Chapter 44 Alain #2
I took my position on the line, conscious of Gaspard several places to my right.
I hadn’t spoken to him directly yet. Hadn’t trusted myself not to drive an arrow through his throat the moment pleasantries were exchanged.
Better to maintain distance until I could control the rage that threatened to consume me every time I pictured his hands on Isabeau.
“Prince Alain seems distracted today,” someone murmured behind me, not quite quietly enough. “Mayhaps he spent too much time with his forest maiden last night.”
A ripple of laughter followed, quickly stifled when I glanced back with an expression that had made seasoned warriors step down. The rumors had spread quickly after Isabeau’s arrival, despite my attempts at discretion. Court gossip traveled faster than wildfire and burned twice as hot.
I turned back to the field, forcing myself to focus on the target.
Distance, wind direction, the weight of the bow in my hands.
All familiar elements I’d mastered since childhood.
Yet concentration eluded me, my mind returning again and again to the tower room where Isabeau remained under doubled guard after her attempted escape.
I owed her an apology. More than that, I owed her freedom.
The thought struck like a knife through my heart, nearly causing me to drop the arrow I’d been nocking. Freedom. The very thing I’d denied her while claiming to protect her. What kind of savior locks his rescued maiden in a tower? What kind of man becomes the very monster he claims to despise?
“First flight, prepare to loose!” the master called.
I raised my bow, drawing the string back to my cheek in one fluid motion. The familiar tension grounded me, the focus required pushing other thoughts momentarily aside. I sighted down the arrow’s shaft, finding the center of the distant target.
Something made me look up, a prickling awareness that raised the hair on the back of my neck. There, in a high tower window, a flash of amber and gold. Isabeau. Watching from her prison, her hands pale against the stone sill. Even at this distance, I could feel the weight of her gaze.
“Loose!”
Arrows hissed through the air, mine among them. I didn’t need to watch to know it had struck true, embedding itself in the innermost ring of the target. Around me, other competitors cursed or celebrated according to their results.
Gaspard’s arrow, of course, had split the center.
He turned, catching me watching him, and inclined his head in the slightest of bows. “Well shot, Your Highness,” he called, voice pitched to carry. “Thou art a worthy adversary.”
The false praise scraped against my nerves like rusty metal. I returned the nod with cool formality, unwilling to exchange pleasantries with the man who had destroyed Isabeau’s innocence. “And thou as well, Lord Coventry.”
The first round eliminated nearly half the competitors, those whose arrows had strayed too far from center.
As the targets were moved back for the second round, I found my gaze drawn again to that high window.
Isabeau remained there, a golden figure framed by stone, her presence pulling at me like a lodestone to true north.
I’d told her she was mine, had claimed her as possession rather than person. The memory burned with shame, yet beneath that shame lurked something darker. A possessiveness I couldn’t entirely disown, a desire to keep her safe that blurred into keeping her.
“Prince Alain,” Father’s voice cut through my thoughts. He’d descended from the dais to stand near my position, his expression unreadable beneath his formal crown. “Thy form is excellent, but thy focus seems elsewhere.”
“Forgive me, Father,” I replied, keeping my voice even. “I shall endeavor to bring my full attention to the competition.”
His sharp eyes followed my earlier gaze to the tower window. “Ah,” he said, understanding dawning. “The girl watches. Perhaps that explains thy determination to best Coventry.”
I stiffened. “I don’t take thy meaning.”
Father’s laugh held no warmth. “Come now, son. I’ve seen how thou look at her.
Like a starving man eyes a feast he cannot touch.
You want to impress her.” He clapped my shoulder with heavy familiarity.
“Best Coventry if thou must, but remember what we discussed. The girl is a diversion, nothing more.”
He returned to the dais before I could respond, leaving me with clenched jaw and white knuckles around my bow. If he only knew the truth about his respected friend. If he knew what Gaspard had done to Isabeau...
But I had no proof beyond her word, and even that had been reluctantly given.
My word against Gaspard’s would carry weight, but without evidence, accusations against the kingdom’s most celebrated huntsman would cause more problems than they solved.
And bringing Isabeau into it would expose her to exactly what she feared most—facing her tormentor with the king’s favor already on his side.
The second round commenced. Targets moved back, the challenge increasing. I forced myself to focus, to place each shot with precision born of years of training. My arrows flew true, always within the innermost rings. Yet so did Gaspard’s, his form perfect, his confidence unshakable.
Competitors fell away with each round until only five remained. Then three. Then, as I’d known it would come to pass, just Gaspard and myself, facing targets placed at the field’s farthest edge.
“The final round of this event,” announced the master of ceremonies, “between His Royal Highness, Prince Alain Legrand, and Lord Gaspard Coventry, Champion of the Northern Marches!”
The crowd’s roar washed over us, enthusiasm divided between royal title and proven champion. I felt rather than saw Isabeau’s attention intensify from her window, her presence a tangible weight against my skin.
