Lady's Knight

by Amie Kaufman

She knew. Somehow, this airheaded noblewoman with her pink dress and perfectly sculpted hair knew.

The last thing she needed was for any of the knights in the tournament to do something so inconvenient as fall in love with her.

It was only as she made her way past a line of horses tethered to the old wishing tree, a town guard patiently pinning parking violations to their bridles,

Still, the crowds flocked to the lists, because what better way to pass a beautiful late summer’s day than by watching unspeakable violence unfolding before you for your entertainment?

A few years back there’d been an epidemic of them in the village, until this absolute weirdo with a flute had turned up and driven them out. He’d stuck around afterwards for an embarrassing amount of time, eyeing the village young people in the creepiest way.

This was, Isobelle reflected, the first time she’d heard of a lady needing to storm the castle to reach a knight.

‘We’ll tell everyone you’re terribly shy, which should excuse you from plenty of missteps.’ ‘I am terribly shy,’ Gwen replied. ‘Well, there you go, then.’

‘They find me intimidatingly competent,’

Olivia wouldn’t go along with our plan if she didn’t think we were onto something. She’s just sulking because she thought the best solution to my current predicament was an assassination or two.’

For the most part, trying to look ‘pretty’ made Gwen uncomfortable. Far more uncomfortable than she felt roasting on a summer’s day in a suit of armour, facing down an opponent over a sharpened bit of stick. At least the worst thing that could happen to her in that situation was gruesome and painful death. But this dress … this dress was doing something to her.

Isobelle’s fair eyebrows drew in. ‘Why do you always do that?’ she asked, a flicker of genuine distress in her face. ‘If I compliment you on your riding or your smithing, you’re fine. But god forbid I should say you look nice, or you start scowling and rolling your eyes at me.’

Her heart was beating like a wild thing trapped within the cage of her ribs.

That every gentle touch was a deeper impulse restrained and packed carefully away.

She felt caught halfway between the world she had come from – the world of beating hearts and anticipation, of moonlight shimmering with possibility – and this ordinary, sunlit world of the castle, where there were practicalities waiting, and routine around every corner.

She couldn’t speak her moonlight dream out loud when it was dying here in the sun. I thought you’d wait for me. I thought you promised that last night. I thought when I was ready, you’d be here. I thought …

They didn’t have that time. They would never have that time.

He was classically handsome: square jaw, blond hair that tousled nicely, even a fetching scar on his eyebrow – though it was less roguish when you knew it had come courtesy of an evil-minded pony. He should have been enough. She wished he were.

‘The joust, I mean! Not the kissing. You don’t get to be unsure about the kissing.’

‘Um, guys … I mean, it probably wasn’t the troll king, and he probably couldn’t shoot fire out of his eyes …’ Or: ‘Well, no, I’ve never seen him levitate during his pregame ritual, and I’m pretty sure he can’t control the other knights’ horses with his mind, either …’

Raise your hand, she coached herself. Put it in his. Scream, said another voice inside her head. Fight your jailers. Set something on fire.

‘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!’

When had she turned from a sensible, practical village girl into a foolish, reckless idiot with her head in the clouds? Isobelle, she thought, heart aching. That’s when.

Gwen had not run away. Gwen had run towards.

‘The truth is, there is no cage.’