothing you can give me that would make me change my mind.”
“There is something. And I will find it.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Layne sat outside of the tent, looking at the starry night. The stars twinkled like coveted diamonds in the darkness. Colin, Frances and Michael all slept inside the pavilion.
But sleep would not come for her. She didn’t want to wander far from the tent. She knew Osmont had packed and left Woodstock after his embarrassing defeat. But there were others that felt the way he did. She still needed to be cautious.
She lifted her gaze to the moon. It was almost full, but there was a little piece missing. Ever since she had jousted, their luck had changed. They had only needed one more tourney to win. One more! And all their problems would have been gone. But she had to go and joust. She had to take Frances’s place. That had been when all of their troubles started. That had been the reason Michael had lost his fingers, the reason the other knights had turned against them. It had all been her fault. Somehow she knew Colin’s injury was her fault as well. Osmont had gone at him with a ferocious level of misplaced vengeance.
She bowed her head between her knees. Maybe she should have stayed home with her father and let her brothers handle the jousting. Would it have been so bad to be embroidering all of the time, under her father’s watchful eye and guidance so he could seek out the right husband for her? Having her aunt tell her to stand up straight, to agree with what the men said, to be docile and complacent? And never, ever, complain or roughhouse or sword fight or joust. Would it have been so bad?
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