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Chapter Five Climb down, lady, we’re going out!

Gwen’s blood was still singing by the time Achilles’s hooves struck the hard-packed earth of her village streets.

She barely

remembered taking her armor off and completing the transformation back into herself.

She did remember one moment when she

led Achilles out of the jousting arena and overheard two of the spectators talking.

Who the hell is Sir Gawain?

one of them had asked.

Never heard of him , the second one replied.

I tell you, though, no one’s going to forget his name after that.

Everything before that was a blur of isolated images and sensations.

The sweat trickling down the small of her back to collect

in the padding she wore beneath her armor.

The thud of Achilles’s hooves beneath her, reverberating through her body like

a war drum.

The singing of the fury in her blood as the world narrowed to a single spot on her opponent’s shoulder.

The infinite

stretch of stunned silence after the final blow and crash of an armored man hitting the ground—the collective sound of at

least a hundred spectators forgetting to breathe.

Even now, Gwen was only half present.

Part of her knew she had arrived at the stable at the edge of the pasture her neighbors

let her use—the rest of her was still on her horse, in that arena, floating on a cloud of glory.

She wasn’t the only one buzzing.

Achilles was practically dancing as she tried to get his saddle off him and brush out the spots where his own armor had rested.

He tossed his head and pranced, snorting his desire to do whatever they’d just done again .

Gwen ran a hand down his nose, as steadily as she could for all that her own hands were still shaking.

“That was it, love, we’re done,” she murmured to him, trying not to let her own heartbreak at those words come through in

her voice or her touch.

“You did beautifully.”

The forge outside the house was cool—unsurprising, though Gwen had entertained the tiniest of hopes that maybe she’d come

home to find her father working.

Inside, though, there was a cheery fire burning in the hearth, and a stew bubbling away in

the cast-iron pot.

She gave herself a bracing mental shake and prayed her father would not see how utterly everything had changed for his daughter.

“Hey, Dad,” she called, hanging her cloak on the iron hook her father had made for her when she was a kid—it was fashioned

to look like a knight’s lance, and the blunted end of it was shiny and worn from the touch of her fingers over the years.

“Dad?”

“I was weeding the garden,” came his voice from the back door.

He walked in, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Well?”

Gwen blinked at him.

“Well what?”

“You’re going to make me ask? The interview for the internship, girl! Tell me how it went.” Her father gestured her over toward

the fire and sank down into his chair.

He was a large man, not tall or fat, but barrel-chested, the epitome of a village blacksmith.

He’d never worn a big bushy beard like the man in the market— Don’t give sparks an extra place to rest , he’d always said, especially when that spot is an inch from your nose.

Gwen dropped into her own chair by the fire.

“The internship, right. It was fine. I don’t think I got it, though.” Sitting

down drained away all the fire that had been keeping her upright, and exhaustion reached up and grabbed her.

Her father frowned. “What do you mean, you didn’t get it? You’ve been working on those armor pieces for months. Years, if

you count all your drawing and daydreaming. They’re flawless, ingenious. Who the hell saw those and didn’t snap you up?”

Gwen kept her eyes on the fire, uncertain whether she could keep up her facade of indifference if she actually saw the indignation

she could hear in his voice.

“It’s fine, Dad. I wouldn’t have done it anyway, I just... I just wanted to see if I was good

enough. If I could do it.”

Her father was quiet, so Gwen risked a glance his way through her lashes.

He was staring down at his knees, his longtime habit

when he was thinking.

His sandy brown hair was in disarray and his face was tired, as it usually was, but there was a spark

in it she hadn’t seen in some time.

“You know I’d be fine, right?” His eyes lifted and met hers.

“If you wanted to... to go grab something, something like

that internship, I’d be okay.”

Gwen dropped her eyes.

“Yeah, I know, Dad.”

“I mean it.” His voice sharpened, the barest edge needed to make Gwen look at him and listen.

It was the voice he’d used when

she was a child, teaching her about safety in the forge—the voice that told her when to stop running, when to put her hands

behind her back, when to pay attention.

“I know I’ve come to rely on you too much these past years,” he went on, his face showing signs of that old ache, as fresh as the day her mother died.

