Still, she waited there for a long time, far too long,embarrassinglylong, a single thought playing on repeat:Isobelle, are you there? I’m right outside....
Eventually, swallowing her disappointment and feeling entirely too cowardly for someone who’d just won her second official joust in a row, Gwen crept back into her room and shut the door.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ride off into the sunset with nothing but a change of underwear
Isobelle lay on her bed, tossing and turning as if she were trying to shake off some invisible foe. She kept punching her fancy French pillow to no avail, and her impractical nightclothes were so twisted around her nether limbs that when she yanked them straight, she heard one of the sweet pink bows rip free of the lacy fabric.
Finally, her willpower giving out, she vaulted off the bed and scurried over to the door. She eased it open slowly, avoiding the creak it always gave, and peered out across the moonlit living room.
Gwen’s door was firmly shut. She must be in bed, fast asleep.
Her voice was still echoing around Isobelle’s head.
I can do this, Gwen had said. And after watching her joust, Isobelle had no doubt those words were true. But what then? Whatnext?
Isobelle had always made up her schemes and plans as she went, counting on sheer charm and force of personality to see her through. But though she’d had a sweeping, romantic vision of Gwen riding to victory in the tournament, she’d never thought much beyond the moment she knocked the last knight off his horse. She was realizing that her childhood memories of the tournaments she’d seen didn’t include what happened after the victory was won.
Would they really let Gwen just ride off with her prize money, helmet still on, identity still concealed, no one the wiser as to what she and Isobelle had done?
And if Gwen does escape then... what happens to us?
Isobelle stomped back into her room to retrieve her silk robe, pulling it on and yanking the tie around the waist tight before moving into the living room to examine the tea things. Olivia had anticipated her needs and left a carefully wrapped bottle of hot water for tea to help her sleep.
She settled in one of the chairs, carefully spooning out the herbs and inhaling the sweet, smokey scent rising toward her as she poured the hot water into the pot.
She detested herself for letting Gwen continue taking such deadly risks. And alone, in the moonlight, with her cup of slowly steeping tea, Isobelle could admit the truth to herself.
She wasn’t letting Gwen continue this insanity because she couldn’t bear to marry any of the other knights. She still didn’t want to marry any of them—she’d rather climb down from the balcony, using the rings Olivia had carefully hammered into place, and ride off into the sunset with nothing but a change of underwear.
But that wasn’t why she’d sat there today, her heart in her throat as she watched Gwen ride out. It wasn’t why she’d fought to keep back tears of relief as Sir Makarios had saluted Gwen and conceded the match.
Isobelle was too afraid to ask Gwen to stop. Afraid that if she did, Gwen would leave. Or think Isobelle was no different from the world full of men telling her not to do what she was obviously born to do. Isobelle was letting this charade continue because she didn’t want to lose Gwen’s esteem.
And what kind of person did that make her?
The tea continued to steep as Isobelle rose to her feet and padded silently across to Gwen’s doorway. There she stood, suspended helplessly in place. Not brave enough to go to the girl on the other side. And not brave enough to tell her to leave.
Reaching out, she rested her fingertips against the smooth wood of the door. Then she turned away, walking across to snatch up her cup and return to her room, leaving only the soft scent of tea behind her.
Interstitial
You are familiar with a montage, surely. Yes? Yes.
The mood will be best conveyed with some backing music—go on, take a moment, and put on something with a strong beat. The latest hit from your favorite bard, or perhaps an old classic often repeated by traveling minstrels. Bonus points if it involves themes of rising up to the top, not stopping believing, or even a final countdown to victory.
Go on. One of the best things about a book is that it’s always willing to wait until you return.
As the opening notes of your anthem roll out, picture a town utterly devastated by the worst kind of plague imaginable: absolute, unstoppable Sir Gawain fandom. The women want to give him their favors, and the men want to be in his shoes—well, let’s be honest, quite a few of the men want to give him favors, too.
It’s mad enough that he bumped one of the local regulars completely out of the tournament in his qualifier, but then he sent the tournament favorite to the physicians, and then knocked “Mountain Man Makarios” on his ass a few days later. With that kind of track record, the rumors that follow—ridiculous under any other circumstance—take on a life of their own.
Did you know, for example, that Sir Gawain fought a troll inLuxembourg? That he singlehandedly routed an invading army from the north? That that army was actually made of trolls? That those trolls were actually twice the size of the trolls you’re thinking of, and that he did it with his bare hands, while hungover, without breaking a sweat?
Oh, and I heard he was once the model for a bodice ad in Paris, but the images were so inflammatory to the ladies and their delicate passions that the modistes had to take the posters down for fear of causing mass hysteria, and a mass burning of said bodices.
Whatever else may be true, by the time Sir Gawain rides into the arena for his third joust—fourth, if you include the qualifier—the entire county knows his name. The stands are so packed that it’s standing room only, on the benches and on the floor. More than a few people are toting blankets and pillows, having slept in the stands to reserve their places. The noise is so deafening that, were there any people left in the nearby villages instead of attending the joust, they’d be able to hear it in their cottages.
