SPN Fic: The Heart Must Yield (4/5)
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*****
Ashamed and alarmed at his transgression, Jensen was determined to avoid Jared the next day, and for as long as necessary until the announcement of his betrothal. Avoiding him turned out to be relatively easy, though, because Jared didn’t leave the Room of Shelves. Not to eat nor ride out nor to attend the evening feasting.
Jensen knew he stayed in the library because of the coming and going of several brethren, as well as a few members of the Sisterhood that Jensen recognized-Erica, Amanda, and others.
Jensen itched to stop one of them and ask what Jared was doing, argued with himself that it was his duty to supervise and safeguard Jared’s activities, even unto these last days of formal Wardenship. But the louder voice rebuked that he’d already failed that duty. Better to remove himself from Jared’s sphere completely than to chance any further offense.
This resolution was tested sorely that night when he heard the door of his room creak open.
“Jensen?” Jared’s voice drifted to him through the dark.
Only with the mightiest effort did Jensen hold every muscle still, feigning sleep.
He heard the rustle of steps, of Jared sinking to the floor by the side of Jensen’s bed. Just as he had on a night that felt so long ago, it might have been a different lifetime.
Jensen had no idea how long they sat there in the dark, listening to each other breathe. But even when Jared whispered, “Please. I need to talk to you,” in a voice no louder than a sigh, Jensen did not answer. If he did not resist Jared now, there’s no telling what he might do. Jared needed more than he could give. Jared deserved better.
Jared would have better, if Jensen could just be strong.
It felt as if his bones were being ground to powder under the strain of denial. But finally Jared stood. Jensen could feel his gaze burning into the solid wall of Jensen’s back.
Then the door opened once more, and Jensen was alone again.
The next day Jensen threw himself into the work of discovering who was behind the attack on Jared during the hunt, and it quickly came to light that they were Heyerdahl’s own retainers. He hadn’t even bothered using surrogates, so sure he’d been that Jared would be easily dispatched.
So at least there was one small sliver of good to come of that debacle, as Lord Christopher skulked out of Morgan and back to his own estates in shame. Meanwhile, the Court seemed to become more supportive of Jared and the prospect of his odd ascendance as the head of Padalecki. The shocked whispers of “bastard” fell silent, few people continued to patently shun him or make loud, unfavorable comparisons of Jared with his brother and sister.
But the resolution of the issue left Jensen at loose ends. It wasn’t until the third day of him wandering the palace and ignoring the magnet-pull of the library that Jensen spied Princess Alona dashing by herself across the bailey, her hands bunched in the folds of her heavily-embroidered skirts to lift them out of the way.
“Sir Jensen,” she called once she was close enough to be heard. She rushed toward him so swiftly, he had to jerk up from his courtly bow to catch her by the shoulders in time to stop her from plowing into him.
“Are you alright, Your Highness?”
She nodded and gasped for breath. “Follow me. I think there’s something going on you’ll want to see.”
“Jared?”
“Your Ward has requested a private audience with my mother.”
She led him on fast feet to her own royal chambers on the third level, where Jensen was assuredly not permitted to be. In fact, Jensen had never been so high up in the keep, but he barely even noticed the lavish surroundings, his mind so consumed with what Jared’s actions could mean.
He feared he knew too well: Jared must have finally chosen from among his cousins.
Alona pulled him through a barely noticeable crease in the far wall of her suite, a slit that led into a narrow little room like a jewel box, in which the walls and ceiling were covered with blue satin quilting, muffling every sound.
Jensen heard Jared’s voice mid-speech, clipped and incensed, coming from a small, shoulder-high opening. “-not impossible. If the Sisterhood has confirmed his true lineage, then it meets the conditions you set out for marriage.”
“We did not make that rule frivolously,” Queen Samantha replied. Jensen was relieved to hear she didn’t sound as angry as Jared, but her voice was firm. “The point was not so you could marry the first handsome courtier that caught your fancy.” He heard Jared make an angry sound of denial, but the Queen cut off a further tirade. “This kingdom is a boiling pot with only the good will people have for Jeffery and myself as the lid to keep it from spilling over. It’s less noticeable here in Morgan, concealed behind formal manners and frivolous revelry, but there is a very real danger of civil war, with you at the center.”
“Then send me back to Tall Timber!”
“It’s too late for that. You are now clearly a viable heir. No one could take over the rule of Padalecki without fear someday you would be trotted out as a leader of a rebellion.”
“I would not-”
“Listen,” she said sharply. “None of us-not myself, not the King, not a soul in this castle-live free to choose any path we want. We are all constrained by duty, by place, by our responsibility to the people who serve us. And I am telling you now, you cannot choose Jensen as a spouse.”
