Chapter 24
Tristan dominated the tournament, just as he’d promised, and Fay found out she was more bloodthirsty than she’d ever thought possible. When she watched him in the fighting ring, beating the living crap out of his opponent, who was half a head taller than he was, she hollered as loud as any of the rabble in the crowd. She felt the pride he told her she could feel, not only because of his excellence at every competition, but because he was hers.
Her breath had been taken away more than once on the day of the archery competition. Her father and Lady Heloise’s grumpy bodyguard both explained to her that many knights believed bow and arrow skills to be beneath them. Batty reiterated what Brom had told her once, that it was going to be the wave of the future and any knight wanting to stay relevant in battles to come should excel at it. Fay soon learned Brom’s opinion must stem from the fact that he himself was quite good, hitting target after target, and only getting knocked out by a wiry lad from the south.
Fay thought she could see what the men meant. The boy who kept sweeping the competition did seem young and scraggly compared to the other knights. He looked like he might have been plucked from a Dickensian London street gang and learned to shoot to earn his supper. Everyone in the tent found themselves rooting for the up and comer as he lobbed bullseye after bullseye. That was until it was Tristan’s turn. The cocky youngster had been swaggering around, inciting the crowd to cheer for him when Tristan was announced. The crowd fell silent then immediately set to humming. Fay glanced around her, seeing that everyone in her tent as well as the rest of the people enjoying the spectacle was waiting for something special to happen.
Tristan marched to the shooting area and clapped the boy on the shoulder, pointing at the arrow that stuck clean in the middle of the target. The lad made to go remove his arrow, but Tristan waved for him to leave it. He turned and waved at the crowd, managing to catch her eye and send her a wink. She felt her cheeks burning but couldn’t tear her eyes from him in order to see if anyone else in the tent caught the gesture. Batty gripped her hand hard enough to meld the bones together and Fay found she was holding her breath.
Tristan readied his bow and pulled the arrow back into position before releasing it with a flick of his fingers. Fay thought the arrow might have fallen. Or perhaps she had been mistaken and he hadn’t loosed it yet. But the crowd erupted into cheers and the young knight who’d so far been dominating the competition bowed to Tristan before walking off the field. Fay squinted and saw that Tristan’s arrow had cleanly sliced straight through the middle of the first arrow, lodging itself into the center of the target. He took a step and sent another one into the center of the next straw target.
The cheers didn’t let up as he loosed arrow after arrow with lightning speed, taking a quick step after each one so they landed in the bullseye of each new target, until he came to the end of the line. Before anyone could be too disappointed that the show was over, Brom ran up and handed him a new supply of arrows. Tristan made a jaunty bow to the audience then set to splitting each consecutive arrow in half as he made his way back down the row of targets. Fay’s throat hurt from cheering as he was awarded his prize and her heart swelled with happiness for him.
She kept wondering if there would be some kind of magical notification that the curse had been broken, or if she could just quietly live out a happy life with Tristan. No matter how chest-burstingly happy she felt, she kept thinking about what might have started the curse in the first place. In fairytales, the evil person who laid down the curse always got theirs, but she had no idea who placed her curse.
She might have been able to put it out of her mind altogether, but she couldn’t stop wondering about the original daughter, who she must have replaced. Anne, Batty, Marjorie—everyone at the castle knew something about her, from being dropped as a newborn infant, to her love of reading, to going on family trips to visit Lady Heloise in the past, long before Fay or any of her predecessors turned up. All the questions that plagued her when she first got sent to that time came back. How long had it been going on? The instruction book had mentioned a tournament as well, but from what she’d put together, Anne was still a teen when that happened. Surely the curse couldn’t have been going on that long?
It was Sir Tristan’s turn at the final category of the tournament, the much awaited joust. She put aside the unanswerable questions and got ready to watch her man own everyone who dared to face him. She hadn’t been able to steal a single minute alone with him since they’d cleared up their misunderstanding. As much as she enjoyed watching him kick butt all over the place, she longed for it to be over so they could work out the details of their upcoming marriage.
