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Chapter Forty-One The crowd went wild

The morning of the tournament dawned clear and bright, as though the weather knew the importance of the day and did not dare

bring rain or fog to mar it.

The air was thick with buzzing anticipation, more people crowded into the tournament grounds

than Isobelle had ever seen.

Children ran about, laughing and fighting each other with wooden swords and lances, people stood

waiting in lines a hundred strong for snacks, and musicians were stationed at intervals around the grounds, entertaining those

waiting to find their place to watch.

Merriment was everywhere—and all Isobelle could do was paste a smile onto her face.

If she hadn’t already been wrestling with the guilt and unhappiness threatening to swallow her, she would have had to acknowledge

the seriousness of the situation when Olivia showed up to watch the final joust.

Usually her maid preferred to lurk on the edges of major events, but she must have shared Isobelle’s concern that things might

move quickly today.

Olivia was sitting in the back of his lordship’s box, behind Isobelle, Jane, and Hilde, but Isobelle couldn’t

see how even Olivia, with her nerves of steel, could handle the horrible thickness of anticipation in the air.

“Where’s Sylvie?” Jane whispered, leaning in close.

“I wish I knew,” Isobelle muttered, twisting to glance back at the gate keeping the crowd at bay.

“Perhaps she is with Sir Ralph,” Hilde suggested, wrinkling her nose as if trying to speak the man’s name without letting

it touch her lips.

“No,” Jane replied, tilting her chin.

“He’s over there with some of the visiting nobles.”

Then where was Sylvie?

Why had she stayed away?

There was an uneasiness knotted inside Isobelle’s chest no matter how she tried to tell

herself that there was some explanation for it—that the apprehension winding its way through her veins was guilt, that Sylvie

had simply chosen not to come, having bigger things to worry about.

But even facing down her doom, Sylvie was a master at

the twisted game that was life in this castle.

If she wasn’t here, there was some reason behind it.

Isobelle just didn’t know what.

“Is that meant to be Gawain?” Hilde murmured, pointing at a sort of giant scarecrow a group of spectators were trying to hoist

above their section of the grandstand.

Isobelle knew it was an attempt at distraction, but she barely heard her friend.

Her own words from the night before kept

ringing in her head, far too loudly for anything else to stand a chance.

You don’t get to make my choices for me.

But hadn’t she been trying to do the same for Gwen?

You’re no better than they are.

It had been the last thing she’d said to Gwen.

Please, please let it not be the last thing she ever said to Gwen.

She should be in Sir Gawain’s tent right now, apologizing, arguing all over again, trying to make Gwen see she was right,

that it was horribly unfair, but that nobody who mattered would see it, and nobody would save her just because she deserved it.

Isobelle would rather fade away into nothing than lose Gwen—she ought to be down there now, convincing Gwen to see it.

“Isobelle.” It was Jane, leaning in with a worried expression.

“Does Gw—Gawain truly plan to try to win today?”

“Yes,” Isobelle managed, shaping the words with her lips.

“But then what will—”

“I don’t know,” Isobelle snapped, her hands squeezing together so tightly her fingers ached.

You’re no better than they are.

She would have given anything for one more minute to speak to Gwen, but the last of Gwen’s minutes were trickling away through

her fingers, vanishing no matter how Isobelle grasped at them.

The audience was starting to stir, rippling with that special knowledge crowds have when the moment they’ve waited for is

imminent.

In the grandstand on the other side of the open jousting field, a huge banner read GAWAYN in uneven letters, and most of the crowd had sprigs of lavender pinned to their coats—there couldn’t have been a flower left

on a plant for leagues in any direction.

In the center of it all, in the middle of the lists—it would have to be carried to one side for the match to begin—was the

prize pot.

Isobelle’s own dowry, converted to glimmering gold and glittering gems, piled into chests until they spilled out

and tumbled to the ground.

The effect was extremely dramatic.

And the sight of the wealth that had put her in this situation

in the first place made her feel sick.

The herald took his place, raising the metal cone that allowed him to speak so loudly to his lips, puffing out his chest,

and bellowing to be heard over the hubbub.

“Lords and laymen, this is the moment you’ve all been waiting for... the culmination of a month-long tournament of champions, the must-see finale of the year. Never before has there been a Tournament of Dragonslayers with so many upsets, so many surprises, such mystery...”

The crowd knew exactly which knight the herald was referring to, the background noise rising to a roar that drowned out the

herald’s amplified voice for some time.

The herald stopped trying to be heard and finally waved his arms in silent agreement

with the energy of the crowd.

When they finally started to calm down again, he lifted the cone back to his lips.

“Now, it is my great honor to present the

gent from Kent, the Englishman with a winning plan, it’s Darkhaven’s very own... Sir Orson the Awesome!”

Orson came cantering out onto the lists, past the chests of gold and jewels, raising a hand to the crowd’s somewhat perfunctory

cheers, one hand grasping his reins as his horse sidestepped nervously at the hubbub all around them.

Isobelle gazed down at him, picturing his familiar face behind the helmet.

He wouldn’t have been a bad husband.

He wouldn’t

have loved her and brought her to life, as Gwen did.

But Isobelle wouldn’t have put him in danger, either.

“And now, lords and laymen, one and all, prepare yourselves!” A hush fell over the crowd, like the heavy, tense silence before

a gale strikes.

“Mysterious and charming, he’s taken Darkhaven by storm.... Can he go the distance and claim his prize?

He’s the one that you want: The knight from Toussaint! The newcomer from France who’s here to take his chance, it’s Sirrrrrr

Gawain!”

Gwen rode out, and the crowd went wild .

Achilles half reared, and Isobelle found she was on her feet.

It was too late to choose her last words to Gwen again, but she wanted with all her heart for Gwen to see her, to know that she was there.

That she was ready to walk this path with her, whatever happened next.

There was an official speaking hurriedly to the herald, and after a moment the man lifted his loudspeaker for one more announcement:

“Will the competitors please approach his lordship!”

Isobelle’s head snapped around to look at Lord Whimsitt, who was coming slowly to his feet.

Perhaps the knights were to salute

him?

Then she saw Olivia’s face.

Her maid’s jaw was clenched, and when she caught Isobelle’s eye, she flicked her gaze toward the

far side of the lists.

There were two columns of guards making their way out onto the field, breaking into groups and taking their place by each

of the exits.

Isobelle went cold all over, sinking down to her bench as her legs went weak.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.