Inside the little blue chamber, Jensen gasped out loud. Alona quickly clapped a hand over his mouth. When he looked at her with alarm, she merely shrugged, but with an expression that indicated she was surprised at this outlandish turn as well.
“Then choose for me,” he heard Jared demand. “If I can’t marry Jensen, I don’t care.”
“I cannot. If the King and I are seen to show favor by bestowing alliance with you on one family, the others will take umbrage. Jared. Jared. You are young, impulsive. Jensen has shown you kindness. But you must put aside your infatuation. You must make a strong alliance that can protect you while you consolidate power in your holdings.”
“Your Majesty-” Jared pled.
“There is no more to be said. You have your answer. You may leave us now, Padalecki.” She said it in a way that brooked no argument.
There was a shuffling of papers and of feet, then silence fell. One so still even Jensen’s deliberately shallow breaths seemed to echo in his ears. Soon he began to wonder if the Queen had left, too.
“Alona,” came her voice through the gap. “You must think me a fool not to know you are there. Come out, and bring Jensen with you.”
The Princess took him by the hand and pushed at a random panel in the wall so that it swung open, nearly dragging him behind her out of their hiding spot. They emerged into a small audience room, but before they could reach the sturdy, unornamented chair the Queen was using as a throne, Jensen sank down on one knee, head bowed. “Your Majesty, I knew nothing of this. I swear it to you.”
“I know. Rise up and let us speak of how to fix it.” Her shrewd eyes upon him softened. “Ah, that poor Jared. It is my fault, at least in part. I should have remembered that everyone falls in love with you a little bit, do they not, my beau chevalier?”
Jensen could feel the heat rise in his face but stood silent. She didn’t sound angry, but Jensen still felt his life, and Jared’s too, balanced on the precipice of her whim.
“Whom does he favor?” She shifted her gaze from him to her daughter. “Do either of you have a sense what his choice would be if pressed?”
“No,” Alona said. “Although we are cordial enough, I am not in his confidence.”
“Truly, I do not know either,” Jensen replied. “He has stubbornly resisted showing any preference, or indeed anything but the mildest courtesy to any of the candidates.”
The Queen sat back with a huff. “I’ve seen it myself. Rarely is a newcomer to this Court so immune to its… enticements. I guess those years at the monastery made a proper monk of him.”
Jensen struggled not to let any hint of his memory of Jared in the woods show in his expression. The urgent kisses. The force of his body pressing Jensen into the bark of the tree. His hand between Jensen’s legs. None of it monkish in the least.
“I will give him until the Solstice Celebration,” she announced. “Twelve days from now. The benefit to us of keeping these adversaries all distracted and on tenterhooks is waning. Instead we’re running the risk that further uncertainty will cause someone to… act rashly.”
Jensen cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should depart from Morgan for the nonce, Your Majesty. I could-”
“No. We need you here,” the Queen said. “I’m sorry. I know this must be discomfiting for you. But we may have reason to call upon you as Warden, as a neutral party, should tempers begin to run high. Huffman and Sheppard are nearly at each other’s throats, and Lady Ruth appears unwilling to rein Mark in.” She sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose tiredly. “Alona, stay. There is more we must speak of beyond the Padalecki affair, including your own betrothal. Jensen, go now. Tell Jared he has not much more than a week. And that he should come out of that twice-damned library.”
Jensen bowed his way out, and when the door shut behind him, he felt like he was taking his first real breath in an hour. Then he set his shoulders and marched off down the hall.
*****
He slammed the door behind him so hard that books tumbled over on the nearest ledge.
“Have you lost your mind?” he snarled at Jared.
Jared looked up at the intrusion from where he sat, head down, hands in his hair. His eyes were red-rimmed, but his jaw was clenched and mulish. He didn’t even bother to ask how Jensen knew what had happened in the Queen’s chambers. “You’re an eligible spouse, according to the Queen’s dictate,” he retorted. “It took me much labor to dig it out, a fortnight of searching-at Saint Anthony, here, papers found in Ackles itself-but it turns out you’ve noble blood after all. The head of the Sister’s Order here in Morgan has verified what I found: that you are descended from a true son of Padalecki through one mother’s great-grandfather.”
“Yes, and probably so is one of the dogboys working down in His Majesty’s kennels!” It hurt Jensen to say it. Having learned this precious, hidden facet of his lineage, to turn around and deny it seemed wrong. But there were greater things at stake. “It matters naught.”
“It matters all!” Jared insisted, pounding one fist on the table, making books there jump as well.
Jensen planted both his own palms on the table and leaned in. “No! Listen to me. Give up this foolish caprice of yours. Do not bring disaster on all you cherish. The King and Queen could easily abrogate their bargain with your father and toss you aside for another, more biddable heir. Meanwhile, I will be in prison, or perhaps my head upon a spike, for cozening you to serve my own wicked gain.”
