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 astart. 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.
forty-five
Gaspard