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Chapter Six I’ll have a White Knight, please

Isobelle hadn’t been sure about what she’d seen at the tournament qualifiers—not until she’d seen Gwen respond to the name

“Sir Gawain,” looking like she was going to throw up right out the window and ruin Isobelle’s shoes.

The question had been chasing itself in circles around her head all day, like a dog determined to catch its own tail.

Could it be...? But no, it really seemed.

.. But maybe?

It was impossible for a girl to ride in the qualifiers.

Where would she get the armor?

The horse? The training?

The nerve ?

But perhaps, if she were a blacksmith.

.. if she’d already proven to herself that a girl could do a man’s work, then.

..

Somehow, Isobelle had found herself here in the village Gwen had mentioned when introducing herself, wondering if the pressure

of the tournament had finally caused her to crack.

But she hadn’t cracked.

She wasn’t wrong. And if it was true—if Gwen really was Sir Gawain—then anything was possible.

The tavern was situated at the edge of the town clustered around Darkhaven Castle, and it had been a long walk from Gwen’s village.

Isobelle had tried once or twice along the way to strike up conversation, but Gwen’s grim, thundercloud expression warned her not to push her luck before she’d made her case.

It gave Isobelle time to mentally work on her pitch, and she was so absorbed in the task, she nearly ran into Gwen’s back when the other girl halted.

Above them hung the sign for the Siren’s Sting, complete with a lovingly painted depiction of a plump, cheerful sea nymph

holding an improbably foaming mug of ale.

Isobelle caught Gwen’s eye and beamed at her, noting that the other girl’s only response to her trademark killer smile was

a tightening of her already-worried features, like someone preparing for a blow.

Isobelle softened her smile, winked, and

murmured, “Brace yourself.”

She pushed the door open.

They stepped into an ocean of raucous sound, women packed in tightly with drinks in hand, everyone raising their voices to

be heard over everyone else.

The fiddler (a woman, of course) had the dance floor hopping, and Isobelle recognized a few noblewomen

in town for the tournament who had snuck away from the castle to join the fun.

Isobelle squared her shoulders and pushed her way through the crowd, letting it half carry her and Gwen toward the bar.

They reached the bar together, where the tavern owner herself was taking orders.

Isobelle braced herself with her forearms

to hold her space, squeaking as she was jostled against the wooden counter.

Without speaking, Gwen put an arm behind her to

fend off the crowd—she used her left arm, which made sense.

The right one would be smarting after that hit she took from the

second round with Sir Evonwald.

Isobelle glanced up to make a joke about that, but her gaze snagged on the other girl’s, and she forgot what she’d planned to say.

There was a challenge in those moss-green eyes, a kind of barricade that Gwen had shut herself behind.

This was, Isobelle reflected, the first time she’d heard of a lady needing to storm the castle to reach a knight.

“Good evening, ladies, how can— Oh, Lady Isobelle!” The tavernkeeper had turned toward them, her face splitting into a grin.

She was a middle-aged woman with sleek dark hair and black eyes and a nigh-uncanny talent for remembering the names of everyone

who walked into her tavern.

“But where are your friends? Surely you didn’t come alone?”

“Hi, Jinna! I’m here with my new friend Gwen.” Isobelle turned slightly so the woman could see Gwen standing behind her, face

still frozen in confusion at the hubbub.

“Well, then your first round is on the house.” Jinna gestured to the board on the wall behind her, where a dozen handwritten

drinks had been listed.

“Gwen, since you’re new here, I do things a little differently in my place, and I mix my own drinks

for my customers. Each coquetel is handcrafted, each guaranteed to conjure exactly what its name promises.”

Isobelle scanned the list, noting such tempting options as “Midnight Rendezvous” and “Twinkle-Toe Toddy,” until her eyes lit

on the final drink on the menu.

She found herself grinning.

“I’ll have a White Knight, please.”

“An excellent choice. And you, Gwen?” The tavern owner’s gaze flicked across to Gwen, and Isobelle’s did, too.

