All our eyes turn to Archer. He nods once and turns to Percival. “Thank you.”
“Don’t let Lionel win.” Percival slaps him on the shoulder once, his face grim.
Archer’s eyes meet mine as he leaves, and as he passes I press my embroidered handkerchief into his hand. He raises an eyebrow, gives me a shadow of a smile, and then leaves.
The tent flaps blow in the wind, and I’m torn between rushing after him to see how he does and staying with Galinor. I resist the urge to follow him. I know where I’m needed. I find a seat next to Galinor.
Yuven glances at me. He’s opened a bottle of a wretched smelling gray liquid, and I work hard not to gag. He hands me a soaked rag. “Hold this to the wound.”
I take it, my nose wrinkling. “What’s he been poisoned with?”
He sifts through his pouch, mixing this and that with his mortar and pestle. Ignoring my question, he motions to the powder he’s mixed. “I need cider or wine—anything to mix this in.”
Percival and Marigold scramble around the tent, searching for a bottle of anything liquid.
“There’s nothing here!” Marigold exclaims. “Bran, we need something to drink!”
“Just a moment,” he calls back, and then his shadow disappears from the front of the tent.
“Creeping wortcane,” Yuven says, looking back at me. “I’m almost positive.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a mushroom that grows in marshes.” He gives me a hard look. “It grows in Vernow.”
I glance at Percival. His jaw is hard, and he’s drumming a nervous finger against his crossed arms.
“Will he be all right?” I ask, my voice small. Marigold and Percival look over.
Yuven’s eyes meet mine, and they look pained. “I’ll do my best.”
Marigold lets out a sob but chokes it back and turns away from us. Percival looks as if he’s about to say something, but Bran bursts into the tent with Clarion right behind him. He hands Yuven the bottle of wine and then steps out of the way.
Clarion comes over, his white eyebrows knitted together in concern, and I pivot out of his way, careful to keep the foul-smelling rag pressed hard against the wound.
Yuven and Clarion begin to discuss the lesion in rapid, unfamiliar medical words. I do understand the gist of the conversation, though. The poison is killing the skin around the slice—that’s what the purple bruise is. His skin and muscles are dying. Clarion agrees with Yuven’s assessment of creeping wortcane. Apparently it’s a poison that not only eats away at the skin, but it keeps the blood from clotting as well. The concoction I’m holding against the wound is supposed to counteract that.
Already, I notice the blood has slowed and is thicker than it was only minutes ago.
Outside, there is a loud cheer from the arena. I bite my lip, straining to hear more, but now there is only muffled applause. I wait, on edge, willing Archer to return to the tent quickly.
Bran competes after Archer, so he’s left again. Alexander has taken his place. Marigold sits in the corner, looking like she’s reliving every horrible memory from her already difficult life. Percival paces. Yuven mixes his concoction in the wine, and Clarion continues to examine Galinor.
A thought keeps nagging at me, and in the painful silence of the tent, I finally acknowledge it. If I had announced Lionel as my chosen last night instead of hiding in my rooms, he wouldn’t have done this. This is my warning.
This is my fault.
I glance up as Archer strides through the tent, his helmet still on to hide his identity. He pulls the helmet off as soon as the flaps swing shut. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “How is he?”
“Still unconscious,” Percival answers.
“The wound is clotting,” Clarion says.
I swing my head down, and sure enough, the bleeding seems to have finally stopped. We’re all quiet.
I wonder if it’s too late to feel relieved.
“Did you win?” Percival asks, almost as if it’s an afterthought.
“Yes.”
“The next round will decide who places,” Percival says.
Archer nods but says nothing more.
Yuven hands me a goblet filled with the herb-laced wine. “Help me, Pippa.”
I take the goblet, wondering how I’m going to get him to drink it. Yuven tips Galinor’s head up and opens his mouth.
“It will choke him,” I protest.
“It won’t. Do it Pippa.”
I hold the goblet to Galinor’s lips, which are turning a frightening blue color, and pour a small amount of the liquid in. Yuven tips his head back so the wine goes down his throat.
