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Chapter Twenty-Nine Do you yield?

Isobelle woke early after a restless night, pulling a robe around herself and padding out to the main room.

She didn’t know

what she was going to do—knock on Gwen’s door?

To say what?

But Gwen wasn’t there.

Instead, she found Gwen’s bedroom door open, her bed neatly made, not even an echo of her presence.

Her mouth dry, she stood

there frozen, wondering if Gwen had simply left her quarters already, or if Gwen had.

.. left .

At a soft noise behind her, she whirled, only to find Olivia in one of the armchairs, calmly mending the gray dress Isobelle

had borrowed from Gwen in the village.

Somehow the blackberry stains were gone, and her maid was on to the rips and tears

the thorns had left.

“She went to start getting ready,” Olivia said, answering the unspoken question.

“There’s a while yet before it’s time to

go watch her ride. Come over here, and you can get started on this mess you’ve made of the hem.”

By midmorning, Isobelle had helped Olivia mend both the ruined dresses, stress-cleaned the living room, heartlessly culled her wardrobe—the perfect time to get rid of dresses you’d been hanging on to was when nothing seemed to matter—and choked down a croissant that only made her think of Gwen.

What had that girl done to her?

Isobelle couldn’t even enjoy a good stress-eat anymore.

Her stomach churned, tying itself in knots as Olivia laced her into her dress and smoothed down the folds of rich emerald-green

fabric with gentle hands.

Isobelle bowed her head so her maid could tuck sprigs of lavender in around her temples and across

the crown of her head.

It felt as though she were about to walk to the gallows, and all she had left was her dignity.

Then came a knock at the door, and her heart leapt, a flood of.

.. of something running through her, sending a thrill of anticipation through her limbs.

She pulled away from Olivia and, fingers fumbling

to finish tying the ribbon at her bodice herself, she hurried— ran , if she was being entirely honest—to fling open the door.

Orson was waiting on the other side, blinking in surprise at the drama of her greeting.

“Good morning,” he ventured.

“That’s

a nice dress.”

“I... oh.” Isobelle felt numb, wishing she could simply ask him to leave, but she couldn’t remember how to do it nicely.

“Come in.”

With an expression that said he wanted to ask who she’d been expecting, he followed her inside and took a seat.

Olivia poured

them each a cup of tea and then disappeared into Isobelle’s room to make the bed, or—more likely—listen at the door.

“I wanted to see how you’re feeling, with the tourney proper kicking off,” Orson said, watching Olivia go.

“You’ve got a brave

face on, but I know you better than that.”

And he did, the dear thing.

Orson had been there since Isobelle was small, like a friendly piece of furniture.

She’d seen him cry when he’d fallen off his first pony, a beast of a creature called Snowflake, who had frequently tried to bite him.

He’d been there during the awkward phase when she’d tried to dye her hair the deep red of a traveling actress she’d admired.

Isobelle studied his profile.

He was classically handsome: square jaw, blond hair that tousled nicely, even a fetching scar

on his eyebrow—though it was less roguish when you knew it had come courtesy of an evil-minded pony.

He should have been enough.

She wished he were.

“I’m all right,” she said when she realized he was still waiting for a reply.

“Just... for the first time in my life, I’m

finding it hard to have to watch as things unfold.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said.

“You know that.”

“Of course,” she murmured, her eyes on her skirts as she sat and smoothed them out around her.

The note in her voice was all

wrong, too dull, and she knew he’d heard it.

“I know I’m not what you dreamed of,” he said, giving her the most uncomfortable feeling he’d read her mind.

“Any girl would be lucky to have you,” she said firmly.

“But you wanted a love story,” he returned, his smile gentle, remembering conversations long past in their childhood.

Isobelle looked down at the cup of tea in her hands.

She couldn’t remember having picked it up.

“That was a silly thing to

want,” she whispered.

“I think we could be happy,” he ventured.

“If I won. I don’t... desire you, as the others do. That’s not a part of me. But there are worse things than a marriage of friends, don’t you think? Once we’d got it over with, had an heir and a spare, well. Your dowry would make us comfortable. And you’d have my respect, and my friendship, and a great deal more freedom than most women.”

Isobelle’s chest felt tight, and she couldn’t find the words to reply.

Or rather, the words she couldn’t speak tried to force

their way up her throat, past her lips.

It was a better option than any of the others she was facing, and a better offer than

most women in her position could hope to find.

But how could I want such a gray and cloudy day of a life now I’ve seen a rainbow?

The silence went on too long, and Orson’s eyebrows drew in.

“I shouldn’t speak so plainly,” he murmured.

“No, no,” Isobelle replied, glancing up at his honest face with a pang.

He was her friend. In his own way, he must dread a

marriage too, and she must seem like his best option as well.

