Amilia had never been to the tournament before. She had never seen a joust. Sitting in the stands, Amilia realized she had not even been outside the palace in more than a year. Despite the cold, she was enjoying herself. Perched on a thick velvet cushion, she draped a lush blanket over her lap and held a warm cup of cider between her hands. Everything was so pretty. So many bright colors filled the otherwise bleak winter world. All around her the privileged were grouped according to their stations. Across the field, the poor swarmed, trapped behind fence rails. They blended into a single gray mass that almost faded into the background of muddied snow. Without seats, they stood in the slush, shuffling their feet and stuffing hands into sleeves. Still, they were obviously happy to be there, happy to see the spectacle.
“That’s three broken lances for Prince Rudolf!” the duchess squealed, clapping enthusiastically. “A fine example of grand imperial entertainment. Not that his performance compares to Sir Hadrian’s. Everyone thought the poor man was doomed. I still can’t believe he rode without a helm! And what he did to Sir Murthas… Well, it will certainly be an exciting tournament this year, Amilia. Very exciting indeed.”
Lady Genevieve tugged on Amilia’s sleeve and pointed. “Oh, see there. They are bringing out the blue and gold flag. Those are Sir Breckton’s colors. He’s up next. Yes, yes, here he comes, and see—see on his arm. He wears your token. How exciting! The other ladies—they’re positively drooling. Oh, don’t look now, dear, they’re all staring at you. If eyes were daggers and glares lethal…” She trailed off, as if Amilia should know the rest. “They all see your conquest, my darling, and hate you. How wonderful.”
“Is it?” Amilia asked, noticing how many of the other ladies were staring at her. She bowed her head and kept her eyes focused on her lap. “I don’t want to be hated.”
“Nonsense. Knights aren’t the only ones who tilt at these tournaments. Everyone comes to this field as a competitor, and there can only be one victor. The only difference is that the knights spar in the daylight, and the ladies compete by candlelight. Clearly, you won your first round, but now we must see if your conquest was a wise one, as your victory remains locked with his prowess. Breckton is riding against Gilbert. This should be a close challenge. Gilbert actually killed a man a few years ago. It was an accident, of course, but it still gives him an edge over his opponents. Although, rumor has it that he hurt his leg two nights back, so we shall see.”
“Killed?” Amilia felt her stomach tighten as the trumpet blared and the flag flew.
Hooves shook the ground, and her heart raced as panic flooded her. She shut her eyes before the impact.
Crack!
The crowd roared.
Opening her eyes, she saw Gilbert still mounted but reeling. Sir Breckton trotted back to his gate unharmed.
“That’s one lance for Breckton,” Leo mentioned to no one in particular.
The duke sat on the far side of Genevieve, appearing more animated than Amilia had ever seen him. The duchess ran on for hours, talking about everything and anything, but Leopold almost never spoke. When he did, it was so softly that Amilia thought his words were directed to Maribor alone.
Nimbus sat to Amilia’s right, frequently glancing at her. He looked tense and she loved him for it.
“That Gilbert. Look at the way they are propping him up,” the duchess prattled on. “He really shouldn’t ride again. Oh, but he’s taking the lance—how brave of him.”
“He needs to get the tip up,” Leopold noted.
“Oh yes, Leo. You are right as always. He doesn’t have the strength. And look at Breckton waiting patiently. Do you see the way the sun shines off his armor? He doesn’t normally clean it. He’s a warrior, not a tournament knight, but he went to the metalsmith and ordered it polished so that the wind itself could see its face within the gleam. Now why do you suppose a man who hasn’t combed his hair in months does such a thing?”
Amilia felt terrified, embarrassed, and happy beyond what she had believed to be the bounds of emotion.
The trumpet blared, and again the horses charged.
A lance cracked, Gilbert fell, and once again Breckton emerged untouched. The crowd cheered, and to Amilia’s surprise, she found herself on her feet along with the rest. She had a smile on her face that she could not wipe away.
Breckton made certain Gilbert was all right, then trotted over to the stands and stopped in front of Amilia’s seat in the nobles’ box. He tossed aside his broken lance, pulled off his helm, rose in his stirrups, and bowed to her. Without thinking, she walked down the steps toward the railing. As she stepped out from under the canopy into the sun, the cheers grew louder, especially from the commoners’ side of the field.
“For you, my lady,” Sir Breckton told her.
He made a sound to his horse, which also bowed, and once more the crowd roared. Her heart was light, her mind empty, and her whole life invisible except for that one moment in the sun. Feeling Nimbus’s hand on her arm, she turned and saw Saldur scowling from the stands.
“It’s not wise to linger in the sun too long, milady,” Nimbus warned. “You might get burned.”
The expression on Saldur’s face dragged Amilia back to reality. She returned to her seat, noticing the venomous glares from the nobles around her.