“Again,” he says. Again, we pour the liquid down Galinor’s throat. “That’s enough for now. It will help his body fight the poison.”
Clarion wraps the wound again, but this time the outside of the bandage stays white and clean. “There is nothing we can do now but wait. If he’s strong, he’ll pull though.”
I hate waiting.
Clarion stands and eyes Archer in Galinor’s armor. “Prince Percival, I assume this is to be kept quiet?”
“If you would, Master Clarion.”
“Of course,” the physician says with a small smile. “I must go before they come looking for me.
Percival thanks Clarion, and then the physician leaves. We all turn to Galinor, watching him expectantly.
Yuven notices and gives us a wry look. “It will be awhile before we can hope to see much improvement. If we’re lucky he’ll wake by nightfall.”
I groan and stand to wash the blood from my hands.
Alexander steps into the tent. “Pippa, you need to get back. Leonora just came to tell me they’re missing you.”
“All right. I suppose there’s no use all of us sitting here, anyway.” I glance at Galinor and then back at my brother. I give Archer a weak smile. “Congratulations, Archer, and thank you.”
“Of course, Pippa.”
I squeeze his hand, wishing I could do more, and then leave. I weave through the tents, feeling numb. Many people wave to me, and I return their greetings, somehow smiling back. The rain has let up, and more villagers are wandering around, walking through the squishy, wet meadow grass.
“How is he?” Leonora whispers as I find my seat next to her.
“Yuven has stopped the bleeding and given him something to fight the poison. Clarion says all we can do now is wait.”
Leonora wrings her hands in her lap. “Wait for what, exactly?”
“For him to either wake up…”
Her face falls, and she finishes for me, “Or not.”
I’m thankful for the trumpet’s call, announcing the third round.
Leonora takes my hand and squeezes it. “Archer was magnificent,” she says, her voice too quiet for anyone around us to hear.
“I missed it,” I murmur.
“You’re here now.”
With only six competitors left, this round decides who places. Archer, Rigel, Lionel, and Bran are all still in the competition. I was hoping Lionel would have been knocked off while I was tending Galinor, but unfortunately, he remains.
Rigel is against Bran in the first round. The two men take their places, and the contrast is striking—Bran on his white steed and Rigel on his black. The men charge each other, their banners streaming behind them. The people in the crowd hold their breath. To my disappointment, but not my surprise, Rigel unseats Bran.
The whole thing looked too easy, and when Rigel takes off his helmet to acknowledge the crowd’s cheers, he barely looks like he exerted himself. He does surprise me by dismounting from his horse and offering a hand to his competitor. Bran accepts, and he doesn’t seem to be injured. The crowd eats up Rigel’s goodwill, and they call out for him.
Fickle crowd.
Next, Lionel is up against Peter of Coppel. It’s not to be a quick match, for neither fall off in the first go round. They line up and charge each other, and once again their shields deflect
the lances. I lean forward, not daring to breathe. This next time Peter could very well knock Lionel to the ground. It could happen. It could.
Lionel flips his visor open, glaring at the other man. They charge each other, and this time his lance hits Peter directly in the chest. Peter falls from his horse and crashes to the ground. I sit back, nauseous.
Lionel has placed in the final three.
I refuse to look at him and ignore his preening in front of the crowd. To my pleasure, their applause is polite at best. As Lionel exits, Archer and his opponent enter the arena. Lionel gives Archer a long, hard glare, probably wondering how Galinor is well enough to compete at this point.
Archer ignores him and rides past, taking his place. He will be riding against Matteo of Pluot, a prince of a small kingdom to the west. Matteo hasn’t done well in any of the previous competitions, and I am sure he is hoping to place today.
They charge each other with shields and lances raised. Matteo’s lance harmlessly hits Archer’s shield, deflecting off to the side, but Archer’s lance meets its mark. Matteo falls from his horse and the crowd jumps to their feet, roaring their congratulations.