“I do not believe you,” Jared said, but his voice was shaking now.
Jensen needed to shake him. Needed to cut deep enough to turn him aside from this course. “Their Majesties believe it. Why else do you think they are raising you up at all? They believe this is the path to peace. Would you see the kingdom torn apart? Would you see the bloody war that has beleaguered Lyon and his Empire come to the walls of Saint Anthony? See the slaughter of the children of Day and of Mills?”
“No. It could never-”
“There is talk that even forces in Hoflin and Stuart are stirring, despite the fact that they have no claim at all to your lands. So think you, what would Pellegrino not do? Or Huffman? What would they not do to get what they want?”
This time the words evidently hit home, because Jared froze in place.
“What they want,” he murmured, then spun away, repeating it almost to himself. Jensen stared at him, still thick in the heat of the argument, but Jared seemed to have turned his attention away completely. “What they want.” Jared lifted his hands and rubbed his face as if to clear it from some obscuring veil. He began to pace, practically throwing himself across the library with strides as furious as a great caged cat from a festival troupe.
Jensen waited, long minutes, as Jared sought his way clear. There was nowhere to go.
Finally, Jared stopped, turning to face him once more. “You said to me once that you didn’t believe you were meant to marry, to love someone.” Jensen saw Jared brace his feet and pull his shoulders back, as if to prepare to take a blow. “Would-could you have loved me?”
Thus it was Jensen who took the hit. He bowed his head and bit his lip against the brutal pain that twisted in his breast. But if he truly believed all that he’d just said to Jared, he must endure.
“No more,” he growled. “No more of this. I see that I must be the one to seal off this disastrous path you insist on treading. I will tell the Queen I rescind my Wardenship.” Jared made a noise of protest, but Jensen barreled on. “I’m not at liberty to leave the court, but I ask that you do not seek me out. Although I-I led you astray in the forest, I am honor-bound to see you securely wed to a proper ally. Your honor demands it as well. You must turn your attention to your duty. You must stop letting this-this thing you imagine between us distract you.”
“I imagine it, do I?” Jared huffed, but Jensen still did not look up. “Do I have to say it first? I will. I love you. I love you, Jensen of Ackles. There is not a soul in the kingdom with such high principle, with as much true compassion and bravery and worth as you have. I love you, and I would know if you return the feeling, in truth.”
“Don’t. You must marry another.”
“Jensen-“ he heard Jared plead, “-just this one thing I must know, please. And I will not ask again.”
Perhaps it was like poison. If just Jensen spit it out, he could be free of it and begin to mend. “I answer you, and then you swear to me we will not speak of it ever again?”
“You answer,” Jared vowed, choosing his words carefully, “and I swear I shall turn all of my attentions to my cousins alone, and to my duty to the Crown and the safety of the country.”
In the end, Jensen had not the courage to lift his head and look Jared in the face. Not enough strength to keep the pain out of his eyes. But nor could he lie.
“I do love you,” Jensen murmured, barely above a whisper, but there was no doubt Jared heard it, as still as he held himself. “In full measure. However,” his voice rose, “hear me. Hear me. There is naught and never will be anything between us. Now fulfill your word and forget about me.”
He turned on his heel and strode from the room. There was nothing more to be said.
*****
As hard as it had been for Jensen to grapple with his feelings for Jared before, with his Ward shut away in the Room of Shelves, it was nothing to the pain he felt watching Jared as he now welcomed his suitors’ attentions, seeking them out, offering himself up.
Jared began to attend again the dining in the Hearth Hall. He came to sup and to drink and to dance, but that was not all.
Each night, Jensen stood with his back against the wall, telling himself he was still guarding against trouble, but truly simply unable to resist watching from afar.
He saw Jared take Eric by the hand and lead him out into the gardens, only to return long after with his color high and a glazed, satisfied look in his eyes. He witnessed as Jared left the dancing to grab a skin of wine and slip away arm-in-arm with Alaina into one of the Hall’s tiny wall alcoves, notoriously used for couples’ brief trysts, where Jensen himself had enjoyed many private encounters. Then it was Katherine, then Genevieve, Nicole and Sheppard. It seemed as if Jared now consorted freely with them all, finding time day and night to dally with each alone.
None of this was at all unusual behavior for unmarried members of the Court, but it seemed extremely unusual for Jared. And if Jared’s sudden promiscuity made any of his suitors jealous of the others, none was more jealous than Jensen.
