Lady's Knight Extract

Allen & Unwin
3 days ago
10 min read

Read an extract from Lady's Knight by Amie Kaufman & Meagan Spooner.

The sort of thing that gets a girl burned at the stake

Gwen ducked out the back flap of the stall, gulping a breath of fresher air and reaching for another string of horseshoes from the boxes stacked there.

She hated Market Day. It meant dealing with an endless parade of farmers, coopers, farriers and miners, all of whom demanded to speak to her father. They assumed she couldn’t possibly know what she was talking about when it came to negotiating prices, let alone when it came to the technical specifications of the tools they were looking at.

It certainly never occurred to them that every single nail, pickaxe and barrel hoop had been made by the blacksmith’s teenaged daughter.

Steeling herself, she slipped back through the flap and busied herself setting out a new row of horseshoes to replenish the few she’d managed to sell. All their customers today were regulars – not a single new face had approached her stall, though the population of potential customers had easily doubled since last month’s market.

At this rate, she’d never make enough to pay the entrance fee for the jousting tournament.

It had been a mad idea, one she knew was mad even as she fashioned armour to fit her lighter frame, even as she practised with her sword, even as she trained with her horse against trees and fences.

It was bad enough for a peasant to risk posing as a knight – impersonating nobility could deliver you to a very nasty end indeed if you were caught. Worse, in order to pose as a knight, she’d be forced to pose as a man.

And that was the sort of thing that gets a girl burned at the stake.

Somehow, though, it wasn’t the thought of being arrested or roasted that felt maddest of all. The part that kept her awake at night with wanting was the idea that she thought she could be, even for a moment, good enough to be a knight.

So much for one day of glory, she thought, trying to swallow the lump rising in her throat.

A ragged chorus of gasps from the stall across the way made Gwen look up. The blacksmith from two counties over, in town for the pretournament Market Day, was demonstrating a flashy figure-eight slashing pattern with an ornately decorated sword. The whooshing, whistling noise of the blade cut right through the din of the crowds.

Gwen felt her brow furrowing, too annoyed to control the scowl she’d been told made her particularly unapproachable as a vendor. The only reason the sword was making such a racket – and drawing such a crowd – was because it was poorly balanced. A properly made weapon wouldn’t be half so noisy.

A swirl of colour at the end of the makeshift row of vendors drew Gwen’s attention. A gaggle of vibrantly dressed noblewomen were sweeping their way down the aisle, people scattering back from them like frogs before a flock of colourfully plumed herons.

Gwen found herself watching them, safe in the relative anonymity of her profession – nothing at her stall would interest these girls. Their obvious leader was a girl in a blindingly pink dress – how does one even dye fabric that colour? – with her blonde hair in intricate braids coiled around her head.

She was absolutely beautiful, in that put-together fashion that waved like a big red flag to Gwen’s eye. Even if she weren’t a noblewoman, and entirely off-limits, her whole demeanour would’ve warned Gwen off flirting or even approaching her to talk. Different worlds, Gwen thought, continuing to watch her through her lashes. The girl’s face was shapely, her skin flawless. Her nose was perfect and pert, her lips a generous pink pout, her blue eyes huge.

Of course she’s got blue eyes, Gwen thought, allowing herself

a bit of petty annoyance at the girl’s classic beauty. And yet, for some reason, she couldn’t quite make herself take her eyes off the ringleader of the ladies and go back to work.

And then the blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty turned and met Gwen’s gaze.

Gwen found herself frozen with surprise – and a certain amount of panic at having been caught staring. Then she jerked her head down so fast her neck popped audibly.

‘Ooh,’ came a clear, sweet voice, straight through the crowds to her ears. ‘Let’s go here!’

Gwen didn’t look up. Just keep going. If I have to try to sell a pickaxe to a noblewoman, I’m going to throw myself into the lake.

‘Um,’ said a somewhat less sweet voice. A glance told Gwen it belonged to a square-jawed man in an impeccably tailored jacket and hose, equally as handsome as the queen of the ladies. Gwen hadn’t even noticed him there – easy to miss amid the flock of jewel-toned gowns around him. He was gazing longingly at the whistling sword demonstration across the way. ‘Maybe this one would be better, Lady Isobelle.’

Lady Isobelle frowned at him, the expression so perfect she must have practised it in front of a glass. ‘Why that one?’

The young nobleman glanced between the burly, bearded blacksmith wielding the noisy sword and Gwen with her single black braid and plain grey dress. ‘He, uh . . . looks like he might be more experienced.’

Gwen clenched her jaw. How many times had she heard that one?

Hurriedly, the young man added, ‘He’s, um, older, you know.’

The lady’s frown had deepened, her eyes narrowing. She paused only for an instant before dismissing him with a toss of her pretty blonde head. ‘You go over there if you like. The girls and I are going to this stall.’

