Her father didn’t bother to hide his chuckle. “True. But you’ve never let anyone tell you what you can and can’t do with your life. Where you belong, and what you deserve.” He held out his hand, and Gwen leaned forward so he could take hers and give it a squeeze. “Don’t start now.”

Gwen’s throat tightened, trying to stop the words welling up inside her from coming out. How could she tell her father that, as much as she liked smithing, it wasn’t what she really longed for? That out there today, on the lists, weighed down by the armor she’d made and listening to the roar of the crowd, she’d been more alive than she’d ever felt holding a hammer and tongs. That the one thing she truly wanted—had always wanted, since her mother told her that first story of knights and dragons and chivalry and protecting the helpless—was the one thing she could never have for herself, not in a million years, not in a world that was, and ever would be, run by men.

There was a line. She’d already crossed it by taking up her father’s craft, but that was the sort of infraction people could ignore.

But to masquerade as a knight?

That would leave the line so far behind her she might never find her way back.

Gwen squeezed her father’s hand in return. “Thanks, Dad,” she whispered, and tried not to let him see how much her heart ached.

Later, as she lay in bed while the moon rose and the village slumbered, her head was spinning so much she could scarcely keep her eyes closed and her body still. Logistics kept pouring through her mind. Technically, Sir Gawain was through the qualifiers and could ride in the first round of the tournament proper in a couple of weeks. But to have any hope of competing, she’d need far more than the sheer fury and luck that had carried her through today. She’d need training. She’d need a place to stay; though the castle was only a few miles away, Achilles was distinctive, and someone would be bound to spot her riding between the tournament and her poor, non-noble village. She’d need money, because if she was riding in a tournament, she couldn’t be making pickaxes, and how would her father live?

She turned onto her side, pillowing her hands beneath her cheek. It was impossible. Even if she could sort out the details, what right did she have to try to be a knight? Just because she could fight, and ride, and hold a lance—she wasn’t one of them.