Page 89 of Picking Up the Gauntlet

Whitehead’s lance hit Jonathon so hard that it not only splintered but it knocked Jonathon off balance and he almost fell from the horse.

“Oh!” Raven held her hand to her mouth and watched as Jonathon somehow managed to pull himself back up. If he was unhorsed, he’d be automatically disqualified and Whitehead proclaimed the winner. As the crowd cried out, Jonathon rode back to Rook to prepare for the last pass.

“Jonathon,” she said, ducking under the list and running over to the side of his horse. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m seeing a few stars right now, but I’ll live,” he said, flipping open the visor and smiling.

“You’ve got to lose this competition,” she told him. “Please, do it for me.”

“Lose? Nay, my love. I am going to win so you don’t have to marry that ogre Whitehead. Rook, give me another lance.”

“Nay, you can’t do this,” said Raven.

“I’m doing it to show you I love you.”

“If you really loved me, you would lose, and let me marry Whitehead.”

“What?” he asked, looking down at her. “Raven, have you lost your mind?”

“Not yet, but I swear I will if anything happens to you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Not if you win, you won’t. If you win, my mother explained to me that my father will have no choice but to imprison you for this deception. You might even be condemned to death for pretending to be a noble.”

Jonathon’s smile quickly faded. “If it means you are free from being a prize at a competition, being treated no better than a side of beef, then I don’t care.” He reached down and put his fingers beneath her chin. “I will go to my death knowing that I did everything I could to try to help you and to show you my undying devotion. I truly love you, Raven. I will go to my death with those words on my lips.”

Raven was really crying now. Everyone would see her, and she didn’t really care.

“Please, stop this madness, Jonathon. I love you and don’t want to lose you,” she tried to convince him one last time.

“I will live on in your heart,” he told her, lowering the visor. “Rook, give me my last lance. I need to make this my best run. I’m about to win this entire tournament.”

“Aye,” said Rook, picking up the lance.

“Nay, let me give it to him,” said Raven, taking the lance from her brother. When she handed it to Jonathon, she walloped him with all her strength right in the gut. His hand went out to stop her, his arm getting hit hard in the process. The horse became spooked and reared up, causing Jonathon to lose his balance, bringing him to the ground. When he tumbled from the horse, he fell on his right arm, and cried out in pain.

“God’s eyes, what the hell is the matter with you, Raven?” snapped Rook, running over to help Jonathon.

“I can’t let him win. That’s all there is to it,” she said, staring straight ahead.

“Och, Raven, here comes yer father and he looks madder than a wet hornet,” said Lark.

“Can you get back up on the horse?” asked Rook. “Can you finish the joust?”

“Aye,” said Jonathon, pulling himself atop the horse but wincing in pain. “Nay. I think my arm is broken. I’m not sure I can hold the lance.”

“What the hell is going on over here?” shouted Corbett, approaching them with Devon running to keep up. “Raven, did I just see you knock Sir Nevar off his horse with the lance?”

“Yes, you did,” she answered nonchalantly. “I decided I didn’t want him to win after all.”

“I will not let you get away with treating a nobleman this way,” spat Corbett.

“Sir Nevar is not noble,” explained Raven. The crowd was in a frenzy and thankfully no one else could hear their conversation.

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Corbett.

“I wanted to win the tournament so I wouldn’t have to marry the winner,” she told him. “So I entered the competition as Sir Nevar.”