And then it was over, and the competitors were sent back to their tents to await their first match.

Emry stood inside the small crimson tent, fiddling absently with a piece of equipment. Moments earlier, Lance had left her alone, sprinting off toward the arena with a sword under his arm. No wonder he was dressed so handsomely, Emry had thought, as she’d watched him hurry onto the field with Arthur’s spare sword.

She didn’t know the first thing about a squire’s duties, but she knew that it meant a lot Arthur had given Lance the honor. And that he would prove himself more than up to the task.

He’d been right, Emry thought, about the competition being stiff. Arthur had no place on that field. She hadn’t known Gawain would be competing, but he’d never made a secret of his skill with a blade. Standing there in his armor, the foppish, devilish royal had vanished. Gawain was every inch a formidable swordsman. But then, Emry expected no less. It was only Arthur who looked out of place.

She pictured him off to the side, in the small white tent, making sure Master Ambrosius and the court physician had adequate supplies to treat those who got injured. But that wasn’t right, either. That’s where she should be. Arthur would be in the royal box next to Princess Guinevere, a golden crown on his head, applauding the competitors as they knelt before him.

A herald announced that the first match would commence in five minutes, between Prince Gottegrim and Sir Olwen. The stands erupted in cheers. And then the tent flap was pushed aside, and Lance and Arthur ducked into the tent.

Emry had to admit, Arthur did look handsome in his armor and chainmail, a helmet tucked under his arm, and his hair a tousled mess.

He also looked ill from nerves. And entirely unhappy to see her.

“Um, hi,” she said awkwardly.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “I thought I said—”

“This is what you get for asking me to play squire,” Lance said mildly.

“You’re not playing squire.” Arthur sounded as though they’d been over this before. “If anything, I’m playing a knight. At least you have the training.”

“But not the experience,” put in Lance.

“Then it’s a good thing you’re getting some now,” Arthur said. He frowned, holding up his right arm. “Should these pads keep slipping down?”

“I warned you they’d loosen as you moved,” Lance admonished, unfastening Arthur’s arm and chest plates. He tossed them onto the equipment table along with Arthur’s scabbard.

Emry stood uselessly in the corner, next to a table set with a decanter of ruby wine, watching as Lance re-laced Arthur’s padding in tense silence. The two of them weren’t cracking jokes, she realized. And they were always joking.