Prologue
Northumberland, England
1409
Which of you brave Knights of the Round Table will fight me?” Isobel called out.
“Me! Choose me! Isobel, choose me!”
Isobel ignored the shouts of the boys jumping up and down around her and rose up on her toes, searching for her brother. Where was Geoffrey? When she spotted him in the tall grass, she dropped to her heels and sighed. Her brother was gazing at the sky, a smile on his face, happily talking to himself.
She pointed instead to a frail-looking boy at the back of the circle. “You shall be Gawain.”
The other boys groaned as Gawain stepped forward, dragging his wooden sword behind him.
“Sir Gawain,” Isobel said, giving him a low bow. “I am the evil Black Knight who has captured Queen Guinevere.”
The little boy scrunched up his face. “Why do you not play Queen Gui-, Gui-, Gui-”
“Because I am the Black Knight.” At thirteen, she was the eldest here and got to set the rules.
She glared up at the gray stone walls of Hume Castle. The boys her age were inside, practicing with real swords in the castle’s bailey yard. ’Twas so unfair! For no cause at all, her father forbade her to go off with the boys—or touch a sword—while they were at this gathering. She was to sit quietly and keep her gown clean.
She turned back to Gawain and raised her sword. “Will you not fight to save your queen?”
Gawain stood frozen, his eyes round with panic.
Quickly, she leaned down and cupped her hand to the boy’s ear. “The Knight of the Round Tablealwaysprevails, I promise.”
She did her best to make his clumsy swings look skilled. When that proved hopeless, she jumped about, making faces and acting the fool. Soon, even Gawain was laughing. She finished with a most worthy death, moaning and clutching her chest before sprawling full length on the ground.
She lay, sweaty and breathless, listening to the boys’ cheers. The rare sunshine felt good on her face. When a shadow passed over her, she opened her eyes. She squinted at the tall figure looming over her and groaned. Would Bartholomew Graham not leave her alone? He plagued her!
“Go away, calf brain,” she said and stuck her tongue out.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows. More ill luck. All the older boys had come out to watch.
“You’ve changed since last summer,” Bartholomew Graham said. He moved his eyes deliberately to her chest.
“ ’Tis a shame you have not.” She batted away the hand he offered and scrambled to her feet. “Or have you ceased to cheat at games and bully the younger boys?”
“I have a real sword, pretty Isobel,” he said with a wink. “If you’ll go into the wood with me, I’ll let you play with it.”
The older boys guffawed at this witless remark. Praise God, she would marry none of them! Her father would find a young man as noble and worthy as Galahad for her.
“Isobel!”
The boys’ laughter died as her father’s voice boomed out across the field. Isobel was the apple of her father’s eye, and woe to any boy caught offending her. Boys, big and small, began slipping away through the field. All save one. Her brother looked about him as though awakened from a dream.
“Geoffrey, go!” she hissed at him. “It will not help to have you in trouble, as well.”
Isobel waved to her father. Ah, she was in luck. The man lumbering beside him with a gait like a pregnant cow was their host, Lord Hume. Her father would keep his temper around the old man. All the same, she opened her other hand and let the wooden sword slip to the ground beside her.
When the men finally reached her, she gave Lord Hume her best curtsy. She wanted to make a good impression, since her father said Lord Hume could help them regain their lands.
“I am most sorry for your loss,” she said, pleased with herself for remembering the recent death of his wife.
What an old man he was! ’Twas hard to look at him with all that loose skin hanging from his neck and those puffy bags under his eyes drooping halfway down his cheeks. But he must be wealthy. As wealthy as her father said, to own a jeweled belt that could reach around that immense belly of his.
