Gwen, who had come to the castle, pretended to be someone else, run the gauntlet of her friends, and risked imprisonment or worse, all for Isobelle.
Gwen, who now had to ride out and face Sir Ralph alone.
The opening rounds can be brutal.
The herald was finishing announcing Sir Ralph’s pedigree in ringing tones. He shuffled his papers to squint at Gawain’s, then once more raised the metal cone amplifying his voice. “And our challenger!” he cried. “Sir Gawain of Toussaint! Sir Gawain, son of Armand, son of André, son of Guillaume of Toussaint!”
The two knights were emerging from their tents, taking the reins of their horses from the attendants. Isobelle’s gaze was locked on Gwen’s form as she swung up into the saddle. It was only when Sylvie shoved a sharp elbow into Isobelle’s side that she realized the other girls were applauding enthusiastically, and remembered to make herself clap.
“I know Céline likes to maintain some mystery, but is she really not going to watch her brother fight?” Sylvie asked, raising her voice above the cheering.
Jane snorted. “Against Sir Ralph? I wouldn’t want to see my brother get destroyed, either.”
“Hush,” said Hilde, squeezing in beside Jane. “There are leeches and surgeons at the edge of the field, all will be well. And I’m sure there’s a hedge witch in the stands if we need someone really useful.”
“What I wouldn’t give for him to knock Sir Ralph clean out of that saddle.” Jane sighed, then broke off as Hilde elbowed her.
Achilles was prancing as the two knights rode up to Isobelle’s box, trying to dance sideways as Gwen gripped the reins to keephim in line. At least someone was having a good time.
Isobelle rose to her feet, keeping her back ramrod straight and her chin lifted.
The world around her seemed to fade away as the two knights came to a halt and bowed in their saddles, the cheering muffled, the colors of the grandstands and the lists muted.
If only she could see Gwen behind that visor. If only...
“Sir Knight!” Both heads snapped up, and Isobelle realized she’d spoken. “Sir Gawain,” she managed, her voice firming as she knew what she had to do.
She wouldnotlet Gwen ride out to face Sir Ralph alone.
Gwen went still on Achilles’s back, the bay sidestepping uncertainly. Then her helmet turned slightly to look across at Sir Ralph—but the favorite sat just as still as Gawain, save that his horse was even more restive, responding to the tension in his rider’s body.
Gwen pressed her heels into Achilles’s sides, and they walked forward a few steps to halt in front of the stands. “Uh...” She was keeping her voice low, but that didn’t stop everyone around them from leaning in to hear. “Yes, Lady?”
“A little closer, please,” Isobelle called, before lowering her voice and addressing her friends. “Girls, if you let me fall over the railing, I shall start rumors even more horrifying about you to divert the attention.”
Three pairs of hands gripped her around the waist and the skirts, as she leaned down, fishing in her bodice for her crumpled—but clean—handkerchief. She shook the wrinkles free as Gwen eased Achilles around to stand side-on, so she could reach up with one armored fist to grip the barrier. Only the smallest tilt of her headconveyed a hint ofWhat the hell are you doing, Isobelle?
And Isobelle so badly wanted to reply. To say,Run away, be safeandI’m sorry I dragged you into thisandI’m so afraid this will be brutal, and I would rather marry Sir Ralph himself than let harm come to you.
But she couldn’t say any of that, because Gwen would never turn tail and run, and putting doubt in her mind would only make the danger even greater.
“A favor,” Isobelle said instead, and though only her companions could hear, everyone in the stands could see what she was doing. “For you have mine, Sir Knight.” Then, lowering her voice to a whisper, her eyes on Gwen’s visor: “Today, you are a knight. And today, you aremyknight.”
Gwen was still as a statue—Isobelle thought she wasn’t even breathing, visored helmet tilted up to look at her. Then she curled her fingers around the handkerchief and tucked it behind the breastplate of her armor, pushing it through the small gap until it was safely in place over her heart.
Her champion raised her head, and Isobelle saw the faintest glimmer of her eyes behind the visor. Then Gwen lifted one armored hand, turning it so that the gloved fingertips beneath the hard metal mail were what touched Isobelle’s palm.
“Yours, my lady,” came Gwen’s voice, soft and fervent.
And so they remained as murmurs raced along the grandstand, the story of what had happened traveling as fast as words could carry it.
Then one of the girls kicked Isobelle on the ankle to break the tableau, and she startled, and Gwen wheeled her horse away, riding for the far end of the lists.
Sir Ralph remained in place, the protruding jaw of his helmet swinging from where Isobelle stood in the stands, lavender tucked in her hair, to the receding forms of Gwen and Achilles and back again. Finally he too turned away, stiff in his saddle as he trotted toward his starting point.
“That was truly stupid,” Sylvie whispered as Isobelle eased back down into her seat. “What are you going to do ten minutes from now, when Sir Ralph is still in the hunt and Sir Gawain is a heap of scrap metal on the ground?”
Hilde sighed. “I think it was romantic.”
