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Chapter Four Sir Gawain’s not done yet.

.. just watch

Lord Whimsitt had hired some local girls to rouse the crowds in these early qualifiers, putting them in skimpy clothes and

giving them bundles of streamers to wave, in the green and red and gold colors of the dragons.

For the most part, these poor

cheerleaders swept the streamers overhead in perfunctory arcs, about as interested in proceedings as the rest of the crowd—but

just now, the tournament favorite, Sir Ralph, was riding around the lists in a lap of victory.

He had dispatched his opponent

so easily and thoroughly that they were forced to drag the unconscious boy off on a stretcher.

The crowd, bloodthirsty as

ever and coming to life for their favorite, loved it.

The man had finished his lap and reined in his horse before Lord Whimsitt’s raised box.

Sir Ralph saluted with his sword,

and Whimsitt simpered at him in return.

Darkhaven’s lord was a portly man of medium height, with an infamous collection of

very fine hats that hid his thinning hair.

Today he wore a brilliant emerald chaperon-style turban in velvet—the wrong choice,

given his temples were now trickling with sweat.

Isobelle, sitting in the box beside and below his, contemplated her guardian with a faint scowl.

She’d realized recently she didn’t know all that much about him, beyond the hat collection.

Her parents had entrusted her to his care three years earlier, but Olivia had been far more parent and guardian to her than Whimsitt had.

He didn’t believe in educating women, and Isobelle didn’t believe in dealing with boring men, so they’d avoided each other by mutual agreement.

Until he’d taken advantage of her parents’ absence and put Isobelle and her dowry up for grabs in his tournament.

Now, she deeply regretted her failure to pay attention.

Isobelle shivered and looked away from her guardian.

Smirk all you want , she thought, lifting her chin.

I’ll find a way out of this yet, you’ll see.

Sir Ralph had not left.

Instead, he’d walked his horse over to stand before Isobelle’s box.

He raised his visor, revealing

a pair of predatory hazel eyes that swept over her, hair, dress, and all, and then fixed back on her face with an unnerving

intensity.

Lord Whimsitt had informed Isobelle that she must show herself at each stage of the tournament, even the qualifiers.

Now she

wished she’d bothered to defy him, because she would’ve rather not seen just how easily Sir Ralph had won.

“My lady,” said Sir Ralph—and though the words were a standard greeting, Isobelle could not help but hear the slight emphasis

he placed on the word “my.”

He already believed he’d won her.

Isobelle did not even notice her own reply, though she must have said something, for Sir Ralph inclined his head in a bow,

gracious and courtly in front of his fans, and slammed the visor back down before turning his horse to ride for the exit to

the lists.

One of Isobelle’s companions, Sylvie, laid her fingertips on her friend’s arm.

“Are you all right?” she murmured, too low

for anyone else to hear.

Isobelle forced air into lungs that were trying to shrivel away from the cold seizing her body.

“You never know, he might get knocked out before the finals,” she said brightly.

“Or fall into the moat and find himself eaten by one of those lizard moat monsters the servants claim live there. The possibilities are endless.”

Sylvie squeezed her arm but correctly interpreted Isobelle’s desire to avoid speaking about the man who would almost certainly

claim her as a prize in a few weeks’ time.

Meanwhile, the next two knights had ridden out into the lists.

One was Sir Evonwald, somewhat older than the other knights

but formidable in experience.

The other was a knight Isobelle didn’t recognize, mounted on a gorgeous bay stallion, immaculate

save for a tuft of mane that stuck up insistently at the front.

Isobelle was familiar with the challenges of styling stubborn

hair, and so was rather taken with him.

The horse and his rider were readying themselves for their first charge as the cheer girls fanned out into a half circle,

creating.

..

“Is that supposed to be a dragon’s flame?” Hilde was on Isobelle’s other side and hadn’t heard the exchange between Isobelle

and Sylvie.

She was too busy leaning forward and frowning sweetly with the effort of artistic interpretation.

“Wait for it,” said Sylvie, leaning back in her chair, as cynical as the other girl was soft.

The girl at the center of the formation flipped a new layer down over her skirts and was suddenly clad in the bright pink

that was Isobelle’s signature shade.

As she marched about triumphantly, the others scattered to all corners of the list, clearing

the way for the joust, and—presumably—demonstrating the power of the sacrifice to safeguard Darkhaven from draconic influences.

Isobelle kept her features smooth as a halfhearted smattering of applause started up around them, then died away.

Whatever she was forced to give them—and there was almost no limit to that—she would not let them have her composure.

The flag dropped, and Sir Evonwald and Sir Gawain—as the announcer had introduced him—prodded their horses to a rolling trot,

gathering momentum as they charged toward each other from opposite ends of the lists.

