The two knights were emerging from their tents, taking the reins of their horses from the attendants. Isobelle’s gaze was locked on Gwen’s form as she swung up into the saddle. It was only when Sylvie shoved a sharp elbow into Isobelle’s side that she realized the other girls were applauding enthusiastically, and remembered to make herself clap.

“I know Céline likes to maintain some mystery, but is she really not going to watch her brother fight?” Sylvie asked, raising her voice above the cheering.

Jane snorted. “Against Sir Ralph? I wouldn’t want to see my brother get destroyed, either.”

“Hush,” said Hilde, squeezing in beside Jane. “There are leeches and surgeons at the edge of the field, all will be well. And I’m sure there’s a hedge witch in the stands if we need someone really useful.”

“What I wouldn’t give for him to knock Sir Ralph clean out of that saddle.” Jane sighed, then broke off as Hilde elbowed her.

Achilles was prancing as the two knights rode up to Isobelle’s box, trying to dance sideways as Gwen gripped the reins to keep him in line. At least someone was having a good time.

Isobelle rose to her feet, keeping her back ramrod straight and her chin lifted.

The world around her seemed to fade away as the two knights came to a halt and bowed in their saddles, the cheering muffled, the colors of the grandstands and the lists muted.

If only she could see Gwen behind that visor. If only . . .

“Sir Knight!” Both heads snapped up, and Isobelle realized she’d spoken. “Sir Gawain,” she managed, her voice firming as she knew what she had to do.

She would not let Gwen ride out to face Sir Ralph alone.

Gwen went still on Achilles’s back, the bay sidestepping uncertainly. Then her helmet turned slightly to look across at Sir Ralph—but the favorite sat just as still as Gawain, save that his horse was even more restive, responding to the tension in his rider’s body.

Gwen pressed her heels into Achilles’s sides, and they walked forward a few steps to halt in front of the stands. “Uh . . .” She was keeping her voice low, but that didn’t stop everyone around them from leaning in to hear. “Yes, Lady?”

“A little closer, please,” Isobelle called, before lowering her voice and addressing her friends. “Girls, if you let me fall over the railing, I shall start rumors even more horrifying about you to divert the attention.”

Three pairs of hands gripped her around the waist and the skirts, as she leaned down, fishing in her bodice for her crumpled—but clean—handkerchief. She shook the wrinkles free as Gwen eased Achilles around to stand side-on, so she could reach up with one armored fist to grip the barrier. Only the smallest tilt of her head conveyed a hint of What the hell are you doing, Isobelle?