The worst was the stormy midnight he was too restless to sleep, sick from wishing for Jared to sneak back into his rooms for advice… or more. As Jensen wandered the empty castle halls, deliberately avoiding the North Tower, he came across his Ward slinking out of the door to Pellegrino’s suite.
Jensen halted mid-stride. Jared’s eyes widened-was it guiltily?-when he caught sight of Jensen, but he simply drew himself up and, without a word, started past.
Jensen almost held out until Jared turned the corner out of sight, but his willpower failed him at the last. He spun around. “Jared?”
Now it was Jared’s turn to freeze. But although he stopped, he did not turn. “Yes?”
Jensen had no idea what he’d meant to say, why he’d opened his mouth at all. He cast about, but all he could come up with was, “Are you well?”
They were in one of the outer-wall sections of the palace, and he could hear the water and wind whipping outside of one of the window slits as he stared at Jared’s back, waiting for a response. The flickering torchlight caressed Jared’s hair, bronze and gold.
“As well as can be expected,” Jared replied at last, “with less than a week left until Solstice.” He walked on then without waiting for Jensen to respond.
Jensen went back to his rooms and opened the window flap, letting in the lashing rain to strike across his face. He felt unreal, insubstantial. He needed to be iron, but instead he was spun sugar, melting away in the downpour.
*****
The next night at feasting, even before the first course was served, King Jeffrey pounded on the High Table and shouted for silence. Although he was still pale beneath his beard, the strength of his voice alone spoke to his recovery, and Jensen was gladdened. When the King had the room’s attention, he announced that, to celebrate the season, their hard-won victories overseas, and the upcoming betrothal of the heirs to the Padalecki lands, a tourney would be held on Solstice Day.
The Court exploded into a buzz of excitement and approval. A tournament was always a welcome diversion. And there were sufficient nobles who’d keenly followed the competition for Jared’s hand that the culmination of that drama was of great interest. The babble quieted rapidly again as the King held up his hands.
He turned to look down the table at Jared. “Will you tell us now whom it shall be, my young lord?”
And if Jared was surprised by the announcement or the question, Jensen could not read it in his face, which was as void as ashes. “I beseech that I may wait to say on the day of the tourney itself, Your Majesty.”
“I will allow it,” Jeffrey replied mildly, also appearing unsurprised. “Now this is a most joyous occasion,” the King continued, smiling down at Jared, who did not look particularly joyful, “and I would not wish it to be marred by any personal spites. Therefore I have chosen as my Champion for the jousting, Sir Jensen of Ackles, Jared’s Warden and my faithful defender.”
There was another roar of cheering at the choice, which did surprise Jensen. He hadn’t realized so many knew him among the Court, much less that he had any particular adherents.
Jensen was young still, and not an illustrious jouster like Jason of Momoa or Prince Idris. He would never have the necessary weight and strength. But he’d learned from years of training with Morgan’s other great knights to hold his own against most any mounted man, as he’d demonstrated in Lyon when he’d stood alone between a gang of the Empire’s soldiers and the unhorsed, wounded King, defending him ferociously until support could arrive. Jensen supposed it must be overly-embellished tales of that combat which inspired the unexpected cheers.
So the King’s choice of tournament Champion made sense to anyone. Anyone but Jensen, who would have preferred to stay as far away from this particular festivity as possible. Nevertheless, he rose, stepping over the bench, and made his way up to the dais to take the King’s glove as token. He made sure he appeared honored and excited.
“I will win the day for you, my liege,” Jensen said, accepting the royal token with a deep bow. The soft kid leather, white as bone, was adorned with fur and clusters of small, smooth jewels. It weighed heavier in Jensen’s hand than it looked.
“Not for me, but for your Ward,” the King said loudly for all to hear.
“Just so,” Jensen replied, shooting no more than a quick glance toward the air above Jared’s head. “I will joust and win in his honor and the honor of his chosen spouse.”
He said it with the force of a vow, a vow that felt thick in his throat, choking him like dust. Yes, he thought, clutching the glove tightly and hardening his heart as best he could. It shall be a wedding gift.
*****
The day of the tourney dawned clear and fine, the storms of the previous week long gone. Piercing yellow rays slanted down through infrequent white wisps of cloud, tattering them as swiftly as a sword blade run through silk. Jensen raised a hand to shield his eyes as he joined the procession riding out from the keep toward the jousting lists set up in an empty, level meadow beyond.
Shadow lifted his feet with frolicsome pleasure, kicking out once or twice for the sheer joy of it.
At this tournament-short notice as it was and thrown in celebration-there would be no melee, only the course of jousts. Likely, Jensen mused, because no one wants to encourage the nobles to assemble on the field in war parties, even in sport.
