The forge outside the house was cool—unsurprising, though Gwen had entertained the tiniest of hopes that maybe she’d come home to find her father working. Inside, though, there was a cheery fire burning in the hearth, and a stew bubbling away in the cast-iron pot.
She gave herself a bracing mental shake and prayed her father would not see how utterly everything had changed for his daughter.
“Hey, Dad,” she called, hanging her cloak on the iron hook her father had made for her when she was a kid—it was fashioned to look like a knight’s lance, and the blunted end of it was shiny and worn from the touch of her fingers over the years. “Dad?”
“I was weeding the garden,” came his voice from the back door. He walked in, wiping his hands on a rag. “Well?”
Gwen blinked at him. “Well what?”
“You’re going to make me ask? The interview for the internship, girl! Tell me how it went.” Her father gestured her over toward the fire and sank down into his chair. He was a large man, not tall or fat, but barrel-chested, the epitome of a village blacksmith. He’d never worn a big bushy beard like the man in the market—Don’t give sparks an extra place to rest,he’d always said,especially when that spot is an inch from your nose.
Gwen dropped into her own chair by the fire. “The internship, right. It was fine. I don’t think I got it, though.” Sitting down drained away all the fire that had been keeping her upright, and exhaustion reached up and grabbed her.
Her father frowned. “What do you mean, you didn’t get it? You’ve been working on those armor pieces for months. Years, if you count all your drawing and daydreaming. They’re flawless, ingenious. Who the hell saw those and didn’t snap you up?”
Gwen kept her eyes on the fire, uncertain whether she could keep up her facade of indifference if she actually saw the indignation she could hear in his voice. “It’s fine, Dad. I wouldn’t have done it anyway, I just... I just wanted to see if I was good enough. If Icoulddo it.”
Her father was quiet, so Gwen risked a glance his way through her lashes. He was staring down at his knees, his longtime habit when he was thinking. His sandy brown hair was in disarray and his face was tired, as it usually was, but there was a spark in it she hadn’t seen in some time.
“You know I’d be fine, right?” His eyes lifted and met hers. “If you wanted to... to go grab something, something like that internship, I’d be okay.”
Gwen dropped her eyes. “Yeah, I know, Dad.”
“I mean it.” His voice sharpened, the barest edge needed to make Gwen look at him and listen. It was the voice he’d used when she was a child, teaching her about safety in the forge—the voice that told her when to stop running, when to put her hands behind her back, when to pay attention.
“I know I’ve come to rely on you too much these past years,” he went on, his face showing signs of that old ache, as fresh as the day her mother died. “But I don’t want you shutting yourself down toanything because you think you’ve got to stay here and take care of me. If there was something you wanted, something that would take you away for a while...” He didn’t finish the sentence, but his eyes were penetrating, too keen for comfort.
Gwen shifted in her chair, unwilling to admit even to herself that his words were cutting too close. “I told you, Dad. I don’t think I got it.” She paused, and then added, “If nothing else, I’m a girl. They wouldn’t let a woman prove she could do a man’s job as well as he can.” She could still see the stunned faces of the spectators all around her when a completely unknown knight had knocked Sir Evonwald off his horse—could imagine how quickly that shock would have turned to horror if she’d pulled off her helmet and shown them who’d really beaten their local favorite.
Her father didn’t bother to hide his chuckle. “True. But you’ve never let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do with your life. Where you belong, and what you deserve.” He held out his hand, and Gwen leaned forward so he could take hers and give it a squeeze. “Don’t start now.”
Gwen’s throat tightened, trying to stop the words welling up inside her from coming out. How could she tell her father that, as much as she liked smithing, it wasn’t what she really longed for? That out there today, on the lists, weighed down by the armor she’d made and listening to the roar of the crowd, she’d been more alive than she’d ever felt holding a hammer and tongs. That the one thing she truly wanted—hadalwayswanted, since her mother told her that first story of knights and dragons and chivalry and protecting the helpless—was the one thing she could never have for herself, not in a million years, not in a world that was, and ever would be, run by men.
There was a line. She’d already crossed it by taking up her father’s craft, but that was the sort of infraction people could ignore.
But to masquerade as a knight?
That would leave the line so far behind her she might never find her way back.
Gwen squeezed her father’s hand in return. “Thanks, Dad,” she whispered, and tried not to let him see how much her heart ached.
Later, as she lay in bed while the moon rose and the village slumbered, her head was spinning so much she could scarcely keep her eyes closed and her body still. Logistics kept pouring through her mind. Technically, Sir Gawain was through the qualifiers and could ride in the first round of the tournament proper in a couple of weeks. But to have any hope of competing, she’d need far more than the sheer fury and luck that had carried her through today. She’d need training. She’d need a place to stay; though the castle was only a few miles away, Achilles was distinctive, and someone would be bound to spot her riding between the tournament and her poor, non-noble village. She’d need money, because if she was riding in a tournament, she couldn’t be making pickaxes, and how would her father live?
She turned onto her side, pillowing her hands beneath her cheek. It was impossible. Even if she could sort out the details, what right did she have to try to be a knight? Just because she could fight, and ride, and hold a lance—she wasn’tone of them.
A hint of a memory threaded through her thoughts, insidious, like a snake creeping in under her blankets.So. Fucking. Hot,one of the knights had said of Lady Isobelle, helpless sacrifice to the honor and symbolism of the tournament.I’ve got to take a swing at hitting that.
Gwen’s rage had probably made all the difference when it came to beating Sir Evonwald. She should probably feel grateful that she’d overheard them. And yet, now, thinking back... she felt the tiniest bit more heartbroken.
Even the knights aren’t knights.
The thatch rustled overhead, and Gwen stifled a groan, rolling once more onto her back. If they were getting rats in the straw again, she was going to scream. A few years back there’d been an epidemic of them in the village, until this absolute weirdo with a flute had turned up and driven them out. He’d stuck around afterward for an embarrassing amount of time, eyeing the village young people in the creepiest way. Eventually the local hedge witch came and stared him down until he moved on to the next town.
If only Gwen had had any aptitude for magic and herbalism, maybe she could’ve studied with the hedge witch. It wouldn’t be holding a sword, but she’d be able to protect her village in some way against creeps like that.
The rustle came again—and then, a half second later, athunkagainst her window’s shutters.
Gwen sat up in bed, clutching at her blanket. Rats didn’t clunk against shutters.
