The tavern emptied in an instant, its patrons stampeding eagerly toward the door. Arthur slid lower in his seat, but no one paid his table any attention. Games of cards and dice sat abandoned, the tavern empty of all but Arthur and Lance, and one old drunkard snoring contentedly by the hearth.

“Sard.” Arthur groaned. “It had to be Sir Kay.”

The knight was Lance’s uncle, and would enjoy nothing more than dragging the two of them back to the castle and throwing Lance under the horse for their unsanctioned adventure.

“I’m dead,” Lance murmured, rubbing a hand over his face. “Speak kindly at my funeral.”

“There’s still a chance he won’t spot us,” said Arthur. “Come on. We’ll slip through the crowd. Just keep your head down.”

“It’s not my head I’m worried about,” Lance grumbled.

Arthur adjusted his hood. His cloak was old and far too short for him, revealing boots of polished calfskin. Even worse was Lance’s sword, the unmistakable blade of the royal guard, which he’d refused to leave behind.

Sloppy. They wouldn’t make the same mistake next time, if there even was a next time.

Arthur yanked open the door, and his last scrap of confidence fell away.

The courtyard was packed. Sir Kay had obviously sent his squire to the cathedral first, gathering a sizable audience there. It was impossible to push past the steps of the tavern, much less through the tightly pressed crowd.

They were stuck.

Lance swore under his breath.

“At least we’ll get to watch,” Arthur whispered, trying to make the best of it. They had a decent view, and no one would spot them all the way back here.

“I guess.” Lance bit his lip as he surveyed the crowd.

“Maybe he’ll shit his armor.” Arthur was mostly joking, but Lance brightened considerably at the suggestion.

The crowd, growing thicker by the moment, buzzed with whispers, and coins changed hands as hasty bets were placed. The well-heeled church-goers huddled together, shooting apprehensive looks at the unsavory tavern folk who had joined them, most with drinks still in hand.

And at the front stood Sir Kay, with his fair skin, ice-blue eyes, and pointed beard the same honeyed color as Lance’s curls. The knight’s crimson cloak flowed behind him, and his armor, although dusty, was gold-plated—designed for tournaments rather than combat. The young, fumbling squire saw to his master’s horse and equipment. From the amount of it, Arthur surmised that Sir Kay had ridden directly from the tournament in Cameliard. Where no doubt he had triumphed again in the joust.

Sir Kay preened, motioning for cheers from those pressed against the gate, and then the onlookers in the alley, letting the excitement build.