Their procession approached the edge of the meadow where a riot of color lined the entry to the lists: a double row of vivid tents, in orange, or maize, or blue and scarlet, some formed like small castles flying pennants from their multitude of peaks. Each displayed the owner’s arms at the entrance, even those, like Lehne or Richings, who were unlikely to enter a combatant in the joust. In the wake of the heralds’ trumpets, the parade broke up, with knights and squires and caparisoned horses heading to individual tents to prepare, and the bulk of the nobles and other spectators swarming to secure spots in the lodges. There, risers had been set up for viewing, shaded to protect against the bright sun.
The King had loaned Jensen one of his own young squires, Osric, who trailed behind him, leading the halter of a spare courser in case Shadow became fatigued. Jensen himself as Champion had no substitute; he was expected to joust on until the lists were empty. But that didn’t concern him. Like Shadow, he could barely contain all the energy pent up inside him.
Affixed to the stout gate, there was a row of shields. As each knight rode by, he or she struck a shield of choice to issue challenge. In this tourney, a few might try a passage of arms against friends, or even enemies, in a simple test of valor. But most were aiming higher. The shield with the king’s coat of arms-and thus Jensen’s-bore so many sword and lance wounds of challenge that the wood showed through the paint. Nearly a score of rivals had signaled they wished to joust against Jensen: three passes, three attempts for the tourney’s prize.
Normally, the jousting would matter very little to Jensen. He did not have the kind of pride that rested on invincibility. He’d been unseated in practice by Olsson and Worthy and the other expert jousters in the King’s Guard too often for his self-respect to be damaged by a fall. But in this case, he had more at stake. First of all, he’d never been a tourney’s Champion before, and, given his low station, this was probably his only chance for such an honor. Beyond that, there was the fact that he would be jousting in front of Jared, which was fraught in ways he deliberately shied away from contemplating. But-of greatest importance to him at the moment-the King had offered the winner of the jousting not coin or new-minted arms as was the typical prize, but rather the promise of a boon, the granting of some single dear request. Should someone unseat the Champion, the prize was theirs. But should Jensen survive all of his courses successfully, the prize, and a royal favor, would be his.
When he’d heard that a boon was being offered, he resolved to ask the King to be sent abroad. Immediately. As far from Morgan as possible. Some service or quest to undertake, it didn’t matter what. Only that he should not be near to witness Jared’s wedding. It was not an excessive request, he was sure it would be granted. All he must do is win the day.
Jensen’s glance wandered over toward the center of lodges, where he spotted Jared, seated in honor between the Queen and Alona.
But before Jared could catch him looking, the trumpets sounded and Jensen turned his attention to the joust. Heralds chanted his name at one end of the field, his first opponent’s at the other. It was the young Cohen cavalier, Sir Matthew, who he’d face first. Jensen considered this an auspicious start: not too great a challenge, but no pushover either.
He settled his tilting helm over his mail hood, then pushed down the visor with his fist. He heeled at Shadow to urge him forward. His shield, blazoned with Morgan’s black and silver coat of arms, he shifted from his shoulder to his forearm.
Osric was waiting for him at the head of the course, and as Jensen approached, the boy timed his lift of the heavy lance aloft, swinging it in a rainbow arc so that it slapped down into Jensen’s waiting hand. Jensen gave Osric a silent nod of thanks as he scampered away, then couched the weapon tightly under his arm and watched Matthew do the same. The trumpets blew again. Jensen eased his rein and clapped spurs. Shadow hardly needed encouragement. He’d jousted with Jensen uncounted times, and the horse surged forward with a bound.
The black stallion was fleet as he was fierce. Jensen was two-thirds of the way down the field before Matthew’s horse had even hit its best stride. They met, and Jensen’s lance struck his opponent’s shield dead center, even as Matthew’s struck him. Both of them were pushed several inches back in their seats at the power of the impact, their horses, likewise, forced back on their haunches. Jensen felt the point of his lance slip, then catch a boss and hold. The shaft bowed as Matthew clung precariously to the saddle, but an extra shove from Jensen forced him to give in, tipping over his cantle and onto the ground. Jensen slatted Matthew’s lance off well to the side of his own shield and rode on past. He grinned fiercely beneath his visor, his blood high.
The lodges applauded this first well-executed success. The heralds sang the result aloud.
The next opponent was another young knight. Jensen accepted a new lance from Osric and unseated her on the first pass as well.
Then there was still another. It seemed few wanted to joust unless it was against the Champion for the tourney’s prize.
This challenger was not so young this time, a seasoned captain Jensen recognized in service to Lady Cole. The first and second passes between them were a draw. Jensen absorbed the blows that rocked him in the saddle and numbed his shield arm, but was in no danger of being unseated. The third pass, however, was a disaster because Jensen’s lance was flawed. It shattered as soon as he made contact with the Cole knight’s shield, and thus the impact he took was undiluted by any countering blow.
