She checked the girth strap, then slipped her left foot into the stirrup and threw herself over the horse’s broad back. Manville, she noticed as she glanced toward the far side of the stable, had already mounted his favorite steed. A servant held his horse’s reins and was leading him toward the castle barbican.

“Hurry,” she told the groom in a low voice.

The stableboy attending her grinned foolishly, then gave the horse’s flank a slap. “In a hurry to get yourself killed, are you, Kafka?” He grinned and handed her the reins. “You are as ready as you will ever be.”

She straightened, then made a quick clucking sound with her tongue, turning the stallion toward the doorway. Nervous flutterings pricked her chest as the huge animal moved out of the stable, through the barbican, and onto the tournament field. Averting her eyes from the crowd of onlookers gathering behind a rope, she faced the opposite end of the jousting field and forced her riotous emotions to settle down. In a few moments she would have completed her test. If she acquitted herself well, she would earn the right to be dubbed a knight. Of course Novak would feel compelled to tell Lord John her secret, and the Lord of Chlum might not agree to knight her.

But it wouldn’t matter. In the eyes of her fellow knights, she would have proven herself. Her parents and Sir Petrov, watching from heaven, would see and know that she had not failed them. And if Lord John cast her out of Chlum Castle, she would take her newfound skills to another manor and continue her quest of vengeance. For she had begun to believe her father was right—war did lie just over the horizon, and she was sworn to be involved in the battle.

She gave the stallion a slack rein and cantered slowly across the field toward her position. Midnight’s speed and power exhilarated her, and her blood raced in response. Let the test begin. She had no intention of permitting herself to fail.