Pippa of Lauramore

by Shari L. Tapscott

“There you are, saying it again,” I murmur, my voice soft. I try to smile as I pull away. “I have to.”

  “No. You don’t.” He shakes his head, and my fingers fall from his.

  “Yes, I do.”

  ***

  If I thought Archer would let me make a martyr of myself in peace, I was wrong. He followed me the entire way to the hall, arguing with me.

  Only now that I’m here, surrounded by people, he’s forced to back off. I make my way to my parent’s table, glaring at Lionel when I see his smug face. One meaty arm is crossed over his chest, and the other holds a half-eaten turkey drumstick. He’s leaning back in his chair, two feet off the floor.

  I would love to knock that chair out from under him.

  “I’m going to announce my chosen,” I say to Father when he notices I’m before him.

  He gives me a knowing smile. I’m sure he assumes I will declare it to be Galinor. After all, isn’t that who I’ve spent the entire evening with? He stands up, and all eyes are on him. “My daughter has an announcement she wishes to make.”

  I cringe.

  “Ah, yes. Hello, all,” I say, feeling myself flush when all our guests’ eyes turn on me. One of those sets of eyes looks as if they’re about to interfere, so I gulp and cut to the chase before Archer can do something foolish. “I would like to announce Lionel as my chosen.”

  There are numerous gasps followed by silence.

  I give a small curtsy. “Thank you, and…ah…enjoy your meal.”

  Someone finally claps, and it’s followed by a smattering of applause. Lionel looks somewhat less than impressed. What did he expect?

  I’m about to flee when Father’s voice commands me to stop. He points to the empty seat next to him, raising his eyebrows. I look down the table for help. Mother looks too stunned to be of assistance, and Sir Kimble looks just as baffled. He shoots Lionel an accusing glance.

  I plunk down in the seat next to Father. To my horror, Lionel stands, raising his goblet as if he’s going to make a toast. He gives me a smile which looks more like a sickly toad-like grin, and then his eyes scan the crowd as if he’s looking for someone. My eyes follow his, and I grow cold. He’s looking directly at Archer.

  “No,” I whisper, clutching the napkin in front of me.

  “There you have it, Archer,” Lionel calls out. “She chose me. Did you really believe you could successfully woo a princess? What did you think? That she’d fall in love with you? Run off with you and give everything up—like your mother did for your father? But that didn’t end so well, did it?”

  Archer says nothing. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, his expression blank. My world spins, and I accidentally knock over the goblet of cider in front of me. The cold liquid runs down the table and spills onto my dress, but I barely notice.

  Father looks dumbfounded. “What is he talking about?”

  My mouth moves, but I find no words.

  “King Ewan, what is the punishment for entering into a romantic relationship with a princess promised to the tournament?” Lionel asks as if he doesn’t already know. The room is so quiet it’s eerie. I don’t dare breathe.

  “Death,” Father says, and even as he pulls himself up tall, his shoulders droop.

  Percival stands up. “What are you accusing?”

  Lionel looks at my brother, his eyes bright. “I’m accusing Archer of attempting to seduce Princess Phillipa.”

  “You need a witness,” Percival demands, and Lionel chuckles.

  “I have more than one.” He smiles, scanning the room. “Someone. Tell King Ewan.”

  No one comes forward, and Lionel begins to look rattled. “Prince Irving—you’ve seen them.”

  Irving shrugs and glances around the room, taking in his captive audience. “Archer? No. I see myself with the princess.” He grins. “Unfortunately she doesn’t seem to share my vision.”

  Nervous laughter fills the hall.

  Lionel is turning red now, and his large brow is growing sweaty. “This is ridiculous. I know a number of you have seen them. I know it!”

  Our guests are looking at him as if he’s gone mad, and many are whispering amongst themselves. I hear mention of his ridiculous accusation at the joust earlier. Suddenly I can breathe. I dab the cider from my lap.

  Then Rigel stands.

  My hand freezes, cider forgotten. I have to stop him, but how?

  “King Ewan,” Rigel says. “If no witnesses have come forward, should not the accusation be dropped?”

