“Take a rest, Lance,” called Morian, wiping sweat from his brow. “You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

“Then keep up,” Lance goaded, lowering his bow. “If any of you can.”

“Is that a challenge?” Percival asked with a competitive gleam in his eyes.

“Only if you find accuracy challenging,” replied Lance.

A couple of guards hooted, and Percival reached for an arrow, his jaw set with determination. He rushed it in his haste to prove himself, and it landed at the very edge of the bull’s-eye.

Percival grimaced. “I can still split it,” he boasted.

“A penny says you can’t,” called Tristan.

“If you had a penny to wager, none of this would have happened in the first place,” someone shouted.

Lance tried not to sigh as the friendly contest devolved into posturing and name-calling and more than a few friendly shoves.

Here we go again.

It was like they wanted to fight for the sake of it, not because they had anything to fight for. Any page behaving with such a lack of chivalry would have been severely punished. Especially for fighting with another noble son. But the guards weren’t pages. And with one glaring exception, they weren’t nobles, either. There was no code of chivalry here.

He glanced across the training field, where Princess Guinevere was taking a stroll through the rose gardens.

It had been years since he’d last seen her. Since her arrival, he’d only spotted her from afar—due to his Plan To Avoid Jereth. Guin rounded a corner, coming nearer to the archery field. And Lance caught a glimpse of her companion.

Lady Elaine. Ugh.

The two girls giggled loudly, their heads together, and Lance realized—they were spying on the guards for entertainment.

He imagined Guin recognizing him here, now, like this, and he almost cringed with embarrassment at what Lady Elaine would tell her.

Perhaps he could set the guards right.

“All right,” he said, addressing the company. “If Percival can split his arrow, then no one should be impressed that I did. If not, then I had a lucky shot. And I’ll welcome the challenge to do it again, with any conditions.”

“Any conditions?” Percival grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

“Now that you’ve seen Trist’s bare arse, are you so eager to view mine?” Lance teased.

“Are you so eager to volunteer?” Percival asked with a smirk.

“Are you so afraid you can’t hit the mark?” Lance challenged.

“Oh, my aim is true,” Percival assured him. “As is my stamina.”

This last comment drew loud hoots from the guards. Their rivalry was well known amongst the company. After Lance, Percival came a close second in most weapons. With his friendly manner and country charm, the others were instantly at ease around him, and he was the obvious frontrunner to be their next captain.

Percival carefully notched an arrow into his bow, sweat glistening against his dark brown skin.

It went so quiet that Lance could hear the birds circling overhead.