The lance lay across his thigh, pinned firmly under his arm and held in place by Bernard’s left hand, while the other slanted his shield for protection. When the lance struck his opponent’s shield, the long wooden pike barely moved, so true was its aim. Marven fell neatly off his mount and onto the ground.

Bernard turned Rock to ride back again, glancing at the man to assure himself he’d attained no injury, and then along the line of spectators, still hoping to see Joanna. He was rewarded this time, for he saw her, sitting next to Maris near the middle of the stands. He nodded in the general direction of the crowd, but when he placed his hand over his heart, and the hidden favor that rested beneath his tunic, ’twas meant for her.

He galloped back to where Rowan and his father waited as the next challenge was announced.

“Fine job, son,” greeted Harold as his son wheeled up to him, removing his helm. “It wasn’t a sufficient test of your abilities, but ’twas over quickly and simply.” Coughing and waving the dust out of his eyes, he looked up with a smirk. “Do you not wear the favor of your lady?”

“Aye, that I do—but ’tis not for your eyes, Father.” He handed the lance and helm to his squire and swiped an open hand over his damp curls. “And do not give me a look with that smugness, for you have no reason to believe your machinations have come to fruition.”

Harold’s thick brows rose up a high forehead. “Oh, aye? And did I not see you with mine own eyes head-to-head with Lady Maris last eve, and did I not see you follow in her steps out of the Hall? You can not fool me with such protestations, as I saw where your eyes led over yonder.” He gestured toward the spectator stands, and still the satisfied smile curved his face.

Bernard’s response was lost as his name was again announced, coupled with a different challenger. With a smile of pleasure, he kicked Rock, and they bounded off for the lists.

The powerful thrust of his opponent’s lance was poorly aimed, but nearly unseated Bernard on the second pass. He held firm in the saddle, taking the brunt of the blunted lance in the shoulder of the arm wielding the pike. Even through the mail that protected his body, Bernard felt the strength of the man’s blow.

On the third pass, the same lance struck the same sore spot on Bernard’s shoulder, and he cursed aloud as the pain intensified. His aim was true, though, and he took pleasure in watching his stocky opponent waver, then fall from the saddle just as they passed each other. With a grunt of triumph, Bernard allowed his own lance to his rest on his thighs, and prodded Rock into a canter back to his squire.

Groaning in pain, Bernard slid from the saddle as Rowan leapt to take the shield from him. Harold and his own squire attended him as well. “God’s blood—that bastard had poor aim to strike twice in the same wrong place.” He tried to rotate his shoulder, but the throbbing heat radiated up his shoulder and along his arm, fading over to his shoulder blade.

“Aye,” Harold said. He began to pull Bernard’s tunic off his shoulder, but his son jerked his arm away.

“Father, there is no need to play nursemaid to me—especially when there are others watching. The injury is not that severe.”

But he had barely spoken those words when his name was called yet again. “Peste!” Bernard turned to whistle for his horse, but Rowan had heard the challenge and brought Rock immediately. He pulled himself into the saddle, smothering a wince, and took a new lance offered by Harold’s squire.

“Stay in your seat,” Harold called after him as they galloped off. Bernard choked on a retort at the needless warning, and put his meddling father out of mind.

Swiping the sweat from his face yet again, Bernard eyed his third opponent. It wasn’t Ralf, though he’d been expecting to be called to challenge him at any moment. This man again was someone that he did not know, and he appeared very solid and heavy in his saddle. The horse was fine, enough for Bernard to notice in appreciation, though not nearly as perfect as his own Derkland-bred mount.

He’d barely settled the lance in his lap, attempting to keep it from weighting on his injured shoulder until the very last moment, when the signal was given. Rock leapt forward before Bernard even gave him the heel of his boot, and suddenly the wind streamed over his face as they galloped down the list.

Thwack! The impact of his opponent’s lance struck Bernard even as his own bounced off the top of the other man’s shoulder. The power of his thighs gripping Rock was the only thing that kept him from tumbling onto the ground, and his fingers loosened, dropping the lance onto the dusty ground.

A loud exclamation rose from the crowd, either because it was the first time Bernard had missed a hit, or because he’d taken a good one, but he barely heard it through the searing pain that shot down his arm. The other knight’s lance had caught him again near the injury he’d sustained in the last challenge, and now agonizing heat caused black spots to dance before his eyes.

Of all the bad luck.

