“One may learn the correct grip for a sword,” rapped outMadame Dupont, gesturing with her own sword as the two women bobbed in toward each other, and then gracefully back. “One may build the strength for a swing, make the weapon an extension of one’s very arm. The question is, can one do so when a large and odorous knight is lunging in for the kill?”
Gwen moved differently with a sword in her hand. She was more sure of herself, even though she’d never seen this dance before. She flowed, light on her feet, her skirts swirling around her legs as she took her cues from Madame Dupont.
“You must see the way they shift their weight,” Madame Dupont continued. “Watch their chest as they announce which way their arm will go. Note the turn of a foot, the preparation for a lunge.”
And Gwen was. She was doing it! Isobelle felt like cheering, but she kept her hands firmly on the keys, contenting herself with throwing in a merry little flourish. Gwen held her space confidently, her full attention locked on Madame Dupont as the older woman led her back to the beginning of the dance once more.
“Yes, good,” her teacher said, and Isobelle glanced up in surprise, nearly fumbling the next phrase of the music.Praise, from Madame Dupont?
Gwen seemed to sense it was unusual as well, and blinked.
“Watch your step,” the Frenchwoman said, with what could be described as at least a moderately evil grin. And then she swung her sword at Gwen’s head.
Isobelle hit a wrong key, the discordant note ringing out and echoing around the ballroom. Gwen’s sword hand snapped up, blocking the attempted blow with seeming ease, though she did miss a single step before she resumed her footwork.
There was a gleam in her eye to match Madame Dupont’s now, though.
“Next!” cried Madame Dupont, snapping the fingers on her free hand in Isobelle’s direction.
She scrambled to shift to a new tune on the organ, and with it, a new set of steps for Gwen to learn.
Gwen moved like she’d been born with a sword in her hand. Isobelle could imagine her practicing on her own behind the smithy, picture her working with her sword—a sword she had made herself, how many knights could saythat?—for hours.
Isobelle shifted tunes each time Gwen had mastered the latest steps, but whatever challenge she and Madame Dupont threw at the girl from the village, she was ready.
“Now!” cried Madame Dupont. “It is time for our friend to learn the woman’s part.”
“What do I need that for?” Gwen panted.
“For the tournament’s grand ball,” Isobelle called out. “The night before the final joust, everyone who’s anyone will be there!”
“Because the woman must be able to do everything the man does,” Madame Dupont corrected her, a gleam in her eyes. “Only she must do it backward.”
Isobelle circled back to the gavotte once more, and for a song or two, Gwen slowed down—her blocks and parries just in time, her footwork not quite as rhythmic. But it didn’t take her long to recover her newfound ease with the steps.
And then, as she came out of one of the twirls, Gwen shifted her weight, improvising her own footwork, and launched her attack—a clever half strike, half parry with a flick of the wrist that sought to disarm her opponent.
Madame Dupont swung up her own weapon with visible surprise, just managing to parry the blow. “Good, good!” she crowed as Isobelle tried to slow her racing heart. Knightly training was quite the exertion, she was concluding, and she was only observing.
Madame Dupont grinned as she and Gwen fell into step once more. “We will make something of you, Mademoiselle le Chevalier. Oh, indeed we will.”
Chapter Thirteen
Off in search of adventure
Earlier that day, when Isobelle had shown her where she would be sleeping during her time at the castle, Gwen had floomphed backward onto the spacious bed, spreadeagled and shivering with the luxury of it.
Now, she sank gingerly onto its edge, stifling a groan.
Madame Dupont had kept her at her lessons for over four hours. Whenever she managed to glance up and catch the older woman’s eye, Gwen was certain she could see a glint of mischief in them—Dupont had beentryingto break her.
Gwen would’ve sooner died than given her that satisfaction. If a woman more than twice her age could do it, so could she.
In the end, Madame Dupont had finally stepped back, raised her voice, and called: “Finissons!” Isobelle had trailed off in the middle of a musical phrase, blinking owlishly over at them as Gwen nearly stumbled, having forgotten how to walk if she wasn’t following a prescribed set of dance steps.
Dupont had barely broken a sweat.
Gwen was used to manning the forge for an entire day, for there was no sense spending the fuel to heat it only to work an hour or two. And her arms and shoulders were fine—wielding a blade for hours was far less strenuous than swinging her hammer.
