Approximately half the cast and crew linger in the stable, waiting for their cues. Most of them keep looking at Chris, like they hope he’ll come at Dalton again. Dalton sits astride his horse, head turned forward. He wears a rose that Jessica tucked into his tunic when she stopped kissing him.
Chris grabs a walkie-talkie from a passing stagehand and radios Len: “Hey boss, my face is looking like a bunch of grapes that fell down a flight of steps. You okay if I fight this one with my helmet on?”
“I don’t care how you do it,” growls Len. “But you better be on that horse and in the arena by your cue.”
“Done,” says Chris, grinning at me as he hands back the radio. “Follow me. We don’t have much time.”
CHRIS GIVES ME A HUNDRED DIFFERENT PIECES OF ADVICE AS we step out of the main stable and run toward the Knights’ dressing room.
I try to take it in: Don’t get into the Blue Knight’s guard; be sure to fall when the Yellow Knight grabs a mace in the third round of the tournament; sit still on the horse, but be commanding; and, above all, tonight’s the Green Knight’s turn to win the tournament, so you have to let him.
Chris scowls as he says the last bit.
“I can beat him if you want,” I say, popping my head out of the dressing room door. Chris watches, back turned, for stray performers, but no one lingers in this area.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Message received,” I say, my mind already racing with ways I can bring the Green Knight down.
I trade my dress for a long tunic and faux chain mail leggings; then, I pull my super anachronistic Converse—the same ones I Wench in—over my Maleficent socks and attach holders for the jousting pole to them. Next comes the breastplate, shield, scabbard, and chain mail hood. Thankfully, it’s made out of spandex and has a hole in the back for my hair to flow out of, since flowing hair on Knights is a big part of the Castle’s brand. Last comes the metal helmet, which pinches my cheeks and narrows my vision.
“How do I look?” I ask as I step out of the dressing room. The armor weighs like nine thousand pounds and sits awkwardly. Surely anyone can see I’m not Chris from a mile away.
Chris smears some saddle grease in my hair, smoothing the curls, and then he paints some under each of my eyes like I’m a football player. It smells like leather and stinky feet all at once.
“What’s that for?”
“You’re prettier than me. I’m just trying to make it less obvious.”
“Can you tell I’m not you?”
“You’re going to do great,” says Chris, sidestepping the question. He hands me a sword and pats me on the back. “Now go find Shadowfax, and get out there.”
I love that my brother named his horse after Gandalf’s. Solid nerd move.
“Are you leaving?”
Chris grabs a gray sweatshirt out of his bag and pulls the hood over his head. “Of course not. I’ll be in the audience, cheering you on.”
“Sit in my section—Layla was filling in until I found you, but can you ask her to cover for a bit longer? She won’t tell anyone if she sees you.”
“I’ll meet you back here,” says Chris. “Then we can change clothes like it was me all along.”
For a moment, part of me wants the glory myself, wants everyone to know that me—a girl—is out there with the Knights.
But Joan of Arc was burned for such things, and I can’t afford to lose this job.
“See you after the tournament.”
“Fight well, Red Knight.”
I grin beneath my helmet, but Chris can’t see it. So, I salute him and then hurry toward the stables, where a groom waits with Shadowfax. Like Gandalf’s horse, Shadowfax is beautiful, strong, and smart. Unlike Gandalf’s horse, he’s a sort of weird yellow-gray color, but details, schmetails. Close enough.
Trumpets blast again. Len starts his welcome speech. It’s time.
In one fluid movement, from years of secret, after-hours practice with Chris, I swing into the saddle. The Red Knight’s Squire, a pimply-faced kid with a shaved head (totally against company policy), hands me a red-and-white-striped lance. He’s got his phone tucked into his sleeve and is frantically texting without looking at me. He doesn’t seem to notice anything is different about the Red Knight.
“Excellent fight, dude,” he says without looking up at me. “You would’ve had Dalton if it hadn’t been stopped.”
I grunt my thanks and then sit up straighter on my horse, going over the order of the tournament in my head: The ring catch is first, then tokens from the Princess, then races, then the joust and the hand fights.
I can do this.
5
HISTORY DOESN’T TELL US HOW JOAN OF ARC FELT AS SHE sat on her horse, eyeing the besieged town of Orleans, planning her first military mission. Did her mind drift back to her village and the girl she was before the visions? Was there someone she loved before God told her to lead the French to victory against the English? (Which is a very Franco-centric view from God, if you ask me.) But really, who was Joan? Mystic? Mad? Fiercely brave? Or just the right girl for the job at perhaps the wrong time?
Maybe her stomach turned like mine was doing and her armor pinched her elbows and sweat ran in a sticky thread down her back, soaking her shirt.
“Right girl for the job,” I whisper to myself, tightening my grip on the lance. “Right girl for the job.”
And then, it’s my cue.
“GIVE A CASTLE-WORTHY CHEER FOR YOUR CHAMPION, THE RED KNIGHT!”
Our MC sounds more like a Wrestle Mania announcer than usual tonight, but his words wipe all fear from my brain. I kick my heels into Shadowfax and pound through the arena tunnel. Bright lights and loud cheers greet me. Beneath the purple stage lights and the mist that smells vaguely like mildew, the faces of the crowd blur. Another trumpet blast sounds, and I glance over my shoulder. Jett stands on the royal platform, looking glorious and much more majestic than beer-bellied King Len next to him.
Kit!
Focus.
Time to ride. Not time to think about the way Jett’s eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles.
KIT!
I dig my knees into Shadowfax and we pound across the pitch.
The first pass is easy. Once around the arena, hands on the reins, head up. I stop in front of the red cheering section and stand in my stirrups. I wave and bow toward the king. The crowd erupts in cheers from my section and boos from the others. In the front row, Layla turns for a moment, her arms laden with a drink tray and basket of rolls. She gives me the smallest of waves, but there’s no time to acknowledge it because a horn sounds.
Ride!
The MC announces the Blue Knight, and I turn away from the crowd and focus on the game at hand. Chris and the Knights make it look so easy every shift. And afterward, they laugh with each other as they talk about who cruised a cute boy or girl in the crowd, who managed to maintain the best posture while on horse, whose section cheered the loudest.
But that’s hours and several battles away. Right now, all I know is I really should have peed before agreeing to this.
Even that thought disappears as the horns sound again and the Knights gallop in a circle around the arena. So much of this job is showmanship… . I dig my heels into Shadowfax, and together we move toward the rings that hang in the middle of the oval arena.