She searched for the right lie, and when she found it, she let

it spill out.

“It’s just too soon to think about it. I can’t let myself want anything. Not yet.”

“I understand,” he said.

“Will you be watching today?”

“Yes,” she managed, the numb dread surging back in.

“My friend’s brother is riding. Sir Gawain.” She tried to speak the name

without any emphasis, but she saw Orson’s gaze sharpen on her curiously.

“Right, against Sir Ralph.” He winced.

“Well, at least it will probably be over quickly enough. Let us hope so, at any rate.

The early rounds in particular, with the less experienced chaps, can be brutal.”

Isobelle started, unable to conceal the pang that ran through her.

“Brutal?” she echoed.

Orson’s brow furrowed.

“Well... yes. More knights are maimed or killed in the opening rounds than any other time.”

An involuntary tremor went through Isobelle, and her cup fell from her lifeless fingers—she sprang to her feet to keep it from soaking her skirts.

Orson pushed his chair back, brushing a couple of stray drops from his shin.

“All right, Izzie?”

But now, she truly couldn’t speak.

The early rounds could be brutal .

She had been sitting here worrying about her marriage, when she should have been worrying about Gwen’s life .

“Will you look out for him?” she heard herself say.

“For Gawain? If you get a chance? I’d—I’d hate to see his sister upset.”

“Of course,” Orson said slowly, his keen eyes thoughtful and curious.

He looked at her, head tilting slightly, and his lips

parted to speak—and then the door to Isobelle’s suite banged open to admit the girls, Sylvie stalking in, Jane and Hilde in

her wake.

Orson rose to his feet, bowing politely.

“Good day, ladies. Isobelle... I’ll do as you asked.” And then, in the face of

four female stares, he took his leave.

“What did Awesome want?” Sylvie asked, walking over to inspect the remaining croissants.

“Seeing if I needed company for the tourney,” Isobelle replied, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.

“I should have

asked him if he knew any hedge witches who could curse Sir Ralph.”

“There’s still time,” Sylvie replied.

“Where’s Céline?”

“Gone to wish her brother good luck.”

“I do hope she’s not avoiding us,” Jane said, brow creasing as she walked over to carefully pick up the broken pieces of Isobelle’s

teacup, setting them on the tray.

“I was sorry she missed Lord Whimsitt’s feast last night.”

“And we lost both of you at the bonfire the night before,” Sylvie pointed out, her eyes narrowing a touch, every bit as thoughtful and penetrating as Orson’s.

“I came by here to look for you, but you were nowhere to be found.”

“Are you all right?” Hilde asked, marching up to inspect Isobelle, then reaching out to carefully pinch her cheeks and bring

some color to them.

“I’m fine,” Isobelle managed, which was so great a lie it nearly lodged in her throat—but one which at least spared her from

answering Sylvie’s question.

“It’s just... very real now. No more games. Now they’re playing to win.”

And whoever won would have Isobelle as his prize.

No matter who it was—even Orson—she found she couldn’t bear the thought.

“Chin up, shoulders back,” said Jane, reaching out to give her arm a squeeze.

“We’ll go out and face it together.”

They fell in behind her as she made her way through the castle.

As though the whole place knew something had changed, people

gave way to her, stepping aside like figures in a dream.

Or a nightmare.

A ripple went through the crowd as Isobelle and her companions appeared in her viewing box, and she took her place with Sylvie

on one side and Jane on the other, Hilde firmly closing the door behind them and setting down the plate of cakes she’d somehow

acquired on the way.

There was no opportunity for reverie out here—though Isobelle was holding on to her skirts with a white-knuckled grip, all around them were laughs and shouts, bodies crammed in on the benches to watch the tournament favorite kick off the proceedings.

There were merchants selling snacks and toy dragons, bookmakers trying in vain to interest anyone in betting against Sir Ralph, and the cheerleaders were out in front of the grandstands, waving their streamers and urging the crowd to louder cheers.

Below her and to the right, Isobelle spotted Madame Dupont.

The woman’s head lifted, as if sensing eyes on her, then tilted

so she could meet Isobelle’s gaze.

She allowed herself the tiniest of nods—the most acknowledgment they could share under

such public scrutiny—and then Dupont was looking away again.

But even from here, Isobelle could see the tension in her shoulders.

“Is Lord Whimsitt coming?” Jane asked, startling Isobelle.

Jane accepted a small cake from Hilde with a pleased sound.

“Too hungover this morning,” Sylvie predicted.

“He’ll probably show up for the afternoon rounds.”

Isobelle could barely hear them.

The wild urge had seized her to gather up her skirts and vault over the front of his lordship’s

box, to run straight across the grounds to the little tent on the far side, where Gwen must be getting ready.

