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Chapter Forty No better than they are

Gwen stared at Isobelle’s tear-streaked face, part of her mind screaming at her to reach out, pull her close, wipe those tears

away.

But the rest of her felt so frozen that she found she could not move.

Ever since the night Isobelle had appeared under Gwen’s window in the village, calling for her to waltz off into an adventure,

Isobelle’s sheer force of will had pushed Gwen through her own hesitations.

Practical matters like “who could possibly be

willing to train me?” and “but someone’s going to notice I’m not a man” melted away under that intense blue stare.

Gwen would never have ridden out as Sir Gawain again after that first joust if not for Isobelle.

She’d come to rely on Isobelle’s

nearly magical ability to imagine the world different, and simply make it so.

Somehow, Gwen had started to believe, in her heart of hearts, that there was no limit to what Isobelle could make happen.

So how had she not noticed the point when Isobelle had stopped being the one pushing her forward?

Gwen’s breath felt shallow and harsh, her footing unsteady with fear at finding herself out on a precipice without Isobelle’s unconditional belief firming the ground beneath her.

Isobelle had never raised her voice that way to her, and she battled the instinct to shout back.

“We can’t stop now,” she said finally.

“We have no other choice but to see this through.”

“We do have a choice,” Isobelle retorted.

“I told you, we can run—”

“Run where?” Gwen swallowed.

“Live where? On what funds, with what support? No one would welcome a woman blacksmith into their

village—we couldn’t stay at mine, your people would find us there. We’d have nothing—no money, no titles, no safety net. Do

you know what it’s like to live that way, Isobelle?”

Isobelle’s lips tightened, but she leaned forward, shaking her head.

“I don’t care. If I were with you, I wouldn’t care.”

“You would.” Gwen felt her own eyes stinging, unable to stop the helpless tears prickling them.

“You think you wouldn’t, but

you would.”

“You can’t know—”

“I can, because it’s what happened to my mother!” Gwen snapped, breathing quicker, regretting the sharpness in her voice the

moment she heard it cutting through the background din of the ball beyond the balcony doors.

Isobelle stared at her, one tear still rolling slowly down her perfect cheek, confusion muddying the distress in her eyes.

Gwen turned away, bracing her arms on the balustrade, relishing the cool stone against her palms. “My mother really was from

Toussaint. Lady Céline of Toussaint is a real person—or was. She fell in love with my father when he was studying under a

master blacksmith at the chateau where she lived, and when his apprenticeship was over, she gave up everything to return with

him.”

Isobelle’s breath caught.

“You had all those names ready when we went to see Archer for Gawain’s papers,” she murmured, her quick intelligence settling the pieces into place, more pieces than Gwen had realized she’d found.

“And the way you spoke French so easily to Sylvie—that you own a horse like Achilles...”

“I think it killed her.” Gwen kept her gaze on the landscape below, stroking her thumbs along the top of the balustrade to

ground herself.

“I mean, I know it doesn’t work like that—I know my mother didn’t die because she was homesick. But as much

as she loved my father, as much as she loved me... all she did was tell me stories of knights, and chivalry, and noble

sacrifice. She just... faded away, Isobelle. While my father and I watched.”

A soft hand touched Gwen’s elbow, and Gwen fought the urge to turn into the comfort Isobelle was offering her.

“I never met

your mother,” Isobelle murmured.

“But her story isn’t mine.”

Gwen shook her head tightly.

“I can’t do that to you. My parents, with my father’s place in the village, with a good house

and a community that accepted him—they had more than you and I could ever hope to have. And it still wasn’t enough. You don’t

know my father—he’s the strongest man I know and watching her die nearly killed him, too. I don’t think I’m strong enough

for that.”

The hand at her elbow fell away.

Isobelle was quiet for a long time, though Gwen could hear her breathing, could feel the

tension building in her, like steam under pressure.

Finally, Isobelle burst. “Gwen, you say you don’t want to do that to me—but you don’t get to make my choices for me. Yes, I asked you to be my knight. But I never wanted you to be like the others.”

Gwen turned back to her, feeling her own temper rising beyond her ability to control it.

“Proving my worth, and yours, that’s

the only way forward for us!”

“And I’m telling you that’s impossible, that the world won’t change so easily.” Isobelle’s voice rose, her appeal in her luminous eyes.

“Gwen, you’re telling me I’m too weak to leave luxury behind, making decisions to try to protect me—god, you’re no better than they are!”

Gwen felt herself take a single, staggering step back.

Her vision swam and her head rang the way it did after an opponent

got in a good hit, only there was no stiff armor supporting her, no horse beneath her to keep her upright.

And when her vision

cleared, it was no enemy’s visor in front of her eyes, but Isobelle’s face.

Isobelle drew a breath, stricken and pale, remorse writ clearly in her expression.

Gwen spoke first. “You’re wrong,” she managed in a low, even voice.

“I am better than they are. And tomorrow I’m going to

prove it.”

She slipped past Isobelle, twisting to avoid the hand that reached out to her, and threw herself back into the hot, loud chaos

of the ballroom, heading for the doors.

She thought she felt a pair of intense blue eyes tracking her as she lost herself

in the crowd, but she didn’t look back.

Perhaps she had only dreamed it.