Jensen grunted at the shock of pain as his left arm was slammed back into his chest, but long years of training held. He forced the arm up, tilting his shield, and dug his knee into Shadow’s side to make him swerve. With a scraping screech his opponent’s lance point slid upward. Gruelingly, Jensen leaned further out, thrust the shield up and out with all his might, and the lance fell away. At the same time, he threw down the butt end of his own shattered shaft and gripped desperately at his saddle’s pommel.
Instinct, and Shadow’s even stride as he galloped away, were the only things that kept Jensen in the saddle. Breathing under the tight-closed tourney helm was a struggle, and Jensen found himself gulping for air through his mouth. He slowed the horse to a walk and let himself take extra time guiding him back to the head of the lists, trying to unobtrusively roll the lingering soreness out of his shield arm. Thank the Twins that had been the final pass of that challenge.
But then Jensen heard the heralds announce next Sir Timothy of Omundson, a jouster Jensen knew by reputation. He had seen many tourneys and won more than a few. If the previous pass had been a hardship, this would be a greater test by far. Jensen feared he might be finished before he’d barely begun.
Osric met him, looking chagrined. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he cried as he swung the new lance into Jensen’s waiting hand, “I vow, if this one doesn’t hold I will skewer myself on the blunt end!”
Jensen managed a brief smile. “Not your fault,” he ground out, still slightly breathless. His mind was not on the squire but fixed on Omundson. Jensen looked down the field to see if he could spot signs of weakness in his opponent’s seat or bearing, and found none.
Trumpets sounded, and Jensen jabbed Shadow’s flank hard, couching his lance tight as he moved. He blocked out everything but the bobbing target of Omundson’s shield.
The sound at their collision was appalling, the force even worse. Jensen felt his saddletree protest as he slammed back against it, but his arm was holding, his lance holding. He clenched his teeth as he felt his body lift, and he threw himself forward against the pressure. Then sweet release as, shrrrik, Omundson’s lance slatted off his shield. Not so sweet was the feel of his own lance losing purchase, Omundson easily thrusting it aside. Jensen heard the roar of the crowd in appreciation at their mutual prowess. One pass, survived.
Suddenly, Jensen brought his stallion up short, turned and galloped back to seize a new lance, barely slowing as he swept past Osric. His goal was to be ready before Sir Timothy and get the jump on him as the next pass began. He timed it perfectly, and at the trumpets’ song Shadow was leaping over the start line at near a full gallop. This extra speed gave him an advantage, and the second shock, thankfully, was not so bad. While Jensen still had to cling to his seat, he had the pleasure of seeing Omundson twist desperately to get out from under his own spear. Two down.
Too tired to try the same trick twice, he walked Shadow back, giving them both a rest.
As they made their way to position, he snuck a glance over to Jared’s seat in the stands, spied him leaning forward in his seat, fretful hands clasped before him. Jensen knew he should not covet Jared’s concern, but it was precious nonetheless. He wished there were someone to assure Jared there was no danger, but Jensen had seen enough broken bones and even guts spilled while jousting to know it would be false comfort.
Jensen had let his mind wander, and it came at a steep price. For upon this third time, it was Omundson who started fast. Even Shadow’s fleetness couldn’t compensate for the speed the other mount had developed. Hastily, Jensen swung his legs back a little to brace himself, but they felt as weak as straw. He was gripping his lance too hard, the tip quivering and losing aim. The other knight roared toward him impossibly fast. Whomp. Jensen’s shield shuddered under the blow and he could feel himself tipping inexorably. Every muscle in his body strained to resist, to brace, to stay. But no. It would be a bad fall.
Then Jensen heard the blessed crack of overstrained wood again, this time Omundson’s lance. Oh gods help him. One more frantic push-
It was only the cheers of the crowd that told Jensen he had unhorsed Omundson. He had not the strength to even turn to look. He sagged, hunched over his pommel in relief. Bright flashes and black spots obscured his vision. Sharp pains zagged out from the barely-healed slit in his side he’d gained in the forest attack. And a duller ache renewed in his ribs. But despite all this, his heart soared with pride at unseating such a foe.
He had a brief rest while two other knights clashed, and he sent a silent thanks to the tournament marshals for scheduling his first respite now. Osric held up a bowl of wine to quench his thirst, and Jensen removed his helm, hoping he didn’t look as pale as he felt. He drank, then sputtered. “Lad, this is unwatered! I’m not in quite such sore need. At least not yet. “ He laughed shakily. “And I certainly don’t think drunkenness is going to aid my abilities.”