Gwen blinked and tried to respond naturally, though even Isobelle could see the faint indicators of panic around her eyes

and lips.

“Oh. I, uh... do you have ale?”

Jinna raised her impeccably arched eyebrows, and Isobelle half expected her to push back and insist Gwen try something more adventurous.

But, displaying that uncanny knack she had of anticipating her patrons’ needs, she simply nodded, letting Gwen stick to the familiar.

“Coming right up, ladies.”

Isobelle realized she was staring at Gwen too, watching her even more intently than Jinna had, and wrenched her gaze away

toward something, anything, else.

“Oooh, there’s a table opening up against the wall. Grab it, quick!”

Looking mildly relieved to have a reason to run away, Gwen ducked through the crowd, dodging a cluster of dancers moving toward

the fiddler, then making a lunge for the table, getting a hand on it just before a trio of well-dressed women reached it.

One of them opened her mouth to argue, but then they all took a look at Gwen’s you would not believe the night I am having expression, and silently but unanimously took a step back.

As Isobelle slid into her chair opposite Gwen, she braced herself, trying to remember how her rehearsed pitch began.

But Gwen’s eyes slid from her face, fixing instead on the tavern owner bustling away behind the bar.

“She said this was her

place,” she murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the din.

“She owns it?”

Isobelle nodded.

“My friend Sylvie told me about this place a few months ago. Jinna’s a widow, and her husband didn’t have

much when he died. But she bought this place from the previous owner after working her way up, and now... well, you can

see what it is now.”

She glanced out toward the dance floor stuffed full of women dancing and talking and gesturing wildly, laughing at bawdy jokes

and shouting over the music.

There were men in the crowd here and there, but they were decidedly in the minority.

“It’s a little like something... magic,” Gwen murmured, a slight wistfulness slipping past the defenses in her expression.

“I never knew a place like this existed.”

Isobelle watched Gwen’s profile as she gazed out at the spectacle.

She was aware of a strange tugging in her chest, a need

to speak or act, though she hadn’t the faintest idea what to say.

And then Jinna was there, shattering that moment of tension.

She set down Gwen’s ale, and then Isobelle’s drink, a white concoction

topped with a sprig of mint and several blackberries speared through with a miniature wooden lance.

Gwen stared at it as Isobelle thanked Jinna.

“What on earth is that ?” she murmured finally.

“She said... cocktail?”

Isobelle grinned.

“She did. It’s all the rage on the continent, and Jinna imported the idea. I would’ve ordinarily gone for

the Midnight Rendezvous, but I couldn’t quite resist trying the White Knight. It seemed... thematically appropriate.” She

raised the lance to her lips and popped one of the berries into her mouth, her eyes never leaving Gwen’s face.

Gwen’s barricades snapped back into place, so firmly that a faint frown line appeared between her eyebrows and her rosy lips

flattened into a line.

“There’s no need to be so cross.” Isobelle lobbed her opening salvo across the net with a flash of her dimples.

“I came to

congratulate you on your victory.”

The frown line did not go away.

“No need?” Gwen echoed.

“You wake me in the middle of the night, drag me out of my house, make me come to this... this... mad place, and accuse me of being...” She trailed off, then lifted her hands to scrub at her face, her voice muffled.

“You’re like something out of a ballad,” she muttered, more to herself than to Isobelle.

“And not one of the more believable ones.”

“Well, firstly, literally none of the fun ballads are about anything believable,” Isobelle pointed out.

“And secondly”—and

here she lowered her voice, leaning in for a deliciously dramatic effect—“you think I’m the one out of a ballad, Sir Gawain ?”

Gwen’s eyes closed, and she allowed herself a long breath.

“My lady,” she said, addressing her ale, rather than risking looking

up at Isobelle.

“Before you turn me in, you should know that’s as far as this was ever going to go. I wasn’t going to compete

in the tourney proper. I just... I wanted to know that I could .”

She did glance up then, and for a moment, her fear and her frustration were supplanted by a sort of wistfulness that made

Isobelle catch her breath.

