Pippa of Lauramore

by Shari L. Tapscott

  The large bite of pastry I just took suddenly feels dry and crumbly in my throat. I work to swallow it. Irving is watching me with hawkish eyes, and I haven’t answered soon enough.

  “Is it true his mother was from Errinton, and that his grandfather is a lord?” he asks.

  I nod and finally swallow the bite. “Archer doesn’t like to speak of his family, and I don’t wish to upset him.”

  “I only want to make sure he’s suitable for our Marigold.”

  I’m just taking a drink of cider to wash down the last of the scone, and I choke at his words.

  “I don’t want to speak of Archer,” I say, and I’m afraid my voice sounds a little testy.

  Fortunately, we don’t have to speak of him, because Bran and Dristan come to the table. Most people have wandered away, and seats are open for the brothers. Rigel is with them.

  My shoulders tense. This man makes me nervous.

  They offer their greetings, and then Bran asks, “What can you tell us about the next event, Princess?”

  The dragon hunt.

  Traditionally, men competing in the tournament would hunt and kill a dragon. Since the peace agreement was made between men and dragons at the end of the Dragon Wars, this is no longer possible.

  “Have they not explained the changes to the dragon hunt?” I ask, surprised my father is waiting so long.

  Dristan shakes his head. His white-blond hair is almost shaggy against his forehead. “We have very little dealings with dragons in Triblue. Even before the war’s end, they rarely ventured that far south.”

  “He’s never seen a dragon,” Bran adds. His younger brother glares at him, his tan cheeks turning pink.

  “Consider yourself fortunate,” Archer says from behind me.

  I glance at the long scar on his arm as he joins us. He was a year younger than I am now. He seems to have been too young to have battled a dragon and won.

  “Ah, welcome Master Archer,” Irving says.

  “Just Archer,” he answers.

  Galinor joins us, followed by Lady Marigold.

  “Why do they call you that, Archer? What is your name?” Galinor asks.

  Archer’s eyes flicker. “It is a family name on my mother’s side. My name is Archer.”

  “Your mother is from Errinton, is she not?” Irving says, picking up on the juicy gossip I refused to discuss moments ago.

  “My mother is dead.”

  The table is silent for a moment.

  Rigel studies Archer. “Your mother—she was Lord Greymond Archer’s daughter, wasn’t she?”

  Archer waits a moment to answer. “She was.”

  Rigel frowns but says nothing more. His eyes stray to mine, and I flinch when we meet.

  “But this event—it will have something to do with dragons, won’t it?” Dristan asks, smoothly leading us back to his original question.

  “You will hunt a dragon, track it to its hoard, and bring back an enchanted piece of treasure,” Archer tells them.

  “Won’t that break the treaty?” Galinor asks, looking nervous. “I assumed the dragon hunt would be laid to rest.”

  Marigold’s eyes are huge, and the color has drained from her already fair face.

  “As long as you don’t harm the dragon—no. The dragon hunt is too important to disband completely.”

  Only Rigel looks undisturbed by this information. He helps himself to an apple and takes a bite. His dark eyes study the others.

  I feel like we have a viper in our midst.

  “There’s no reason to dwell on it tonight,” Archer says. “Tomorrow you will rest and prepare, and the next day your hunt will begin.”

  ***

  It was one thing for Leonora and Marigold to join me for music and geography this morning, but it’s a completely different matter when it comes to archery.

  Apparently Lady Marigold has never held a bow.

  Shocking.

  I aim at my target, doing my best to ignore Archer as he explains the finer points of archery to her. Careful to keep my elbow up, I shoot, hitting the target dead center.

  “You’re very good,” Galinor says from behind me.

  I lower my bow and glance over my shoulder. He’s been sparring with my brothers again, and there’s a slick sheen of sweat across his brow. This should be in no way appealing, but oddly enough—it is. He’s rolled his tunic sleeves up to his elbows. The leather lacing at his chest has come partially untied, showing off a deep triangle of tanned skin.

