Wilful and stubborn in all the wrong ways, half the time refusing to take commands from Isobelle, who was no mere beginner at riding, and the other half starting at shadows. She’d threatened to rear a dozen times, most recently at a small stick that had fallen gently onto the road in front of her. Once, they’d had to hastily pack up their half-pitched camp and move a mile downstream because the babbling of the water over some rocks made the wretched beast whinny and stamp and pull hysterically at her tether.
Now, Achilles heaved a great, noisy sigh, tossing his head and rolling his eye again at Gwen.
‘I know, buddy,’ she murmured, giving his neck an affectionate slap. ‘I’m right there with you.’
Isobelle caught up to them and reined the grey in beside Achilles, or tried to. The mare kept going, and Isobelle was forced to turn her in a slow circle to look at Gwen with a little laugh. ‘Sorry! She decided she was done cantering for a while.’
Gwen felt her annoyance melting in the face of Isobelle’s obvious delight. She refused to admit that they’d been taken in by the opportunistic merchant. ‘By all means,’ she said dryly. ‘Best to let that creature decide how fast we go and when.’
At this rate, they’d be hard pressed to reach their destination before sundown. Gwen’s optimism had faded with the morning mist, or quite possibly had been supplanted by the rumbling of her belly. Cheese and apples sounded like a lovely breakfast. But they were not, it turned out, particularly filling.
Isobelle looked tired, and hungry too. Despite her attempts at cheer and bright laughter, she seemed somehow more remote than usual; looking away from Gwen, rather than gazing at her in that dreamy way she sometimes did. Gwen could not shake her unease, though she could not quite put her finger on what fear Isobelle’s distance was stoking.
Gwen took a deep breath and said lightly, ‘Come on, get your horse under control and let’s keep moving.’
Isobelle gave a sniff. ‘Only if you call her by her proper name.’
‘I refuse. It’s ridiculous. I won’t do it, I tell you!’
The other girl started to cross her arms, then thought better of it when the horse sidestepped, as if trying to move out from underneath her rider. Isobelle tightened her lips – and her hands on the reins – and stared defiantly at Gwen.
Gwen muttered a curse under her breath, torn between helpless amusement and annoyance. It was a rather common state of mind around Isobelle, and as always, amusement won out. ‘Fine. TurnPrincess Buttercuparound, and let’s go.’
‘As you wish!’ Isobelle chirped, tugging at the mare’s reins. But there she stopped, frowning, looking back the way they’d come.
Gwen had been so absorbed in her study of the girl at her side that she hadn’t spotted the approaching carriage cresting the hill behind them.
Isobelle hmmed softly. ‘Gosh, who would drive such a fine carriage so quickly? They’ll break a wheel.’
Gwen shielded her eyes. With a nudge of her heels, she eased Achilles off the road, ready to let the carriage pass. Her ears caught a slight sound, one that rose and rose in volume as the carriage approached – it passed in a clatter of wheels and a flash of wide, harried eyes from the driver, and the rising sound resolved into the delighted whoop of a female voice.
‘Stop, stop I tell you!’ the voice shrieked again, and several peals of laughter emerged from inside.
The carriage skittered and skidded to a halt, the horses prancing merrily at having been allowed to run. The driver passed his gloved hand over his brow; he was sweating, despite the cool of the day.
Isobelle had stiffened straight as a poker, her eyes wide and lips falling open. Gwen barely had time to register this reaction before the carriage door opened and a number of ladies came spilling out, a flurry of brightly coloured dresses and flying hair and shrieks of excitement. Isobelle had thrown herself from her saddle – much to Buttercup’s disapproval – and was immediately engulfed by two of the girls, one dark-haired and plump, the other blonde and willowy tall. The third lady, clad in black, had not rushed forward, but now stood a few paces from Achilles, gazing up at Gwen with her arms crossed and one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised.
‘Well, Lady Dragonslayer,’ drawled Sylvie, the corners of her mouth twitching. ‘Are you going to get down here and hug me?’
The words unfroze Gwen, and she felt her face splitting in a smile wider than any she’d felt in some time. She practically fell out of Achilles’s saddle in her haste and threw her arms around Sylvie, as Jane and Hilde transferred their affectionate greeting from Isobelle to Gwen.
And so it was that Sir Gwen, presumptive champion of the Darkhaven Tournament of Dragonslayers, slayer ofactualdragons, who had knocked multiple men twice her size from their horses and borne their blows without yielding, lost her balance with the force of their friends’ greetings and felt herself toppling backwards.
Jane went down with her, with a shriek of delight.
Everyone was talking at once, snatches of sentences mingling and rising overtop one another.
‘Sylvie’s got a guy at the castle to keep an eye on you, you know, and he—’
‘They told us you’d been sent out again, already! Whimsitt is such a dick!’
‘We knew you’d be tired, and sore, and we thought—’
‘There’s nothing better to cheer one up than a—’
‘ROAD TRIP!’ That last was Jane, who shrieked the words in Gwen’s ear, her arms locked around her neck as though Gwen were a particularly favoured pet being dragged around by a child who didn’t know any better.
By this point, they were all sprawled in the dust of the road in a ragged circle formed by three rather spectacular dresses, Isobelle’s charming but practical riding dress, and Gwen in her chainmail vest over her riding habit. The driver of the carriage stood some distance away, pretending to check the horses over and ostentatiously ignoring the odd scene. The girls assisted him by pretending they didn’t notice his sidelong stares.
