Lavender Vows by Colleen Gleason Page A

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