  He raises a dark eyebrow, as if he knows what I’m thinking. I flush and retrieve my arrow from the target. I yank it, but it’s stuck. Galinor reaches around me and pulls the arrow free. I turn, ready to thank him, when I realize how close we are.

  Without thinking, I glance at Archer. It’s Marigold I notice. Her gaze flickers to the ground, embarrassed, and then she looks back to her target. Archer doesn’t notice his pupil’s distraction, and he continues to instruct her on how to stand.

  Galinor follows my eyes. “It’s kind of him to teach her. I think she would be less timid if she had a way to defend herself.” His voice is quiet so Marigold doesn’t overhear us, and his tone is kind.

  I nod, slowly. “She is timid, isn’t she?”

  “It’s understandable with everything that has happened to her.”

  I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember what exactly happened. Her family died in the Dragon War, and that’s all I know.

  Galinor continues, “I spoke with her last night. She is very grateful to be included in the celebration. It’s kind of you to bring her in your lessons as well.”

  Surely I should be jealous that my chosen spent time with Marigold at the feast after I was made to leave, but instead I’m relieved she was with Galinor instead of Archer.

  That’s a problem, I believe.

  I also feel a twinge of guilt. I didn’t include her; Leonora did. Galinor is so proud of me, I don’t want to admit that. I haven’t been kind to Marigold at all. In fact, I’ve ignoring her.

  I don’t like this person I’m becoming. I’ve been jealous and calculating. Maybe Alexander is right—I need to leave it alone. Not just my feelings—whatever they may be—for Archer, but my meddling in the tournament as well.

  “You look lost in thought,” Galinor says, a soft smile on his perfect lips.

  “Have you ever wanted something you shouldn’t—couldn’t—have?”

  My hair is falling from its braid. He winds a golden strand around his finger until the gold is completely covered by dark red. He looks up, his face serious. “I want you.”

  I feel myself blush, and a smile comes unbidden to my face. “But you can have me. That’s the whole point of the tournament.”

  “I don’t think I should. I won’t lie—you terrify me, Pippa.”

  I take a deep breath. “Then why do you fight for me?”

  He leans close to my ear. “Because I can’t help myself.”

  A giggle escapes, and I have to bite my lip. I could be happy with Galinor, I really could.

  My gaze wanders to Archer. His jaw is hard, and there’s fire in his eyes. He pretends not to notice us, but I saw how he looked away when I glanced up.

  Perhaps I could be happy with Galinor, but only if I can forget that look in Archer’s eyes.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Confessions

  The start of the dragon hunt is heralded with the expected amount of fanfare and festivity, but I miss it, of course. It sounded very joyous from my rooms. I have two more days of lessons. Only two more days, and I’m free—as free as a princess can be, that is.

  Music with Master Draeger goes as well as can be expected, and so does geography with Sir Kimble. Leonora and Lady Marigold tag along, and I suspect Leonora has been charged with keeping an eye on me. I have decided to withdraw my meddling fingers from the tournament, so Leonora’s job is infinitely easier than it would have been a few days ago.

  Galinor showed confidence and skill in the archery contest. Perhaps Ar
cher is right. I need to have faith in him and believe he can win on his own.

  It’s easier to take this position when Lionel isn’t in the lead.

  Leonora and Marigold continue to join me for archery, and by the third day of it, I don’t resent their presence quite as much. I try to keep my head clear of Archer. The less one-on-one time shared between us, the better.

  ***

  “Come early tomorrow, and come alone,” Archer says, his voice quiet in my ear. He taps my elbow. “You’re still dropping your arm.”

  I close my eyes, feeling a familiar ache in my chest. He moves away to help Marigold, and I’m left feeling shaky.

  Why does he want me to come alone? And how will I manage it?

  Leonora and Marigold have stuck to me like bees in honey the last few days. I’ve worked very hard to be kinder to Marigold, like Galinor would like me to be, and she’s slowly acting more like a lady than a field mouse. She smiles more, laughs more, and talks more. Every once in a while, when she becomes more animated, I see a glimmer of Irving in her smile. I have no doubt he’s right about her true parentage.