Their lances wavered and then firmed,

and the two men braced themselves in their saddles, as they—

“I’ve got snacks!” a cheery voice announced from behind them.

“Oh, someone open the gate, my hands are full!”

Isobelle leaned backward to open the little gate and let in Jane, who was accompanied by an unholy amount of food.

The perfect

distraction from the unpleasantness of Whimsitt’s machinations and Ralph’s cool possessiveness.

“Did I miss anything?” Jane asked brightly, squeezing herself in beside Sylvie.

Isobelle turned back to find the two knights

had passed each other and were slowing once more.

“Nothing,” Sylvie drawled.

“Or rather, they missed something. Each other.”

“It’s their first run at it,” said Hilde, ever-forgiving.

“They’re just warming up.”

The pair were wheeling around once more to face each other, and Isobelle popped a toffee into her mouth and studied Sir Gawain.

His opponent was familiar enough, but the younger knight—for he certainly moved more nimbly than old Sir Evonwald, and his

build was slimmer—was a new name to her.

Once more the two horses began to accelerate, and when Sir Evonwald’s lance banged off Sir Gawain’s shield, sending the young challenger reeling back in his saddle, a ragged cheer went up from the crowd.

“Are they against Sir Gawain?” Jane asked, still handing out her snack haul.

“I think they’re for any kind of action,” Sylvie replied.

Isobelle said nothing, still leaning forward and studying Sir Gawain as he shook his arm out, trying to ease the pain of the

collision.

She wasn’t sure why her attention had fixed on him, but if there was one thing her maid, Olivia, had taught her—and

Olivia’s advice was always to be heeded—it was to pay attention to whatever caught your eye.

Especially if you didn’t know

why.

“Where is Toussaint, anyway?” Hilde asked, thoughtful.

“It sounds French, I think?”

“I don’t think it’s going to matter much longer,” Jane replied.

“Pity, he at least looks younger than Evonwald. He could’ve

been good for some fun! Then again, he’s about to have some spare time on his hands, so...”

“You can make anything dirty,” drawled Sylvie.

“I don’t think he’s finished.” Isobelle hadn’t realized she was going to speak until she’d done it.

“What?” Jane asked, doubtful.

“Sir Gawain’s not done yet,” Isobelle murmured.

“Just watch.”

On the other side of the lists, a halfhearted attempt to start a wave began, then petered out before any of the girls were

required to pretend enthusiasm, though Hilde was already setting her drink down in readiness.

The two knights turned toward each other a third and final time.

Sir Evonwald had scored points on Sir Gawain, so it was almost impossible for the younger knight to win now.

If he could at least connect with the other man’s shield, then perhaps he could force the fight on to a tiebreaker on foot, with swords.

Sir Gawain’s shield sagged as his horse pushed into a canter, and his body leaned back as though he might slide from his horse.

“I think that hit was harder than—” Jane began.

And then, just as the two came together—as Sir Evonwald raised himself in his stirrups to dispatch his opponent—Sir Gawain

straightened and shifted his grip on his lance.

Then the two were clashing—there was a deafening ring of lance on shield, then a sound like a dozen saucepans being dropped

out a window onto the ground below as Sir Evonwald was swept backward off his horse and onto the dusty ground behind it.

Silence blanketed the stands.

No one had expected Sir Evonwald to win the tournament, but it was just as unlikely for him

to get knocked out in the preliminaries.

The herald raised his large metal cone to his lips.

“Sir, uh...” There was a pause as he frantically hunted through his

notes.

“Sir Gawain of Toussaint progresses to the first round of the tournament proper!”

“Huh,” Sylvie murmured, turning a sidelong glance on Isobelle.

“We should get you making predictions more often, we might

make some money.”

But Isobelle wasn’t listening.

Sir Gawain might have been momentarily interesting, but there wasn’t any prediction about this

tournament that ended the way she wanted, no matter how hard she looked.

A couple of stewards were helping a limping Sir Evonwald to his feet.

He pulled off his helmet to get some air, and even at this distance one could see how red-faced he was, blustering like a very cross walrus.

The winning knight had barely moved at all, probably as shocked by his unexpected victory as the crowd.

Then Sir Gawain wheeled his handsome stallion around.

He approached the platform, drew his sword, and lifted it in a chivalrous

salute to Isobelle.

Automatically she leaned forward and waved her acceptance, showing her dimples, laughing as Jane waved back far too enthusiastically

beside her.

But there was something tickling at the back of her mind—like gazing at one of those patterns they made in Italy,

unfocusing her eyes until the picture emerged from the noise.

Why are you so familiar?

Her gaze ran over Sir Gawain and lingered for a moment on his sword and the beautiful, delicate engravings adorning the base

of the blade.

And then her eyes widened as the truth leapt out at her. Oh.