  My mouth falls open.

  “Yes,” my father says and then turns to Lionel. “It appears you were mistaken. In my kingdom, I ask you to be more careful.”

  Lionel’s fists are clenched tight, but he gives Father a curt nod before he storms out of the great hall. Slowly, chatter fills the air again, but I’m still speechless.

  Rigel saved Archer.

  My eyes seek him out, and it isn’t long before he looks my way. I touch my hand to my heart, not knowing how to convey my gratitude. He bows his head to me and then turns back to his conversation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Hand-to-Hand

  Galinor looks much better this morning. His tan cheeks are flushed pink, and the dark shadows under his eyes are almost gone. Women swoon and giggle as he takes his place in the arena. He graciously acknowledges their cheers. Beside me, Marigold sighs.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  I haven’t been able to sneak away to see him today, but Leonora tells me Archer is ready and waiting in Galinor’s tent. After the competition begins, they will switch places. Percival has forbade me from visiting Archer. He says it’s too dangerous after the spectacle Lionel made last night.

  I’m not sure I care anymore.

  Even when I think I do the right thing, everything goes wrong—Galinor gets poisoned, Archer gets accused of treason. Who knows what will happen next?

  I barely slept at all last night. I couldn’t get comfortable, and I couldn’t stop thinking. I kept waiting for that blissful moment that comes right before sleep where everything is comfortable, warm, and distant. That moment never came. Now a headache is lurking, and I’m feeling sulky.

  Trumpets blare. Father will finally begin his speech and we can get this whole wretched ordeal over with. He stands. “Welcome to the final competition of the tournament!”

  The crowd roars, and I resist the urge to cringe at the noise. I sit with a fake smile pasted on my face as Father lists where the competitors stand. Galinor is in first, Lionel in second, Rigel in third, and so on and so forth. Father wishes them all luck, and the competition begins.

  In a way, I’m relieved the tournament is almost over. Even if I end up with Lionel, at least there will be no more wondering.

  Or hope.

  Rigel and Lord Kellerby are the first to compete. Unlike the other competitors in full armor or mail, along with a helmet, Rigel wears only a chain mail shirt over his tunic.

  “Is that allowed?” I ask Leonora, speaking of his lack of armor.

  She nods. “The rules state the competitors must wear a helmet and mail shirt at the minimum.”

  I shrug. If he wishes to forego safety for range of movement, I suppose that’s up to him.

  The men circle each other, swords and shields at the ready. Kellerby strikes first, but Rigel easily blocks the attack with his shield. Kellerby swings once—twice more, but both times the dark lord blocks him. Kellerby loses his footing after the third swing, stumbling slightly. Rigel strikes, pushing him back, making him block a feinted swing that left him open for the actual attack. Kellerby stumbles backwards and falls to the ground. Rigel is over him, sword against his neck.

  After Rigel’s win is announced, he holds his hand out to Kellerby. The man hesitates but then accepts it. Leonora raises her eyebrows at me. It’s the second time we’ve seen him act honorably after a win. Perhaps, in light of last night, I might have to admit he’s a decent human being.

  Perhaps. I don’t want to
jump to conclusions.

  Rigel takes off his helmet, and as if he can sense my thoughts, he gives me a wry smile and exits the arena to await the next round. I watch several more competitors go against each other, and it doesn’t seem much different than watching my brothers and Archer practice with the knights. I’m bored.

  Lionel wins his match, but I didn’t expect him to lose the first round.

  Bran puts up a good fight against Peter of Coppel, but in the end he loses his footing and goes to the ground. Peter moves on, and Bran does not.

  Irving and his uncle sit on the other side of Marigold, and Anna has squeezed in between Marigold and me. Normally she sits under the shade canopy with Mother, and I am surprised to see her in the sunshine. She must think I’m terrible company for our guests, because she’s taken to asking Marigold questions about Primewood between matches. I listen idly, waiting for Archer’s turn, which is next.

  Yesterday’s storm has moved out. The sun is warm today, but the moisture in the air has made the afternoon sticky. My shoulder itches under the bandage, and though Yuven has assured me the unpleasant sensation means the wound is healing, it’s driving me mad.