“A worthy contest,” Gaspard said as we waited for the master’s signal. His voice pitched low, meant for my ears alone. “I have watched thee grow from boy to man, Highness, and am most impressed by thy skill.”
“Thy reputation precedes thee as well,” I replied, choosing each word with care. “In all matters.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Wariness, perhaps, or calculation. “I am honored the crown recognizes my humble talents.”
“The crown recognizes many things,” I said, letting the implication hover between us.
Before he could respond, the master called for silence. “Three arrows each, gentlemen. Highest score to determine the victor.”
Gaspard gestured graciously. “Age before beauty, Highness. I insist thou shoot first.”
I stepped to the line, focusing on the distant target. All else fell away—the crowd’s murmurs, Father’s calculating gaze, even Gaspard’s false bonhomie. There was only the bow, the arrow, the target, and the space between.
My first shot struck just left of center. Not perfect, but within the second ring. Good enough to remain competitive.
Gaspard’s first arrow hit dead center.
The crowd roared its approval as he turned to acknowledge them with a raised hand.
Everything about him was performance from the modest smile, the respectful bow toward the royal dais, to the humble dip of his head that somehow managed to convey supreme confidence.
He was a man accustomed to adoration, to domination, to getting precisely what he wanted by whatever means necessary.
I thought again of Isabeau, of what she must have endured at his hands. Rage bubbled up, threatening my composure. I forced it down, channeling it instead into laser focus as I prepared my second shot.
This time, I adjusted for the slight breeze that had affected my first arrow. Perfect center. The crowd’s approval swelled around me.
Gaspard’s second shot matched mine exactly, his arrow thudding into the target’s heart with decisive force.
“Well placed, Highness,” he said, his tone suggesting mild surprise, as if he hadn’t expected me to pose a genuine challenge. “Thou hast improved greatly since last we competed.”
“I’ve had ample motivation to perfect my aim,” I replied, the double meaning clear only to me.
His smile never wavered. “Nothing hones skill like worthy competition.”
We were tied going into the final shot from the scores of each round accounting.
The crowd had fallen silent, tension stretching across the field like an invisible cord.
In the royal box, Father leaned forward, his expression intent.
Even Theron had set aside his wine to watch with uncharacteristic focus.
And high above, Isabeau remained at her window, a golden statue carved from sunlight and stone.
I stepped to the line for my final shot, letting my breath settle into the rhythm I’d practiced countless times.
In, hold, sight, release on the exhale. The arrow flew, straight and true, splitting the air with a whisper that seemed to stretch into eternity before thudding into the absolute center of the target.
Perfect.
The crowd’s roar was deafening, approval mixed with astonishment. I had matched the unbeatable Gaspard Coventry almost shot for shot.
Now it was his turn.
He took his place with the same confident smile, the same perfect form that had made him champion for fifteen years.
Yet something had shifted in his eyes. A tightness that hadn’t been there before.
The slightest narrowing that spoke of wounded pride and determination to reclaim dominance.
He’d probably blame his loss on his new limp.
Gaspard drew back his final arrow, his breathing controlled, his aim unwavering. For a heartbeat, he held the pose, a statue of martial perfection.
Then he loosed.
The arrow flew straight and fast but struck just outside the center ring.
Silence fell across the field, shock rippling through the crowd like a stone dropped into still water. Then came the cheers, thunderous and overwhelming. I had done the impossible. Beaten the unbeatable Gaspard Coventry.
He recovered quickly, his mask of sportsmanship sliding back into place as he approached and clasped my forearm in formal congratulation.
“Most impressive, Highness,” he said, his grip just tight enough to border on discomfort. “The student becomes the master, as it should be.”
But his eyes told a different story. Rage simmered beneath the courtly manners, humiliation burning behind the practiced smile. This was a man unused to defeat, a predator thwarted in his hunt.
“Thou art too kind, Lord Coventry,” I replied, matching his grip with equal force. “The tournament has only begun. Many challenges remain.”
“Indeed they do,” he agreed, releasing my arm. “And I look forward to each one.”
As he turned to acknowledge the crowd’s continued applause, I caught the briefest flash of something ugly crossing his features. A momentary drop in the mask he presented to the world. It was the face of a man who took what he wanted and destroyed what he couldn’t possess.
The face, I imagined, that Isabeau had seen in her nightmares.
I glanced up toward her window, finding her still watching, her expression unreadable at this distance.
But I imagined I saw something new there.
Not just wariness or resignation, but the faintest hint of hope.
As if seeing Gaspard defeated, even in something as trivial as an archery contest, had awakened possibility where before there had been only despair.
I had beaten him today. A small victory in a larger war whose boundaries I was only beginning to understand. But it was a start. A statement. A promise that the man who had hurt her would not go unchallenged in my kingdom.
Now I just needed to find a way to make things right with Isabeau. To prove I was not like Gaspard after all. To earn back the trust I’d shattered with my possessive outburst.
Starting with an apology for becoming the very thing I claimed to despise. But that would have to wait until the evening for I had to ready my horse for the next round.