Gritting his teeth, Bernard turned Rock and headed back to his side of the list, keeping the dancing mount to a trot to give himself time to catch his breath. Rowan met him there with a choice of four lances to choose from. Again, taking as much time as he could, Bernard hefted each one in his hand before selecting the first one.

He gave a quick nod to his father’s questioning glance, then, steeling himself for one, mayhaps two, more passes, he kicked Rock into motion. He managed to make it through the next two charges without being unsaddled—though it was a close one on the last. He did not manage, however, to unseat the other man, and, instead, took one more hit to his shoulder.

“Who have you angered thus to keep you in the lists?” asked Harold jovially as Bernard returned and dismounted, tossing his shield to Rowan.

Breathing heavily, Bernard nearly discounted the jest, but then realized that without meaning to, his father spoke the truth. Surely it was Ralf’s doing, for Bernard knew few of the men here, and none of his challengers thus far. Swerthmore’s intent was likely to tire him before meeting him on the lists, and mayhap causing him some injury. “Bastard.”

His father looked at him, but Bernard dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “’Tis naught of your concern.”

At last, after Bernard was called thrice more, the challenge he’d been waiting for was announced. A fresh wave of anger—and determination—rushed through him as he selected a lance. He’d saved himself as much as possible during the last passes, now knowing Ralf’s game.

With a glance toward the stands, Bernard stroked a corner of Joanna’s veil, feeling its softness clinging to his sweaty torso. If for no other than her, he’d see Ralf face-down onto the ground.

Bernard and Rock settled into their place at one end of the list, the horse dancing with impatience as though sensing that there was more at stake with this challenge. The signal broke the tension and they leapt forward, galloping toward Ralf at full speed.

Thwump! Bernard nearly screamed aloud as his opponent’s lance passed by his shield, driving into his injury, just where his arm and shoulder met. He saw black and heard a loud, hard laugh as they passed by, his own lance slipping off into nothing and nearly causing him to topple. He could barely breathe, the pain was so intense, and he realized what had happened.

He’d given Ralf too little credit—for the man had selected very skilled jousters to challenge him. Their intent was not to up-end him from the saddle, but to injure him in a manner that would keep him from his best. All of them had struck the same place—purposely. And now Ralf had chosen to put the finish on him before claiming victory.

Weary, but his teeth clenching hard enough to take his mind from his throbbing shoulder, Bernard chose another lance and, adjusting his shield, turned to face his opponent.

Twice more.

They charged as the signal was given, galloping down the list toward each other at breakneck speed. Bernard felt sweat slick his hand, but he held fast, determined to knock the bastard onto the ground this time.

He concentrated as Ralf sped toward him, picking out his faint slant in the saddle, looking for an opening—and found it. He leveled the long lance, aiming, forgetting the pain in his shoulder by thinking of what Joanna had lived through. Just as they met, just as the other lance brushed his shoulder, Bernard twisted slightly and found his mark. The other lance slipped harmlessly up and over his shield and the other man teetered in his seat.

Bernard and Rock roared past Ralf, and only the disappointed groan from the crowd told him that his opponent had recovered. He cursed the luck of the devil, and spun his mount around to choose his last lance.

Breathing heavily, Bernard took little care in selecting the lance offered by Rowan. He trusted his squire, and meant only to get back to the lists for the final pass. His shoulder’s ache had lessened slightly, but when he moved to steady his long halberd, the pain shot down his arm.

The last time.

He sensed the fury and hatred emanating from the other man—waves of it came across the field—and it seemed as though the watchers felt it too, for a near hush fell over them. Only the sound of Rock stamping his feet, and the jingle of mail and bridle, fell on his ears….or mayhap ’twas just that he concentrated so solidly.

The cry to arms bellowed from the announcer, and he kicked Rock forward. They nearly flew through the air, smoothly, as one. The intensity of his pain diminished as he sighted the lance on Ralf’s shield, focusing on the place that would dump him from the saddle.

He leaned forward, urging Rock on, holding the lance steady as they barrelled toward Ralf.

One moment more…

He fought the hovering pain as he gripped the lance, steadying it, ready to thrust it forward….

Thump!

Pain crashed over him as he took the brunt of Ralf’s own blow in his shoulder, even as his lance connected with the other man’s shield. With a howl of rage, Bernard held steady and gave one last thrust as they passed by.

He heard the roar of the crowd dimly through hot, white streaks that shot up his arm and across his shoulder. Gasping for air, he turned Rock around in time to see Ralf struggling to his feet. A faint lift of one side of his mouth was all he could managed as he galloped past the stands and to his father and squire.