  “Stop fidgeting, child,” Anna hisses quietly, leaning over.

  I’m about to answer, but Archer strides into the arena. Even with the chain mail and helmet, I can tell it’s him. It’s not just his slightly shorter build, or his lean, muscular frame—his gait is different, as is the way he carries himself. He’s confident where Galinor sometimes hesitates.

  This match will be difficult to sway the crowd to his side. He’s against our own Lord Gregor. Though there is no chance Gregor can win the tournament at this point, the audience still hopes to see their man do well.

  Archer has one distinct advantage over Gregor—he’s practiced with him before, and he knows the way the man moves. Lord Gregor, if he knew it was Archer in the armor, would have that advantage as well, but since he doesn’t know who he’s fighting, he does not.

  If Archer feels bad about this advantage, it doesn’t show. He strikes first, taking Gregor by surprise. Lord Gregor blocks the move and pushes him back. They circle each other, and Gregor strikes, a move Archer easily blocks with his shield.

  I have no doubt who will win, but I can’t help but be nervous as I wait. I chew on my lip, willing the match to end quickly.

  Seeing an opening, Archer disarms Gregor, and the lord’s sword falls out of reach. He blocks the attacks with his shield while trying to reach his sword, but Archer unbalances him, and he falls. I breathe out a relieved breath. One fight closer to the win.

  “Where are you going?” Anna asks when I stand.

  “I need to stretch my legs.”

  She frowns, but she doesn’t try to stop me.

  I walk through the crowds, avoiding familiar faces who might wish to chat, and push through Galinor’s tent. Alexander is by the entry, but he moves to let me in.

  Archer has taken his helmet off, and he’s wiping sweat from his brow with a rag. He looks as tired as I feel. I want to go to him, but I can’t—not with Alexander and Galinor here.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask Galinor. Like Archer, he’s in chain mail, and I’m sure it’s just in case someone unexpected drops by the tent.

  Galinor winces, but then he smiles. “Better. I would fight, but Yuven forbids me.”

  “He’s worried the bleeding will begin again,” Alexander explains, and I cringe, remembering yesterday with more detail than I would like.

  I speak with them for a few more minutes, and then I know I must leave. There’s more chance Archer will be discovered if I linger. When I arrive back in my seat, I’m relieved to learn that five more have been eliminated. Rigel and Lionel have both fought and won again.

  Irving’s uncle has left. It seems Anna has wandered away as well, and Leonora has moved to sit under the sun canopy with my parents. Irving scoots over when I come closer, making room for me between him and Marigold. He grimaces at the movement, though the look only crosses his face for a moment. He’s wearing his ridiculous hat again, just like he did on the day of the archery tournament.

  “You look like a pirate.” I flick the feather.

  He grins, an ornery look on his handsome face. “We could be pirates together. There’s still time to run away with me.”

  I laugh. “I don’t think you’re going to be running anywhere anytime soon.”

  “You wound me.” He winks at me.

  “Besides,” I say, motioning to his hat. “Wherever would you find another feather that large for my hat? What kind of bird did you rob that from anyway?”

  Our banter is interrupted by Archer entering the arena. I can barely watch the match. The tournament is getting too close to the end, and the stakes are too high.

  It’s an easy win for Archer, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.

  Irving continues to tease me, to distract me, as we watch the last few matches. I feel sick as Lionel bests Lord Orick and makes it to the final three. Rigel wins his spot as well. Soon Archer is preparing to fight Peter of Coppel for the last spot.

  “I bet he wins in five swings or less.” Irving leans close.

  I groan, ignoring him.

  Marigold leans over me, looking at her brother. “Four.”

  “Deal.”

  I want to laugh, but at the same time I think I might cry. I’m a wreck.

  “One, two,” Irving counts as the match progresses. “Three,” he says. “And…done. Three! I won’t lie—that’s impressive.”

  He’s done it. He’s made final three.

  I lay my head back, look up at the sky, and take several gulps of air. Marigold pulls me to my feet to join the audience cheering around me.

