Gwen lifted her chin, her hands at her sides. “If you would letme finish the tournament, my lord, I will—”
“Lift your visor and show them who you are!” Whimsitt’s calm evaporated, this repetition of the command sounding out in a higher, more penetrating shout. This time, he did not wait for Gwen to comply, but rather gestured to one of the guards, who leapt forward and seized Gwen’s helmet. The metal scraped at Gwen’s ear, leaving behind a searing line of pain as the man wrenched the helmet from her, half knocking her down in the process.
Gwen caught herself as she staggered, and went still, listening as reaction swept across the stands. Those farther away could not see what was happening, but ripples of gasps and cries of shock and alarm scattered back from those closest to Whimsitt’s box, murmurs and explanations spreading across the stands before dropping into an unnatural hush.
Gwen stood, the breeze ruffling her hair and tugging at the loose strands that had fallen from her bun, a trickle of blood dripping from the spot where her helmet had scraped a layer of skin off her ear... and listened to the terrible sound of a thousand people not knowing what to say.
Her gaze swung across the hushed crowd, seeing not individual faces so much as a bewildering composite of wide eyes and open mouths, of shock and confusion and disgust. Now and then she thought she saw something else—hope or admiration—but she lost sight of it whenever she tried to focus on those few faces, seeing only more anger and betrayal wherever she looked.
Finally, her eyes found Isobelle again. Her cheeks were glinting with tears, her hands white-knuckled where they clutched at the barrier. Gwen’s own heart wrenched, seeing her heartbreak—she bit her lip, then mouthed the words:I’m sorry.
It would probably be the last chance she had to tell Isobelle anything at all.
Isobelle’s face crumpled, just before Whimsitt—seeing this exchange—stepped between them, face purpling with fury.
“As you see, this... thiswomanhas made a mockery of our oldest, most sacred traditions!” His face twisted around the word “woman” as if it had tasted nasty on his tongue. “She has stripped her opponents of their right to face their peers in noble combat, she has robbed you of your final, and tainted this ancient rite.”
Gwen felt that heated, metallic something deep inside her stir, rising in a way it hadn’t since that first qualifying joust, after she’d heard the way the other knights talked about Isobelle.
“No,youare robbing them of their final!” she burst out, tearing her arm away from the guard’s grip and striding toward Whimsitt’s box. “If you let me ride, if you let me show you what I’vebeenshowing you, all this time—”
The guard had scrambled to catch at Gwen again, joined by one of his comrades, so that the two of them wrestled Gwen back. Whimsitt was gesturing, indicating something violent by the curse words spilling from his tongue—but the guards, uncertain about punching a woman in the mouth the way they’d apparently happily do a man, simply dragged Gwen down onto her knees.
“You will not speak!” shrieked Whimsitt, slamming his hands down on the railing hard enough to make the stands reverberate with the blow. Murmurs scattered through the crowd as they whispered and shifted nervously, uncertain how to react. Whimsitt stood panting, regaining some measure of his composure before he continued. “I was informed last night of thiswoman’svile treachery and deceit. She will be taken into custody and held until we havefinished the tournament festivities. And then... then she will pay for her crimes.”
The words fell into the silence of the crowd like the incantation of a spell. Having been told what to think, how to react, a handful of spectators began jeering, calling out a few of the more vile obscenities Whimsitt was too well-bred to speak. The jeers spread, not as fast as the chanting and cheering had done when Sir Gawain first rode out onto the field, but fast enough. Gwen turned in time to see them pull a giant straw effigy of Sir Gawain down off the post they’d been using to wave it around. The crowd milled about and then cast the effigy down onto the ground before the stands.
They’d tied a rope around its neck.
Gwen’s vision and hearing went strange after that—the scene played itself out in bits and pieces, some mental scribe inside Gwen’s head struggling to record everything and noting only a few random moments.
She felt rough hands tear at her straps, and then a blade slicing through the leather to pry the pieces of her armor away.
You’re ruining it, she wailed, her voice stuck inside her own mind, as they pushed and pulled at her. She knew she ought not to care about such a small thing now, in the midst of all that was happening, but she’d made that armor herself, piece by piece over the years, modifying and perfecting it with an attention to detail that she hadn’t even understood herself until she wore it on the jousting field.
They tossed the pieces of her armor into the dust.
She felt cold metal around her wrists as they jerked her arms behind her back, the loud, heavy sound of a lock closing, the weighty clink of chains. She saw Isobelle, her mouth moving soundlessly,the words lost in the hubbub as she tried to climb over the railing of the box to get to Gwen. Olivia was holding her back, her expression as stoic and unchanging as ever.
Hilde was there, crying quietly and holding on to Jane, who stood watching with a faint, confused frown, as if she’d never fully understood the revelation of Sir Gawain’s identity to begin with, and was only now grappling with the implications.
And Sylvie... wasn’t there.
Gwen felt a stab of sorrow, searching for anger and finding none. She couldn’t even blame Sylvie for betraying her to Whimsitt, for it must have been she—the truth of Gawain’s identity was the only dagger Sylvie had. Could Gwen blame her for using it, even if the target it found was her own heart?
The guards hauled Gwen roughly to her feet, wrenching her bad shoulder hard enough to tear a cry of pain from her lips.
“Hey!” Orson’s voice snapped as he pulled off his helmet, his eyes flashing. “You’re to detain her. Not hurt her.”
Gwen glanced over at him, grateful to have an ally in all the chaos—and then froze.
His eyes met hers and slid away immediately, his lips tightening. Then he drew himself up, lifting his chin, and looked back at her.
Gwen stared at him, a strange numbness spreading through her as her body understood what she had seen before her mind caught up.
“It was you,” she murmured, wishing the guards had left her on her knees, for her legs were struggling to hold her up. “Youtold him who I was.”
Orson tucked his helmet under his arm and met her gaze. Hiseyes held sorrow—but not regret. “You would have won if you’d been allowed to ride,” he said, under the din of the crowd as Whimsitt stood, barking orders. Orson took a breath and let it out slowly. “You would’ve beaten me.”