Dammit.

Gwen self-consciously smoothed down her skirt, rearranging the pocket hanging from her belt so it covered up the hole burned into the fabric. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, keeping her eyes down as the group of ladies swept towards her. She wanted to say, There’s nothing here for you – you’ve made your point, now move on. What she said was: ‘How are you enjoying the market today?’

‘Oh, so much!’ bubbled the blonde girl – Isobelle, the nobleman had called her. ‘It’s such a gorgeous day, and I could honestly people-watch for hours. What about you?’

Gwen lifted her gaze, which turned out to be a terrible mistake. The eyes waiting for her were even bluer up close. ‘I, uh.’ She could feel the heat rising, starting somewhere in the small of her back and creeping ever upward.

The lady Isobelle waited, and when no further reply seemed forthcoming, she cheerfully leaned forward, bracing her perfectly manicured hands on the edge of the stall. ‘My goodness, what a selection of . . . things.’ The other three noblewomen stayed clustered around Isobelle, though none were feigning the kind of interest their leader was. A fifth woman was with them, a few years older than the ringleader, but her dress was far plainer than the others.

Lady’s maid, Gwen’s mind decided.

A snort and a choke from behind her announced that her father, sensing the presence of customers, had woken from his doze.

‘Do the thing, Gwen,’ he suggested in his soft, but firm, way, as he rubbed his hand over his face.

The mortified heat had reached Gwen’s shoulders, and she hunched them, trying to keep the blush at bay through sheer force of will. ‘Dad,’ she protested, ‘these ladies have no . . . er. They’re not here to buy anything.’

Lady Isobelle made a noise of contradiction.

Gwen’s father lifted his head and met her eyes, his eyebrows rising. ‘The demo,’ he insisted. ‘The new kitchen knives.’

Gwen looked up at the clear blue sky, wishing a lightning bolt would magic itself down from the heavens and vaporise her. She wanted to point out to her father that these women had never set foot inside a kitchen in their lives.

Instead, she turned back to the counter and stepped over towards the end, where their array of kitchen knives was fanned out against a cheery red display cloth. Picking up the floor model, she launched into the speech that had been one of her father’s few contributions to their business these past months.

‘Welcome to Amos’s Armaments and Sundries,’ she said, picking a puffed fold of Lady Isobelle’s sleeve to address. ‘Allow me to demonstrate our new line of kitchen knives, stronger than Spanish steel and capable of holding a sharp edge five times longer than the leading competitor’s blades. Each purchase comes with a lifetime guarantee and free sharpening, though with our innovative design, you’ll almost never have to sharpen your knives again.’

She could feel those intense eyes on her as she spoke. A giggle from one of the other ladies was quickly stifled – evidently, Lady Isobelle was kind enough not to let her friends laugh at the poor blacksmith’s daughter running through her memorised lines.

‘Gather round,’ Gwen went on, ‘and I’ll show you how our knives can cut through the toughest of materials – even an old leather drinking flask.’ She held up the flask in question – they got them cheap from the local tavern once they’d begun to wear out to the point of leaking – and then drove the knife down into the leather. Truthfully, it required far more strength to do smoothly than any of these ladies would have, but Gwen spent her days forging iron and could make it look easy.

‘See how easily the knife cuts,’ she said, as the bottom of the flask fell onto the counter. ‘See how smooth the edges are.’ She turned the top of the flask over to show off the even edges of the leather.

‘Amazing!’ exclaimed Lady Isobelle. Her tone was so genuinely lacking in patronisation that Gwen glanced at her, startled. Her gaze was lowered as she ran her fingertips just beside Gwen’s against the cut leather. Gwen fought the urge to jerk her hand back, for reasons she could not quite identify.

Then Isobelle looked up, the force of her stare lessened somewhat by the gentle curiosity in her expression. ‘Is it important that they can cut through leather?’ she asked.

In all the times Gwen had run through this particular demonstration for customers, not once had anyone asked her that. She groped for a response, any response, that wasn’t the truth. ‘Uh,’ she said.

‘I’ll take four,’ the lady announced, her perfectly symmetrical features alive with enthusiasm. ‘One for each of us. Right, girls?’

The rest of her friends had wandered off a few paces, their attention on another group of nobles strolling by. But just behind and to Isobelle’s left, the lady’s maid cleared her throat.

‘Oh, you too?’ Isobelle beamed. ‘Five, then!’

‘Ah, no, my lady . . .’ The maid’s expression betrayed very little, but for the tiniest flicker of alarm. ‘I was going to suggest you try buying something a little less . . . lethal.’

‘Oh, come now, Olivia. I’m not going to cut myself.’ Lady Isobelle paused, lips pursing. ‘Not again, anyway. Oh, fine. What about these?’ She took a tiny step to the side, her gaze falling upon the rows of horseshoes.

