Like A Romance Novel
Minutes and hours tripped and stumbled over one another, meshing into one long train of shared glances and petty arguments. The moment Rachel thought Peter might be worth the aggravation, he would have to go and remind her exactly why she couldn't stand him. It was almost as though he were deliberately sabotaging anything they might have.
For instance, the day before the five-day jousting tournament was to begin, he took her with the men when they went out with the Falcons. She ungracefully tripped over her feet and grabbed onto his arm in a vain attempt to steady herself, thus pulling him down with her. His very touch had pinned her to the snow but she hadn't noticed the cold. In fact, it had felt rather warm out. That night, however, Peter drank so much ale she would have had to drag him up the stairs to his chamber if she hadn't been so mad and left him in the dining hall all night.
An excessively loud bang dragged Peter into a hazy consciousness. He groaned and painfully opened one eye. Rachel swam into focus and even through his hungover vision he could see her irritation in the clench of her jaw. Slowly it registered that his cheek was plastered against the rough wood of the tabletop and he forced himself to lift his heavy head. Another groan followed the first and he covered his face with his hands.
"You're mad at me," he mumbled.
"Congratulations on stating the obvious, you've just won a free hangover," Rachel snapped back.
"Stop yelling. I can hear you all too well as it is."
"That's insobriety talking. If I lower my voice any more, people are going to think we're arranging a secret tryst after the way you carried on last night." She finished stirring the pitcher she had initially woke him with and, pouring him a stein, slammed it down on the table in front of him. "Drink."
"You're angry with me and you think I'm going to drink just anything you put in front of me? I'm not stupid."
"For heaven's sake, Peter, I'm not poisoning you, no matter how much I may like to at the moment. It's my job and my instinct to take care of everyone else, whether they're an arrogant ass or not." Rachel rubbed her forehead as though she were sharing in his self-inflicted pain. "So drink."
Peter stared, unconvinced, into the murky tar in his glass but took a reluctant sip. He scrunched up his nose, shooting her a dirty look. Rachel smirked. "I never understood why these things had to taste so bloody terrible," he complained.
"Get drunk often?" Rachel raised an eyebrow in challenge as she pulled out a chair across from him. Peter glared at her over the rim of his mug.
"And you never do?" he shot back, thinking of the bourbon bottle under her bed. Rachel blushed, obviously thinking the same thing.
"That's different," she protested lamely.
Peter raised his eyebrows but let the subject drop. Noticing the strange, morning light shining through the windows, he asked, "How early is it, anyway?"
"About six. I figured you would want to be woken up before somebody important stumbled across the High King passed out in the dining hall."
Peter winced. "Speaking of which, I ought to get cleaned up before we break the fast." He pushed himself up from the table, closing one eye against the onslaught of pain and light. "I'm getting too old for this," he grumbled before too quickly holding up a hand, "Don't say a word." Rachel bit her lip to hold back a smile.
Peter held himself up by the edge of the vanity, staring blankly into the mirror. Honestly, he couldn't say what had gotten into him the night before. He wondered if there was something in particular he had said or if Rachel was just mad at him in general. Her words made him think he must have made quite a fool out of himself, far besides his alcohol intake. Peter wished he could see past the fog clouding his memory so he would at least know what exactly it was he had said or done. He really had made a mess of things now, hadn't he?
He met his own bloodshot eyes in the mirror and his jaw clenched. How was he supposed to compete in the joust looking – and feeling – like this? It wasn't expected of him, but it had been too many years since he'd held a lance in his hand and far more since he had actually won a tournament. Without Ed there, he had thought he might have a fair chance, but now…
A knock came at the door and Peter straightened, adjusting the tunic he would wear under his armor. He threw the door open to reveal the last person he expected to see: Tal.
"Your Majesty, I wondered if I might speak with you for a moment?" The man looked more tired and angry than Peter had ever seen him.
He sighed. "Yes, yes, of course. Come in." Peter stepped aside to allow the surgeon entrance. Tal walked inside, crossing his arms uncomfortably as he went. Peter shut the door and leaned against it.
"I assume you're here because of something I did last night?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I don't mean to be rude, sire, but Lady Rachel was very upset when she left. Very upset with you," Tal explained.