To grab her,

to let her words come pouring out, to stop time until she’d told Gwen.

..

... told her what?

Isobelle could admit to herself that she’d never really thought about how this would end.

She’d never yet met a situation

that wouldn’t bend to her sheer force of personality, and so she’d tripped into this like it was some sort of lark.

A game

they could play and win.

And now Gwen would pay the price.

Gwen, who had held her hand as they walked through the dark.

Who had looked at her with those green, oak-touched eyes.

Gwen, who wanted to kiss her, but was willing to wait as long as Isobelle needed, for the earth-shattering reverberations to settle from the realization that she wanted to kiss Gwen back .

Gwen, who had come to the castle, pretended to be someone else, run the gauntlet of her friends, and risked imprisonment or

worse, all for Isobelle.

Gwen, who now had to ride out and face Sir Ralph alone.

The opening rounds can be brutal.

The herald was finishing announcing Sir Ralph’s pedigree in ringing tones.

He shuffled his papers to squint at Gawain’s, then

once more raised the metal cone amplifying his voice.

“And our challenger!” he cried.

“Sir Gawain of Toussaint! Sir Gawain,

son of Armand, son of André, son of Guillaume of Toussaint!”

The two knights were emerging from their tents, taking the reins of their horses from the attendants.

Isobelle’s gaze was

locked on Gwen’s form as she swung up into the saddle.

It was only when Sylvie shoved a sharp elbow into Isobelle’s side that

she realized the other girls were applauding enthusiastically, and remembered to make herself clap.

“I know Céline likes to maintain some mystery, but is she really not going to watch her brother fight?” Sylvie asked, raising

her voice above the cheering.

Jane snorted. “Against Sir Ralph? I wouldn’t want to see my brother get destroyed, either.”

“Hush,” said Hilde, squeezing in beside Jane.

“There are leeches and surgeons at the edge of the field, all will be well.

And I’m sure there’s a hedge witch in the stands if we need someone really useful.”

“What I wouldn’t give for him to knock Sir Ralph clean out of that saddle.” Jane sighed, then broke off as Hilde elbowed her.

Achilles was prancing as the two knights rode up to Isobelle’s box, trying to dance sideways as Gwen gripped the reins to keep him in line.

At least someone was having a good time.

Isobelle rose to her feet, keeping her back ramrod straight and her chin lifted.

The world around her seemed to fade away as the two knights came to a halt and bowed in their saddles, the cheering muffled,

the colors of the grandstands and the lists muted.

If only she could see Gwen behind that visor.

If only...

“Sir Knight!” Both heads snapped up, and Isobelle realized she’d spoken.

“Sir Gawain,” she managed, her voice firming as she

knew what she had to do.

She would not let Gwen ride out to face Sir Ralph alone.

Gwen went still on Achilles’s back, the bay sidestepping uncertainly.

Then her helmet turned slightly to look across at Sir

Ralph—but the favorite sat just as still as Gawain, save that his horse was even more restive, responding to the tension in

his rider’s body.

Gwen pressed her heels into Achilles’s sides, and they walked forward a few steps to halt in front of the stands.

“Uh...”

She was keeping her voice low, but that didn’t stop everyone around them from leaning in to hear.

“Yes, Lady?”

“A little closer, please,” Isobelle called, before lowering her voice and addressing her friends.

“Girls, if you let me fall

over the railing, I shall start rumors even more horrifying about you to divert the attention.”

Three pairs of hands gripped her around the waist and the skirts, as she leaned down, fishing in her bodice for her crumpled—but clean—handkerchief.

She shook the wrinkles free as Gwen eased Achilles around to stand side-on, so she could reach up with one armored fist to grip the barrier.

Only the smallest tilt of her head conveyed a hint of What the hell are you doing, Isobelle?

And Isobelle so badly wanted to reply.

To say, Run away, be safe and I’m sorry I dragged you into this and I’m so afraid this will be brutal, and I would rather marry Sir Ralph himself than let harm come to you .

But she couldn’t say any of that, because Gwen would never turn tail and run, and putting doubt in her mind would only make

the danger even greater.

“A favor,” Isobelle said instead, and though only her companions could hear, everyone in the stands could see what she was

doing.

“For you have mine, Sir Knight.” Then, lowering her voice to a whisper, her eyes on Gwen’s visor: “Today, you are a

knight. And today, you are my knight.”

Gwen was still as a statue—Isobelle thought she wasn’t even breathing, visored helmet tilted up to look at her.

Then she curled

her fingers around the handkerchief and tucked it behind the breastplate of her armor, pushing it through the small gap until

it was safely in place over her heart.

Her champion raised her head, and Isobelle saw the faintest glimmer of her eyes behind the visor.