But before Osric could go fetch a less potent drink, Jensen heard the herald cry his name again and that of Buckmaster. Once again he recognized the challenger; this knight was no young or easy opponent either. Although nowhere near as strong as Sir Timothy, she was canny and experienced and would be eager to prove herself against a chosen Champion, prize or no.
But Jensen won that one, too, and the next. More courses with few, painfully short breaks in between. Shadow’s neck became soaked with sweat, the muscles in his flank twitched with fatigue. Jensen was no better, his shield arm deadened and his grip on each lance trembling so that he feared not just for his aim, but that he’d be unable to carry them at all. The mid-day heat was like a vicious, living thing, attacking from above, and black spots continued to dance across Jensen’s vision now and again. He knew he should probably change horses, but he was quite sure he could never remount if he tried to climb down now.
One more. One more. It became a mantra as he turned and galloped, albeit less swiftly, time after time down the lists. Time after time, he returned, still ahorse.
It seemed he’d been jousting for whole days, whole years, when, at last, after the heralds called for more, no challenger stood to answer. A second call. The third and final.
But just before the decisive fanfare blew and Jensen was announced the winner, a figure appeared at the other end of the lists. At the sight, Jensen let out a breath that verged on a sob.
He recognized the horse before the man. Jared had entered astride Faith, the horse’s fair coat gleaming pure and bright as diamonds. The deep crimsons and golds of the Padalecki coat of arms shone unsullied on Jared’s shield, mocking the battered and flaked paint on Jensen’s own, his pristine surcoat a contrast to Jensen’s own sweat-soaked one.
Jensen turned his head to glance over to the royal seats, thinking it a mirage. He must be delusional, concussed or sunstruck. But no. There was a gaping hole next to Queen Samantha where Jared once sat.
Swiveling back to the man opposing him down the course, he tried to read Jared’s face but it was hidden by the visor of his helm. Impenetrable. Unfathomable.
Jensen was tired. So tired. Too tired to divine Jared’s intention. Why he would appear here, now.
But it didn’t matter, in the end. Down to the bottom of his very soul, Jensen was certain Jared was not here for glory or prizes. He was not here to betray Jensen or do him harm. So whatever Jared’s plan was, Jensen would support him, uphold him, defend him.
He was honor-bound to do so.
He would do so regardless.
Even as the trumpet sounded and the horses charged, Jensen threw his lance down. There was no point in carrying it. He would not strike.
Faith and Shadow leapt toward one another. And as they raced, a small part of Jensen’s exhausted brain took note with giddy amusement at Jared’s near-complete lack of control of the lance. The point bounced and weaved wildly. Jensen would be lucky if Jared didn’t skewer him or rip another hole in his side on accident.
It came to him in that instant that if Jared’s goal were to unseat him, Jensen himself would have to lend some aid.
He pressed on stalwart Shadow’s side with his knee, easing him closer to the center divide. Carefully, he watched the motion of Jared’s lance tip, Faith’s stride, timed it so that as they came together, he rose up in his stirrups, angling his shield to make the target-himself-as large as possible. At the very last second, against all training and sense, he leaned into the collision, praying Jared knew enough to hold on tight to the weapon.
Jared’s lance struck true upon the convex center of Jensen’s shield. The sound of impact was a crack like lightning, followed by the roll of thunder of a hundred voices from the stands crying in protest. Jensen could feel himself being pushed out of the saddle and allowed his legs to release at last their steadfast grip from around Shadow’s barrel. He toppled sideways and over, landing hard in the dust whisked up by the horses’ hoofs.
Jensen had lost his tournament prize.
He lay with the wind knocked out of him, feeling like an upturned turtle with ten tons of shell pinning him down. He turned his head to see Jared fling himself out of the saddle, throwing off his helm and running headlong toward Jensen as if his armor weighed no more than a woolen cloak. He sank to his knees next to Jensen, calling his name frantically, running gauntleted hands over him, fumbling with his visor, flipping it up to stare into his face.
“Twins have mercy,” Jared gasped. “That was terrible. What was I thinking? Are you hurt aught? Your ribs? Your wound?”
“I’m fine, you ass,” Jensen groaned. “Or I would be if you hadn’t laid me in the dirt.”
Slowly, the wry tone sunk in, and a grin spread over Jared’s face. But it was quickly overtaken by a grim look of determination.
He stood abruptly, and walked toward the lodges where the agitated crowd was just starting to settle. He planted himself before the dais, gracefully lowering himself to his knees before the seats of the King and Queen.
Jensen, much less gracefully, hefted himself to his feet and, doing his best not to stagger, took his position, standing behind Jared’s right shoulder. His legs trembled with fatigue, every muscle screaming in protest, but he locked himself in place, waiting with what seemed every single man, woman, and child in the kingdom to see the drama played out.