Then it was gone, Gwen’s expression closed and shuttered again, that hope locked away.

“I’m finished,” Gwen said quietly.

“No one will ever see Sir Gawain again.”

“What?” Isobelle was glad a round of screaming from the dance floor drowned out what could charitably be described as a squawk.

“No, no, you can’t! You can’t stop now! You knocked Sir Evonwald right off his horse, it was magnificent!”

Gwen tried to stifle a laugh, then shook her head, making herself serious again.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not a noble. I’m a woman.

I have an actual job to do.” She ticked the reasons off on her fingers one by one, and without thinking, Isobelle let herself

reach out, closing her hand gently over Gwen’s and folding her fingers back down again.

For some reason, Gwen held still and let her do it.

“You do have a job to do,” Isobelle agreed.

She knew she needed to infect Gwen with some of the wild hope that had lit up inside her own chest when she’d realized what she was watching in the jousting lists.

That hope made something flutter behind her ribs, gave her prickles between her shoulder blades—made even Isobelle, for whom boldness was a way of life, sound uneven.

The noise of the tavern probably covered that, too.

She had an inkling Gwen might be susceptible to that kind of hope.

She might play at practicality, but no woman would masquerade

as a knight in shining armor without a spark of romance and imagination in her soul.

“Your job is to keep knocking them flat.” Isobelle injected her voice with confidence.

“With your helmet on and visor down,

who’s ever going to guess you’re a woman? It won’t even occur to them. Sir Evonwald wasn’t a nobody, that was a proper win.

And wasn’t it glorious?”

“You saw through me,” Gwen protested.

“And when they do find out—I don’t even know what they’ll do to me, there’s no precedent.

I know it’ll be bad.” But even as Isobelle searched for a reply, the corners of Gwen’s mouth flicked up, trying and failing

to hide her smile.

“It was pretty good, though, wasn’t it?”

“He landed square on his butt,” Isobelle crowed.

“He’ll be waddling for weeks, and the ladies of the court thank you. He’s

an absolute lech, anything that slows him down is a gift. But truly—unless you showed all the members of the court the engraving

on your sword, then why would they notice?”

“I didn’t show it to you ,” Gwen protested.

“You grabbed it. And they won’t need that kind of clue, not once they’re paying attention. Barely anyone

was watching this time.”

“Even when people do watch, they don’t see . Not if they aren’t expecting what’s there in front of their eyes.”

Gwen picked up her ale, cheeks pink, but then put it down again.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked finally.

Isobelle thought she saw a glimmer of something—a hint of that hope?

—hidden behind her scowl.

“Are you just bored being a lady, and want some kind of adventure?”

“No,” Isobelle replied firmly.

Staring down the approach of her own doom was a lot of things, but she could honestly say that

boring wasn’t one of them.

“I just think it’s wonderful. Don’t you want to see how far you could go?”

Gwen didn’t answer.

The urge to fill the silence tugged at Isobelle, and she made herself take a breath, let it out.

She let

her gaze trace the other girl’s features, breaking them down, centering herself as she made a list: the constellations of

freckles across her strong nose and cheekbones.

The line of her jaw.

The strand of black hair that had escaped her braid and

was curling in toward her lips like a beckoning finger.

“You’re the dragon sacrifice this year,” Gwen said eventually.

“I heard the knights talking about it.”

Isobelle felt like a cold grip was squeezing her stomach.

“Yes,” she said simply.

“My dowry guarantees that whoever wins will

most certainly claim my hand in marriage.”

“That’s such bullshit,” Gwen retorted, her good hand tightening into a fist. There was a cold fury in that gaze now, not nearly

so shielded as before.

“What if he’s an asshole?”

“That, unfortunately, is not a hypothetical,” Isobelle replied, swallowing down a wave of revulsion at the memory of Sir Ralph’s

direct gaze after his effortless win.

“Almost all the favorites are. So, can’t blame a girl for trying a wild scheme, can

you?”

