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Chapter Nineteen A deer trying to hide in a pack of ravenous wolves

Archer provided them with Gwen’s papers at sunrise, and he gruffly waved away the purse of coins Isobelle tried to press into

his hand.

“El—Olivia would skin me alive if she found out I’d taken your money.”

They saddled the horses and set off as soon as it was light enough.

The ride was quiet, uncomfortably so—Gwen never thought

she would miss feeling the constant tingle of Isobelle’s eyes on her, but, as it turned out, she felt far worse when the other

girl wouldn’t look at her at all.

As they approached the castle gates, Madame Dupont drew her gelding off the road and into a copse of trees, signaling her

need for a conference before they got too near the castle.

Isobelle looked as poised and well rested as ever, only the dust dulling the vibrant purple and goldenrod of her dress to

tell of their journey.

They’d clothed her in a heavy cloak when they left, to make sure no one saw Isobelle sneaking away

from the castle—now, reluctantly, Isobelle slung the heavy cloak back on.

“écoutez, girls,” said Madame Dupont as merchants and townsfolk passed by on the road beyond the concealing row of trees.

“We are entering a most dangerous phase of our deception.”

“But we have the proof of Sir Gawain’s nobility now,” protested Isobelle.

“We can hand it in tomorrow, before the first round of the matchups are announced—she’ll be safe.”

Madame Dupont raised an eyebrow at Isobelle.

“Leaving aside that she is about to engage in a very dangerous sport indeed,

that is not what I meant. Just now, no one knows who Sir Gawain is. When she wins the first round of the tournament, however,

the entire county will wish to solve the mystery of this new young knight.”

“ If I win,” Gwen muttered.

“We don’t even know who I’ll be fighting.”

“Hush,” retorted Isobelle, though she was looking at Madame Dupont.

“None of that. She’ll be fine, right? Odds are she won’t

be up against anyone really tough straight out of the gate.”

“You are getting ahead of yourselves,” replied Madame Dupont reprovingly.

“Tonight is the key.”

“Tonight?” echoed Gwen, feeling her mouth go dry.

“What happens tonight?”

“You must go to the dragon bonfire celebration tonight as Lady Céline,” Madame Dupont told her.

“You must show yourself to

many people, so they will tell their friends, who will tell their friends, about the sister of this most intriguing new competitor

on the scene. There must be no doubt that Céline is a person in her own right, because this will help sell the illusion that

Sir Gawain is real, too.”

Gwen stifled a groan.

She’d been hoping to slip away to the village tonight to see her father and join in their own version of the yearly bonfire.

It would be far less of a to-do than the one held just outside the castle gates, attended by all the nobles in the land, but it was the one she’d grown up with.

Her relationship with the other villagers might not be the easiest or most secure, but it was a far sight better than posing as nobility all night.

At home she might be a deer trying to hide among goats, but here she was a deer trying to hide in a pack of ravenous wolves.

Isobelle, however, failed to notice Gwen’s lack of enthusiasm.

Or, if she had, she was trying to make up for it with a surfeit

of excitement all on her own.

“Oooh, Gwen, we’ll have such a blast!” She still wasn’t quite meeting her eyes, addressing Gwen’s

collarbone instead.

“It’s a great party every year, but this year they’re pulling out all the stops because the tournament

is here. You’ll love it, I promise. The food, if nothing else. Oh, and the dancers—you’ll see.”

Gwen summoned up a weak smile.

“Sounds great, then. Maybe we ought to slip off for some more jousting practice, though, Madame—”

“Non,” the older woman interjected.

“You must rest. The truth is...” She paused, clearly struggling with whatever she was

about to say.

She too seemed to be having trouble looking directly at Gwen.

Gwen looked over at Isobelle to find the other girl finally willing to meet her gaze, if only to signal her own confusion

at Madame Dupont’s uncharacteristic hesitation.

Dupont glared down at the reins she had clenched in one hand, still wrestling with whatever she wanted to say.

Finally, she

let her breath out in a quick, sharp sigh, and looked back up at Gwen, her gaze frank.

“The truth is, you are a natural on

horseback. It is hard to believe you have not been fighting this way all your life. I envy how easily it comes to you.”

Gwen could not move or think, distantly grateful for Achilles’s solid body holding her up.

Dupont was sparing with praise—Gwen usually had to find validation in between the lines of her critiques, and in the way she’d ramped up the difficulty of her training exercises so quickly.

