The Consolation Prize (Brides of Karadok #3) - Alice Coldbreath Page 0,4
Vawdrey or the proud Jeffrey de Crecy. If they were to cheer for an anti-hero, they preferred the arrogance of Sir Garman Orde or the brutality of Lord Kentigern.
To them, Otho was naught but a grim-faced Northerner who fought without flair and only a dogged determination that gave them precious little by way of entertainment. There was no pomp or colorful display in his mud-colored shield or glamor in his plain helmet without plume. He carried no banner and barely seemed aware it was a spectator sport.
They had vastly preferred the extravagant loss of that good-looking fellow from the first round, Una thought wryly. What was his name? Sir Armand de Bussell. He had danced around for all the world as if he were on a stage. Feigning, he would go left and then going right, staggering from blows against his shield and tumbling to the ground as though grievously injured, before rolling to his feet mere moments later, rallying again.
The crowd had responded with glee to his antics, cheering and then sending up terrific groans when he had been bested by what seemed a lucky circumstance by his opponent. Since he had been defeated, the crowd seemed glum and depressed in spirit.
The announcement of the next combatants’ names evinced no ripple of interest and so the afternoon proceeded. Una could not be impervious to the growing disquiet or the fact the mood was turning uglier as the day wore on. She glanced uneasily at the King, but Wymer’s expression showed just as much disgust as the rest of the audience. The Queen, complaining of a headache, had disappeared after the first hour and Wymer had gestured for Una to move up into Armenal’s seat.
It seemed an inauspicious thing to do but she was the subject here, so Una duly moved her stiff structured skirts along and lowered herself with the usual attendant difficulties onto the Queen’s seat. Her ceremonial robes were hard to maneuver for they were stiff and rigid from the framework underneath. Wiping her brow, which was perspiring under the heavy headdress, she wondered how many more bouts they were to sit through before the eventual winner emerged.
The sun beat down on them as the contenders were eliminated one by one. To Una’s horror, Otho proceeded from round to round until there seemed a certain horrible inevitability about his ending up in the final two. With a sort of dull, resigned pain, she watched the very last opportunity of escaping from her cruel fate trickle through her fingers. She had always known her bloodline would be the death of her.
Quite apart from the impediment of their close blood tie, Otho was ineligible for the tournament on every single score. He had no loyalty to the Southern King he had been raised to despise, no estate to his illegitimate status, and he was competing under a false name. She had no doubt that these facts would be swiftly discovered in a matter of mere days, if not hours, and then what would happen? A double execution?
Una gave a faint moan and pressed a scarf to her mouth. She was sweating in earnest now, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the hot sun or pure unadulterated fear. Were her last living moments to include being married to her own brother, and then summarily executed? Just when she thought the history books held all the shameful chapters of her blighted family’s misdeeds, she found there was room for yet more infamy and scandal.
As though on cue, his current opponent yielded, and the crowd stirred restlessly to see Otho stand his ground, the final victor. A pugnacious expression on his face, he raised it to the royal box and Una gazed at him in despair. You wretched fool, Otho! Una thought bitterly, clenching her fists. Why would you do this to me? I was so close. So, so close to renouncing my title and finally losing this cursed name!
Just then, she noticed some commotion down on the sidelines. Earl Vawdrey was barring the announcer from entering the ring to confirm Otho’s win and was instead was sending in a group of entertainers. They looked a ragtag bunch of jugglers and acrobats, and in the center of them all was a swaggering court jester resplendent in trailing robes of red and gold.
“What the hells?” Wymer growled, sitting up in his seat. “Now what’s afoot? Why’s the fool entered the fray? I thought he wasn’t appearing till the feast. Blessed if