Gwen’s eyes were narrowed, but she seemed thoughtful, rather than dismissive.

“What about the guy you were with at the market? Sir Awesome?”

“Orson’s not so bad,” Isobelle admitted with a rueful smile.

“But we grew up together, and... he’s not interested in me.

Or women in general. Or anyone, really. He’d still marry me, I suspect, for the dowry—his estate is pretty badly in debt,

thanks to his late unlamented father’s unwise decisions.” She steadied herself with a breath.

“The best of my bad options

is a man who doesn’t want to marry me at all. And the most likely is a horrible excuse for a human, who can’t wait for the

wedding night. Either way, whoever it is won’t love me in the least.”

Gwen was still watching her, her expression scarcely changing except for the barest flicker.

Isobelle thought it might be understanding, and she added quietly, “Is it such a reprehensible thing to want something more than the least terrible option? To choose my own fate instead of being parceled off to someone like property?”

She took a sip of her cocktail for good measure, then grimaced and set it down.

“Can I try a sip of your ale? Maybe ordering

on name alone was a bad idea.”

Gwen pushed her mug across, but her gaze was on Isobelle’s drink.

“Oh,” she said simply, a subtle shift taking over her features.

Realization. “A white knight.”

Isobelle held her breath, barely daring to hope.

Trying, with everything she had, not to let Gwen see the fear gripping her

at the mere mention of the fate awaiting her if she didn’t find some way out of it.

“Like something out of a ballad,” she agreed softly.

“Someone who could win—who could take the treasure, the glory—but not trap me in a marriage that’s loveless at best, and... worse, at worst.” She tried for a smile, though it felt watery.

“I

thought perhaps on Ladies’ Night I could find a lady’s knight, if you’ll forgive the terrible pun.”

“We’re not talking about this.” Gwen dragged her gaze away from the cocktail, fixing it on Isobelle.

“We’re not talking about it, we’re not considering it, we’re not even— It’s madness.”

“Is it?” Isobelle asked lightly.

“Of course it is!”

“If you say so.”

“I do! I mean... isn’t it? Even if I competed—even if I could avoid being discovered—how would I win? I don’t know what

I’m doing. I got extremely, ridiculously lucky today. I need training, but anyone we went to for help would turn me in in

a heartbeat.”

“A man might, true.” Isobelle grinned at her, pushing the cocktail forward to offer it to Gwen.

Gwen was staring at Isobelle like she was waiting for her to grow an extra head, or explode into a puff of pink glitter.

“You

know a woman who can joust? I mean, there is a woman who can joust? And you know her?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Simple as that?”

“What else is there? You already have a very nice horse. Where did you get him?”

“He’s mine,” Gwen replied, so fast it was almost a snap, curling her hands around the cocktail glass as if she could use it

as a shield.

Huh. Interesting.

“No doubt,” Isobelle agreed, though to be honest, the stallion Gwen had been riding earlier that day looked far too well-bred to have a history pulling a plough.

“Achilles was a foal from my mother’s mare,” Gwen said, stiffer than she’d been before, holding herself upright.

“And she—she

brought her horse with her when she left home to marry my father.”

“Well, he’s very handsome,” Isobelle replied, letting the other girl off the hook and focusing her attention on the aesthetic.

“Bays are really in fashion this season.”

Gwen’s shoulders dropped a little.

“I’d need to hire someone to help my father in the smithy on the days I’m away,” she murmured.

It took everything Isobelle had not to tip her head back and let out an unladylike hoot of victory.

Until this moment, even

Isobelle wasn’t sure this plan would work.

“I can help with that.”

Gwen bit her lip, clearly in the throes of mental calculation, tracing the edge of her glass with one finger.

“Stop looking

at me like that,” she muttered, eyes flicking up, glittering with a combination of bemusement and terror.

Isobelle was used

to inspiring both.

“I haven’t decided.”

“I like looking at you,” Isobelle replied.

Sometimes, honesty really was the best policy.

Gwen had a charming, unique style

of loveliness that was all her own.

