It was no surprise. Lancelot had filled her in on their walk over.

“He made garments for me? In all of two days?” Vera had asked incredulously. “How did he know my measurements?”

“That’s Randall’s gift,” Lancelot had said. “It’s a sensory power. He’s never needed to take your measurements. He saw you at dinner the first night and instantly knew them. He can hear better, see better, smell from farther, and he’s got this thing with his hands, too. He has these massive sausages of fingers, but he weaves the finest, most intricate armor. Quickly, too. It was all dead useful in battle, even the smell part. He’s a bit rough about the edges, but don’t let him fool you. Randall’s one of Arthur’s most trusted knights, and he might be the sweetest man to walk this planet.”

Vera couldn’t speak to the armor nor to Randall’s sweetness, but Lancelot’s assessment of her new running kit was certainly true. Randall made a circle about Vera, eyeing her as he rubbed at his beard. “The shirt’s based on what our soldiers wear underneath their chainmail. The whole set’s a wool and silk blend. It should handle moisture well.”

“That’s good,” Lancelot said, “because she sweats loads. Buckets, really.”

“It was a heavy shirt!” Vera protested, glaring at him. He was seated at a workbench, bent over Randall’s chainmail with metal tools in hand, grinning in satisfaction as he worked. “I sweat a normal amount,” she added to Randall.

He continued his inspection, checking the seams of Vera’s sleeves. “You’re very bad at that,” he growled, and Vera only realized he wasn’t speaking to her when he glanced over his shoulder at Lancelot. “Yes, you,” he added when Lancelot looked thoroughly scandalized. “Going to have to redo all of your work. And you’re slow, too.”

Randall lifted his gaze to Vera’s face for the first time, and his left eyelid flinched just enough for her to realize he was winking at her as he joined the banter on her behalf.

She smiled. “I can’t believe you made these so quickly. Thank you.”

She touched his arm, and Randall awkwardly ducked his head in a bow, color rising above the whiskers on his cheeks. Perhaps Lancelot had been right about Randall’s gentle spirit, too.

Lancelot guided Vera via a different route back to the castle: a winding footpath through a section of town where the structures thinned out and gave way to a lush green field speckled with purple heather and with benches along the side. Between the benches were practice swords, spears, and shields hung on wooden racks.

“This is our training arena,” Lancelot told her. “We run drills with the castle soldiers every day.”

An enclosure caught Vera’s eye on the farthest end of the field. It reminded her of a petting zoo pen she’d once visited on a day trip during school, made of picket boards and the height of her hips.

There were no goats bleating their demand for children to feed them, but the pen wasn’t empty. There must have been a dozen people corralled in it: boys barely old enough to have scruff on their chin, men who could have easily been their fathers, and two teenage girls—all running, laughing, and shouting. Onlookers crowded the picket board wall, cheering them on.

Vera heard a loud THUNK, and soon she could see a roughly sewn-together football. They were playing some sort of keep-away game. Players could kick the ball or smack it with their fists, but when it bounced off the wooden pickets and whacked someone in the leg, or when a player took a directly kicked ball to the bottom, they’d hop the wall, and the game continued with those who were left. It ended when one person remained, who was clapped on the back in congratulations of their victory before anyone wanting to join the next game clambered into the pen.

“That’s the pit. The game is rather a favorite in town.” Lancelot eyed her. “Do you want to play?”

“What? Me?” Vera looked around her as if expecting there to be someone else that he was asking. “Is that even allowed?” There were plenty of women joining in the game.

“Sure,” he said. “Granted, I’m probably not the best judge of propriety, but … I don’t see why not.”

Lancelot didn’t wait for an answer. He took Vera’s hand and escorted her to the pit, where they both joined the gathered players. Nobody spoke directly to her, but a general hum of excitement rippled through the crowd as they took notice of Vera and Lancelot’s presence in the game. The winner of the previous match had the honor of kicking the ball first, and then they were off.

And it was riotous fun. Lancelot jumped high to dodge a particularly well-aimed zip of the ball, and Vera held up a ready hand to congratulate him.

He looked at her fingers and back to her face. “What’s that? What are you doing?”

“A high five,” she explained, tickled that, to the best of her knowledge, she was performing the first ever high five with the legendary Sir Lancelot. “You slap my hand with yours.” She mimed it for him, clapping her raised hands together. “It’s like a ‘Well done!’ sort of congratulations thing.”

“Oh,” he said as he gamely slapped his palm to hers. He grinned. “I like that.”

Play carried on around them, and Vera was caught with a ball to the shoulder while still laughing about rewriting the high five’s history. The players grew rather quiet in the seconds following until she threw her head back in playful frustration and climbed over the wall. That was permission enough for the fun to resume. She mercilessly rooted against Lancelot, and when he was pegged by a poor bounce off the wall, she roared with glee, and he rolled his eyes in the first sign of annoyance she’d yet seen from him. This delighted Vera even more. Her new friend evidently liked to win. But he wasn’t a poor sport and was soon cheering on the remaining players.

During the next game, with luck and a hefty amount of hiding behind larger competitors, Vera found herself one of four remaining. She vaguely noticed that the crowd grew quiet but was too focused to try to figure out why. The ball was in her area, and she kicked it as hard as she could. She’d been aiming it at one of her opponents, missed, hit the wall, and it ended up ricocheting conveniently off two remaining players, leaving only Vera and a sturdy man across the pit vying for victory.

The ball stopped near her opponent, meaning he would start the volley. His eyes darted from the ball to Vera and back to the ball before he lobbed the most pathetic kick at her. She pursed her lips as if that could contain the indignation coursing through her. Vera marched forward, picked up the ball that had stopped rolling not halfway across the pen, and went over to the man.

Murmurs rippled through the surrounding crowd, but one voice carried to Vera’s ears above the rest.

“What’s she doing?” It was familiar, and she would have turned to look, but Vera had recognized her opponent. In fact, he wasn’t a man at all … just a boy in a man’s body.

“It’s you!” she said. It was the boy she’d stopped at sword point on the road—only he’d clearly had a bath and haircut and was no longer dressed in rags. One feature from before remained: the fear on his face. If it was possible, he was more petrified now than he had been during their first encounter.

“You’re the queen! I can’t play against you, Your Majesty.” He said it so softly that Vera had to lean in close to hear him. And his eyes darted up every few seconds.

“Of course you can,” she said. If only he knew how very insignificant she was.

“Not in front of Sir Lancelot … and definitely not in front of the king.”

Vera’s neck would hurt later from how quickly she whipped around. Next to Lancelot, who leaned casually against the wall, stood Arthur. Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t caught more than a passing glimpse of him since her first night. He wasn’t dressed formally, but his hair was pulled back at his neck, and he wore a gold crown. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword as he watched. At least he was in the same vicinity as her, and Vera noticed he wasn’t scowling. She turned back to the boy, very much needing not to think about Arthur’s presence.