Chapter One
The sort of thing that gets a girl burned at the stake
Gwen ducked out the back flap of the stall, gulping a breath of fresher air and reaching for another string of horseshoes from the boxes stacked there.
She hated Market Day. It meant dealing with an endless parade of farmers, coopers, farriers, and miners, all of whom demanded to speak to her father. They assumed she couldn’t possibly know what she was talking about when it came to negotiating prices, let alone when it came to the technical specifications of the tools they were looking at.
It certainly never occurred to them that every single nail, pickaxe, and barrel hoop had been made by the blacksmith’s teenaged daughter.
Steeling herself, she slipped back through the flap and busied herself setting out a new row of horseshoes to replenish the few she’d managed to sell. All their customers today were regulars—not a single new face had approached her stall, though the population of potential customers had easily doubled since last month’s market.
At this rate, she’d never make enough to pay the entrance fee for the jousting tournament.
It had been a mad idea, one she knew was mad even as she fashioned armor to fit her lighter frame, even as she practiced with hersword, even as she trained with her horse against trees and fences.
It was bad enough for a peasant to risk posing as a knight—impersonating nobility could deliver you to a very nasty end indeed if you were caught. Worse, in order to pose as a knight, she’d be forced to pose as a man.
And that was the sort of thing that gets a girl burned at the stake.
Somehow, though, it wasn’t the thought of being arrested or roasted that felt maddest of all. The part that kept her awake at night with wanting was the idea that she thought she could be, even for a moment,goodenough to be a knight.
So much for one day of glory,she thought, trying to swallow the lump rising in her throat.
A ragged chorus of gasps from the stall across the way made Gwen look up. The blacksmith from two counties over, in town for the pretournament Market Day, was demonstrating a flashy figure-eight slashing pattern with an ornately decorated sword. The whooshing, whistling noise of the blade cut right through the din of the crowds.
Gwen felt her brow furrowing, too annoyed to control the scowl she’d been told made her particularly unapproachable as a vendor. The only reason the sword was making such a racket—and drawing such a crowd—was because it was poorly balanced. A properly made weapon wouldn’t be half so noisy.
A swirl of color at the end of the makeshift row of vendors drew Gwen’s attention. A gaggle of vibrantly dressed noblewomen were sweeping their way down the aisle, people scattering back from them like frogs before a flock of colorfully plumed herons.
Gwen found herself watching them, safe in the relative anonymityof her profession—nothing at her stall would interest these girls. Their obvious leader was a girl in a blindingly pink dress—how does one even dye fabric that color?—with her blond hair in intricate braids coiled around her head.
She was absolutely beautiful, in that put-together fashion that waved like a big red flag to Gwen’s eye. Even if she weren’t a noblewoman, and entirely off-limits, her whole demeanor would’ve warned Gwen off flirting or even approaching her to talk.Different worlds, Gwen thought, continuing to watch her through her lashes. The girl’s face was shapely, her skin flawless. Her nose was perfect and pert, her lips a generous pink pout, her blue eyes huge.
Of course she’s got blue eyes,Gwen thought, allowing herself a bit of petty annoyance at the girl’s classic beauty. And yet, for some reason, she couldn’t quite make herself take her eyes off the ringleader of the ladies and go back to work.
And then the blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty turned and met Gwen’s gaze.
Gwen found herself frozen with surprise—and a certain amount of panic at having been caught staring. Then she jerked her head down so fast her neck popped audibly.
“Ooh,” came a clear, sweet voice, straight through the crowds to her ears. “Let’s go here!”
Gwen didn’t look up.Just keep going. If I have to try to sell a pickaxe to a noblewoman, I’m going to throw myself into the lake.
“Um,” said a somewhat less sweet voice. A glance told Gwen it belonged to a square-jawed man in an impeccably tailored jacket and hose, equally as handsome as the queen of the ladies. Gwen hadn’t even noticed him there—easy to miss amid the flock of jewel-toned gowns around him. He was gazing longingly at thewhistling sword demonstration across the way. “Maybe this one would be better, Lady Isobelle.”
Lady Isobelle frowned at him, the expression so perfect she must have practiced it in front of a glass. “Why that one?”
The young nobleman glanced between the burly, bearded blacksmith wielding the noisy sword and Gwen with her single black braid and plain gray dress. “He, uh... looks like he might be more experienced.”
Gwen clenched her jaw. How many times had she heard that one?
Hurriedly, the young man added, “He’s, um, older, you know.”
The lady’s frown had deepened, her eyes narrowing. She paused only for an instant before dismissing him with a toss of her pretty blond head. “You go over there if you like. The girls and I are going tothisstall.”
Dammit.
Gwen self-consciously smoothed down her skirt, rearranging the pocket hanging from her belt so it covered up the hole burned into the side of the fabric. “Good afternoon,” she said, keeping her eyes down as the group of ladies swept toward her. She wanted to say,There’s nothing here for you—you’ve made your point, now move on.What she said was: “How are you enjoying the market today?”