"Yes, I know." Peter ran a hand over his face. "I know it sounds like an excuse, but, to be honest, I don't remember much past my fourth or fifth pint. I didn't dance on any tables, did I?"
Tal almost cracked a smile. "No. But there might have been some garbled variation on a declaration of love to Rachel."
Peter stared at him, mortified. "I did what?" he exclaimed, grimacing at the loud noise.
"Well, I don't think you ever actually said you loved her but it was rather implied in the way you insisted on doing everything for her and sitting next to her and, then, of course, there was when you kissed her."
"Oh my god." Peter covered his face with both hands and tipped his head back against the door. "I knew it must have been something dreadful but I never imagined… And for all her insisting we're not- or anything…"
"Are you jousting today?" Tal asked abruptly.
Peter made a face. "Yes. I can only imagine what that crowd is going to sound like in my head."
"Self-inflicted," Tal pointed out without sympathy. "It might do to apologize before you go out there. Don't let her think you're more concerned with adding another title to your name than with her. Sire."
Peter eyed him warily. "Shouldn't you of all people be infinitely glad I've made an idiot of myself?"
"Why?"
"Because you've been following Rachel around like a little, lost puppy dog since we got here." Peter folded his arms over his chest, straightening away from the door.
Tal scratched his head, looking out the window. "That's all fine, well and good but, despite all the odds, you're the only one she has eyes for. Trust me."
"What are you, crazy? The woman hates my guts. Especially now!"
"You'd be surprised. Besides, she's going to be stuck with you when you go back and I'll still be here."
"Fine. Be the bigger man. Impress her. But what in creation makes you think she feels anything besides a deep-seeded wrath for me?"
"Tell me, Your Majesty. Do you love her?"
Peter stared at the man wide-eyed for a long moment. He opened his mouth to answer but the horns blew outside and he shook his head. "If you'll excuse me, I must take my leave. I do apologize for everything I said and did last night." With that, he almost calmly opened the door and walked out into the hall, leaving Tal standing there staring at the place the High King had stood in.
Peter marched purposefully down the grand hallway, taking Tal's advice no matter how he might feel about it. Stopping at Rachel's door, he knocked briefly.
"What, Peter?" her voice called irritably from inside.
"I just wanted to apologize before the tournament starts. I know it doesn't make up for anything but Tal told me what I did and I do feel awful if it means anything to you," he said, looking at his feet.
There was a shuffling inside but the door remained closed. "Aren't you at least going to open the door?"
"Go away, Peter. I'm letting you suffer all on your own."
He sighed in exasperation. "Oh come on, Rachel! I have to get down to the field. I'm late as it is. Can't you at least wish me luck?"
"Wish you luck on what?"
"In the joust! What else?" Peter rolled his eyes in spite of himself.
The door flew open and Rachel stared at him from the other side. "You're not competing?" she stated in a question that resembled a shriek.
"Yes, of course."
"Peter! You're already hurt," she gestured to his chest where his wound was still on the mend, "and you're hungover! You can't fight!"
"I most certainly can. I'm fine, I tell you. Just a bit of a headache," he protested indignantly.
"I'm sure you can but you won't. I won't let you kill yourself for a title."
"Are you forbidding me from competing?"
"That is exactly what I'm doing. You can watch, bet, cheer, do whatever it is you boys do but you had better not get out on that field, Peter Pevensie."
"If I twist that just right it sounds like a challenge. Cheerio!" Peter took off before she could reach out and grab him. Rachel heaved a sigh, slamming her door.
Rachel was pale and drawn when she arrived at the arena but she strode somewhat indignantly up to the box she shared with Stilian and Kaili. The two nodded to her in greeting as she took her seat beside them so she and Kaili sat on either side of the king. She paid little attention as Stilian grandly announced the start of the games. Her head ached through the first few contestants and only grew worse as the day went on. Half of her wanted to find Peter and wring his neck while the other half prayed he would not injure himself beyond repair. She felt strangled; her corset was too tight, though it was perhaps the loosest she had worn all week. She had been too preoccupied that morning to bother doing anything with her hair so it hung down around her shoulders in unkempt curls.