The crack of Tristan’s lance smashing into his opponent’s chest collided with her gasp at the thought of being married. To Tristan. It happened every time. That heady mix of anticipation, excitement, fear. She knew she didn’t have a clue about being married in her own day and age, when everything was equal. She had less notion of what it would be like with that big, brooding knight as her lord and master. She giggled out loud at the idea of it, and Marjorie gave her a weary look.
“Aren’t you sick of all this violence?” she asked, thinking Fay’s giddy laugh was over the carnage on the field. “I, for one, can’t wait to get home.”
“I look forward to it as well,” Fay agreed, surprising Marjorie. “I’m glad Sir Tristan is winning, though. His final opponent will be Sir Ulrich, Lord Drayton’s knight who he competed with at the presentation back home. Do you want to wager on the winner?”
Marjorie wrinkled up her nose. “I would if there was any sport to it. It’s plain Sir Tristan will win.”
“I’ll wager with you,” Lady Heloise said. “I agree with Marjorie, but it will give Sir Tristan great pride to know you’ve won some money because of him, dear.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Fay said, her cheeks burning at the open secret about her and Tristan.
Even her father had teased her at supper the night before, saying he’d be shocked if they didn’t receive a visit from Sir Tristan as soon as they returned home from the tournament. Fay hoped they would all whip their horses to full capacity, because she didn’t think she could go much longer watching him from afar.
“Consider it a wedding present,” Lady Heloise said, making Sir Walter, who’d seemingly been ignoring everything except the competition, burst out in a loud guffaw.
“I do hope it’s a large wager,” he called from the other side of Anne. “She usually gives quite generous wedding gifts, Fay.”
They settled up the terms of the bet, with Lady Heloise promising she would still give a wedding present. Fay was almost scared that they could make light of it. She felt secure in her love for Tristan, and his for her, but anything could go wrong. She supposed she wouldn’t feel one hundred percent certain until they were on the way to their honeymoon. No sooner had she thought about leaving the castle for their honeymoon than she was assailed with a dozen different horrible things that might happen to them on the road. They’d stay at the castle, that was all there was to it. She blamed the curse for making her so paranoid. It seemed like ages ago that her biggest worry in life was whether to pack a lunch or eat at the department store’s cafe.
Batty poked her repeatedly in the ribs, bringing her back to the tournament from her black hole of worries. “He’s coming this way,” she stage whispered with each poke. Fay whipped her head around to see Tristan trotting toward their tent. Batty dug in Fay’s sleeve, pulling out her handkerchief. “Give this to him,” she instructed, then slunk a foot away from her.
She felt like she was in a spotlight when he paused and turned his horse so he could better face her. Like a magician, he produced a red rose from his saddle and leaned over. “Lady Fay, please accept this token of my affection.”
Another hard poke made her reach out her hand and take the rose. It was a perfect bud, just beginning to spread its petals. She could smell its spicy fragrance as soon as she had it in her hand. Tristan smiled down at her expectantly and she shakily held out the handkerchief, glad it was clean. She wanted to say the perfect words, but she wasn’t from this time. Batty would have done a far better job than her.
“Of course,” she stammered. “Please accept one from me as well.”
She could almost hear Batty groaning at her inadequacy, but Tristan didn’t seem to care. He took the hanky with a flourish and waved it like a trophy. The crowd went wild with applause and she made a tiny royal wave in each direction, feeling proud and silly at the same time. She caught the dark stare of Lord Drayton in an observation platform a bit further down from them. He had leaned out to see the spectacle but, as soon as he caught her eye, he disappeared behind the others in his tent.
As soon as Tristan understood the truth about the rumors Lord Drayton had spread, she forgave him for his lies and completely forgot about him. Tristan was all that mattered to her. But the look on Drayton’s face clearly said he hadn’t forgotten about her, nor was he going to be so forgiving. His sour look brought up all the weeks she’d lost with Tristan, all the kisses and walks along the stream she’d missed because he’d thought she was engaged to another.