“Did you want to try that cocktail, Sir Knight?”

Absently, Gwen lifted the glass for a sip.

Then she blinked, a tiny flush of pleasure rising behind her freckles, and she

took another, longer sip.

“It’s all right,” she muttered, as if her delight at the frivolous drink weren’t adorably plain

to read on her face.

She was quiet after that, her eyes distant.

Longing and fear warred in her expression, the battle as easy to see as her pleasure had been.

“I think,” said Isobelle with great care, “that it must have been an enormous amount of work for you. Making the armor. Learning

how to make the armor in the first place! Teaching yourself to joust—making the lances, finding the time.”

A grudging nod from Gwen conceded that all this was true.

“And I think,” Isobelle continued, treading even more cautiously now, “there’s only one reason someone would do all that.”

“And what do you suppose that reason is, my lady?” Gwen asked as she took another heartfelt sip from the cocktail.

“I think she must truly want to be a knight,” Isobelle said simply.

“I think, unlike most of the oafs wandering around the

castle right now, she must have found something noble in the idea.”

Gwen was silent, but her expression was eloquent—the yearning was there in her eyes, and the hubbub of the tavern seemed to

fade away into nothingness around them, everything falling quiet, the dancers and drinkers blurring at the edge of Isobelle’s

vision.

“I think,” Isobelle said, her eyes intent on the girl across from her, “it would be a great loss indeed if she were to give

it up.”

For a time they were quiet, and Isobelle waited.

Her heart was fluttering so strangely, beating against the inside of her

ribs like a bird against the bars of a cage.

She didn’t want Gwen to agree just because Isobelle couldn’t think of any other

way to escape her fate.

She wanted the world to be bigger than that.

“None of them were what I expected at all,” Gwen said, so softly Isobelle had to lean toward her to make out the words.

“The

other knights.”

“ You could be,” she countered.

“You could be what they aren’t. Someone should.”

“I’ll need to be up at the castle to train,” Gwen said, and Isobelle bit her lip against her smile.

“But I can’t be Sir Gawain

all the time, I’d never pass as a man without my armor on. I’ll have to stay somewhere as myself.”

“You can stay with me,” said Isobelle brightly, somewhat surprising herself.

“I have a spare room.”

Gwen looked surprised too, and took another sip of the White Knight.

“How will I explain why I’m there? You can’t just import

a blacksmith’s daughter and install her in your apartments.”

“Well, I probably can’t explain a blacksmith’s daughter,” Isobelle admitted, feeling a wave of genius wash over her and grinning.

“Actually, I’ve had a thought—”

“No,” said Gwen firmly.

“Whatever it is, no. I’ve already learned not to trust those dimples.”

“We could make you Sir Gawain’s sister. That’ll help prop up the illusion that he’s real.”

Gwen nearly choked on the drink.

“We want people to believe Sir Gawain is a noble,” she pointed out.

“You don’t think we’ll

tip people off when his sister is a backward village girl with the manners of a peasant?”

Isobelle was so delighted by the idea—and by the way Gwen was now talking about the plan as though the decision had been made—that

she couldn’t pack away the dimples, even to appear more dependable.

“As it happens, I like his sister’s manners very much.”

Gwen propped her chin on one hand, abandoning the drink, which was mostly finished now anyway.

“This is madness,” she said.

“Tell me you know it’s madness to even talk about this. I need to know you understand that.”

Perhaps it was.

No, scratch that—it most certainly was.

But with all the resources at Isobelle’s command, with the training

she knew Madame Dupont could offer, with Gwen’s determination, the steel in her gaze.

.. that didn’t mean it couldn’t work.

“Does it being madness,” Isobelle asked carefully, “preclude us from doing it?”

Gwen stared at her, and the moment drew out as their gazes locked.

Isobelle wished she were the sort of person who prayed.

She’d always found it best to make her own luck, though.

“I think,” said Gwen slowly, braced like a girl about to put her hand in a fire, “that I don’t mind a little madness.”