Jared barely had to raise his voice, so quiet had the stands become in anticipation.
“Sir Jensen is from Richardson, True Son of Ackles,” he called out, “and by the oath-sworn word of the Sisterhood’s own, he is also a true descendant of Padalecki, and thus eligible for marriage to make me Padalecki’s heir. Your Majesties, I ask you to confirm my choice, both by custom and by my success today on the field.”
Jensen leaned down to speak into Jared’s ear, his voice a dry croak. “Don’t be a fool. The Queen has forbidden it once already. I have nothing, no land or name.”
“I have enough of that for both of us,” Jared said brusquely. “What I need is you.” He craned his neck around to look up into Jensen’s anxious face. “And wait. There’s more.”
“Confirm!” a high voice called, plucking the taut silence like a lute string. Lady Ruth was a tiny woman, but as she rose to her feet, she drew every eye in the stands. “Confirm!” she repeated. “Connell stands with Padalecki!”
Jensen gasped, his eyes darting to the royal couple to gauge their response, when from the other side, another voice sounded. “Confirm! Huffman says confirm!”
Alaina was on her feet as well, and, near to her, Nicole, tugging at her father’s sleeve until he stood up, rushed and annoyed. Jensen could hardly believe his ears. “Lehne says confirm!”
A roar of approval from courtiers and commoners alike rolled over the field, a cacophony of cheers that gradually resolved themselves into a chant. “Confirm! Confirm! Confirm!”
Even great nobles with no stake in the disposition of the Padalecki honors-Tom, Marsters, Benedict-Jensen saw they were joining the chorus.
He looked to Jared in astonishment, but Jared’s face was still tense, his jaw clenched. He was staring toward Pellegrino, his eyes locked with Lord Mark’s where he lounged languidly back against his seat, while it seemed everyone else in the pavilion had leapt to their feet in excitement.
Everyone except the Queen and King. They also still sat, calmly, the King looking out toward him and Jared, the Queen at Pellegrino. But their very stillness betrayed to Jensen the knife-edge that Jared walked along.
Jared clambered to his feet, and as he stepped forward, the voices of the crowd died down once more, so many hundreds eager to witness the next twist in this storybook tale Jared was composing. Jensen was as bemused and enthralled as all of them put together.
Jared reached a hand in Pellegrino’s direction. “Padalecki would be your friend, my lord,” he called out.
There was a pregnant hush, all the world holding its breath for Mark’s answer.
“Confirm.”
Beside him, Katherine and Genevieve embraced in relief. Around them, the crowd once again roared their approval.
King Jeffrey exchanged a long look with his wife, then stood and held up his hands for quiet. When he could be heard, he pronounced in a voice that carried over battlefields, “This is not what we would have chosen for you, Lord Jared. But as you have won over your peers and proven your valor on the field against my former Champion-” There was a disapproving glance at Jensen for clearly forfeiting the contest, and while Jensen felt the dart of his liege’s disapproval sting, it could not puncture the growing, astonished hope that was swelling within him, “-we cannot withhold our blessing for this alliance.” Then he smiled merrily at Jared. “Well played, my lad. Your father would be proud.”
Jared turned to place his hands on Jensen’s shoulders, and Jensen could feel tremors of relief shaking Jared’s body, even as a grin of triumph finally broke across his face.
“How?” Jensen demanded, leaning in to shout again in Jared’s ear to be heard over the thrice-renewed cheering. “How did you do it?”
Jared wrapped his arms around Jensen and yanked him close, their mail clanging together awkwardly. Jared was laughing, his eyes lit like stars. “No one really wanted to marry me. Lehne’s heir desires Eric of Connell, and despite the allure of my riches, her father could not turn Nicole’s course. Eric, being a lover of women, will gladly take her over me. Lady Alaina and Sheppard have each long been yearning for the other, although it just took some negotiating to help them see it was love, not hate, which kept them brangling day and night. Lady Ruth would rather ally with Alaina than me-my lands may be richer, but she covets Huffman’s vineyards. And Genevieve greatly desires union with her cousin, Katherine. Both only dangled themselves before me because of Lord Mark’s ambitions.” He sobered slightly. “I pledged to move with him against Heyerdahl, Jensen. It was the only chit I could offer him in exchange for his support for us.”
Jensen nodded, trying to process it all. Jared must’ve seen his astonishment, because he laughed again. “It was simple. Each family’s concern was over the shift in the balance of power. Once they were assured I would not accept one of their rivals, they agreed I could have you.” He brought one mailed glove up to Jensen’s face, touching his cheek with the tips of his fingers. “And now I have you.”
*****
| Part 5 |