The Royal Affair

Chapter 22

As the feasting drew to a close, the court's attention shifted from the banquet hall to the jousting arena, a vast expanse of sand enclosed by wooden barriers. The transition was a deliberate change of pace, a move from the refined atmosphere of the castle to the raw energy and spectacle of the tournament.

Outside, the air was crisp and cool, a refreshing change from the warmth and close quarters of the hall. The jousting arena buzzed with activity. Knights in shining armor prepared their steeds, their squires meticulously polishing their helmets and adjusting their lances. The crowd, a mix of nobles and commoners, filled the stands, their excitement palpable. Banners bearing the colors of various noble houses fluttered in the breeze, adding to the festive atmosphere.

King Francis, his mood elevated by the wine and the prospect of entertainment, led Alexa to the royal box, an elevated platform that offered a commanding view of the arena. He gestured expansively, explaining the rules of the joust and introducing the participating knights.

Derek was among them. He moved with a quiet confidence, his armor gleaming under the afternoon sun. He checked the straps of his saddle, adjusted his helmet, and spoke calmly to his horse, a powerful destrier bred for speed and strength.

When his turn came, Derek mounted his steed and rode towards the royal box. He sat tall and proud in the saddle, his lance held high, a figure of strength and chivalry. Reaching the King and Queen, he lowered his lance in a respectful salute.

"Your Majesty, Your Grace," he said, his voice muffled by his helmet but clear and resonant, "I request the Queen's favor."

A hush fell over the crowd, all eyes turning to Alexa. She felt a strange mix of emotions: a sense of obligation, a flicker of excitement, and a surge of nervous energy. The weight of her position, the eyes of the court, the memory of Derek's touch – it all combined to create a moment of intense pressure.

But then, a mischievous glint sparked in her eyes. She rose gracefully from her seat, her movements fluid and deliberate. She took a silken scarf from her wrist, its color a vibrant contrast to the stark steel of Derek's armor.

With a small, enigmatic smile, she approached the edge of the royal box and, with a flourish, tied the favor to Derek's lance. The crowd erupted in cheers, their applause thunderous.

Derek bowed his head in acknowledgment, his heart pounding beneath his armor. He straightened, his gaze meeting Alexa's for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange passing between them.

Then, he wheeled his horse around and rode to the starting line, his lance held high, the Queen's favor fluttering in the wind.

The jousts began, a spectacle of skill and courage. Derek rode with a fierce determination, his movements precise and powerful. He unseated seasoned jousters, his lance striking true time and again. The crowd roared its approval, their cheers growing louder with each victory.

Alexa, her initial nervousness replaced by a growing excitement, watched with a mixture of awe and apprehension. She was acutely aware of the danger inherent in the sport, the potential for injury, the fragility of life. Each time Derek charged down the field, her breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest.

But Derek was victorious time and again. He rode with a skill and prowess that seemed almost superhuman. The King clapped and cheered, his voice booming across the arena. "That's my boy, Derek! That's how it's done!"

With each victory, Derek's legend grew, and the tension between him and Alexa, unspoken and forbidden, thickened in the air.

The jousting tournament continued, each clash of lance against shield echoing through the arena. Derek's prowess was undeniable. He moved with a grace and power that seemed almost otherworldly, his lance finding its mark with unerring accuracy. Seasoned knights, renowned for their skill and experience, fell before him, their armor dented, their pride wounded.

With each victory, the crowd's cheers grew louder, their admiration for Derek reaching a fever pitch. King Francis, his initial enthusiasm turning into a possessive pride, clapped him on the back, his voice booming across the arena. "That's my man, Derek! The finest knight in the realm!"

Alexa, her initial apprehension replaced by a strange mix of awe and a growing unease, watched Derek's performance with a conflicted heart. She admired his skill, his strength, his unwavering determination. But she also felt a growing sense of vulnerability, a recognition of the power he wielded, the danger he faced. Each time he charged down the field, the Queen's favor fluttering on his lance, she felt a tightening in her chest, a silent plea for his safety.

The unspoken tension between them thickened, a palpable energy that crackled beneath the surface of courtly decorum. The way Derek carried himself, the intensity of his gaze, the pride he displayed - it was all directed, in some subtle way, towards Alexa. And she, in turn, found herself drawn to him, captivated by his strength and his silent devotion.

As the tournament reached its climax, Derek faced his final opponent, a knight renowned for his brutality and his ruthless tactics. The crowd held its breath, the atmosphere thick with anticipation. The two knights charged, the clash of lances a thunderous roar that echoed through the arena.

The impact was devastating. Both knights were unseated, their bodies crashing to the ground with a sickening thud. A collective gasp rose from the crowd, a wave of shock and fear washing over the arena.

Alexa, her heart leaping into her throat, rose from her seat, her hand flying to her mouth. She barely registered the King's concerned shouts, the murmurs of the court. Her only focus was on Derek, lying motionless on the sand.

Derek remained on the ground, motionless. The silence that followed the crash was deafening, broken only by the frantic shouts of the squires rushing to his side. "His armor! It's crushed against his chest!" one cried, his voice laced with panic.

They worked quickly, their movements urgent as they struggled to remove the dented chest piece. A collective gasp rose from the crowd as they finally succeeded. Derek lay still for a moment, then gasped, his chest heaving as he fought for breath.

A wave of relief washed over the arena. The crowd erupted in cheers, their applause thunderous. King Francis clapped his hands, his face beaming with relief. "He's alright! My boy's alright!" he roared.

Alexa, her hand pressed against her chest, let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The terror that had gripped her moments before slowly subsided, replaced by a lingering unease.

The jousting tournament concluded, the victory soured by the near-disaster. The crowd, their excitement dampened, slowly dispersed. The knights, bruised and battered, retreated to their tents and chambers.

Derek, despite the King's insistence that he receive immediate medical attention, waved off the concern. He insisted on walking back to his room, his movements slow and deliberate, each step a testament to the pain he endured.

As soon as he closed his chamber door behind him, the stoic facade crumbled. He leaned against the heavy oak, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body screaming in protest. The adrenaline that had carried him through the tournament faded, leaving him vulnerable to the full force of his injuries.

With painstaking care, he removed his tunic, his muscles trembling with the effort. The sight that greeted him was grim: a nasty, dark discoloration spread across the middle of his chest, a testament to the brutal impact of the lance.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the pain, and began to draw a hot bath. The steaming water promised some relief, a chance to soothe his aching muscles.

As he moved, his injuries forced him to move slowly, revealing the physique beneath the armor. He was powerfully built, his muscles corded and strong, honed by years of rigorous training and combat. Scars, etched across his skin like a roadmap of past battles, spoke of his experience and resilience. His shoulders were broad, his chest deep, and his arms thick with muscle.