The yearly Joust of Darkmoor didn’t just draw an eager crowd of onlookers, it also attracted the finest knights in the North to try their luck against the undefeated champion, Otto Sarragnac. All around him, horses pawed at the hardened ground and servants ran back and forth as their masters prepared to prove themselves in the infamous arena, where men sought glory but all too often encountered injury and defeat. The fact that entrants would now be pitting themselves against the newly ordained Earl of Darkmoor added an extra frisson to this year’s event.
Robin handed Otto his highly polished helm. “Good luck, milord,” muttered the young page.
Otto gave a small nod of thanks, though he had no need of luck. Speed, strength, and skill were the required components for success in the jousting arena. He had an abundance of all three, and everyone here knew it. With his reputation whispered far and wide, Otto’s victory was all but sealed before his horse even set foot in the ring.
His eyes scanned the crowd, resting finally on the gracious figure of Ariana as she made her way to her seat of honor next to Althalos in the royal enclosure. He had not had the opportunity to speak to her this morn and was surprised by a brief stab of remorse. Had she known any kind words of welcome since waking in what must feel like a strange and unfamiliar place?
He shook the concern from his mind. Ariana would have to grow used to their ways. Neither warmth nor welcome were bywords in Darkmoor. Still, Otto’s brow darkened as he saw his uncle rake her over with his critical gaze. His bride was clad in a cloak of deep blue which clung to her generous curves. As she pulled back her hood to reveal her shining mane of glossy black hair, the crowd let out an appreciative murmur, but Althalos grimaced with disapproval. Clearly the new countess was attracting more attention than his father’s brother deemed appropriate.
Like his brother before him, Althalos only had time for war and warriors. Women were of little value to him, necessary only for childbearing and the relief of certain urges. Otto hoped that Ariana would find herself equal to the disdain radiating from her new kinsman. But as she straightened her back and folded her hands, her green eyes resting steadily on the empty arena, he once again glimpsed the steely resilience which had so intrigued him the night before.
Soft curves, glinting eyes, and a backbone of steel. Ariana of Kenmar was proving to be a more enticing bride than he had imagined.
Shaking off the brief distraction of an unanticipated tremble of desire, Otto gathered up his reins and sprang lightly into the saddle. His charger snorted and shifted beneath him, plate armor gleaming in the morning sunshine. Otto tightened his grip around the lance and urged the horse forward into the arena, into a wave of deafening cheers from the expectant crowd and the certain victory that was his to claim.
But Otto’s mind was not on his opponents, or the physical challenges he had yet to face. His head was full of Ariana, of her shimmering cloud of hair and her untouched skin which had shown through her cotton smock last night.
Ariana, whose own father had so carelessly handed her over to a sworn enemy. Who had arrived in Darkmoor alone and undefended. Who displayed equal might and bravery to any contender now circling the jousting arena.
He knew a jolt of electricity as his eyes met hers across the ring. Suddenly, the roaring of the crowd dimmed in his ears, and he grew oblivious to the side-stepping of his horse. All he could see was Ariana, with her steady gaze and unflinching demeanor.
His horse reared, and Otto came to his senses just in time. The starting flag went up and his charger surged forward, like the well-trained fighting machine she was. Otto balanced himself in the stirrups and thrust his lance into his opponent’s armor, splintering the wood and unhorsing Sir Ralph of Crawshaw with one powerful blow.
He removed his helm and held it high for his victory lap around the ring. The crowd went wild with approval, the familiar chant already echoing around the castle walls.
Otto, Otto, Otto.
But one glance towards the royal enclosure told Otto he had yet to impress the one person who suddenly mattered. Ariana’s face was as calm and watchful as his uncle’s.
She’ll make a daughter of Darkmoor yet, thought Otto, as he trotted out of the arena and back to the knights’ tents.
He accepted a small cup of ale and congratulations from the waiting physician.
“Thankfully I have no need of your skills or potions, Merek,” Otto said.
Merek inclined his head. “Not so your opponent. I’m afraid Sir Ralph has broken two ribs.”
Otto shrugged, not allowing any concern to show. “Every knight knows what he risks when he rides against me.”
Merek bowed low. “Indeed, my lord.”
Otto turned to Robin. “Who do I face next?”
“It is Lord Gawain’s youngest son. His name is Benedict.”
Otto spat out a mouthful of ale. “Isn’t he just a boy?”
Merek agreed. “He is nearing sixteen summers.”
Otto looked around the bustling field in search of Gawain’s yellow crest. He soon spotted the flag proudly hoisted above a small crowd nearby. Benedict was a head shorter than his attendant page. As Otto watched, the boy removed his helm and dropped to one knee for his father’s blessing.
Benedict had brown curls, which lifted in the wind.
He was too young for this, just as Lord Ulric had been too old.
Otto leaned an arm across his horse’s steaming flank and breathed deeply as the pain of loss and guilt crashed over him.
“Are you quite well, my lord?” Merek’s voice came as if from a great distance away.