After what seemed an eternity, Peter's first ride was up. Rachel's knuckles were white as she gripped the arms of her chair. As Peter was handed his lance, he spared a glance her way. His eyes swept over her, remorse for his actions over the last week creeping into his heart. Peter shook himself; it wouldn't do to be distracted on his first ride of the day. One hand unconsciously rubbed across his wound as he watched his opponent prepare across the field. A centaur's horn blew and simultaneously they charged. Peter's lance hit the duke on the arm as he flew past, victorious. Confidence swelled and he inwardly scoffed at Rachel's warnings. He would be fine.
Kaili watched Rachel out of the corner of her eye, catching the way she leaned forward, tensing, as Peter completed his ride. The corners of the queen's mouth tipped up in a small, secretive smile.
By the end of the day, the only time Rachel could think of having ever felt more exhausted was her first day at the war hospital in Hastings. Having watched Peter nearly kill himself all day, she was a bundle of nerves. She called for supper in her room and collapsed into the soft, down mass that was her bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
The second day of the tournament arrived all too soon. Rachel dragged herself out of bed just as the horns blew outside. The air had turned frigid in the night and a crew of Fauns had been put together just to clear a path in the snowdrifts down to the arena. For a brief moment, Rachel had visions of ice skating in Hyde Park as she had done as a child. A smile crossed her face as she gazed out the window. The moment passed and she found herself again looking out on a world so very different from her own she felt a squeeze of homesickness on her heart. With a heavy sigh, Rachel slipped into the dress Salia had laid out for her early that morning before she had woken and stepped out into the empty hall.
Peter was up first that morning and he seemed near unstoppable. Perfect hit after perfect hit did nothing to soothe Rachel's fears, however. With each successful pass, her sense of dread only deepened. She had every faith in his abilities, but he was putting such strain on his wound, she knew he could only hold out so long. The day dragged on as its predecessor had and even Rachel's inexperienced eye noticed the way his lance drooped and his grip loosened. There were whispers in the crowd and Rachel grew tenser as Peter began to slip from the lead. Each time he lost a ride it was accompanied by her small, worried gasp.
At one point, just about one o' clock, she abruptly popped to her feet. Kaili and Stilian both looked over at her, startled. "I'm absolutely parched! Does anyone else want anything?" she announced, her voice a bit more high-pitched than usual.
Stilian's lips twitched. "We can just call to have someone send something up for you," he offered.
"Oh, no, no. I need to stretch my legs anyway. Really? Nothing for you two? All right, then." Without waiting for an answer she shot down the rough-hewn steps from their box. Trudging in meandering circles through the small paths cut in the waist-high snow, Rachel stumbled across a small group of Talking Animals selling hot cider from their cauldron. Knowing she didn't have any money, Rachel bit her lip and made to go around them but a kindly Badger stopped her.
"Free cider for the High King's lady?"
Rachel flushed and made to correct him, but she really was cold and thirsty and their cider smelled absolutely heavenly. She nodded, her teeth clenched to keep from chattering. "Thank you, sir. That would be lovely." A tall Ferret poured her a large mug and she took it gratefully, smiling her thanks. As she took a sip, she turned at the sound of footsteps.
"Rachel! I thought you would be up in the box," Tal exclaimed in surprise, taking a glove off to search for some money.
"I needed to move around a bit. It gets tiring sitting up there all day," she explained, not meeting his eyes.
Tal paid the Narnians and, taking a sip of the delicious cider, began to walk away, nodding for her to follow. Once they were a safe distance from earshot, he said, "You're worried about the High King."
"He's being an absolute buffoon."
Tal chuckled. "What makes you so distraught though? You look as though you might faint any minute now," he noted innocently, raising his eyebrows over the rim of his mug.
Rachel stared at him a moment before realization crossed her face. "Tal, we've been over this! Peter and I are only-"
"Only what? Friends? I've never met two people who called themselves friends that fought as much and as harshly as the two of you do."
"Well maybe I wasn't going to say friends. Maybe I was going to say, um, professionals. Yes, that's it! He's a patient and I am only here to help him," Rachel finished definitely.
"Mhmm. I'm in the same field you are, you know, and he's my king and I still don't have the same desperate fear for every last hair on his head as you do."