Gwen blinked at her, and then glanced again at Olivia, whose poker face was of absolutely no help. ‘These . . . horseshoes?’

‘Oh, is that what they are?’ The blue eyes flitted back up, and Gwen felt a strange sense of vertigo, as if gravity wasn’t operating quite right – she couldn’t tell if the lady was teasing her, or if she truly had no idea what a horseshoe was.

‘I don’t . . .’ Gwen floundered, as the blush began rising again with a vengeance, swarming up her neck and threatening to choke her. ‘Surely the castle farrier would . . . I mean, you can tell him to see us if you need . . .’

Isobelle traced a fingertip along the curve of one of the horseshoes. ‘I’m thinking hung on the wall, for decoration. Any decent hedge witch says iron is the thing. We could call them good luck charms. Do you have any with some decoration on them?’

‘Decoration?’ Gwen echoed weakly, feeling like someone had cut her legs out from under her.

‘Maybe a floral pattern, or something artsy and modern and geometrical?’

Numbly, Gwen shook her head.

Isobelle pursed her lips again. ‘Does your father ever do anything more ornate?’

‘My father?’ Gwen was beginning to sound like one of the town criers, repeating what they hear over and over.

‘He’s the one who makes these, no? Amos himself?’ Isobelle’s eyes dipped, falling on the spot where Gwen’s fingers curled around one of the horseshoes, her grip familiar and possessive.

Gwen let go, then immediately wished she hadn’t.

The other girl’s gaze, suddenly shrewd, met hers again. ‘Well, if your father ever does make any with decorations, they’ll go like hotcakes the next Market Day. I guarantee this time next month, every girl will want one for her own wall.’

She knew. Somehow, this airheaded noblewoman with her pink dress and perfectly sculpted hair knew. The people in Gwen’s village pretended not to notice that Amos’s daughter had taken over his smithing tasks with increasing frequency these past years – with her dad unable to work with any consistency, it was either accept Gwen or live without a blacksmith at all. Don’t ask about the blacksmith girl, and we won’t tell you about the blacksmith girl.

It wasn’t technically against the law for women to be tradesmen, but men didn’t find the idea particularly comfortable. A lot of female crafters tended to find themselves thrown into debtors’ prison after guards confiscated their ‘ill-gotten’ wealth by calling it stolen.

Panic interrupted the rising blush, threatening to drain all that blood away again.

Then Lady Isobelle smiled, delight radiating from her every perfect pore. ‘I’ll take five of them,’ she said. ‘How much?’

Gwen was beginning to feel like a fence post in a raging tempest – clinging to the tiniest scrap of dry ground while the hurricane that was Lady Isobelle threatened to tear her loose and swirl her all about.

‘That’ll be five . . .’ she began, but then stopped. Behind Isobelle, the lady’s maid – Olivia – was shaking her head and signalling to catch Gwen’s attention. While she watched, the other woman stuck out her thumb, turned it upward, and bounced it. ‘Uh, I mean, ten . . . ? Ten pen—’ The thumb bounced again.

Gwen hesitated again, unwilling to raise the price more than double what it ought to be.

‘Ten pennies?’ Isobelle asked. ‘Or ten shillings?’

The bottom dropped out of Gwen’s stomach.

Isobelle flashed her that radiant smile. ‘Ten shillings it is.’

Olivia cleared her throat again. ‘And we’ll need nails to hang them on,’ she reminded her lady.

Isobelle nodded vaguely. ‘Oh, yes. Add another five shillings onto that, would you, Liv? Thanks.’

While her maid dug in a fat purse jingling with coins, Isobelle leaned forward, palms flat on the counter, and beamed at Gwen, who’d lost all ability to move or speak.

‘It’s been an absolute pleasure meeting you and perusing your wares,’ she said. ‘Your father’s wares, I mean.’ The smile turned decidedly impish. One of the other ladies made an impatient sound, prompting a roll of Isobelle’s eyes. ‘Oh, all right. Olivia will pay you, and I’m sure Sir Orson will be only too pleased to carry the horseshoes back.’ Then she paused, winked – actually winked – at Gwen, and whirled away, the storm sweeping on across the market, the other ladies following in her wake like bits of coloured fabric swirling in the gale.

Gwen stayed where she was, standing utterly still, staring down at the handful of coins the lady’s maid deposited into her hand.

It was enough to buy her way into the qualifying round of the tournament.

All she needed now was the courage to show up among the knights and ladies and pageantry – and enough luck that no one would notice she could never really belong in that world. To hide long enough to prove to herself, just once, that she was good enough.

Extracted from Lady's Knight by Amie Kaufman & Meagan Spooner. Out now!