Page 32 of Pippa of Lauramore (The Eldentimber #1)

The wooden bench is already too hard, and I shift, leaning forward. Lord Kellerby and Bran are the first to compete. I hold my breath as they snap their visors down and charge forward. Bran’s white horse looks beautiful in Triblue’s teal and white. His tail streams behind him like a silky banner.

Both men prepare for the impact. A loud crack rings through the air, and Lord Kellerby loses his seat. The crowd roars for the first win of the joust. Bran pulls off his helmet, shakes out his blond hair, and acknowledges them with a grin.

With the hand-to-hand event tomorrow, the round ends with the unseating, and Lord Kellerby’s men come to collect him and his horse. Fortunately, Kellerby doesn’t seem to be injured and rises from the ground himself. He’s out of the joust. Bran will move on.

I let out a breath and take another.

“Tense already?” Leonora asks from beside me. “The joust has barely begun.”

I pop my knuckles—a habit Anna abhors—and shrug. “ Is Archer with Galinor? I think I may go and wish him luck.”

“You can’t.”

Two more men enter the arena, and both nod to me before they take their positions.

“Why?” I give the men indulgent smiles.

She rolls her eyes. “Your absence would be noticed.”

I frown, but I know she is right. I stay put.

Nine pairs have gone, and so far, no one has been seriously injured. It’s been several hours since we began, and the audience is becoming restless. The rain hasn’t let up, and people are looking soggy.

Lionel is next. He rides into the arena, his expression cocky. What I wouldn’t give to see Lord Gregor knock him off his horse. The two men charge each other, and I grip the wooden bench so tightly, it cuts into my palms.

“Fall, fall,” I whisper over and over.

Their lances meet, but it is Lord Gregor who finds himself on the ground. My cheeks puff out as I exhale the breath I was holding. There is always the next round.

Lord Gregor seems to be injured, and his men help him from the arena.

The crowd murmurs, and none are happy Lionel bested one of our own.

The prince seems oblivious to the crowd’s reaction, and his smile is closer to a sneer.

I steal a glance at Percival and Father.

Neither is impressed with Lionel’s lack of charity.

I don’t have time to think about it anymore. Galinor is next. I tap my feet on the wooden boards beneath me, and I’m barely able to keep my seat.

Galinor’s eyes meet mine, and his gaze stays on me as he snaps his visor closed. Beside me, Marigold sighs. I think the entire female half of the audience sighs along with her.

His page hands him his lance, and long before I’m ready, he charges. I don’t know the man he’s against, and I don’t wish him harm, but I want nothing more than to see him on the ground.

They connect, and I can’t look. I close my eyes, not wanting to face the outcome.

The crowd screams—deafening, wonderful roars that can only mean one thing. I open my eyes, jump up, and scream like the peasants in the seats below me. Leonora tries to pull me back—she’s murmuring something about improper behavior—but I barely notice her.

Something is wrong.

Galinor is still seated, but instead of the easy, humble expression he wears when he’s won something, his jaw is locked, and his smile looks forced. He looks at me, and a ghost of a grimace crosses his face.

He’s injured.

I rush from the stands as soon as I won’t be missed. Leonora and Marigold are behind me, but they both think I’m overreacting.

I know, though.

Bran stands outside Galinor’s tent, and it looks like he’s keeping watch. His expression is solemn. “Princess, you might not?—”

I push past him, knowing I’ve seen worse in the last few days while I helped Yuven and Clarion tend the wounded. Marigold and Leonora don’t follow me in.

“What happened?” I demand when I see Galinor is propped in a chair, bleeding. Archer is wrapping bandages around his midsection, trying to slow the flow of blood.

“I’m fine,” Galinor says, but I don’t believe him. His head is back, and his eyes are closed.

“You’re not.” I kneel at his side, and then again, I ask, “What happened?”

“Lionel,” Archer says, his teeth gritted.

I shake my head, not understanding.

“We had a disagreement this morning,” Galinor answers. “He took a stab at me with a dagger he had hidden. He barely grazed me, and then he heard a noise and took off like the coward he is.”

“Barely grazed you?” I say, incredulous. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Galinor chuckles, but it sounds more like a groan. “That’s not something I expect a princess to say.”

“Let me see.” I’m already lifting the bandages.

Archer steps forward. “Pippa, you shouldn’t?—”

I cringe when I lift the fabric. Not only is blood pooling from the wound, but the skin around it is a sickly blue color.

“We wrapped it before he went out. We can’t seem to slow the bleeding,” Archer murmurs. “It wasn’t much more than a scratch this morning. There’s something unnatural about it.”

“Wrap it again as best you can. Apply pressure. I’ll get Yuven.” I’m already rising.

“Hurry,” Galinor manages to say between clenched teeth. His face is as pale as death, and there are beads of sweat on his forehead. “I have to go back out soon.”

“You won’t be competing again today.” Right now, I’m more worried about him than my future, but the tent still swims when I say the words.

Galinor opens his eyes and grabs my wrist. “No. I will not lose this.”

“I’ll compete in his place,” Archer says, already reapplying the wrap to Galinor’s middle. “Is it Leonora I heard with you?”

“Yes.”

“Have her fetch Percival.”

I shake my head. “He can’t know. He’ll never let you compete for Galinor.”

Archer gives me a sharp look—one that reminds me my future is resting on this tournament. “I need him to help me with the armor. You aren’t strong enough, and I can’t trust anyone else.”

“But—”

“Go.”

I finally nod. “Hold on, Galinor. I’ll be back with Yuven.”

His only response is a labored breath.