The Royal Pavilion was packed with bodies, including the joust-vanquished knights from the Royal Court and several new faces invited by Arthur. On my way to my seat, I encountered a grinning, long-defeated Sir Guiomar—who kissed my hand solicitously as I passed—and caught the cold, lean stare of Sir Manassen.
His shameless cousin had already disturbed my night’s sleep, my mind replaying every moment of our catastrophic dance. Accolon had once again made a fool of me, but the tournament wasn’t over yet, and he was still bound by the terms of our deal.
The seating arrangements had changed—Lady Clarisse was at Arthur’s side next to Sir Kay, and my dubious privilege was to sit beside the Queen’s throne, so we could bestow our favours on the finalists in ceremonial conjunction. I took my seat, missing the breeze from Lady Clarisse’s dove-feather fan. The air between the draped silks was more oppressive than ever, weeks of heat baked into the parched soil and rising up to meet the relentless sun. My tightly pinned hair ached atop my head like a coil of pythons. Today, at least, it would all be over.
Amidst the usual blast of trumpets, we were called to our feet as Arthur and Guinevere arrived, still golden and unwearied, gliding along the tilt field before the applauding crowd. The couple ascended to their waiting thrones for the final time before another blare of pompous notes announced the arrival of the tournament’s two finest combatants.
Sir Gawain—my sister Morgause’s eldest son, and mine and Arthur’s nephew—was called in first, his alabaster destrier reflecting the plain white silks he wore as Queen’s Knight. Young, bold and strong, he looked like his father but carried my sister’s tenacity, riding twice around the arena to the sound of roaring popularity, and pulling up at the pavilion with the brisk confidence of a born prince.
He dismounted and waited at the bottom of the steps as the herald announced, “Sir Accolon of Gaul!”
The crowd cheered even louder, and Accolon rode in, sitting relaxed atop his prancing black horse, silver-blue armour incandescent in the high sunlight. He took his lap slower so the audience could admire him, arm lifted in a gracious wave. Even the way he approached the Royal Pavilion was presumptuous, swinging down from his mount and shaking Sir Gawain’s hand in a careless, masculine fashion, laughing heartily at some shared amusement as they climbed the steps.
King and Queen greeted the finalists, Arthur thanking the former competitors, the crowd, and the “two valiant men who deserve so much praise.” Guinevere stepped forwards, tying her pristine white favour around Sir Gawain’s arm and accepting his kiss of homage upon her regal hand.
Accolon looked at me expectantly, and the memory of the dance, his audacity, spiked along my spine. In the purse at my belt, the yellow favour sat waiting, but I made no move to reach for it, returning his gaze of entitlement with a stare like knives. He would learn the hard way that I owed him nothing but vengeance.
“Queen Morgan,” Guinevere said. “Please, do your duty by this worthy knight.”
“I cannot,” I told her. “I don’t have the favour.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “This is no time for jest.”
“Then it’s just as well I am sincere. Unfortunately, the favour caught on a candle and burned to ashes.”
The Queen’s delicate nostrils flared. Beside her, Arthur bestowed his blessing upon Gawain and turned enquiringly to our procrastination.
“Lady Morgan,” Guinevere warned. “Traditions must be kept.”
With a subtle exasperation only I saw, Accolon propped his wrist on his sword pommel and sighed skywards. His impatience struck me like lightning.
“I don’t have it,” I snapped, and sat down.
The full force of realization arrived, painting both Guinevere and Accolon’s cheeks an indignant red. The final trumpet blast warned the jousters to take their places, and Arthur half raised his hand to signal a delay, but The Gaul shook his head.
“It’s all right, Your Highness,” he said tersely. “I will not hinder proceedings. I commend my lord King and lady Queen to God.”
Arthur gave a stunned nod, and Accolon swept away to mount his horse, while I tasted the bittersweet darkness of satisfaction.
Guinevere glared down at me. “This is unacceptable. Give him something else.” She turned to the King. “Call Sir Accolon back for a favour—it’s tradition.”
“I’m sure it’s an honest mistake.” Arthur shifted his gaze to me, and I had to rise. “Have you an alternative, sister?”
“No, my lord,” I said.
“Honest mistake!” Guinevere said. “She must have something, but wishes to make me look a fool, on this, of all days. I will not have it.”
She snatched at the purse at my belt; I had no choice but to grab her wrist.
“Don’t touch me,” I snarled. “High Queen or not, my body and mind are no one’s to control.”
“Morgan, good God!” Arthur stepped between us, his expression horrified.
“You see how she is,” Guinevere hissed. “How many times must I say it?”