Archer raises his hand, but for obvious reasons, does not lift his visor. Having secured Galinor’s spot in the top three, he rides from the arena. I sit back, taking deep breaths to calm my rapidly beating heart. Galinor is still in the competition.
There is no break between this round and the final round. Father stands up, drawing the audience’s attention to him. Archer, Rigel, and Lionel ride into the arena. I wonder if anyone finds it odd that Galinor still has his visor closed.
“Prince Lionel of Vernow, Lord Rigel of Errinton, and Prince Galinor of Glendon, you have placed in the final three. The next two jousts will decide your spot. Competing in the first joust is Prince Lionel against Prince Galinor. Take your places.”
I clasp my hands in my lap. Leonora sets her hand on mine, and together we wait. The crowd is quiet in anticipation. Galinor’s horse shifts impatiently under Archer, ready to charge. With no hesitation, they leap forward. Archer is at a disadvantage on a horse he’s never ridden, but it doesn’t show. Their lances collide. I lean forward, biting my lip. Like a mighty tree, Lionel falls to the ground.
The audience is silent, and then, after several heartbeats, they go wild, screaming Galinor’s name.
I stare at Lionel, shocked and relieved to see him off his horse. He seems equally surprised to find himself on the ground. When his groom runs to help him, he swats the man’s hand away and pulls himself up. There’s mud clinging to his armor. He pulls the helmet off, and his face is twisted in disgust. He turns his glare at the man he believes to be Galinor.
Archer nods to him and then rides to the side, waiting for Lionel to clear himself from the arena. Lionel storms off, and when he’s out of the arena—but not so far as to be out of view—he heaves his helmet at the ground. I steal a glance at Father and am satisfied to see the disapproving look on his face.
Once Lionel and his horse are clear, Rigel and Archer take their places. The crowd waits expectantly. The rain has begun again, and the water comes down in great sheets. Both men ready their shields and lances. Galinor’s horse paws at the ground and snorts, ready to run.
“Oh please, Archer,” I whisper. “Please win.”
They charge, and I stand, no longer able to stay seated. I bite my thumbnail, waiting for the men to collide. Archer’s lance hits Rigel just moments before the other lance connects with Archer’s shoulder. The force pushes Archer back in the saddle, but Rigel, who is already unbalanced, falls to the right. A few others in the crowd stand with me as we watch the black lord, who is unable to right himself in the saddle, slide into the mud.
Close to falling himself, Archer finds his balance and draws himself up. Suddenly, the entire arena is on their feet, screaming praises to the Prince of Glendon.
Archer has won the joust.
I scream with the rest of them, yelling until my throat is raw. Leonora, forgetting that she is lady, is at my side, clapping wildly.
Archer dismounts, clutches his side with one hand, and hands his horse to Galinor’s page. I narrow my eyes, watching him. Rigel’s lance didn’t hit him in the side, but in the shoulder. He’s faking Galinor’s wound.
Alexander jumps from his seat—I hadn’t even realized he was back from Galinor’s tent yet—and runs to Archer’s side. Archer holds up his hand in victory, even as Alexander helps him from the arena.
“They must have staged it,” Leonora says, her words muffled by the crowd.
Father stands, and the audience slowly falls quiet as people find their seats once more. “Prince Galinor of Glendon is the winner of the joust. Since it looks as though he may have been injured in the last round, let us give him a moment before he claims his victory.”
In just a few minutes, Archer rides back in the arena. He’s favoring his right side, but he holds his hand up to the crowd as he makes his lap.
“He is an impostor!” A voice calls out.
All eyes dart to the entrance of the arena. There Lionel stands, red-faced and livid.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Accusations
“Not once did he lift his visor. Not once! Look for yourselves—it is still down,” Lionel yells. A great many murmurs are muttered by the crowd.
Father appears to be losing his patience with Lionel. “Prince Galinor, would you please show us that it is indeed you under the helmet?”
Leonora inhales sharply, and I go cold. I’m about to make a spectacle of some sort to distract them, but just as I prepare to call out, Archer removes his helmet.