  Leonora is doing her best to stir up feelings between Marigold and Archer, but I ignore them when they speak of it. It’s one conversation I won’t add my opinion to. My one consolation is Marigold seems hesitant to discuss it as well. I have a nagging suspicion it’s not Archer, but Galinor, she’s taken a liking to.

  I should care more than I do.

  The courtyard is strangely quiet without the men loitering around. The competitors have five more days to come back with a dragon’s treasure. This is the longest event of the tournament and the most dangerous. Many princes and lords traveled to Lauramore with family. You can tell who they are by the set of their shoulders and their troubled eyes. They are nervous.

  I glance across the courtyard at a man wearing Errinton’s orange and black. He’s laughing with one of our knights, trading stories. He seems to take it in stride Lord Rigel will come back victorious and unharmed. Given Rigel’s heritage, I would be surprised if he didn’t.

  He wasn’t unkind at the feast following the archery tournament but watchful. He said little and listened much. I shiver when I remember the way he looked at me while Archer and I were dancing. Like he could hear my thoughts.

  Percival continues to tell me he is a good man, but he also thought Lionel would be a good match for me, so his opinion means little.

  Leonora sits in the shade of the apple tree a few targets down. She doesn’t actually practice with us, but she watches, gracing us with her opinion when she feels it’s needed. Which is often.

  She’s still testy, but it comes and goes. At least she doesn’t seem as ill as she did during the archery tournament. She’s taken my advice and worn lighter gowns. Velvet may be beautiful, but it’s certainly not a material suited for summer.

  I draw my bow, concentrating on my stance. The arrow hits the target right on the bull’s-eye. I glance at Archer to see if he’s noticed. He gives me an approving look—almost a smile.

  I focus again on the target, but my mind isn’t on it.

  What does he have planned for tomorrow? Why does he want me to come alone?

  ***

  Willowisp nickers at me from in front of the armory. One of the stable boys is holding her and Archer’s horse, and they’re both saddled and packed. I look around, wondering where Archer is. I greet the guards outside the armory as I pass them. I find him here, collecting our bows.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, excited I can leave today without being sneaky about it.

  He slips his quiver and mine over his shoulder. “I’m going to teach you to shoot while riding.”

  “Like in the tournament?”

  He gives me a wry look. “We’ll start slower and with larger targets.”

  So this is why he wanted me alone, because Marigold and Leonora weren’t ready for this particular lesson. My disappointment is sharp, but I stamp it down.

  Leave it alone.

  There are a few wispy clouds drifting across the sky, unhurried and carefree in their pace. Songbirds sing from the trees, and a bushy-tailed gray squirrel, chattering like a mad thing, darts up the apple tree next to the armory. Everything seems to be rejoicing in my first day of freedom.

  Even the air smells sweeter this morning—like sunshine on dew covered wildflowers, ancient evergreen trees, and freshly cut terrace grass. Big, fat bumblebees buzz from colorful daisies, slow in their progress as if they haven’t a care in the world.

  I imagine Vernow, with its busy streets, often littered with trash, and stalls of crowded animals and fish. I’ve traveled there several times. The air isn’t fresh like it is here. It has a strange, stale quality to it, like sweat and manure and foreign, cloying spices from the trading stalls.

  How could Father think I would be happy there?

  Archer holds my quiver for me, and I slip it over my arm and head. My bow feels heavy and secure on my back.

  Willowisp prances under me, excited to be away from the courtyard and into the forest. There’s no need to sneak out the back gate this morning. I follow Archer right through the front, waving a joyful hello to the guards on duty.

  Archer’s ahead of me, and he hasn’t said much. Since I didn’t have to slip away, and I knew Archer had something up his sleeve, I wore riding clothes today. Tall boots, fitted trousers, and a long, tightly fitted tunic are much easier to ride and shoot in than a gown. I adjust the leather lacing on my corset belt, twisting it back to center.