"I'm not desperate!"
Tal reached out a hand and, cupping her cheek in it, ran his thumb over the dark circles under her eyes. "Then what do you call these?" he murmured softly. "Rachel, you haven't slept in two days."
She looked away, sighing. "No need to tell me. I was there," she snapped.
Tal's lips tipped up in half a smile. "You don't need to protect me, Rachel. You'll be leaving soon and Peter will be there and I won't. But, then, if you haven't seen how he feels about you by now, maybe you never will." His hand dropped back to his side.
Rachel took a lingering sip of her cider, looking at but not really watching two Archenlanders go head to head. As one hit the ground, she turned back to him. "You're a good man, Tal. Far too good for me, that's for sure." She smiled, patting his chest.
Tal shook his head. "Nah. You're too good for either of us." He gently laid a hand on her shoulder. "They'll be wondering where you are." He nodded in the direction of the royal box. Rachel bit her lip, nodding. It was with a slightly lighter heart that she kissed his cheek and smiled her gratitude.
It was almost dusk and the last two opponents of the day were called up. Peter eyed the usurper of his lead with trepidation. The centaur was nearly as good as Ed had once been and with his aggravated injury, he didn't stand a chance. Peter sighed. With a glance towards the brilliant red rays of the setting sun, he reminded himself he could hardly back out now. The squire eagerly assigned to him a few days before patted his horse's neck.
"You'll do all right, sire, if you just keep to the left. You'll have to be quick; hit him before he hits you. He's fast on four feet, that one."
Peter nodded, his eyes still on his formidable adversary. "You give a nice pep talk, son," he half-grinned.
The young man chuckled. "I do my best, sire." He again patted the horse's sweating neck and stepped away.
Rachel rested her head on her fist, drained from admitted excessive worry. Her eyes began to drift shut but as Peter rode onto the field, she forced herself to sit up. The least she could do was stay awake for his last ride of the day. She watched through tired, blue eyes as the two warriors charged each other across the expansive field. It was in slow motion that the powerful centaur's lance collided squarely with Peter, knocking him off the horse with the ease one would brush away a fly.
The entire arena gasped and collectively sat forward. Rachel sprang from her seat to clutch the railing. Her cry of "Peter!" rang through the crowd with a poignant echo. She stared in shock and horror at Peter's motionless body. The High King had fallen.
The snow was melted and thrashed in a crooked line outside Peter's tent. Rachel paced back and forth, her hands mindlessly running up and down her arms to keep her warm. Night had fallen and only the moon and a few torches lit her well-worn path. Suddenly, Tal emerged from the tent and she descended on him as a moth to a flame or a magnet to the north.
"How is he?" she demanded, placing a hand on the physician's arm.
Tal shrugged. "Sore." Rachel's eyes narrowed and he sighed. "He's going to have to withdraw from the tournament. But, then, I think we all know you were going to make that happen anyway."
Rachel stepped back, picking at her sleeve. "But he'll live long enough for me to yell at him?"
"Yes. He will be just fine in a few weeks, if he rests."
She nodded. "Can I see him?"
"He might be a bit grouchy, but that's your call. And go easy on him. He's taken a bust to his pride." Tal grinned, laying a hand on her arm as he made his way out from the contestants' array of tents, where Peter had insisted on staying, despite the fact he had a far more comfortable room inside the palace. Stubborn, as always. Rachel took a deep breath and lifted the curtain to enter.
A rug formed the floor to keep away the dirt and the dew and furnishings decorated the small space. A second, light curtain separated the "living room" from the "bedroom." Rachel shed her shawl on a chair and peeked into the adjoining room. Peter lay on the extravagant mattress that had been set up for him, hands folded over the covers, drawn up to his chest.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, his eyes closed. She folded her arms over her chest and stepped up to the foot of the bed. His eyes opened to meet hers.
Rachel shuffled her feet. "So am I." She held a hand up as Peter's brow knit in confusion. "For trying to take this away from you. I wanted to take away your pain but to do that I would have taken away everything else as well. I don't understand this place or your place in it, but I understand you love it as I love England. We'll count this a lesson learned."
