Chapter 15 – Violent Desires

They arrived at the tournament field slightly late. Duke Cosimo and Lorenzo were already present when they took their seats in the noble gallery. The duke was a few rows ahead, engaged in an intense conversation with the gruesome Duke of Mirkshire and several other lords. Lorenzo was with a group of young nobles his age, who were lively discussing the upcoming fights.

As the women sat down, they exchanged brief glances with the men. Cosimo nodded to his wife and gave Valentina a fleeting smile that. Lorenzo bowed politely in Innogen’s direction, and she tilted her head in response.

“Ah, wonderful,” sighed the duchess as she settled into the cushioned seat. “We haven’t missed a thing.”

The herald stepped onto the field and announced the start of the day’s competition. “Noble lords and ladies! The jousting continues! May the best knight win!”

The crowd erupted in cheers. In the lower ranks, the citizens of Vandercourt crowded together loudly, while in the noble gallery, people expressed their excitement with more discreet murmurs.

“Who’s left today?” asked Innogen.

Lady Beatrice leaned forward, clearly in her element. “Several interesting pairings. Lord Sparksend against Sir Dobbin, that should be technically challenging. And of course…” She lowered her voice meaningfully. “The Tower. He has three opponents ahead of him today, if he gets that far.”

“If?” snorted an elderly lord behind them. “The man is a walking siege engine. The question is not if, but rather how fast.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes.

The first jousts were competent but uneventful. Countless lances splintered and occasionally a knight fell from his saddle and was carried off the field to the cheers of the crowd.

“Sparksend has solid technique,” Beatrice commented as a young knight lifted his opponent out of the saddle in the third round. “But he leans too far forward. That will be his undoing against a stronger opponent.”

“How do you know so much about jousting, Lady Beatrice?” asked Innogen.

“I love jousting! I used to be a real tomboy. I rode all over the countryside, beat up the boys with wooden swords, and stuff like that. My father was delighted, but my mother had a lot of trouble with me.” She laughed lightheartedly.

Valentina listened only with half an ear. Her gaze wandered repeatedly to the area where the fighters who had not yet competed were waiting.

Innogen leaned toward Valentina, her lips so close to her ear that her breath brushed Valentina’s skin. “Are you looking for someone in particular?”

“No,” Valentina lied, feeling her neck grow warm.

A knowing smile played around the corners of Innogen’s mouth, but she said nothing more.

Then, finally, the herald’s voice cut through the murmur of the crowd with the announcement Valentina had waited for.

“Sir Gulbert Woundsworth of the Western Marches!”

The ordinary people in the lower tiers erupted in deafening cheers, stamping their feet and chanting his nickname. “Tower, Tower, Tower!”

In the aristocratic box, the reactions were more subdued. Here and there were contemptuous faces, but also respectful murmurs.

Valentina straightened up when he rode onto the field like a force of nature. His horse was enormous, a massive war stallion that nevertheless seemed to groan under his weight. The armor was simple, without embellishments or crests, just the functional brutality of polished steel. There was no flowing plume, no colorful ribbons, nothing to distract from the sheer mass of the man.

“There he is, little Weaver,” Vyxara purred in her head with undisguised amusement. “Your little heart is beating so fast.”

“Be quiet,” Valentina thought back, but she couldn’t deny that her palms were getting sweaty.

His opponent was announced, a Sir Neville Eastlessea, a confident young knight in blue and silver armor who greeted the Tower with a mocking salute. The two combatants took their positions at opposite ends of the barrier.

The signal was given.

The horses thundered toward each other with their hooves kicking up dust, the earth shaking under their weight. Valentina held her breath.

The impact was almost disappointing.

The Tower barely moved. His massive frame absorbed the shock like a rock in the sea absorbing the waves, and his lance didn’t even break. The force simply transferred cleanly through to his opponent.

Sir Neville Eastlessea, on the other hand, was catapulted from his saddle like a doll. He somersaulted once in the air and landed with an unpleasant noise that could be heard even in the upper tiers.

He did not move.

The crowd fell silent for a breathless moment, then uncertain cheers broke out as squires rushed onto the field. The Tower turned his horse with an almost bored movement and returned to his starting position without even glancing at his fallen opponent.

“Impressive,” Vyxara remarked. “We absolutely must find out where he is staying.”

Valentina felt the heat rise to her face. That controlled power, that effortless dominance, those huge hands, that-

Innogen glanced sideways at her. “You’re all flushed, Val.”

“Oh, it’s just so warm,” Valentina murmured, fanning herself with her hand.

Several more jousts followed, skilled fighters giving their best, but Valentina’s attention kept wandering back to where the Tower waited and stood bored next to his enormous horse.

Then it was his turn again.

