Page 28 of Betrothal

Alyse settled once more to watch the joust, in time to see a horse, wearing the familiar green and white caparison of Lord Braeton’s house, speed toward her. She bit her lip as Braeton splintered his lance on the other knight’s shoulder, pivoting him in the saddle and almost unhorsing him. She shuddered at the force of the blow and reached again for her wine cup. After two more passes, in which he also landed solid hits, the match was awarded to him. Her stomach churned uncomfortably. She had not realized him so skilled in jousting. The challenge match yet to come that afternoon loomed large in her thoughts. Which knight did she hope would carry the day? The unsettled feeling in her middle increased.

The next match captured her attention and the pit of her stomach dropped away completely when Geoffrey took his lance and moved his horse, Saracen, into position. She did not want to watch, but her gaze was riveted to the tall armored figure on the huge black destrier. Her breathing sped, her heart pounded in her chest as Geoffrey began his pass.

The scene before her seemed to recede, much the way Geoffrey himself had the night they met. Accompanying that dizzying sense of rushing backward were images that flashed before her eyes: a knight on horseback, a lance shattering on his helm and knocking the helm free from his head. Shards of the splintered lance piercing his face, his neck.

Alyse snapped out of her reverie at the dull, deep crash made by the impact of a lance broken on armor. She raised her gaze in time to see a knight topple from his horse. A white horse. Then everyone cheered as Geoffrey and Saracen raced toward the end of the lists. A cry rose from her lips as she could suddenly breathe again. One hit and it was over, thank God. Elation coursed through her, only to stumble to a halt at the realization he would be jousting again shortly. And in the challenge match.

Alyse stifled a moan and stood abruptly. Unable to sit any longer, she moved out of the gallery, making her way to the brightly colored silk tent set up behind the berfrois. She did not need to use the ladies’ convenience pavilion, but she had to move or scream. With the prayer that no one would stop her, she strode quickly past the tent and out into the open field beyond. Her head spun from a mixture of excitement, fear and wine.

A great shout went up behind her as another pair of combatants took the field. She fervently wished herself anywhere but here, and began to run toward a stand of trees to her left. By the time she reached the first of the tall oaks, her heart pumped so fast she had to catch hold of the tree and lean against it, panting.

Cheers from the berfrois signaled the completion of the last match of the first round. She had to go back. Had to watch him in the next round, and the next, and the next.

Tears of fear and grief trickled down her face as she tried to push the images from her mind. They refused banishment and, tiredly, she let them play out again, hoping that would satisfy the terror.

Another joust, another time. The blow of a lance on metal. Running onto the field. Blood flowing through his golden hair, seeping into the ground. Holding her beloved as he breathed his last. She clenched her fists, willing those images away.

Instead, she deliberately filled her mind with memories of Geoffrey. Of their first meeting, that first breakfast, their tryst under the rose bower. Each image precious because it had been shared with her love.

Alyse’s heart beat faster.

Her love.

‘Tis true.

A shiver chased through her body. The mere thought of him quickened her pulse, made her long to see him, feel his strong arms around her.

She had been a fool.

Geoffrey, not Lord Braeton. No conscious decision, just an awareness she would not be content with anyone except the great knight to whom she was betrothed. With whom she belonged. Like a key turning surely in a lock, her heart clicked into the place meant for it. Slowly her breathing calmed, and she looked toward the tilting field. She would return to cheer him on to victory and pray he lived long enough for her to confess her love.

As she hurried back to the gallery, with sudden longing she wished she and Geoffrey were already married. Already one in body and soul. That way they might at least have shared themselves…as she had not with—

Alyse shook her head. I cannot dwell on past regrets.

She regained her seat as the second round of matches commenced. The field had narrowed to four combatants—the winners of the first round. The first two, Guy and Lord Braeton, readied their mounts.

Alyse leaned forward, intent on keeping herself distracted from the deadly activity on the field. She set herself instead to gauging each knight’s array of skills. Which one would be easier to defeat in the event Geoffrey advanced to the final round?

In the first pass, both knights broke lances. Then in the second, Guy managed to land his blow, but Lord Braeton was thrown backward and missed his target. The French knight appeared to have an unnaturally long reach—a true benefit in this game. The third pass saw Braeton miss again and the match awarded to Valere.

Disappointment tasted bitter on her tongue. Belatedly, she realized she would have preferred Lord Braeton advance to the final match rather than Guy. Such a pairing would have given Geoffrey an advantage, having jousted many times against his friend.

Now he faced the last winner of the first round, Sir Roger Delaney. Alyse took a deep breath as their match began. All three passes saw Geoffrey’s lance shatter on Sir Roger’s torso, giving him the clear victory. Her shoulders slumped in relief as he rode off the field, having scarcely been touched so far that day.

A respite was called before the final match between Lord Valere and Geoffrey, during which many of the ladies surrounded Alyse, congratulating her on her betrothed’s victories. She forced herself to smile and mumble her thanks for their good will, but thoughts of the match to come overwhelmed her.

All too soon, she found herself taking another deep breath and plastering a smile on her face as the combatants roared down the field. She could not take her eyes off Geoffrey, so she saw the full force of the lance as it shattered against his torso, knocking him back in his saddle. Her heart tried to leap from her chest as he fought for control of Saracen. In the end, he managed to stay astride the stallion and land his own blow on Sir Guy. That gentle also reeled, seeking his balance. Alyse watched the man struggle to remain upright, willing him to fall and put an end to this barbarous pastime, but Guy kept his seat as well.

Both knights rode to the end of the tiltyard and took fresh lances. She could not see Geoffrey’s face, but imagined it drawn in lines of determination. The man she had come to know would fight wholeheartedly to the finish. He paused only long enough to set the lance firmly in the crook of his elbow then spurred Saracen at his opponent once more.

Guy too started his bay eagerly toward his adversary. Geoffrey seemed to have the advantage of speed, for Saracen propelled him far down the lists. He met Guy almost directly in front of her. He thrust his lance out, aimed upward for the helm, a blow that would count three points, instead of the two for the torso, and almost assure his victory. The crowd in the berfrois gasped as the lance landed toward the top of the helm and skittered up and over the crown, not breaking at all. Guy then easily broke his spar on Geoffrey’s chest, again throwing him backward but not unseating him.

Alyse breathed a sigh of relief that Geoffrey continued unhurt, but she remained uneasy. Now, to win the match he had to unhorse Guy. Not an easy feat under any circumstances, and Geoffrey would be tiring from the battering of the lances.

He did not show any sign of weariness, however, as he turned Saracen at the end of the field then held back a moment until Guy rearmed himself. Alyse could imagine his eagerness, his confidence. Not a man to accept defeat lightly, Geoffrey would take any risk to assure victory. That terrified her most of all.

The combatants thundered down the field, turf flying out from flashing hooves. Time stood still as she held her breath and prayed.