“You can make anything dirty,” drawled Sylvie.
“I don’t think he’s finished.” Isobelle hadn’t realized she was going to speak until she’d done it.
“What?” Jane asked, doubtful.
“Sir Gawain’s not done yet,” Isobelle murmured. “Just watch.”
On the other side of the lists, a halfhearted attempt to start a wave began, then petered out before any of the girls were required to pretend enthusiasm, though Hilde was already setting her drink down in readiness.
The two knights turned toward each other a third and final time. Sir Evonwald had scored points on Sir Gawain, so it wasalmost impossible for the younger knight to win now. If he could at least connect with the other man’s shield, then perhaps he could force the fight on to a tiebreaker on foot, with swords.
Sir Gawain’s shield sagged as his horse pushed into a canter, and his body leaned back as though he might slide from his horse.
“I think that hit was harder than—” Jane began.
And then, just as the two came together—as Sir Evonwald raised himself in his stirrups to dispatch his opponent—Sir Gawain straightened and shifted his grip on his lance.
Then the two were clashing—there was a deafening ring of lance on shield, then a sound like a dozen saucepans being dropped out a window onto the ground below as Sir Evonwald was swept backward off his horse and onto the dusty ground behind it.
Silence blanketed the stands. No one had expected Sir Evonwald to win the tournament, but it was just as unlikely for him to get knocked out in the preliminaries.
The herald raised his large metal cone to his lips. “Sir, uh...” There was a pause as he frantically hunted through his notes. “Sir Gawain of Toussaint progresses to the first round of the tournament proper!”
“Huh,” Sylvie murmured, turning a sidelong glance on Isobelle. “We should get you making predictions more often, we might make some money.”
But Isobelle wasn’t listening. Sir Gawain might have been momentarily interesting, but there wasn’t any prediction about this tournament that ended the way she wanted, no matter how hard she looked.
A couple of stewards were helping a limping Sir Evonwald to his feet. He pulled off his helmet to get some air, and even at thisdistance one could see how red-faced he was, blustering like a very cross walrus. The winning knight had barely moved at all, probably as shocked by his unexpected victory as the crowd.
Then Sir Gawain wheeled his handsome stallion around. He approached the platform, drew his sword, and lifted it in a chivalrous salute to Isobelle.
Automatically she leaned forward and waved her acceptance, showing her dimples, laughing as Jane waved back far too enthusiastically beside her. But there was something tickling at the back of her mind—like gazing at one of those patterns they made in Italy, unfocusing her eyes until the picture emerged from the noise.
Why are you so familiar?
Her gaze ran over Sir Gawain and lingered for a moment on his sword and the beautiful, delicate engravings adorning the base of the blade.
And then her eyes widened as the truth leapt out at her.
Oh.
Chapter Five
Climb down, lady, we’re going out!
Gwen’s blood was still singing by the time Achilles’s hooves struck the hard-packed earth of her village streets. She barely remembered taking her armor off and completing the transformation back into herself. She did remember one moment when she led Achilles out of the jousting arena and overheard two of the spectators talking.
Who the hell is Sir Gawain?one of them had asked.
Never heard of him, the second one replied.I tell you, though, no one’s going to forget his name after that.
Everything before that was a blur of isolated images and sensations. The sweat trickling down the small of her back to collect in the padding she wore beneath her armor. The thud of Achilles’s hooves beneath her, reverberating through her body like a war drum. The singing of the fury in her blood as the world narrowed to a single spot on her opponent’s shoulder. The infinite stretch of stunned silence after the final blow and crash of an armored man hitting the ground—the collective sound of at least a hundred spectators forgetting to breathe.
Even now, Gwen was only half present. Part of her knew she had arrived at the stable at the edge of the pasture her neighbors let her use—the rest of her was still on her horse, in that arena, floating on a cloud of glory.
She wasn’t the only one buzzing. Achilles was practically dancing as she tried to get his saddle off him and brush out the spots where his own armor had rested. He tossed his head and pranced, snorting his desire to do whatever they’d just doneagain. Gwen ran a hand down his nose, as steadily as she could for all that her own hands were still shaking.
“That was it, love, we’re done,” she murmured to him, trying not to let her own heartbreak at those words come through in her voice or her touch. “You did beautifully.”
