Page 31 of Pippa of Lauramore (The Eldentimber #1)

I wake expecting sunshine and am instead greeted by the sound of a slow and steady drizzle of rain pattering against the window. The day is gray, and the clouds are low and thick. I open the balcony doors. I can barely make out the arena because the structure is hidden in fog.

It’s not an ideal day for a joust.

I shiver against the cool air and close the doors. Setting my hand on the cold glass, I watch the rain stream down the pane. The storm seems to have settled in around us. There’s no chance it will clear soon.

Someone has been in this morning and lit a fire. The pine pops and crackles in the stone hearth. I settle on the bench in front of it and wrap a blanket around my shoulders.

There’s a knock at my door, and Anna lets herself in without waiting for my answer. Her cheeks are rosy, and her eyes are bright. She narrows those bright eyes as she looks at my bed, not yet noticing me by the fire .

“I’m here, Anna.”

She jumps, clutching her chest with fright, and I have to fight back a smile. She takes a breath and smooths down her already perfect skirts. “You’re up. I expected to find you in bed.”

I shrug and turn back to the fire. “It’s raining.”

“So it is.”

“Will the joust be postponed?” It will be a miserable day not only for those competing but for those in the audience.

Anna settles next to me. “No. It’s going on as scheduled. Most of the men have already risen and are at their tents, preparing.”

The hall will be quiet this morning.

“I haven’t seen you much lately,” I say. “Have you been feeling well?”

Anna flushes and stands briskly. “The tournament is a busy time. I have had many things to attend to, and you are old enough I shouldn’t have to watch you every moment of the day.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” she adds. “I will call in your maid. You are expected at breakfast.”

As I suspected, the hall is nearly empty.

I do a quick scan for Archer, but he isn’t here.

I have no idea how his conversation with Percival went.

Father and Mother are speaking with Sir Kimble.

Leonora sits with Marigold. Neither of my brothers are in attendance this morning, nor are any of the competitors.

Many of the visiting nobles are loitering around, but the atmosphere is subdued—most likely due to the weather.

I sit next to Leonora and help myself to a plate of sausages near me. Unlike most mornings, I’m not ravenous. In fact, I might have trouble eating anything at all.

After meeting with Archer in the tent yesterday, I stayed in my rooms with a headache the rest of the day. It was the easiest way to avoid Lionel, and in truth, I did have a headache.

I still do.

“How did it go?” I ask Leonora when she greets me.

She drops her gaze to her plate. “Percival wasn’t upset. Alexander had already spoken with him.”

Alexander is a rat.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“If Lionel claims it is true, and demands justice, there is nothing your father can do but follow through,” Leonora whispers.

“With no proof!” My voice is too loud, and I notice several people glance our way, including Father. I lower my head and say in a quieter tone, “How can that be?”

Marigold leans in, glancing around to see if anyone will overhear—cautious as always.

Leonora shakes her head. “There would have to be another witness before Archer would be hanged.”

Lord Rigel.

Even though I’ve barely touched my breakfast, I think I might be sick.

Marigold scowls. “We would never?— ”

Leonora interrupts, “Not ever.”

“Rigel knows.” My chest constricts as I see their faces fall. “He saw us together in the armory.”

“Perhaps it was a bluff,” Leonora says, her voice uncertain. “Lionel might not say anything.”

I shake my head, knowing it was anything but a bluff. I promised Archer I wouldn’t give Lionel those two points, but how can I keep that promise knowing Father is helpless to stop him?

But I gave my word.

Marigold sets her hand on mine. “It will work out somehow.”

I nod, but I don’t see how it will.

A competitor’s aunt comes to our table, and Marigold and Leonora transfer their attention to her. The woman offers Leonora warm congratulations, saying she believes the child will be a boy.

I’m thankful I don’t have to add much to the conversation other than a few feeble smiles and nods.

I choke down a little breakfast and escape the hall as quickly as I can. Before I go to the arena, I want to look for Archer in the armory, though I doubt he’ll be there. He’s probably at the tents with either Percival and Alexander or Galinor.

I pull my hood over my hair as I step into the drizzle.

For a summer day, it’s cold. There are very few villagers loitering in the courtyard, and even the sheep and chickens have disappeared into their little enclosures.

