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Chapter Thirty-Two Don’t tell me you’re scared, Sir Knight

By the time Gwen and Isobelle got back to their suite of rooms, Isobelle’s friends were waiting for her.

They swarmed Isobelle

the moment she opened the door—even Sylvie seemed to have abandoned her suspicions of “Céline” in favor of spouting questions

and speculations about the new sensation that was Sir Gawain.

Isobelle met Gwen’s gaze over Hilde’s shoulder, and an electrifying instant of wordless communication passed between them.

Isobelle’s eyes gave a flash of anguish—even she didn’t want her friends right now—and then she was leading them toward her

room, promising to tell them everything that had happened between her and Sir Gawain.

“What?” she was squealing—giving a good imitation of her usual mood—as they disappeared.

“Of course he had his shirt on, they

have to wear padding under all that armor!”

This left Gwen to slip quietly away, shutting the door to her own room with a sigh of relief.

Her head was still spinning,

though she could no longer tell how much was from being knocked off Achilles, and how much was from the utter shocking bliss

of feeling Isobelle throw herself into her arms.

She carefully sank down onto the edge of the bed, and then lay down just as cautiously.

She was beginning to figure out which movements hurt the most—anything that shifted her shoulder, or compressed her ribs, or curved her spine beyond a few degrees, or.

..

Yesterday, the catalog of injuries would have had her face down on the floor, despairing about her ability to get back up

and do this again in four days, urging Isobelle to just run and try her luck at avoiding marriage in some other country.

But today, the adrenaline of victory was still fresh in her veins.

She had actually won the unwinnable—beaten the tournament

favorite, saved Isobelle from the worst of the fates awaiting her.

All her fears and worries had been for nothing.

For the first time, Gwen could see the rest of the tournament opening up before her, the possibility of winning it all, of

proving herself, of showing the world who she really was.

After all, even Sir Awesome, the absolute epitome of what a knight

should be and look like, had accepted her.

Sort of.

She decided not to tug at that particular thread.

Isobelle was content with his word that he would not betray Sir Gawain’s

secret and expose Gwen.

If he betrayed them both.

.. well, that would be a problem for the future.

Because today, Gwen was a goddamn knight.

At some point, Gwen must have fallen asleep, the cheers of the crowd echoing in her ears, and the memory of Isobelle’s lips

on hers making her skin tingle—for the next thing she knew, her door was opening with a soft click.

She tried to jerk upright and got halfway there before pain knocked her flat again, a groan wrenching its way out of her.

Every torn muscle and abused joint had stiffened while she slept, and now.

..

Oh, dear god.

Olivia’s face came into view above her, the woman’s expression as unreadable as ever.

She peered down at Gwen, scanning her

features and then raising an eyebrow.

“Best let me tend to your injuries, Sir Gawain. Or else your first big win will be your

last.”

Gwen managed to roll onto the side opposite the sore ribs, get an elbow under her, and lever herself up into a sitting position.

Olivia had a nondescript leather satchel with her, along with a basin of water.

“It’s just bruises,” Gwen said, starting to shrug and thinking better of it.

Olivia ignored this attempt to forestall her, setting the basin down on Gwen’s bedside table and then gesturing to Gwen herself.

“Strip,” she commanded.

Gwen felt her cheeks reddening.

“Really, I don’t think—”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed.

“Do you truly want to fight me on this? As of today, you’re undefeated. Do you want to ruin your record?”

Gwen swallowed and began pulling off her dress.

Once she was down to her undergarments, Olivia had her pull the back of her shift over her head and sit down.

Gwen sat, clutching

the fabric to her front, and let the other woman examine her.

Olivia gave only a soft intake of breath, but from her the sound

might as well have been a shout of dismay.

Gwen felt herself stiffen.

“Is it that bad?”

Olivia ran expert fingers over Gwen’s shoulder, then slid them down along the shoulder blade to the ribs.

Gwen hissed, instinctively

twitching away, muscles tightening in reaction.

Olivia let her hands fall away.

“The shoulder’s been partially dislocated. You’re going to have to let me pop it back into place, and we’re going to have to strap it up well next time you ride, and cross our fingers you can avoid getting hit. The ribs are bruised, but not broken, I think, and once your shoulder’s right, they shouldn’t hurt so much.”

Gwen eyed the woman apprehensively.

“Pop it back into place?” she echoed.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed again, and this time, Gwen spied a hint of humor in them.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared, Sir Knight.”

Gwen rolled her eyes upward, gathered the fabric of the shift against her chest, and nodded at Olivia to get it over with.

Olivia waited until there was a particularly loud round of laughter and exclamations from the suite of rooms beyond Gwen’s

door, braced her knee against Gwen’s body, and wrenched at her arm.