“But I don’t want you shutting yourself down to anything because you think you’ve got to stay here and take care of me. If there was something you wanted, something that would take you away for a while...” He didn’t finish the sentence, but his eyes were penetrating, too keen for comfort.

Gwen shifted in her chair, unwilling to admit even to herself that his words were cutting too close.

“I told you, Dad. I don’t

think I got it.” She paused, and then added, “If nothing else, I’m a girl. They wouldn’t let a woman prove she could do a

man’s job as well as he can.” She could still see the stunned faces of the spectators all around her when a completely unknown

knight had knocked Sir Evonwald off his horse—could imagine how quickly that shock would have turned to horror if she’d pulled

off her helmet and shown them who’d really beaten their local favorite.

Her father didn’t bother to hide his chuckle.

“True. But you’ve never let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do with your

life. Where you belong, and what you deserve.” He held out his hand, and Gwen leaned forward so he could take hers and give

it a squeeze.

“Don’t start now.”

Gwen’s throat tightened, trying to stop the words welling up inside her from coming out.

How could she tell her father that,

as much as she liked smithing, it wasn’t what she really longed for?

That out there today, on the lists, weighed down by the

armor she’d made and listening to the roar of the crowd, she’d been more alive than she’d ever felt holding a hammer and tongs.

That the one thing she truly wanted—had always wanted, since her mother told her that first story of knights and dragons and chivalry and protecting the helpless—was the

one thing she could never have for herself, not in a million years, not in a world that was, and ever would be, run by men.

There was a line. She’d already crossed it by taking up her father’s craft, but that was the sort of infraction people could ignore.

But to masquerade as a knight?

That would leave the line so far behind her she might never find her way back.

Gwen squeezed her father’s hand in return.

“Thanks, Dad,” she whispered, and tried not to let him see how much her heart ached.

Later, as she lay in bed while the moon rose and the village slumbered, her head was spinning so much she could scarcely keep

her eyes closed and her body still.

Logistics kept pouring through her mind.

Technically, Sir Gawain was through the qualifiers

and could ride in the first round of the tournament proper in a couple of weeks.

But to have any hope of competing, she’d

need far more than the sheer fury and luck that had carried her through today.

She’d need training.

She’d need a place to

stay; though the castle was only a few miles away, Achilles was distinctive, and someone would be bound to spot her riding

between the tournament and her poor, non-noble village.

She’d need money, because if she was riding in a tournament, she couldn’t

be making pickaxes, and how would her father live?

She turned onto her side, pillowing her hands beneath her cheek.

It was impossible. Even if she could sort out the details,

what right did she have to try to be a knight?

Just because she could fight, and ride, and hold a lance—she wasn’t one of them .

A hint of a memory threaded through her thoughts, insidious, like a snake creeping in under her blankets.

So. Fucking. Hot , one of the knights had said of Lady Isobelle, helpless sacrifice to the honor and symbolism of the tournament.

I’ve got to take a swing at hitting that.

Gwen’s rage had probably made all the difference when it came to beating Sir Evonwald.

She should probably feel grateful that

she’d overheard them.

And yet, now, thinking back.

.. she felt the tiniest bit more heartbroken.

Even the knights aren’t knights.

The thatch rustled overhead, and Gwen stifled a groan, rolling once more onto her back.

If they were getting rats in the straw

again, she was going to scream.

A few years back there’d been an epidemic of them in the village, until this absolute weirdo

with a flute had turned up and driven them out.

He’d stuck around afterward for an embarrassing amount of time, eyeing the

village young people in the creepiest way.

Eventually the local hedge witch came and stared him down until he moved on to

the next town.

If only Gwen had had any aptitude for magic and herbalism, maybe she could’ve studied with the hedge witch.

It wouldn’t be

holding a sword, but she’d be able to protect her village in some way against creeps like that.

The rustle came again—and then, a half second later, a thunk against her window’s shutters.

Gwen sat up in bed, clutching at her blanket.

Rats didn’t clunk against shutters.

When the noise came again, she got out of bed and crept to the window, holding on to the knife she used for trimming her candles.