She glanced at Isobelle, only to find the other girl staring at Madame Dupont with her mouth open.

Dupont’s eyebrows lowered and drew together in one of the most fearsome scowls Gwen had ever seen from her.

“Don’t gawk at

me! Elles me regardent comme si c’était moi la folle!” She wheeled her horse around and went cantering up the road and through the gate, muttering to herself in French

as she moved out of earshot.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then Isobelle gave a soft laugh.

“Gosh,” she said, turning her horse to watch the

Frenchwoman depart.

“That was unexpected.”

“Tell me about it,” murmured Gwen.

Beneath her, Achilles stamped his foot impatiently.

He could see the stables where he’d

be allowed to take off this ridiculous side saddle—and, more important, get hand-fed last year’s carrots and apples by his

new best friend, the stableman—and Gwen was sitting here doing nothing as far as he was concerned.

Isobelle waited for her to hand Achilles off to Jeffers, who was already rummaging in his pockets for treats and gazing at

Achilles with his heart in his eyes.

Together, the girls made their way toward Isobelle’s suite of rooms. Was this an awkward

silence between them, or an ordinary one?

Gwen was so distracted by her own thoughts, as turbulent and chaotic as a summer storm, that she scarcely looked at the girl

seated in one of the chairs by the hearth, waiting for them.

It was Isobelle who stopped short in surprise.

“Sylvie? What’re you doing here?”

Gwen blinked and refocused on the figure she’d first taken to be Olivia.

Sylvie rose gracefully to her feet, inclining her head and smiling a small, spare smile.

Her eyes, however, glowed with a

keen, curious satisfaction.

“When Olivia told us you were unwell last night and not accepting company, I assumed you would

still be feeling poorly this morning. But I see you’ve been out riding with Céline—has Lord Whimsitt rescinded his restriction

on your movements?” Her gaze took in their rumpled riding frocks and flushed faces.

Gwen fought an instinct to reach for a nonexistent sword at her belt.

Though Sylvie’s tone was faultlessly polite and solicitous,

the sharp interest in her eyes told Gwen to be wary.

Isobelle gave a sigh and cast an unconcerned smile at Gwen.

“Well, Céline pointed out this morning that some fresh air and

gentle exercise might help me feel better. And she was right, the clever thing! We never left the sight of the guards, so

I wasn’t technically breaking Whimsitt’s orders.”

Gwen wished she could lie so easily.

Sylvie’s measuring gaze swung over toward Gwen and stayed.

“Clever indeed,” she murmured.

“Is fresh air and riding a common

remedy for such ailments where you come from? Toussaint... that is in France, isn’t it?”

Gwen nodded, forcing a slight smile to curve her lips, trying to relax her shoulders.

“Yes, northern France.”

Sylvie’s smile widened, and Gwen had only time to brace herself before the other girl murmured, “Ne vous sentez-vous pas seule,

loin de chez vous? Quelle chance qu’Isobelle vous ait prise sous son aile.”

Gwen could sense Isobelle stiffening at her side.

This was, at least as far as Isobelle was concerned, the one flaw in their masquerade.

Gwen was not French, and a peasant girl certainly would have no reason to be taught the French language the way a well-bred noblewoman would.

Gwen had been right about Sylvie—she had been suspicious of Céline, and now.

.. now she was testing her in the most direct way she knew how.

Gwen swallowed. She’d scarcely spoken a word of French since her mother died.

But when she opened her mouth, the words came

to her as if she’d been conversing with her mother just yesterday.

“Il m’arrive parfois d’avoir le mal du pays, c’est vrai.

Mais comme vous le dites, j’ai de la chance d’avoir Isobelle.” Gwen hesitated.

She wasn’t sure why Sylvie was so suspicious,

unless she thought Gwen herself was taking advantage of her friend.

“Je reconnais la valeur de son amitié.”

I know the value of her friendship.

Gwen dared not look over at Isobelle, the other girl’s stunned silence already too much to bear.

Sylvie was frowning slightly

at her own failure to discover what untruths Gwen was hiding from her.

Gwen gave her a watery smile, and said in English, “Forgive me, but I’m quite tired—I will see you all tonight, at the bonfire.”

She inclined her head and then made her way as quickly as she could toward her room.

She could feel Isobelle’s eyes, wide and staring, following her the entire way.