And when Sir Gawain handily knocks Sir Belmar off his horse in one try, without even shattering his lance, it takes the physicians well over twenty minutes to fight through the crowds to get to the lists and help the downed knight limp away. Half of them never make it at all, too busy tending to the fans who, having succumbed to the intense weight of their adoration, fainted before Gawain ever made it onto the field.

The weavers’ guild makes a fortune milling the cheapest garments they can manage with Sir Gawain’s pennant painted on the front. They call them tournament shirts, though the fans tend to shorten the name to something quicker to say.

The local portrait artist is busier than he’s ever been, knocking out card-sized paintings of ladies with Sir Gawain in his armor, their hands juuuuust about to lift his visor and reveal his face.

And a local blacksmith, emerging out of relative anonymity, displays a sudden talent for crafting tiny, beautifully detailed figurines of this new star—his smithy is completely overrun.

Our principal players now find themselves stuck under a rather crushing weight of deception in the face of intense, unrelenting scrutiny.

Sir Orson, cruising through his matches as well, was originally delighted to spread as many mad rumors about Sir Gawain as he could imagine. Now, however, he’s left to sit in stunned silence as his friends take turns sharing the wildest rumors they’ve managed to overhear or invent. He’s all: “Um, guys . . . I mean, it probably wasn’t the troll king, and he probably couldn’t shoot fire out of his eyes. . . .” Or: “Well, no, I’ve never seen him levitate during his pregame ritual, and I’m pretty sure he can’t control the other knights’ horses with his mind, either. . . .”

Olivia, doing her level best to keep Gwen in one piece—largely through the expert application of tight bandages and lurid green ointment—avoids the worst of the hubbub by lurking around the castle dungeons. She can’t get access to the imprisoned villagers yet, but she’s become quite the hit with the local lads employed as guards, because she always comes bearing snacks. Thus far, they’ve all been perfectly harmless. Who would drug a cupcake, after all? Certainly not Olivia. Certainly not yet, anyway.

Sylvie’s suspicions of Céline only seem to deepen, her mistrust of the other half of the mystery—Sir Gawain himself—slightly mollified by the obvious, undeniable happiness of her friend Isobelle. Jane modifies one of the T-shirts, sewing fluttering ribbons to the sleeves and tying the baggy hem into a knot around her midriff, showing a scandalous few inches of the curve of her stomach. Hilde begs Isobelle endlessly for her latest account of her “alone time” with Sir Gawain.