Arthur put a reassuring hand on her elbow. “Take your seat, darling. Morgan, come with me.”
Grim-faced, he pointed to the other side of his throne, waving Kay to stand up and ushering me into the seat beside Lady Clarisse. He signalled for the heralds to start reading the joust rules, and sat down with an air of hard-won composure.
“What in all Heaven was that?” he muttered.
“Don’t ask me,” I said. “I had nothing to give, and the Queen wouldn’t listen.”
“She is upset, Morgan. By your behaviour, and for failing to keep Camelot’s tournament tradition. These things are important.”
I suppressed an eye roll, but my brother noted it.
“I am well used to your stubbornness,” he said, “and often weather it because of my high regard, but it has no place here. There’s an order to things, and duties we promised to perform. What is the matter with you?”
I was about to argue I had never promised to be the midwife of The Gaul’s luck, when I sensed a whisper of observation across my skin. Glancing up, I spotted Accolon walking his horse in an anticipatory circle, his eyes fixed on my conversation with Arthur. The look of suppressed panic on his face said everything; he believed I was telling the King exactly what I thought of his Guest of Honour.
I put my hand on my brother’s arm. “I didn’t mean to react that way,” I said. “You never called me to receive the letters from Yvain’s nurses, which has been a source of agitation today.”
Arthur sighed, drawing down a veil of brotherly sympathy. “I see. But I cannot excuse such scene-making, much less on the tournament’s most important day. For now, there are other things at hand.”
He sat back in his throne, and I retreated with the same dignity. Across the arena, Accolon tore his eyes away, pushing on his helm and accepting the first lance.
“No favour for Lady Joliete’s beau today?” Lady Clarisse asked.
“No,” I said airily. “Though I wouldn’t worry for your bet. He has confidence enough.”
She chuckled. “Let’s hope your luck isn’t as potent as they claim.”
The thought relaxed me somewhat. Gawain’s tournament record was almost as impressive as Accolon’s, and his anxious spying proved I had crept under his skin. Victory might yet be mine.
At the hush of the crowd, the herald’s flag came down. The first charge was typical of Accolon—explosive, intense, daunting to most competitors—but Gawain met him at pace. Accolon’s strike connected first, but the speed from both sides was too great, and it merely skidded across his opponent’s shield. In turn, Gawain held firm, his lance shattering against Accolon’s shoulder and rocking him backwards.
The crowd gasped, but The Gaul pulled his balance back to centre saddle at once, cantering back to his squire. He tossed down the lance and pushed his visor up, grimacing at his stricken shoulder. The left pauldron was badly dented, so he tore it free, shrugging his shield higher.
Both knights rode more steadily into the next charge, the second clash clean but tremendous. In the same heartbeat, their lances hit the centre of the other’s shield, coloured splinters raining onto the grass. The crowd cheered at the ear-splitting crash, then groaned as both riders easily stayed ahorse.
“They’re sitting well,” Lady Clarisse remarked to Sir Kay behind us. “It seems your father may get his wish to adjudicate a draw.”
“Not as it stands,” Kay replied. “Gawain took a pauldron. So far, the contest is in his favour. Sir Accolon has no choice but to unhorse.”
“Or land a strike far worse,” I put in. “The helm.”
“If he missed, he’d be unseated for certain,” Lady Clarisse said. “Surely he won’t risk it?”
Sir Kay shrugged. “Gawain will likely not fall for any lesser strike.”
The final charge bell rang and the Royal Pavilion stood in unison, even Lady Clarisse. Accolon swapped lances and snapped down his visor, and as he gathered the reins I had the sudden, overwhelming conviction that whichever of us proved the victor here, something definitive would also be lost.
The flag dropped; Accolon straightened his horse, gave a twitch of his golden spurs, and charged. Lifting the lance, he tilted it slightly upwards, seeking the helm.
I knew it, I thought, heart leaping at my innate knowledge of him.
Such a move was fearless and foolish—too much height and the opponent’s shield would parry it easily; too low and it would miss the small target and leave him open to an easy counterstrike. My hands gripped the railing, knuckles white.
Gawain noticed the move just in time, pushing his body up in the saddle and taking the hit squarely on his shoulder. The evasion sent him sideways, but his Orkney determination held true, lance grazing the surface of Accolon’s shield enough to count.
The crowd held its collective breath, hoping for something decisive, but Gawain stayed ahorse. At the end of the barrier, both knights wheeled around to the judges’ pavilion, where five fair-minded adjudicators were already huddled in discussion.
Eventually, Sir Ector stood, thumbs hooked in his gold belt.
