I don’t know how she heard me over the mob and the mystery warrior’s horn, calling to his scattered knights, but Princess Igraine answered, eyes still on the fight unfolding before us. “His men listen for his every word. They’re one unit, with one opponent.”

“What? Who?” I shouted.

“Haven’t you noticed?” Igraine gestured wildly at a knight in a gold jersey.

“Yeah,” Skop bellowed. “They’ve been fighting their way to the leader of the gold army all this time. Drilling him. The guy with the long hair who won last week.”

“Right.” Igraine nodded appreciatively. “It’s as though they don’t care what happens, as long as Cornwall is forced off the field. He’s determined Mark will not be the champion. And yet,” she added with a grin, “they’re fighting so hard, the green armies are sure to claim the victory. My, but he’s quick—been practicing, I see—”

The princess was still speaking, but I suddenly couldn’t hear, couldn’t reply, couldn’t breathe. Her answer had knocked the wind out of me.

I just hope the duke doesn’t win next week.

He won’t. I’m certain.

Cornwall had loomed over me at the previous ball, like a shadow I couldn’t seem to escape. The very idea of another dance with him—the prize for his victory—had made me ill.

But Bear had promised me that wouldn’t happen.

Somehow, I clung to calm, restrained the smile that wanted to break over my face like the sun from behind clouds. I kept my composure even when Veery tore his helmet from his head, even when Sir Mark, Duke of Cornwall, lifted his visor to scream at Tristan for catching a blow meant for Kay.

I propped my head in my hand and hid my grin behind my curled fingers, because I knew where Bear had gone. Because, on the inside, I was like everyone else, throwing flowers and cheering for the mystery green knight.

For Bear, who led an entire army to victory to rescue me from a dance with Cornwall.

By the time Bear’s blunted dagger ripped Cornwall’s gold jersey, leaving an angry welt on his neck, the entire crowd on the village green was on its feet.

Everyone but Bertilak.

The prince observed in a chilly calm as the boys tugged off their helmets, sat ramrod straight as they ran gauntleted hands through sweaty hair—Veery, and Tristan, and gangling, awkward Kay, as I’d suspected, but also Lord Geraint, the young jousting champion from the previous week, and the boys and the pretty dark-haired girl from the weekend before. They shambled toward the dais, whooping and laughing and slapping one another on the back, fierce and triumphant.

Bertilak rose stiffly, mouth one thin line, and escorted me onto the green.

“You chose to participate,” the prince said to Bear.

“I did,” he panted.