  We take a leisurely pace, and once we’re away from the palace, I draw Willowisp up next to Archer and ask, “Where are we going?”

  We’re following the main road instead of cutting off into the forest like we usually do.

  “I don’t have a particular destination. Are you in a hurry?” There’s that little crooked almost smile on his lips again. His eyes are more blue than green today.

  My leg brushes against his as we ride. I remember riding with him, his body blocking me from the cold night. I tingle all over. I need to move, to run.

  I nudge Willowisp forward, urging her to a gallop. She obliges, happy to stretch her legs.

  “Catch me,” I call over my shoulder, laughing.

  There is nothing like the wind whipping through my hair, making me feel as if I’m flying. Archer’s behind me, and he’ll catch me if I’m not careful. I coax Willowisp on.

  This has always been ours—Archer’s and mine—this mad run through the woods with no one to tell me to be careful or slow down. Archer is the only one that will match my speed. The only one who will dare me for more.

  Somehow, despite the head start and the breakneck speed we’re running, Archer is catching me. We’re head-to-head now, and his horse is pulling forward. I steal a glance, and he flashes me a grin. He looks unburdened and carefree.

  “To the tree,” he yells as he passes us completely.

  He veers off the main road to a worn trail. An ancient pine, tall and alone, towers ahead of us. There’s no way Willowisp will pass Archer now, but we try.

  He beats me by a few seconds. As he passes the tree he slows his horse. His eyes are bright from the chase. “I won, Princess.”

  “This time,” I say, breathing in deep. “Next time you won’t be so fortunate.”

  We keep our horses at an easy walk, riding next to each other where the trail allows. It seems like ages before either of us speaks. I feel his eyes on me, and I hesitate before I look over. He wears the same expression he wore the night in the cottage, and only now do I realize what it is. It’s reckless and a little wild—consequences forgotten, live-in-the-moment, act-now-and-think-later wild.

  “Archer?” My voice is barely a whisper. There are so many questions in that one word. So much longing, so much regret.

  He swings down from his horse, and before I can overthink what’s happening, his hands are on my waist, pulling me from Willowisp. My heart races, its pace fast and urgent.

  “Why have
we stopped?”

  I’m on the ground, but he doesn’t remove his hands from my waist. My hands itch to stroke through his light brown hair, but instead, I clench them at my sides.

  Archer is the controlled one, not me. What’s going on? When did our sides switch?

  His eyes are intense. “I have things I need to say. I will never forgive myself if I stay silent.”

  I soften my hands, stretching out my fingers, trying to relax. “You can’t unsay things, Archer.”

  He moves his hands from my waist to my hands, stilling them. I must have been backing up, because I find myself against a sheep fence. With no more room for me to retreat, there’s nothing slowing him from stepping into the space between us.

  “Pippa, I—”

  “Stop!”

  He looks startled, and his hands tug back. I grip them. I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want him this close.

  “What about Marigold?”

  His face goes blank, confused. “What about Lady Marigold?”

  I bite my lip. I need to know, but I don’t want to know. “What are your feelings for her?”

  He raises his eyebrows, looking at me as if I were daft. “I have no feelings for her.”

  My heart soars, but then it crashes, because now I have no doubt. It’s Archer. Somewhere through the years—through the lessons, races, and careless banter—I have stumbled in love with him. It’s not right. We won’t work. We’re bound for misery.

  I didn’t leave it alone.

  “When did we happen?” I ask. I brush a stray hair back from his forehead. “How did we let it happen?”

  “Pippa.” He shuts his eyes and leans toward my touch. “Years ago. I knew years ago, but only when you started looking at me the way you are now did the ache become all-consuming. I can’t think of anything else. The tournament is killing me.”

  His hair is soft on my fingertips, and I explore his hairline, trailing to the back of his neck. His lips pass over my temples, his touch so light I’m not sure he’s actually touching my face.

  “What do we do?” I’m in agony. Love is agony.

  He runs his hands down my arms. “We do nothing.”