After a breath, she flipped the latch and threw open the shutters.

A figure stood on the ground below, wearing a long, hooded cloak.

As Gwen watched, a hand emerged from the cloak and pushed

the hood down to display a wealth of long blond hair that gleamed like white gold in the moonlight.

Lady Isobelle beamed up at her and called in a carrying whisper-shout: “Climb down, lady, we’re going out!”

Gwen stood frozen, staring down at Lady Isobelle —apparently the most eligible noblewoman in the entire county—standing under her window.

Isobelle waited patiently for a few heartbeats, as if used to eliciting this kind of paralyzing shock from the people she

encountered.

Then, raising her voice, she called, “Get dressed! Haven’t you ever snuck out before?”

“Hush, you’ll wake my father!” Gwen hissed back.

She turned her head, listening for any sounds within the house.

Her room

was a loft over the main house, one of the few buildings in the village to have a second story, thanks to her father’s cleverness

with engineering.

“What... what are you doing here? How are you here?”

The lady flashed her a positively impish smile.

“I have my resources. I’m here to take you out, let’s go.”

Gwen felt her mouth open and then close again.

She couldn’t even be curious about why Lady Isobelle had bothered to track

her down in a village all this way from the castle—she was too busy being frantic to get rid of her before her neighbors noticed,

before her father woke, before someone could see them together and somehow blame Gwen for absconding with a noblewoman in

the middle of the night.

Isobelle’s smile shifted, the change so subtle Gwen would’ve missed it if the moon overhead weren’t half full and bright.

“Fine, then,” she said airily.

“If you won’t come out, why don’t you send down Sir Gawain ?”

Oh shit.

A familiar roaring rose in Gwen’s ears, only this time the rush of feeling wasn’t anger or fury.

She could feel the blood draining from her face as fear finally unfroze her.

She moved away from the window long enough to grab her dress from the foot of the bed and throw it on over her night shift.

She tried to banish the million questions flooding her brain— How does she know?

Has she told anyone?

Are there guards waiting just out of sight to arrest me?

Why on earth does she still

look like a fairy-tale princess while sneaking out in the middle of the night?

—and carefully swung a leg over the windowsill.

As soon as she began climbing down, a lance of pain shot up through her arm.

Her shoulder was still aching from that first

clash with Sir Evonwald.

She hadn’t noticed it much on the ride home, but it had stiffened up as she lay in bed, and now.

..

god, now it was agony.

But if there was any chance of rolling back Isobelle’s revelation, convincing her that she didn’t know

what she thought she knew, Gwen would have to pretend she was fine.

She made it to the ground and then whirled to face the other girl, pain and fear combining to create a pretty decent semblance

of anger indeed.

“You can’t be here!” she snapped.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, or why you’ve come, but you’ve

got to let me get you home before someone sees us.”

“Oh, you don’t know, do you? Gwen, Gawain... it’s all really very clever, isn’t it?” The force of Lady Isobelle’s smile

was like the heat radiating from an active forge—Gwen had to fight not to take a step back.

“I’m here for Ladies’ Night. It’s

Thor’s Day, they have Ladies’ Night every week at one of the taverns at the edge of town, and you’re coming with me.”

“Ladies’ Night,” Gwen echoed weakly.

“Or, you know, a lady knight.” Isobelle’s smile was decidedly smug.

Gwen got the sense the other girl was used to getting her way, and that she was fighting a losing battle trying to resist.

“Look,” Gwen managed, “if you won’t come with me back to where you belong, I’ll fetch someone who’ll make you go.”

Isobelle bit her lip to smother a laugh.

“If you’re going to threaten me,” she replied breezily, “I think you ought to do

it over a drink while hearing me out. Come on, I’m buying.”

Gwen was experiencing the oddest sensation, as though she were no longer inside her own skin, watching the absurdity of this

interaction from somewhere above and to the left of herself.

She could see the blacksmith girl fighting and losing the battle,

while the lady just stood there, totally at ease, waiting for her to capitulate.

“Five minutes,” Gwen said slowly.

“Five minutes and then you go home, understood?”

The lady grinned at her.

“Whatever you say, Sir Knight.”