At the last minute, she swung the lance down and braced herself. An absolute explosion of ringing metal and shattering wood assaulted her ears, the force of the impact of her lance sending blinding agony searing through her shoulder—but her legs hung on.

She twisted, half turning Achilles in time to see Makarios riding at a forty-five-degree angle, scrambling madly to try to pull himself up, and sliding ever lower. When he finally hit the ground, his foot still tangled in the stirrup, his massive horse dragged him some considerable distance before the beast managed to slow to a halt.

Makarios disentangled his foot and fell in a clanking heap, then sat up, yanked his helmet off, and threw it down in frustration. But then he laughed, the sound half lost in the wild screaming of the crowd, and waved a broad, exaggerated salute toward Gwen.

She drew her sword, raising it—and raising the mad shrieking of the crowd around her yet higher—and letting Achilles vent his energy by riding in a pretty half circuit of the lists.

Something pattered down on Gwen’s shoulder, then slid into her lap—it was a veil of some kind. She looked up and noticed an absolute rain of random objects—largely handkerchiefs, scarfs, veils, even a few full-on hats and headdresses—flying down onto the lists from the ladies comprising well over half the audience. Then a tangle of bodice lacings landed on Achilles’s saddle, and Gwen hastily sheathed her sword and moved forward far enough to look up into Isobelle’s box.

She found Isobelle’s face immediately, the blue eyes gleaming with relief and elation—beside her, Jane shrieked something incoherent and hurled her own favor, a heavily embroidered handkerchief. Isobelle shot her a look, and Jane giggled and said something that was inaudible over the roar of the crowd.

Gwen stole one last look at Isobelle before wheeling Achilles and galloping back off the lists again.

Chapter Thirty-Five
Meditations he learned on an ancient mountaintop

Gwen dismounted by her tent, her legs as shaky as they’d been after her first ride. Her thoughts were racing, as unsteady as her legs, and she stumbled through the tent flap with her mind awhirl. She yanked off her helmet, sucking in lungfuls of fresh air, and let out a quavering laugh of released tension and relief.

Only then did she register several distinct sets of footsteps squelching across the much-abused field toward her tent, and the boisterous male voices hailing Sir Gawain.

Reality reasserted itself like a torrent of icy water, and she scrambled for her helmet, trying to pull it back over her sweaty face and hair before the other knights entered.