“Worthy knights!” he shouted. “You have competed valiantly and are equally matched! Therefore, the victor will be decided by sword combat, until one of you yields.”
A deafening roar took up in the stands. To finish a drawn joust on a sword fight was an old custom from harsher days, where death often chose the winner. At Camelot, they would fight with blunted blades, but it was still a rare spectacle.
Arthur leaned across. “This will be interesting, though Sir Accolon doesn’t look pleased. Perhaps you could bestow a favour upon him now, sister.”
“Sir Gawain is your nephew,” I replied. “How will he feel if he sees you showing favour to his opponent?”
“It would not be my gesture,” he pointed out. “Now is the opportunity to right a wrong.”
The word wrong prickled hot up my neck. “No, brother. It would not be right. If you wish to call your well-known fairness into question, then I suggest you tie the favour yourself.”
He recoiled and I regretted it, but I was deep in the tangle of thorns I had planted now; the only way out was through.
On the field, the knights had dismounted to prepare. Accolon chose to fight without his helm, mail hood gathered into a cowl around his neck. He tested the round-pointed sword’s weight as the audience bayed in excitement, stamping their feet to the royal drums in an irresistible, blood-pounding rhythm.
A deep horn sounded; Accolon pushed his hair off his brow, spun the blade in his hand and strode forth.
The first blow came from Gawain, a hurled, overeager attempt that The Gaul comfortably blocked, throwing it sideways with casual force. My nephew threw another, and another, pushing forwards in furious purpose while Accolon parried with little effort, as if he could duel this way for a week and not tire. Someone in the crowd hooted, and he smiled.
At length, they fenced their way past the King and Queen until they were below my seat, Accolon idly blocking a slash towards his bare head. I leaned over the railing and my movement made him glance up, our gaze locking like a turned key.
The ease in his eyes drained, joylight of duelling dissolving into blue-black hardness. I glared down at him in challenge as Gawain swung his sword once more, laying a two-handed blow against Accolon’s hip. Shocked, he crumpled, and my gut lurched, but instead of letting himself fold, The Gaul came violently to life. Eyes still on mine, he tossed aside Gawain’s next shoulder strike and returned the blow, smashing my nephew on the arm and causing him to drop his shield.
Accolon threw down his own shield, raining blows across Gawain’s body and avoiding a ferocious counterstrike with a graceful sidestep. He looked up at me again, breathing hard, no longer angry but sad, tired, wanting only to be done, and for a strange, quick moment I felt I had got everything terribly wrong. Our gaze held for a heartbeat, then Accolon cut his eyes away, and with savage proficiency brought the blunted blade in an elegant arc, dealing his opponent a stunning blow to the side of the head.
Gawain fell like a rock, sprawling on his back, to the collective gasp of the crowd. The side of his helm was dented, tournament sword flown feet away. He stirred, pushing his visor up and gasping for air. Accolon levelled his swordpoint at Gawain’s chest.
“Yield,” he said quietly.
Gawain nodded and croaked, “I yield.”
Swiftly, Accolon reached down, unlacing the leather ties under my nephew’s helm and pulling it free. He slung his shoulder beneath Gawain and heaved him upright, turning them both to the largest spectator stand, noise growing even louder at the display of knightly honour. The former opponents embraced in a musical clash of mail, then Gawain—smiling, dazed, his nose beginning to bleed—ushered his vanquisher up the pavilion steps.
Finally, definitively, I had lost.
All at once I knew why. My lethal mistake wasn’t within our game, but entering into battle with Accolon at all. I had assumed we were playing anew, when in reality, we were halfway through a conflict I could never win.
After a rousing speech in celebration of a brilliant, hard-fought contest, my brother turned to his winner in private. “Such an impressive performance, Sir Accolon,” I heard Arthur say. “Though I must apologize on behalf of my sister’s forgetfulness. Such a lapse should not have happened at my tournament.”
“Think nothing of it, my lord.” Accolon cut his eyes to me and then away. “Luck is an unreliable mistress. Better to depend upon my skill than her inconstant heart.”
Arthur smiled and put a hand on his victor’s shoulder. “A gracious knight, as ever. Nevertheless, we will find a way to make this up to you. Bring your best bow and spear on the hunting trip—we have much to discuss about your future.”
Ever obliging to his King, The Gaul knelt with a swift, familiar grace that sent a shiver across the back of my shoulders. In turn, Arthur raised his tournament champion up and embraced him like a brother, and though I stared endlessly at the side of his head, seeking a look of triumph, pride, fury, anything, Accolon did not look at me again.