I’ve no idea
what you mean.
Come now.
I need
distraction.
She tells me
the things they have
in common, though
he’s something like royalty
and she of lowly traders.
Perhaps, the battle over
he would take Zahra
to a land not ravaged by
one hundred years of war.
Or build a life with her
in France, where she would be
an officer’s wife and no one’s servant.
Either way
I cannot bear the thought
and yet it’s all I want.
You must not come,
I tell her
as I hoist myself
into the saddle.
Loyal Minuit.
Where would you
have me go?
Return to Isabella.
Wait for your officer.
See to my sister.
Be safe.
Zahra ignores me,
hoists herself
onto her steed.
Do not ask me to do
what you cannot.
A sharp whistle, and then:
De Bressieux!
Summoned to join
de Gaucourt
at the front
of our procession,
I scowl at Zahra.
This isn’t over.
Miles later
I muster
the courage
to ask the question
that fuels me.
meet Chalon
on the battlefield?
De Gaucourt laughs.
The man himself?
Not likely.
He is the sort of general
who sends his soldiers
into battle, then holds back
until the battle’s won.
He hasn’t stayed alive
this long by skill.
Perhaps Zahra and I
should both turn back.
I’ve put her life
in danger
every moment
since I pulled her
from that closet.
If her handsome officer
could be convinced
to take her as a bride—
but then I’m treating her
as though she’s mine to give.
I cannot compel her stay or go.
I lag behind de Gaucourt
until Zahra catches up.
Her only words:
I’m staying.
We make camp
across the river
from Chalon’s troops.
We’ll attack at early light.
De Gaucourt has no further time
for the novelty of his lady knight;
he spends the evening
cloistered in his tent.
I spend it with Zahra
and praying to the god
of my childhood, the god
of these many wars.
Will vengeance
heal these wounds
rebuild the ruins of my life?
I realize now it won’t.
That doesn’t mean
it’s pointless.
I have Zahra
and we are here
My first, my only thought:
my sisters.
If we fight, it’s not
for vengeance, not to bring
the Prince of Orange down
or prove a thing to men
who think us weak
because we bleed.
If we fight, we show
each other that we’re strong,
remind each other
that our blood
is stuff of life,
that we have been broken
and also rebuilt
through our love for each other,
our refusal to curl up and die.
A woman broken, rebuilt,
can conquer any sword.
I unfold
the cloth,
my sister’s work of art
filled with her rage
but also:
her hope.
Fine, even stitches,
the sort done
by a noble girl
who stitches not
for function but for form.
So ladylike, stitchery.
A pastime for quiet contemplation,
sitting with one’s head bowed
lips sealed, knees closed.
But the fury
roiling within
as Helene’s needle
pierced the cloth
produced a lance
spearing an orange.
Ainsi tu seras.
Thus shall you be.
Morning light.
Armor on.
Ismidon tries
one more time:
You could wait
the battle out.
I do not need
his chivalry.
Zahra holds
hushed conversation
with her officer
and then
returns to join me
always at my side.
For Helene?
For Helene.
For Zahra.
For my mother
and every woman
left bleeding
on the stones,
their blood
the stuff of life until death,
for Isabella, the baby inside her.
For Helene.
The battle cry.
We fight.
RESOURCES
Among the organizations dedicated to helping survivors of sexual violence are the National Sexual Violence Resource Center (www.nsvrc.org) and the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network, known as RAINN (www.rainn.org). These organizations also have resources for the families and loved ones of survivors.
If you would like to speak confidentially with someone trained to hear your story, you can call 800-656-HOPE (4673).
We are in this fight together.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a book about—among other things—the process of writing a book is an illuminating experience. (That’s it, the one illumination joke, I promise.) What I had that Em did not was an extraordinary editor journeying with me at every stage. My endless gratitude to Andrew Karre, who is the very best at what he does.
Also in my corner, my incomparable agent, Jim McCarthy—sort of my Jess, with less swordplay and more contracts. But the same amount of reality checks, talking me down from panic, and making me laugh.
Maia Kobabe’s extraordinary illuminations exceeded all possible hopes and perfectly brought Jess’s collaboration to life. I am so grateful for eir willingness to join me on this journey.
This book would not exist without the dedicated work of Julie Strauss-Gabel, Natalie Vielkind, Melissa Faulner, Anne Heausler, Anna Booth, Rob Farren, Jennifer Dee, Theresa Evangelista, Dana Li, and everyone at Penguin Young Readers who pours their heart into getting books into the hands of readers, especially the unparalleled School & Library team—thank you thank you thank you to Rachel, Venessa, Trevor, Carmela, and Summer. And special shout-out to my local reg
ional sales rep, Colleen Conway!
The spark of this book was struck when Mackenzi Lee retweeted a post from Jason Porath about Marguerite de Bressieux. Thank you both for bringing her into my life.
Katie Henry, Katharine Manning, Elle Jauffret, Faith Waggoner, and Ray Stoeve gave me valuable input on all things Catholicism, legal system, and nonbinary identity. Any mistakes are my own.
I could not navigate this business without the people who started as my “writing friends” and whom now I call simply friends, including Jessica Lawson, Sharon Roat, Rajani LaRocca, Rachel Lynn Solomon, and Brent Taylor. Thank you for always being there.
All the booksellers, teachers, librarians, bloggers, bookstagrammers, and readers who supported my first novel, Blood Water Paint: This book would not exist without your love for Artemisia. Thank you for coming along with me again. Keep painting the blood.
And finally, my family, who referred to this book as Lady Knight throughout the years of its process and will probably keep calling it that because the actual title is so long, thank you for always letting me complain about publishing stuff for at least fifteen seconds before you start singing “Hard to Be the Bard” from Something Rotten. I love you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joy McCullough writes books and plays from her home in the Seattle area, where she lives with her family. She studied theater at Northwestern University, fell in love with her husband atop a Guatemalan volcano, and now spends her days surrounded by books and kids and chocolate. Her debut novel, Blood Water Paint, was longlisted for National Book Award and was a finalist for the William C. Morris Debut Award.
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