Gwen had to sink her teeth into her lip until she tasted blood, but she managed to turn what would’ve been a shriek of pain

into a low groan.

She wasn’t aware of passing out, but she did have to pause and breathe, waiting for the stars sparking in

her eyes to fade.

By the time she could properly see again, Olivia had pulled a number of things out of the satchel and spread

them on the bed, and was dipping a linen cloth into the basin of water.

The cloth was icy cold on Gwen’s skin, somehow far more shocking than the pain of popping her shoulder back into place.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Olivia commanded severely as Gwen tried to flinch away.

“The cold will help with the swelling.” She

ran the cloth in a precise pattern around Gwen’s shoulder joint and down her arm, rinsing and wringing it out every few seconds

to keep the fabric cold.

Gwen was watching Olivia’s arm move for quite a while before she realized her eyes had fixed on a faint, oddly shaped scar running down the edge of Olivia’s forearm and curving a few inches above her wrist.

“How long have you been Isobelle’s maid?” Gwen asked, keeping her voice light.

Olivia’s eyes stayed on her task.

“Three years, give or take.”

“And before that? What did you do?”

Olivia’s eyes flicked toward hers.

There was nothing in them to hint at surprise, or even discomfort.

She merely smiled a

little, turned her gaze back to her task, and murmured, “Why, are you thinking of hiring me yourself?”

Gwen ground her teeth.

Every conversation she’d ever had with Olivia went the same way.

Anything that had happened since she

came to be Isobelle’s maid, she was perfectly willing to discuss.

Anything prior to that.

.. well, Olivia was as slippery

as the last bit of soap on wash day.

“You must have had some experience working for a physician,” Gwen said, trying another tactic.

“To know how to do what you

just did with my shoulder.”

Olivia dropped the cloth into the basin, wrung it out, and slapped it back onto Gwen’s skin.

Gwen chewed at her lip.

“Was that when you worked with Archer? When you devised some system of communication involving that

owl token you gave Isobelle to show him?” Olivia did not flinch so much as take hold of Gwen’s shoulder and squeeze, sending

a sharp stab of pain down her arm and causing Gwen to blurt, “Ow, son of a bitch!”

Olivia instantly released her and smoothed the palm of her hand across Gwen’s shoulder.

“Keep your attention where it’s meant to be, Sir Gawain. I am a mystery for another time. Get Isobelle out of this mess, and then, if you are so desperate to find dragons to fight, you can keep searching for them in my past.”

Gwen clenched her jaw, feeling oddly petulant, as she hadn’t done since she was a child.

“I was only asking,” she muttered.

Olivia’s bedside manner left something to be desired.

Gwen found herself missing her father quite fiercely all of a sudden—and

then felt a deep, wrenching ache.

She couldn’t go visit him now, not with all these bruises and injuries.

He’d see how stiffly

she was moving and know something was up.

Gwen swallowed, fending off the sadness that came with that realization.

Olivia tossed the wet cloth back into the basin and stooped to fetch a little glass tub from where she’d unpacked it on Gwen’s

bedspread.

She pulled off the lid, which bore a word Gwen didn’t recognize, or possibly a name: Kadija’s.

The tub itself contained a vivid green ointment, the pungency of which made Gwen’s eyes begin to water as Olivia crossed back

over toward her.

“Oh, what the hell is that?” she asked, leaning away from Olivia and trying to breathe through her mouth.

The strength of

the herbal concoction was enough that even the back of her throat could smell green.

“Healing ointment. Imported from the land of the pharaohs. Good heavens, you’re almost as squeamish as a real knight. Hold

still.” Olivia dipped her fingers into the ointment and began applying it all across Gwen’s shoulder.

Gwen braced herself, but it seemed that Olivia did know what she was doing—the cool cloths had calmed the burning in her shoulder.

She drew an experimental breath, keeping it shallow so as not to aggravate her ribs.

“So, if you won’t tell me about Archer... will you tell me what you learned about the women who came to the dragon bonfire,

who were arrested?”

“Isobelle should hear this, too. I think the others have left, to judge from the quiet out there.” Olivia drew a deeper breath,

and just as Gwen realized what she meant to do, she called, “Lady Isobelle? Will you join us?”

Gwen jerked and grasped at Olivia’s arm, hissing at her to stop, but she was too late.

She had the impression of grim amusement

in Olivia’s gaze before she heard Isobelle’s footsteps sweeping toward her door.

Gwen didn’t want Isobelle seeing her half

naked just now, but she really didn’t want Isobelle seeing her covered in bruises.

Right now, Isobelle thought she was some invincible hero.

Was it too much to ask for to let that pleasant fantasy linger a

little while longer?