His second opponent was Sir Starcus Glintholme, a knight from the coast who had been loudly proclaiming the Tower’s “primitive brutality” over the past few days. “Any reasonably skilled lance rider can defeat a raw oaf like that,” he had boasted. Now he sat at the other end of the barrier, and even from a distance, Valentina could see his hands shaking.

They rode forward. Sir Starcus attempted a clever angle, a technique that might have worked against ordinary opponents.

The Tower struck him with such force that the coastal knight’s horse stumbled. Sir Starcus was thrown over the back of his own horse and lay groaning in the dust. The bearers came with a stretcher.

“Maybe we should just give him the prize and spare the other knights all the injuries,” Duke Aldwin Whitehall remarked dryly to his neighbor.

Innogen leaned back toward Valentina, and this time her whisper was tinged with suppressed laughter. “You’re practically drooling, Val.”

“I’m not!”

“I’ve seen you look at pastries with less hunger.”

Valentina’s cheeks burned. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?” Innogen tilted her head, and despite the mockery, there was warmth in her eyes. “I don’t understand what you see in him. He looks like someone carved him out of a block of wood. With a spoon. He’s probably killed more people than I’ve ever met.”

“That’s not-” Valentina broke off, unable to deny something so obvious.

“Your desires for men don’t seem to bother her that much,” Vyxara remarked thoughtfully. “As if it’s separate from whatever you two have. Interesting.”

Vyxara was right. Innogen’s tone was teasing, but not jealous. As if Valentina’s obvious reaction to the Tower was something amusing and not a threat.

After a few more fights, the announcement everyone had been waiting for finally came.

“Sir Erec Swiftpyre!”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Swiftpyre was slender, fast, with a flamboyant helmet crest depicting a blazing flame in colorful enamel. He was the tournament winner from two years ago and known for his precision and clever angles, and he wasn’t too chivalrous to use questionable tricks on occasion.

“If anyone can beat the Tower, it’s him,” Beatrice said.

For the first time, the Tower seemed to be really paying attention, his massive helmet tilting slightly to one side as he was assessing his opponent.

And indeed, the very first round was different from all the previous ones.

Swiftpyre skillfully angled his lance and changed its direction at the last second, forcing the Tower to turn and change his own lance position. As a result, Swiftpyre only took part of the force of the impact instead of having to take it head-on. Both lances exploded in a shower of splinters. Neither knight fell.

The crowd gasped. For the first time in the tournament, someone had stood up to the Tower.

In the second round, Swiftpyre changed his tactics. He swung around at the last second and aimed directly at the Tower’s helmet. His lance struck, and the Tower actually swayed in the saddle.

Valentina almost went up out of her seat. For a heart-wrenching moment, it looked as if he would fall.

But he didn’t. He stabilized himself, shook his head, and turned his horse around.

“Now he’s angry,” Vyxara remarked. Aiming for the head was considered particularly unchivalrous.

The third round. Both knights thundered toward each other. Swiftpyre tried the same trick again, but the Tower had adjusted. At the last moment, he moved his head, just slightly. However, he kept his torso straight, and his lance struck Swiftpyre with devastating precision.

The smaller knight was thrown so far that he almost flew over the barrier. He landed hard among the cheering commoners, who were beside themselves with excitement.

Swiftpyre moved. He was alive, but he was clearly done for the day.

The Tower completed his circle, returned to his position, and then simply dismounted. Again, no bow to the royal box and no acknowledgment of the raucous crowd. He handed his horse to a squire and walked away as if nothing had happened.

The common people chanted his name nonetheless. “Tower! Tower! Tower! Tower!”

In the noble gallery, the lords discussed the implications with subdued intensity. The Tower was now the undisputed favorite for winning the tournament.

“Imagine what that lad would do with some Clairmontine foot soldiers…” murmured Duke Whitehall with rough voice, sounding almost as aroused as Valentina felt. “He’d impale them like meat skewers.”

“Being impaled by the Tower doesn’t sound so bad if you ask me…” purred Vyxara.

Valentina forced herself to take a deep breath and calm her racing heart. Next to her, Innogen smiled quietly to herself.

The rest of the fights passed in a blur. The crowd’s attention was scattered after the Tower’s performance, and even competent jousts seemed bland in comparison.

Finally, the herald stepped forward one last time. “Today’s fights are over! Tomorrow will be the last day of jousting, followed by a presentation by the Essence Weavers of the Order of the Primrose and the Order of the Poppy!”

The nobles rose, and the Greystone group gathered as well. Duke Cosimo joined his wife, Lorenzo followed, and they made their way to the waiting carriages.

“Now you just have to get through dinner. It’s a shame Lady Hazel isn’t here. She always brought fire to a boring dinner,” Vyxara sighed nostalgically.

Valentina smiled wryly.