I gasp.
He still looks like death, but it is indeed Galinor, not Archer, on the horse.
“How?” Leonora breathes.
I stand, cheering for him with the others. I’m afraid he’s about to pass out.
“They must have used those few moments to switch,” I say, keeping my voice low so only Leonora can hear me. Then I hug her, the weight of the realization hitting me. “He’s awake!”
Relieved tears prick my eyes.
Lionel stares at him in disbelief, and then like a viper striking, he meets my eyes. He sneers at me—he knows I’ve interfered once again.
I look away, cheering for Galinor and trying to ignore Lionel.
***
There will be no celebratory feast for Galinor. As far as everyone knows, he was injured by Rigel in the last joust—nothing life threatening, but Clarion declared he needed rest before the final competition tomorrow.
Instead of basking in the light of his—or Archer’s—victory, Galinor is in Yuven’s quarters, sleeping off the poison. Archer and I are with him. My brothers, Leonora, and Marigold are in the hall enjoying dinner with the others. I will join them soon.
I have an announcement to make.
It will be easier without Archer and Galinor there, and I hope Archer doesn’t try to follow me.
“He is recovering,” I hear Yuven say in hushed tones. “But he won’t be able to compete tomorrow.”
I had suspected as much, but it’s hard to hear.
“I’ll fight,” Archer answers.
I turn, joining the conversation. “No, Archer. It’s too dangerous. What if someone realizes?”
He comes to me, his face solemn, and sets his hand on my shoulder. “I did it today.”
Yuven, looking uncomfortable, disappears into the hall.
I shake my head. “You were almost found out.”
His thumb brushes my neck, and his fingers gently knead away the tension. “There is no other option, Pippa. Rigel and Lionel placed today. As of right now, Galinor is at seventeen points. Lionel is at fourteen. If he places tomorrow, he will win the tournament.”
And I’m about to hand him two more points. I turn away from Archer and brace my hand on the worktable, steadying my weary body while I try to think of a way out of this.
“Where does Rigel rank?” I ask, cringing at the thought even
if he is the lesser of two evils.
“He has eleven, and he is the next closest. For him to win, Lionel can’t place at all tomorrow.”
“I don’t want him to win.”
Archer moves closer. His hand finds my hair, and he twirls it in his fingers. I can’t bear to look at him, not knowing in a few minutes I will break my promise. I don’t turn around.
“You need me,” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear. His arms wrap around my middle, and he pulls me against him, resting his chin on my shoulder.
I close my eyes. “I’ve always needed you. I don’t—”
“Shhh,” he says. “We won’t think of it now.”
I lay my head back, resting it in the crook of his neck. Time passes, but neither he nor I move. I feel safe tucked against him like this. Just us—almost like it was before we admitted there was more between us, but better. Because there is more.
“I never thought I would get the chance to fight for you, Pippa,” he says softly. I can hear the smile in his voice. “Know that as you watch me tomorrow, I’m not fighting for Galinor—I’m fighting for you.”
I turn my head, and our eyes meet. His hair is disheveled, and he’s gone so many days without shaving that the stubble is thick on his jaw. It scratches my neck, but I don’t move away. Tentative at first, I run a hand through his hair. It’s soft, and I like the way it feels between my fingers. He closes his eyes and leans into my touch.
Now.
Tell him now.
Someone clears their throat from the door, and, startled, we pull apart. Leonora looks embarrassed, but there is something else in her expression, too.
“What’s wrong?”
Her eyes drop from mine, taking a tour of the room before they return. I can see her weighing her words before she finally answers, “Lionel has told me you have fifteen minutes to make the announcement—or he’ll make his.”
“Let him make it,” Archer snarls. He takes my hand to show he’s serious.
I shake my head. “No. He can’t. You’ve seen what he did to Galinor. I can’t let anything happen to you.”
Archer pulls me to him. “Pippa, no.”
Pippa of Lauramore Page 21