“And I think...” Jane’s whisper cracked as she took in Isobelle’s white face. “Oh, Isobelle. You care for him.” She took hold of Isobelle’s hand, her own warm against Isobelle’s freezing cold fingers. “And we’ve been teasing you. Do you love him? I’m sorry. We’re here. We’ll stay by your side.”
Isobelle, for once, said nothing at all.
The two knights took up their places at either end of the lists. Isobelle could feel the pulse at her temples, could feel how shallow her breath was. A hush fell over the crowd, and all Isobelle could hear was the ringing in her own ears.
And then the flags fell, and the two horses started forward, shifting to a rolling trot and finally to a gallop. The knights rose from their saddles, and Isobelle’s heart thundered in time with the pounding of their hooves on the dusty ground.
Jane cried out as they reached each other, and Isobelle was distantly aware she was squeezing her friend’s hand, and then the lances were shattering as they crashed against the shields, splinters exploding in every direction.
Gwen went flying.
Isobelle shot to her feet, tracking her path as she arced through the air in Achilles’s wake, then crashed to the ground with a deafening clatter, landing flat on her back with her arms outflung.
The crowd were on their feet, roaring, and the cheerleaders were waving their streamers, and the stands were breaking into chaos all around Isobelle.
And she was on her feet too, whispering the words like a prayer, every muscle of her body locked in place. “Get up. Get up.Move.Get up.”
And then, after a handful of heartbeats and a lifetime had passed, Gwen began to move. She rolled over onto her side, and for a heart-stopping moment she grabbed at her head, as though she’d forgotten where she was and was going to pull her helmet off.
“He’s not moving,” Jane gasped, grabbing at Isobelle’s arm.
“What?” She tried in vain to shake her friend off, eyes locked on Gwen, who had managed to get to her hands and knees, clearly winded, and was contemplating the long journey to standing upright once more.
“Is he dead?” Sylvie asked, a sharp note entering her voice—that was what got Isobelle’s attention. She blinked and tore her gaze away from Gwen to see what her friends were looking at.
It was Sir Ralph. He lay motionless in the dust, where he had fallen, too.
All four girls stood in a perfect tableau, staring down at the field below in frozen amazement as Gwen staggered to her feet and braced her hands against her knees.
And then she drew her sword.
With slow, painful steps, she made her way to her opponent, coming to a swaying halt above him, the tip of the blade at histhroat. The grandstands were perfectly quiet, and the hoarse rasp of her voice was audible when she spoke.
“Do you yield?”
Sir Ralph didn’t move.
“Do youyield?” Gwen shouted, taking an unsteady step back, but keeping her feet.
A doctor broke from his place on the sidelines, scurrying in and dropping to one knee beside Sir Ralph to raise his visor and peer at his face. He sliced his hand through the air, giving the signal for a knockout, then leaned over the knight to slam his palm against the dusty ground.
The crowd wentwild.
Hilde threw her arms up in the air, screaming. “He did it! He did it! Gawain of Toussaint!”
“Boom!” shouted Jane, performing a dance of her own invention, whirling in a circle and shaking her hips. “And that was just with a handkerchief! Wait until you see what magic my girl can work with a scarf!”
“Well,” said Sylvie, who was clapping slowly, “this is going to make thingsveryinteresting.”
Isobelle couldn’t stop staring. Sir Ralph was being loaded onto a stretcher, so heavy in his armor that the attendants had to pick up one end and drag him along like a cart with no wheels toward the waiting medical team.
Gwen had won.
Gwen hadwon.
“Isobelle, what are you—” Sylvie’s voice rang out behind her, but the rest of her words were lost to the roar of the crowd.
Isobelle had shoved open the gate to their viewing box and was elbowing her way through the crowd outside. Isobelle wasrunning.
