Gwen followed Bridget up the stairs and out into the quiet of the church in a daze. She had hoped that Bridget might forget that she was holding Gwen’s arm – that they might make it all the way out into the night air and she’d still be in Bridget’s sure, steady grip – but life had not been that kind.
‘That was … forceful,’ she said, as they walked through the rows of pews. Bridget winced.
‘Er … Yes. My apologies. It seemed urgent that we remove you from the situation, before somebody recognised you.’
‘No, no, I mean it was – brilliant,’ said Gwen, more out of breath than their walking speed could account for. ‘I wish I had that sort of … self-assurance, and strength, and … and presence like you do.’
‘Oh,’ said Bridget, visibly relaxing. ‘Well. I’ve been training for combat since I was very young, and I suppose it instils a certain … confidence.’
‘Confidence? You’re magnificent,’ Gwen said, too caught up in the moment to be embarrassed; Bridget’s expression twisted into something unreadable, and she cleared her throat and looked straight ahead as she walked, clasping her hands formally behind her back.
‘My family is from the Sukhothai Kingdom – there’s a fighting style there that’s very different to what they teach in England. It’s targeted – efficient. I learned to fight with my whole body, with fists, elbows and knees, before I picked up my first weapons. My father never had a son, so he taught me instead. Learning to fight like that makes you very … aware of your body, and what it can do.’
Gwen was certainly very aware of Bridget’s body, specifically the habit she had of stretching out her shoulders to loosen the muscles there. She was doing it now, and Gwen was so distracted by the shift of her arms under her jacket that she missed what Bridget said to her next.
‘I was saying,’ she repeated, taking in Gwen’s baffled and flushed expression, ‘I could teach you the sword. If you like.’
‘Oh – no, I couldn’t,’ Gwen said automatically. Bridget nodded, and they kept walking in silence for a while, out across the courtyard where the only sounds were their footsteps and the gentle hooting of a perturbed owl. No good could come of spending more time with Bridget, no matter how much she wanted to. And learning to fight, with all the physical exertion involved, the intimacy and the sweat and seeing Bridget up close as she expertly handled her weapon …
‘Actually,’ Gwen said suddenly. ‘Maybe – yes. I’d like that.’
Bridget appraised her solemnly. ‘Well. Good. I’ll come for you in the morning.’
They parted at the keep, and Gwen walked upstairs feeling stunned. She fell asleep thinking of Bridget, standing between her and the rest of the world with her arms crossed and her eyes blazing in defiance.
Morning brought fresh clarity, and Gwen was twisting her silken belt into knots when Gabriel sat down opposite her at the breakfast table on the balcony, looking as if he hadn’t slept at all.
‘Do you know what’s happening?’ she asked, and Gabriel looked confused for a moment. ‘Mother and Father? I haven’t seen either of them for days.’
‘Oh. