“I want to do this.” Gwen caught Isobelle’s eyes and held them. “Ralph might have been the worst of them, but do you want to marry Makarios instead? Belmar? Orson?” Gwen let her breath out shakily. “I could throttle Olivia for letting you see my bruises.”

“I’m glad she did!” Isobelle burst out. “Gwen, you could’ve been killed.”

“That’s what jousting is!” Gwen shot back, then swallowed and touched Isobelle’s cheek, trying to be reassuring. “I promise you, the other knights are as bruised as I am. And I’ve been training with Dupont, I know more about evasion now. Isobelle . . . you can’t have it both ways.” Gwen brushed Isobelle’s quivering lips with her thumb. “I’m either your knight, or I’m not. Either I stand between you and all of them, or I’m not really standing at all.”

Isobelle drew a long breath. “Just . . . just don’t get knocked off again,” she whispered. “That was the longest second of my life, before you hit the ground.”

“You and me both,” Gwen replied with a soft hum of laughter. “I’ll be okay, Isobelle. I will. This mad dream of yours . . . it’s actually working. I can do this.”

Isobelle bit her lip, her expressive face betraying how badly she wanted to keep arguing the point. Her gaze searched Gwen’s, fingers moving across the bandages under Gwen’s dress. Then she leaned in again, and captured Gwen’s lips in a kiss that was far briefer, but just as fierce as their first.

“I know you will,” Isobelle said, and let her go.

Dupont was waiting for Gwen when she ducked into Sir Gawain’s tent. If she noticed Gwen’s flushed cheeks and somewhat reddened lips, she said nothing—instead, she gestured to the armor she’d fetched and arrayed on the stand. They’d agreed it’d probably be better if Lady Céline wasn’t spotted carrying her fictitious brother’s armor, and this way, Gwen had someone to help her into it without having to wrench her shoulder.

“Remember what we practiced,” Dupont said, as she tightened the buckles at waist and wrist, and reached for Gwen’s helmet. “The lance is narrow. Dodging it takes the tiniest movement, the barest of twists—all you need to do is turn a full strike into a glancing blow to stay on your horse. It’s about timing, not strength.”

“I remember,” Gwen replied, giving an experimental twist in her armor. Olivia had been right about her ribs being bruised, not broken—with her shoulder back in place, and strapped to boot, she could move and twist with very little pain now.

Dupont stood before her, scanning Gwen’s features thoughtfully. She stood there long enough that Gwen began to fidget, shifting her weight from one booted foot to the other.

“What?” she said finally.