“Give him hell,” she said, only loud enough for Tristan to hear.
He nodded, reined up his horse, and thundered back to his starting position. She glanced over at her father to make sure he didn’t disapprove of that sudden display of affection. After all, nothing was finalized. He applauded along with everyone else, so she breathed a sigh of relief, then concentrated on the joust. If Tristan happened to lose, she would owe Lady Heloise a rather large sum.
She had a pretty good grasp on the rules now that it was the very end. She’d been listening and paying attention to what constituted a win in each of the four courses.
In the first round, Sir Ulrich’s lance fell out of his grasp, causing Tristan to raise his and ride past him, without taking a hit. The crowd jeered and booed with disappointment and Tristan waved jauntily at them.
“How embarrassing for Sir Ulrich,” Anne said. She leaned forward on the bench, her fingers grasping the edges. “Hopefully we’ll see a hit some time before sundown.”
“I imagine it was very hard for Sir Tristan to remain chivalrous and not just bowl him right over,” Batty said.
“Hush, they’re about to go again,” Marjorie told them. Even she couldn’t hide her interest.
The two horses raced forward, hooves thundering. Both men lowered their lances. The seconds drew out into a small eternity before the crashing blow. Each man took a hit, but they both stayed in their saddles. Tristan’s lance was shattered, Sir Ulrich’s intact.
“Point to Sir Tristan,” Fay squealed. “Two more rounds. I hope Sir Tristan can get him off his horse this time.”
They rounded back to their places and got their equipment in order. Fay held her breath as they charged toward each other again, this time both of them splintering their lances. Judges raced forward to inspect each lance, talking animatedly amongst themselves until that course was declared a tie.
“They’re too well matched,” Lady Heloise said, tutting. “It’s almost not fun to watch.”
“It looks like he’s hurt,” Marjorie said. “Look at the way he’s rolling his shoulder.”
Tristan was, indeed, maneuvering the shoulder that had been hit as if he were trying to work out a kink. When Brom placed the lance in his hand, it fell away to the ground.
“Oh, no,” Batty said.
“His hand’s probably gone numb from the blow,” Sir Walter explained. “He’ll be all right in a moment.”
But there wasn’t a moment, or the ability to call a timeout. Sir Ulrich had his lance ready and his horse pawed at the dirt, raring to go. Brom once again affixed Sir Tristan’s lance, and this time he held it, but his shoulder listed slightly. He was clearly in pain.
Fay stared at him, willing him to look her way. This was the fourth and final course that would decide the winner. The crowd wanted more than just a splintered lance. They wanted someone to fly through the air. And she didn’t want it to be him. At the last second, he turned his face in her direction but, with his helmet down, she wasn’t sure he saw her. She placed both hands over her heart and then held them open, palm forward to him, before quickly replacing them in her lap. There, she’d given him her heart. Hopefully, he’d seen and would know she believed in him. For herself, she didn’t care, but she knew how badly he wanted to win.
“Come on, come on,” both Anne and Sir Walter repeated, as the two knights thundered toward each other again to finish the match. Fay knew Tristan wouldn’t be able to live with a tie, any more than he could live with a loss, not after all he’d promised her.
The crowd fell silent as they approached each other for the last time. She held her breath, following the tip of Tristan’s lance, willing herself not to blink. The violence of the collision made her close her eyes for a split second. When she opened them, the crowd roared and stamped. Batty and Anne screamed. Lady Heloise and her father were on their feet.
Sir Ulrich lay in a heap on the ground, his horse having already cleared the field without him. Sir Tristan rode victoriously with his broken lance held high in one hand, her handkerchief in the other.
He’d won. He’d won the tournament for her, in her name, in her honor. Every moment of regret she’d had since she’d been brought there by the curse disappeared. She was meant to be here, in this time, with this man. She hadn’t been cursed at all, she’d been blessed. She was the luckiest woman on earth. She couldn’t wait to be alone with Tristan, to share everything she felt with him, determined to make him feel like he was the luckiest man on earth.