  Archer turns in my direction, and even though the visor is still down, I know he’s looking at me. He holds up a hand to acknowledge his win, and in his palm is my embroidered handkerchief.

  I laugh, but it’s almost a sob. I kiss my hand and hold it up to him. No one around me notices, but he sees, and that’s all that matters.

  Lionel and Rigel join Archer in the arena. There is no way for Rigel to win now, not with Lionel and Galinor guaranteed a minimum of four points. It’s between Lionel and Galinor.

  My future rests in Archer’s hands.

  “Congratulations to the final three,” Father says. “Not only have you placed in the top three for the hand-to-hand, but you are the top three competitors in the tournament. These last two matches will not only decide the winner of today’s competition but the winner of my daughter’s hand.”

  I shiver. My stomach is in knots, and I know if I had eaten today—which I have not—I would lose it all right now.

  “As you know, in this final round of the tournament, the order is decided by luck of the draw. Pippa, would you join me?”

  I guess I’m the lucky one who gets to draw. I rise to my feet, feeling as if there is a weight on my shoulders. Every eye is on me, and for once in my life, I wish I could disappear. In Father’s hand are three sticks. The bottom half of each stick is concealed in his fist. If Galinor’s stick is chosen last, Archer will only have to fight the winner of the first match. He will be guaranteed first or second place.

  “Fighting first will be—” Father gives me a gentle smile, looking as if he can sense my nerves. I pull the first stick and am flooded with relief when I see Vernow’s colors at the bottom. “Prince Lionel.”

  I pull the second stick, squinting, too scared to look. When I do peek, I see Glendon’s red and yellow. I almost drop the stick.

  “Prince Galinor!”

  I paste a smile on my face as the crowd cheers. I take a seat next to Leonora and let her wrap her arm around me.

  “He can do it.” She gives me a reassuring squeeze.

  Lionel and Archer take their places. If it’s ever been obvious that it’s not Galinor under that armor, it should be now. He is easily as tall as Lionel, but Archer is not. Perhaps if someone were not looking for it, they wouldn’t notic
e.

  My shoulder is starting to ache now.

  They circle each other, sizing up their competition. Lionel strikes first, putting his weight behind his swing. Archer blocks the sword with his shield, and the metallic crash rings through the hushed arena. Losing no time, Lionel attacks again and again. Each time Archer blocks it with sword or shield.

  Leonora’s hand tightens over mine as the fight lingers on.

  Lionel stumbles, and Archer lunges forward. Archer raises his sword, and I suck in a breath. Regaining his balance at the last moment, Lionel swings his shield up under Archer’s jaw. Archer’s head goes back, and he stumbles backward.

  I cry out and stand.

  The small moment is all Lionel needs. He raises his sword and swings. I don’t know what I scream as Archer falls, but I hear my shrill cry echo through the arena.

  He’s down.

  He’s lost.

  Just as my knees are giving out, I see Lionel raise his sword above his head.

  He’s going to kill him.

  I scream again. “No—”

  “Enough!” Father bellows, rising to his feet. “The victory is yours, Lionel. Lower your sword.”

  No one cheers as Lionel slowly lets his sword fall. Archer draws himself up, and there is slow applause from the crowd—but it’s not for Lionel. Archer acknowledges them and then takes the long, painful walk from the arena.

  I fall back to my seat, mad calculations in my head. If Rigel wins this next round, Lionel and Galinor will tie with twenty-one points. There will be one more round of hand-to-hand combat to determine the winner.

  It’s not over. Archer—Galinor—could still win. I need to go to Archer and reassure him all is not lost.

  “Where are you going?” Leonora asks, dabbing her eyes with the tips of her fingers. Her cheeks are overly pink.

  “To find Archer.”

  “It’s the last match. You have to stay for it.” Her soft brown eyes are wide. I wonder if it’s bad for the baby to have her upset this often?

  I sit back down and take her hand again. “All right, I’ll stay.”

  She blinks. “You will?”

  I nod.

  She lets out a watery sigh. “I’m so sorry, Pippa.”