Page 28 of Water Dragon
The rumor was probably already circulating despite his efforts.
It had all become a bit of a mess, hadn’t it? And he had no idea how to mop it up, but putting Sir Patrick in his place was a good start.
The tiltyard had been built for the tournament. Soft soil had been put down for where the jousting and swordfights would take place. A wooden beam ran through the middle of the yard. On all sides were raised lecterns. The crowned heads of the four kingdoms were seated in allocated boxes to Malcolm’s left. The boxes offered privacy that wasn’t afforded the commoners, who all sat on either side of the boxes as well as on the lecterns opposite on rows of crudely crafted benches. Malcolm noted some of the women from every social class were pressing handkerchiefs to their lips. They would use them to cover their eyes if the fighting became too violent for their gentle constitutions. They also used them to signal interest in a possible mate. It was an age-old game and one that some found quite entertaining.
He never had.
His eyes met Iona’s. She had no handkerchief, whether for the sake of a gentle constitution or for flirting. It made him give her a smile. She didn’t return it.
Right. Focus.
He turned his gaze to the other end of the tiltyard, divided by the wooden beam that ran almost the entire length of the yard. As the elaborate helmets that the knights wore often obstructed their view, once the two knights began the joust, the beam would give them a sense of direction. And do the same for their horses.
Across the yard Malcolm spotted Sir Patrick, who was comfortably seated on his brown mare, lance already resting in its holster on his hip.
Malcolm gestured to be handed his lance. He quickly found the balance of it in his hand, sliding it into its holster as well. He then gave Sir Patrick a nod and the knight returned it. Malcolm could feel the hostility from the other and knew this was not going to be an amicable joust. Sir Patrick would look to unseat him and then utterly destroy him in the close combat section.
But not if I get there first, Malcolm thought, pulling down the visor on his helmet. It was made of the strongest metal the kingdoms had to offer and gleamed silver in the sunlight. However, it was also heating up quickly and Malcolm could feel sweat sliding down his neck and further between his shoulder blades.
His stallion let out a soft snort, sounding as though he was ready to get on with it.
Malcolm pressed his heels into the animal’s sides and the horse trotted a few steps to line up with the wooden beam. At the other end, Sir Patrick did the same.
The crowd hushed.
The tension was like tendrils in the air, shaking the heat.
Everyone held their breath.
This was the first day of the tournament and though there had already been four jousts everyone was still highly invested in the outcome of each clash. A tally was kept, and knights might advance based on the points they had collected, but the people cared even more about their own stakes in the game. Gambling was a big part of the tournament. Malcolm wondered briefly how many were silently hoping he would win and how many were silently rooting for Sir Patrick.
He hadn’t fastened the waterlily to his person or to the tip of the lance. He’d left it on the stool. He knew this would most likely send a message to Lady Shannon, but he felt he would have to find the right time to speak with her. There had been no promises made, but for the past few months, he had given her enough attention to produce hope in her hearts. At least if she had held a wish to gain his favor and, unless he was an utter idiot, he had gotten the impression that she did.
The trumpet sounded, declaring the beginning of the joust, and Malcolm urged the stallion into a gallop. He lowered his lance in tandem with Sir Patrick, making them look like mirror images of each other, thundering to meet in the middle of the wooden beam.
Malcolm could see he would get a good hit in, could feel the anticipation reverberate from his hand and through the lance, the point of impact fast approaching. Sir Patrick’s lance was a mere afterthought, Malcolm’s focus was entirely with where his own lance would strike. But at the last second, he felt the tip hit nothing but air while his chest exploded in pain.
The next moment he went flying, hitting the ground with a thud that knocked his breath right out of his chest.
He thought he heard Iona screaming his name, but there was an uproar drowning her out. He struggled to raise his head, wanting to stand up to let everyone know he was all right and ready for the swordfight. He might have been unseated, but he wasn’t down for the count just yet.
Only, he could see nothing but the blue sky above him as he failed to so much as lift his head off the ground. The pain in his chest made him think his ribcage had been splintered in a million pieces and he thought he felt the faintest gurgle in his throat right before he slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter 8 - Iona
Watching Malcolm remain on the ground, unmoving, Iona had to contain the urge to leap over the wooden railing onto the soft dirt of the tiltyard. She could see herself running to him, kneeling by him, checking that he was not as badly injured as he looked. Her hearts were pounding, her breath stuck in her throat.
Was he alive?
No blunted lance would cause death. Had the lance been sharpened? Had Sir Patrick deliberately dealt a killing blow?
“Fool,” she murmured to herself, not about Sir Patrick, but about herself.
She had felt something bad was about to happen. She had sat at that table and listened to the king declare war on whoever it was that was threatening the order of things, and this was the inevitable result. What had they thought was going to happen? Had they wanted this to happen? Why wouldn’t Malcolm have told her?
Then she remembered the awkwardness, the hesitation. The way she’d avoided him because she didn’t know how to look him in the eye and smile and pretend that she wanted to hear all about the amazing evening he had had with his intended. Not when there was nothing she had dreaded more. At least before this moment.
It had made her own up to the truth: that she was not going to be able to stay in his court or remain at his side. Not with this blossom of jealousy showing brighter petals for each passing hour.