Like every day, guards are posted. Water runs down their helmets and mail, but they stand as if impervious to the weather .

I wave as I pass one, and he gives me a small smile.

The armory is quiet, and when I find it empty, I try the stables. The visiting horses are gone, already awaiting their turn in the joust, and it seems quiet in here without the extras.

Willowisp whinnies when she sees me, and I go to her. Her nose is warm in my palm, and I stay here for several moments, stroking her forehead. Her ears twitch, and her head jerks back.

A gauntlet encased hand wraps around my waist and pulls me close to a tall, muscular frame.

“Feeling better?” Lionel asks.

I stiffen. He’s in full armor, so there’s little I can do to hurt him, though I would like to give him a hard elbow to the gut. Instead, I pull away, and to my surprise, he lets me. I turn around and glance to see if there are others near us. There are not.

His curls are pulled back in a tail at his neck instead of hanging around his shoulders as they usually are.

A loose-fitting tunic in Vernow’s gold and purple hangs over the armor with the kingdom’s griffin on the crest. He looks imposing and confident, and for a moment, I wonder if Galinor can beat him.

His lips curl in a satisfied smirk as if he can read my thoughts.

“You will make the announcement at tonight’s feast, Philippa.” He waits for me to answer, his eyes hard.

“No one will believe you are my chosen,” I say, holding my head up.

Lionel leans down, his breath on my cheek. I do my best to hide my shudder, and I avert my eyes to the wooden post near us .

“I don’t care what they believe,” he says. “You will do it, or Archer will be hanged by morning. Soon you’ll see how serious I am. Wish me luck.” He chuckles and turns on his heel. “I will see you at my victory feast.”

I run my hands over my dress as if I can wipe the feel of him off me. My stomach churns as I think of what I must do.

Promise or no promise, I will not see Archer hanged. Galinor better be as good as he says he is.

Twenty-two men are competing in the joust. Dristan, Irving, Espin, and several others are too wounded from the dragon hunt to continue the tournament. Most others, like Peter of Coppel, have made a full recovery and are ready to compete.

Sometime early this morning, a white fabric canopy was constructed to stretch over the nobles’ seats in the arena.

Unlike the wispy fine fabric that was used as a sunshade over my parents during the archery tournament and peasant competitions, this material is thick and water repellent.

Rain beads off of it and rolls down the edges to drip onto the less fortunate, and less royal, spectators at the sides.

Despite the rain, the seats are full. The crowd is impatient to begin, and the men seem to feel the same. Where there is room, people linger under the stadium awnings.

Galinor is one of the last men to joust in the first round, and he leans against a post. His arms are crossed, and his expression is serious. His hair is clumped in spikes from the rain, and the water has made it almost black. Even in the gloomy day, his eyes are a scorching blue.

He glances my way, and I try to give him an encouraging look. He nods back, but a smile doesn’t tip his lips. He’s focused today, and I feel bad for the pressure on him. At least he doesn’t know he’ll have two extra points to make up for. It’s best he hears the announcement tonight with the rest.

Archer is going to kill me. Better me than him.

Trumpets blare, the men mount their horses, and my father finally stands.

The competitors line up and ride into the arena with one hand on the reins and the other holding their helmets under their arms. All men wear their colors and crests over their armor, and even in the rain, it’s a magnificent sight.

Bran catches my eye and nods at me. I give him a smile. He’s standing with three points from the scavenger hunt, and if he does well in both today’s joust and tomorrow’s hand-to-hand, he could win—but only if Lionel, Galinor, and Rigel all fail to place today.

The chances are slim, but I believe I could be as happy with Bran as I would be with Galinor. Neither is Archer, but they are both kind, and there are far worse places to live than sunny Triblue.

I try to give each competitor an encouraging smile, skipping over Lionel of course, but when my eyes reach Rigel, my face hardens.

His expression doesn’t change, and he watches me with dark eyes.

I wait, looking for a sign of remorse, but he shows none.

My father clears his throat, and I turn my attention to him, breaking eye contact with Rigel first.

“I want to congratulate all of you still in the competition. The tournament is, and has always been, treacherous, and it is no small feat to be standing here today. The final three competitors will be given points as follows: last seated will receive six points, second will receive five, and third will receive four. Best of luck to you all.”

Father sits, the trumpets sound again, and the men ride out of the arena.