Free Timeless by Amanda Paris Page B

air. My headdress
felt heavy, and my hands shook. I closed my eyes, not bearing to
look at the combatants below us. Their galloping hooves thundered,
signaling that the joust had begun.
    The tension mounted as the horses’ breathing
grew more frenzied. Their sounds grew closer, then
indistinguishable. The moment had come. A great cacophonous clash
resounded, and I could bear it no longer. I forced one eye to open,
then another. Relief poured through me as a cheer went up. He was
safe.
    The feeling was short-lived. His opponent had
yet to rise, and the loud, deafeningly cheers had all but ceased
when one minute stretched to two and then three. Had he killed
him?
    The Black Knight dismounted, handing his
lance and shield to his squire, and lifting his visor. His black
warhorse gave a fearful snort, anxious to ride again. He had not
yet realized that this round, at least, was over.
    The narrow slit didn’t afford the Black
Knight a full view, so he removed his helmet. The sun glinted off
his short, curling dark hair and made a sunburst wherever it
touched his shining armor. He bent over, removing his opponent’s
helmet carefully and checking for signs of life. The joust, a
preparative for war, had claimed many knights, maiming or killing
them. The lance could find an eye or worse. It often found a
deadlier home.
    We sat above them at a distance, awaiting
knowledge about whether or he still breathed. My father, the Lord
of Montavere, arose from his place of honor above the field of
combatants. The crowd grew quiet, the joust temporarily suspended
as a life hung in the balance.
    “How fares he, Sir Damien?” my father shouted
below.
    The Black Knight stood, wiping his brow, and
smiled at us. My heart quickened. I am my beloved’s and my beloved
is mine.
    Sir Justin must have opened his eyes, for the
Black Knight reached out his hand, pulling up his fallen
comrade.
    The spectators cheered, their voices ringing
throughout the field. Knights often took fatal falls during
tournaments; it added to the danger and, unfortunately, the
excitement for many. Though Sir Damien had received his knighthood
only a short time ago, he’d become the champion in several
tournaments in the south of England. Already, people knew him as
the Black Knight of Montavere, for he had shining dark hair and
eyes, deep pools of intensity that compelled admiration. His
prowess with a sword grew along with the rumors of his strength and
courage. He could ride any horse, including Brutus, the wildest in
my father’s stables.
    Despite the nearly legendary status that had
grown around him, I always worried that another knight, anxious to
dethrone a champion, would unseat and kill him. My fears seemed
unfounded, however, as Damien remained the only undefeated knight
at Montavere. I knew the others now dreaded him in the field, even
in practice.
    “We have our champion,” Lady Lamia, my
father’s beautiful wife, declared, rising beside my father and
startling me. She seemed to sense my surprise, turning to look at
me, her eyes narrowing to slits.
    “Sir Damien, come forward,” my father said.
Damien slowly proceeded to the platform where we sat. Though he had
engaged seven knights already, unseating all of them, he did not
look the least bit winded. He glanced sideways at me, but only I
perceived his momentary search. He would not let Lamia or my father
catch him. He tapped his breast, letting me know that he carried my
colors, white and gold, next to his heart as he bowed. Officially,
he wore Lamia’s red scarf, which she had tied around his arm before
the tournament began.
    “My champion,” she cried when he approached,
clapping her hands together as she regarded him with cunning,
lascivious eyes.
    “Sir Damien, this day you have proven
yourself the best knight in the castle—a great honor for one so
young. You may request anything of your lord,” my father
magnanimously offered.
    My breath caught. Would he do it? Would he
ask for my hand? We had