Peter gave a brief smile and, for once, she swore it reached his eyes. "Apology accepted. But, really, I was just being stupid."
Rachel laughed and moved around to sit on the edge of the bed. Tracing the embroidered pattern with one finger, she said, "Well, that may be so, and is, but it still wasn't fair. You can't take away a man's will to protect him."
"Explain something to me, Rachel. You say you understand how I love Narnia because you love England." Rachel waited for him to finish but it appeared that was all he intended upon saying.
"I'm not sure what you're asking."
"And I'm not trying to be a pain in the neck when I say I still don't know how you can love and miss England so much when you have Narnia right here beneath your feet. Nothing compares!"
Rachel allowed a small smile. "You love everything about Narnia; every last little detail." She paused for Peter to nod his agreement. "When you tell stories of the battles you fought in, I can see in the way you speak of them that you were scared witless at the time and the mere thought brings back memories that just might keep you up at night. But you wouldn't trade anything in the stars for the knowledge that you protected that which you love. The good with the bad, right? That's how England is for me. It's not perfect, but it's home."
Peter couldn't take his eyes from her face as she spoke. "When you put it like that I find myself missing Big Ben and King's Cross and Buckingham," he smiled. "Can you forgive me?"
Rachel's eyes shot to his face. "I can't say I'm not still upset about you nearly getting yourself killed, Peter, but there isn't anything to forgive, narrow-minded tendencies or otherwise."
"Not even a drunken kiss?" He raised an eyebrow.
Rachel bit the inside of her cheek. "Tal has a big mouth."
"Tell me, am I better kisser when I'm drunk or when I'm sober?" he teased, grabbing her hand. The serious mood in the tent dissipated with a few easy words.
"Well, considering you missed when you were drunk, I'd say sober." She winked, intertwining her fingers with his. Peter flushed and looked away.
"Not my finest moment," he mumbled.
Rachel's laugh bubbled up and soon they were both giggling into pillows to keep from waking the neighbors. As their mirth subsided, they sat there trying unsuccessfully not to smirk at each other. Her eyes traveled around the tent for fear if she looked him in the eye she would not be able to contain herself, humorously or romantically. Noticing a book on the nightstand, she picked it up and asked, "What's this?"
Peter glanced down and rolled his eyes. "Kaili brought it by. Said she wouldn't want me getting bored while I was bedridden. I asked her if you put her up to that comment."
She swatted at his arm as she thumbed the book open with one hand. "Have you even opened it?"
"Not exactly."
Rachel shook her head and waved a hand at him. "Scoot over." He shot her one of those looks that always earned him a glare. "It looks interesting and as it was meant for you I'm going to read to you."
"You're going to read to me? Oh, come on, Rachel. Seriously?"
"Yep. And you're not even going to complain." She grinned cheekily at him and with another playful roll of his eyes he obligingly scooted over, mindful of his multiplying injuries.
Concern crossed her face but she pretended not to notice for the sake of the pride she had already wounded several times over the past few days. Instead, she settled herself beside him and opened to the first page in the book. As he listened to her soft voice and the devastatingly romantic story, which Peter insisted on noting several times sounded familiar, he realized something. Yes, she was English and she reminded him of things he didn't want to even think about. But, as he had silently admitted days before, there was really just something about her. He didn't mean to be corny, but truth be told, that's how he felt. It wasn't that she was stunningly beautiful, though she was. Nor was it that she was singularly articulate, though, again, she was. No, it was that, as she said of England, she wasn't perfect. She cared too much about everyone and could talk his ear off when she felt like it. She wasn't a particularly good dancer. She could be moody and temperamental. She was only human, after all. Without a doubt, that was the elusive something he hadn't been able to recognize in her before: she was only human. Nothing spectacular or legendary. Just a simple girl in a complicated world.
Her own reading soon lulled her to sleep. Peter lay beside her, eyes on the ceiling, until her words trailed off and, glancing over, he realized she was out for the count. With a small smile, he slid from beneath the covers and retrieved an extra blanket from across the room. He slipped her shoes off and dropped them on the floor before tucking the thick coverlet around her and curling up behind her.
Early the next morning the squire found the two of them curved around each other, Peter's arm around her waist and her hand atop his. He let them sleep.