Page 30 of Betrothal

She closed her eyes against the familiar sensation of her stomach churning. Caught between his unexplainable displeasure and her fears for his safety, Alyse believed she might be wretchedly ill, right in front of everyone. She twisted the veiling of her wimple between fingers that trembled.

Positioned now in the front row, she could not escape the clear view of the combat. Every detail of the knights and their steeds lay before her like a moving tapestry. Tension showed in Geoffrey’s frame, despite the heavy armor. His breastplate, somewhat more dented than when he began, looked as if it compressed his chest. He had to be weary—what with the heat, the weight of the metal, the battering he had already taken—yet he gave no sign of exhaustion.

The flag raised, and Geoffrey and Lord Braeton hurtled down the field.

A stunning, earsplitting rumble of thudding hooves, the screech of metal and sharp crack of wood splintering sounded as lances collided with armor. Splinters flew through the air, raining down around the knights. Both men continued down the field, lurching in their saddles though they remained seated.

Alyse clutched the railing before her.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But she couldn’t relax enough to draw a deep breath. If this didn’t end soon, she would surely swoon.

Geoffrey took another lance and pulled Saracen into position. Horse and rider sped down the lists, and Alyse swayed in her seat, trying not to close her eyes against the horrific sight. She forced her eyes open as the lances crashed again.

This time, although both spars shattered, Geoffrey’s had almost unseated Lord Braeton. He lay back across the rear of his saddle, arms flailing.

Mother of God, let him fall that this day may end.

But Braeton’s horse came to a stop at the end of the field, where his master finally righted himself.

She glanced toward Geoffrey once more, reassuring herself. He had busied himself rearming and, though Alyse could not see his face, his relaxed posture in the saddle and the slight tilt of his head suggested he was reassessing the situation.

Both knights had broken two lances on the torso—their scores were even. In order to win, one would need to either break a lance on the helm or unhorse their opponent. Either feat was possible, but highly improbable, given the lateness of the day and the weariness of the jousters. The best outcome would be for one lance to miss, giving the knight to break a lance victory. Another possibility was a draw if both men broke their lances on the torso. A draw would mean no victor; the debt of honor satisfied without a forfeit. That outcome might be best, but she could not help thinking in that case there would have been a great deal of effort wasted for nothing.

Geoffrey nodded slightly within his helm, as though acknowledging a strategy confirmed. Though the decision was unknown to her, she prayed it would make him the clear winner of the match.

In an instant, Geoffrey streaked down the lists. Alyse gasped at the ferocity with which Saracen raced toward his adversary. Lord Braeton drove his horse fiercely as well, but did not seem to reach the black steed’s breakneck speed.

Moments before the collision, Geoffrey angled his weapon upward slightly, aiming again for the helm and its additional points. Her heart flew into her throat. Should his lance glance off, as it had earlier, she would certainly be leading the first dance with Lord Braeton this evening. That prospect no longer held any delight for her, not after the physical pain this match must have cost Geoffrey—and Lord Braeton—and the mental anguish it had cost her. Had she not seemed so enthralled with the earl, mayhap the challenge would never have been issued. Or would not have been so avidly pursued by Geoffrey. If one of them were injured, it could surely be laid at her feet.

Geoffrey must win. He must.

The impact devastated both knights. Thomas’s lance splintered dramatically along Geoffrey’s right shoulder, twisting him around in the saddle and almost unseating him.

Geoffrey’s lance found its mark in the dead center of Thomas’s helm, snapping his head back with the force of the blow. An immediate cry of pain erupted from his helmet. Alyse bolted from her seat, raced out of the berfrois and onto the field.

* * * *

Thomas managed to pull his horse to a stop, and his squires ran to assist him as he dropped to the ground. Almost as quickly, Geoffrey leaped from his horse, cursing as he ran toward his friend.

’Tis my fault if he dies. I was angered at him. Christ, why did I not aim elsewhere and try to unseat him? Geoffrey could barely hold still as his squire removed his helmet. “Thomas! Thomas!”

Men had lowered his friend to the ground, where he lay motionless.

Dear God! The splinters—

He stared in horror at the long wooden slivers poking out of Thomas’s visor.

Sweet Jesu, have mercy. Holy Mary, mother of God, have mercy.

He fell to his knees beside him, afraid to touch him lest he drive the fragments deeper.

“Fetch the surgeon!” Geoffrey threw the command over his shoulder, his attention fixed on the still body. “Thomas.” He couldn’t be dead.

A groan issued from the helmet. Geoffrey sagged in relief and crossed himself, sending up a prayer of thanks. He nodded to Thomas’s attendants, who raised him to a sitting position. Carefully, they released the catch at the rear and lifted the back half of the bascinet straight up.

“Easy.” Geoffrey held his breath as the squires slowly drew the helmet forward over the long splinters. Blood dripped onto Thomas’s breastplate and ran down into his lap. A low moan wrenched from him as the visor jostled one of the spikes. Geoffrey steeled himself as the helmet finally came away.