Queen's Heart: An Arthurian Paranormal Romance (Arthurian Hearts Book 2) by Phoenix Sullivan
Authors: Phoenix Sullivan
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beckoned to him. He could not have missed me. Like Des, he’d sought me out before even acknowledging his challenger.
When he dipped his lance to me, his eyes bright with anticipation, I slipped the necklace around its tip. As the lance lifted skyward, the chain fell smoothly down the long shaft until it caught on the vamplate. Drustan had to pull a glove from his hand to fasten the chain tight behind the guard where it wouldn’t be lost or damaged. Once done, he bowed his head in thanks before trotting back to the lists
Black surcoat on black horse, Drustan seemed to swallow the sun. In the first pas d’armes as the big courser responded effortlessly to Drustan’ subtle commands, it was clear he and the horse had spent long hours working together. Secreted off somewhere, I suspected. I wasn’t sure whether I felt thrilled or betrayed by that… by him.
When he easily unseated his challenger in the next run, I decided to feel thrilled.
From the field of one hundred knights, forty were passed on to the next round, narrowed then to sixteen, then, by late afternoon, to a final eight. As expected, the four Orkney brothers were among them. Of surprise to all, Des and Drustan stood among them too.
The far list was closed for these final bouts, the pairings decided by lot, though the brothers would not tilt against each other so long as there were challengers left to face them.
For the next hour, Brangien and I clung to one another as the final four pairs collided one after the other, Des defeating Gareth of Orkney and Drustan unhorsing Bors the Younger.
Only two Orkney brothers stood against them then. Gawain and Uwain, whose songs were known through the isles. Knights who’d fought at King Arthur’s side when the spirit stirred them. Seasoned knights who walked among the legends. To fall to knights such as they would be honor not shame.
I needn’t have worried so nor made apologies for Drustan and Des. Some days God favors even fools.
It took five passes and both men were reeling in their saddles from the battering blows to their shields, before Gawain went down beneath Des’ powerful thrusts.
It took four runs for Drustan to claim victory over Uwain.
Rumors that the Orkneys didn’t lose well seemed confirmed when Uwain led his mount from the list, protesting loudly to his brothers, “Did you not see my horse stumble there at the end, throwing my aim?”
“Poor horse,” Brangien whispered with a nudge and a giggle.
Now, though, as the shadows lengthened and the spectators closed around for the final bout, I saw what many of them would not. “Watch Drustan,” I told Brangien. “See how he’s carrying his lance? His shoulder’s not healed completely yet, and he’s not getting time to rest it now.”
Apparently I wasn’t the only one to notice. At the end of the list Drustan lifted his head in response to—
—a gesture from Des at the list’s opposite end.
They rode at an easy trot to the center of the field, contrasting one another like the knights on a chessboard. Des had established himself the White Knight of the game the day he first came to Whitehaven. I had to believe Drustan made a deliberate choice of black, two sides of the same coin. That his borrowed horse was black too, as rare a beast as Des’ white one, was likely lucky happenstance. Or perhaps Fate had lent a hand in its choosing.
What they argued on the field was for their ears alone. From where I sat, they both looked tired and exasperated. What they didn’t look was like two combatants eager to strike one another down.
That they had been training together was clear to me now. That they had become friends, even clearer.
After a few moments they touched lances—in respect or agreement, or both perhaps. Then they turned to Brangien and me. We were in shadow, they in the slanting sun. They couldn’t see us nor pick our small voices out from among the throng cheering for the start of the final round. They simply trusted we
When he dipped his lance to me, his eyes bright with anticipation, I slipped the necklace around its tip. As the lance lifted skyward, the chain fell smoothly down the long shaft until it caught on the vamplate. Drustan had to pull a glove from his hand to fasten the chain tight behind the guard where it wouldn’t be lost or damaged. Once done, he bowed his head in thanks before trotting back to the lists
Black surcoat on black horse, Drustan seemed to swallow the sun. In the first pas d’armes as the big courser responded effortlessly to Drustan’ subtle commands, it was clear he and the horse had spent long hours working together. Secreted off somewhere, I suspected. I wasn’t sure whether I felt thrilled or betrayed by that… by him.
When he easily unseated his challenger in the next run, I decided to feel thrilled.
From the field of one hundred knights, forty were passed on to the next round, narrowed then to sixteen, then, by late afternoon, to a final eight. As expected, the four Orkney brothers were among them. Of surprise to all, Des and Drustan stood among them too.
The far list was closed for these final bouts, the pairings decided by lot, though the brothers would not tilt against each other so long as there were challengers left to face them.
For the next hour, Brangien and I clung to one another as the final four pairs collided one after the other, Des defeating Gareth of Orkney and Drustan unhorsing Bors the Younger.
Only two Orkney brothers stood against them then. Gawain and Uwain, whose songs were known through the isles. Knights who’d fought at King Arthur’s side when the spirit stirred them. Seasoned knights who walked among the legends. To fall to knights such as they would be honor not shame.
I needn’t have worried so nor made apologies for Drustan and Des. Some days God favors even fools.
It took five passes and both men were reeling in their saddles from the battering blows to their shields, before Gawain went down beneath Des’ powerful thrusts.
It took four runs for Drustan to claim victory over Uwain.
Rumors that the Orkneys didn’t lose well seemed confirmed when Uwain led his mount from the list, protesting loudly to his brothers, “Did you not see my horse stumble there at the end, throwing my aim?”
“Poor horse,” Brangien whispered with a nudge and a giggle.
Now, though, as the shadows lengthened and the spectators closed around for the final bout, I saw what many of them would not. “Watch Drustan,” I told Brangien. “See how he’s carrying his lance? His shoulder’s not healed completely yet, and he’s not getting time to rest it now.”
Apparently I wasn’t the only one to notice. At the end of the list Drustan lifted his head in response to—
—a gesture from Des at the list’s opposite end.
They rode at an easy trot to the center of the field, contrasting one another like the knights on a chessboard. Des had established himself the White Knight of the game the day he first came to Whitehaven. I had to believe Drustan made a deliberate choice of black, two sides of the same coin. That his borrowed horse was black too, as rare a beast as Des’ white one, was likely lucky happenstance. Or perhaps Fate had lent a hand in its choosing.
What they argued on the field was for their ears alone. From where I sat, they both looked tired and exasperated. What they didn’t look was like two combatants eager to strike one another down.
That they had been training together was clear to me now. That they had become friends, even clearer.
After a few moments they touched lances—in respect or agreement, or both perhaps. Then they turned to Brangien and me. We were in shadow, they in the slanting sun. They couldn’t see us nor pick our small voices out from among the throng cheering for the start of the final round. They simply trusted we
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