Then Gwen lifted one armored

hand, turning it so that the gloved fingertips beneath the hard metal mail were what touched Isobelle’s palm.

“Yours, my lady,” came Gwen’s voice, soft and fervent.

And so they remained as murmurs raced along the grandstand, the story of what had happened traveling as fast as words could

carry it.

Then one of the girls kicked Isobelle on the ankle to break the tableau, and she startled, and Gwen wheeled her horse away,

riding for the far end of the lists.

Sir Ralph remained in place, the protruding jaw of his helmet swinging from where Isobelle stood in the stands, lavender tucked in her hair, to the receding forms of Gwen and Achilles and back again.

Finally he too turned away, stiff in his saddle as he trotted toward his starting point.

“That was truly stupid,” Sylvie whispered as Isobelle eased back down into her seat.

“What are you going to do ten minutes

from now, when Sir Ralph is still in the hunt and Sir Gawain is a heap of scrap metal on the ground?”

Hilde sighed.

“I think it was romantic.”

“And I think...” Jane’s whisper cracked as she took in Isobelle’s white face.

“Oh, Isobelle. You care for him.” She took

hold of Isobelle’s hand, her own warm against Isobelle’s freezing cold fingers.

“And we’ve been teasing you. Do you love him?

I’m sorry. We’re here. We’ll stay by your side.”

Isobelle, for once, said nothing at all.

The two knights took up their places at either end of the lists.

Isobelle could feel the pulse at her temples, could feel

how shallow her breath was.

A hush fell over the crowd, and all Isobelle could hear was the ringing in her own ears.

And then the flags fell, and the two horses started forward, shifting to a rolling trot and finally to a gallop.

The knights

rose from their saddles, and Isobelle’s heart thundered in time with the pounding of their hooves on the dusty ground.

Jane cried out as they reached each other, and Isobelle was distantly aware she was squeezing her friend’s hand, and then

the lances were shattering as they crashed against the shields, splinters exploding in every direction.

Gwen went flying.

Isobelle shot to her feet, tracking her path as she arced through the air in Achilles’s wake, then crashed to the ground with a deafening clatter, landing flat on her back with her arms outflung.

The crowd were on their feet, roaring, and the cheerleaders were waving their streamers, and the stands were breaking into

chaos all around Isobelle.

And she was on her feet too, whispering the words like a prayer, every muscle of her body locked in place.

“Get up. Get up.

Move. Get up.”

And then, after a handful of heartbeats and a lifetime had passed, Gwen began to move.

She rolled over onto her side, and

for a heart-stopping moment she grabbed at her head, as though she’d forgotten where she was and was going to pull her helmet

off.

“He’s not moving,” Jane gasped, grabbing at Isobelle’s arm.

“What?” She tried in vain to shake her friend off, eyes locked on Gwen, who had managed to get to her hands and knees, clearly

winded, and was contemplating the long journey to standing upright once more.

“Is he dead?” Sylvie asked, a sharp note entering her voice—that was what got Isobelle’s attention.

She blinked and tore her

gaze away from Gwen to see what her friends were looking at.

It was Sir Ralph. He lay motionless in the dust, where he had fallen, too.

All four girls stood in a perfect tableau, staring down at the field below in frozen amazement as Gwen staggered to her feet

and braced her hands against her knees.

And then she drew her sword.

With slow, painful steps, she made her way to her opponent, coming to a swaying halt above him, the tip of the blade at his throat.

The grandstands were perfectly quiet, and the hoarse rasp of her voice was audible when she spoke.

“Do you yield?”

Sir Ralph didn’t move.

“Do you yield ?” Gwen shouted, taking an unsteady step back, but keeping her feet.

A doctor broke from his place on the sidelines, scurrying in and dropping to one knee beside Sir Ralph to raise his visor

and peer at his face.

He sliced his hand through the air, giving the signal for a knockout, then leaned over the knight to

slam his palm against the dusty ground.

The crowd went wild .

Hilde threw her arms up in the air, screaming.

“He did it! He did it! Gawain of Toussaint!”

“Boom!” shouted Jane, performing a dance of her own invention, whirling in a circle and shaking her hips.

“And that was just

with a handkerchief! Wait until you see what magic my girl can work with a scarf!”

“Well,” said Sylvie, who was clapping slowly, “this is going to make things very interesting.”

Isobelle couldn’t stop staring.

Sir Ralph was being loaded onto a stretcher, so heavy in his armor that the attendants had

to pick up one end and drag him along like a cart with no wheels toward the waiting medical team.

Gwen had won.

Gwen had won .

“Isobelle, what are you—” Sylvie’s voice rang out behind her, but the rest of her words were lost to the roar of the crowd.

Isobelle had shoved open the gate to their viewing box and was elbowing her way through the crowd outside.

Isobelle was running .