Orson came cantering out onto the lists, past the chests of gold and jewels, raising a hand to the crowd’s somewhat perfunctory cheers, one hand grasping his reins as his horse sidestepped nervously at the hubbub all around them.

Isobelle gazed down at him, picturing his familiar face behind the helmet. He wouldn’t have been a bad husband. He wouldn’t have loved her and brought her to life, as Gwen did. But Isobelle wouldn’t have put him in danger, either.

“And now, lords and laymen, one and all, prepare yourselves!” A hush fell over the crowd, like the heavy, tense silence before a gale strikes. “Mysterious and charming, he’s taken Darkhaven by storm. . . . Can he go the distance and claim his prize? He’s the one that you want: The knight from Toussaint! The newcomer from France who’s here to take his chance, it’s Sirrrrrr Gawain!”

Gwen rode out, and the crowd went wild.

Achilles half reared, and Isobelle found she was on her feet. It was too late to choose her last words to Gwen again, but she wanted with all her heart for Gwen to see her, to know that she was there. That she was ready to walk this path with her, whatever happened next.

There was an official speaking hurriedly to the herald, and after a moment the man lifted his loudspeaker for one more announcement: “Will the competitors please approach his lordship!”

Isobelle’s head snapped around to look at Lord Whimsitt, who was coming slowly to his feet. Perhaps the knights were to salute him?

Then she saw Olivia’s face. Her maid’s jaw was clenched, and when she caught Isobelle’s eye, she flicked her gaze toward the far side of the lists.

There were two columns of guards making their way out onto the field, breaking into groups and taking their place by each of the exits.

Isobelle went cold all over, sinking down to her bench as her legs went weak.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Chapter Forty-Two
The terrible sound of a thousand people not knowing what to say

Gwen’s eyes were on Isobelle, drinking her in. She tried to calm her heart, which was thudding in a ragged, lurching rhythm of relief at the sight of her. A part of Gwen had been sure Isobelle wouldn’t be there after the things they’d said to each other the night before.

You’re no better than they are. Isobelle’s words, sharp as daggers, still hurt.

Gwen had awakened still angry and left before Isobelle that morning. But once she met up with Dupont at Sir Gawain’s changing tent, the anger had shattered into a tangle of fear and longing and despair and hope that made her hands shake as she tried to put on her armor.