And Isobelle so badly wanted to reply. To say, Run away, be safe and I’m sorry I dragged you into this and I’m so afraid this will be brutal, and I would rather marry Sir Ralph himself than let harm come to you.

But she couldn’t say any of that, because Gwen would never turn tail and run, and putting doubt in her mind would only make the danger even greater.

“A favor,” Isobelle said instead, and though only her companions could hear, everyone in the stands could see what she was doing. “For you have mine, Sir Knight.” Then, lowering her voice to a whisper, her eyes on Gwen’s visor: “Today, you are a knight. And today, you are my knight.”

Gwen was still as a statue—Isobelle thought she wasn’t even breathing, visored helmet tilted up to look at her. Then she curled her fingers around the handkerchief and tucked it behind the breastplate of her armor, pushing it through the small gap until it was safely in place over her heart.

Her champion raised her head, and Isobelle saw the faintest glimmer of her eyes behind the visor. Then Gwen lifted one armored hand, turning it so that the gloved fingertips beneath the hard metal mail were what touched Isobelle’s palm.

“Yours, my lady,” came Gwen’s voice, soft and fervent.

And so they remained as murmurs raced along the grandstand, the story of what had happened traveling as fast as words could carry it.

Then one of the girls kicked Isobelle on the ankle to break the tableau, and she startled, and Gwen wheeled her horse away, riding for the far end of the lists.

Sir Ralph remained in place, the protruding jaw of his helmet swinging from where Isobelle stood in the stands, lavender tucked in her hair, to the receding forms of Gwen and Achilles and back again. Finally he too turned away, stiff in his saddle as he trotted toward his starting point.

“That was truly stupid,” Sylvie whispered as Isobelle eased back down into her seat. “What are you going to do ten minutes from now, when Sir Ralph is still in the hunt and Sir Gawain is a heap of scrap metal on the ground?”

Hilde sighed. “I think it was romantic.”

“And I think . . .” Jane’s whisper cracked as she took in Isobelle’s white face. “Oh, Isobelle. You care for him.” She took hold of Isobelle’s hand, her own warm against Isobelle’s freezing cold fingers. “And we’ve been teasing you. Do you love him? I’m sorry. We’re here. We’ll stay by your side.”

Isobelle, for once, said nothing at all.

The two knights took up their places at either end of the lists. Isobelle could feel the pulse at her temples, could feel how shallow her breath was. A hush fell over the crowd, and all Isobelle could hear was the ringing in her own ears.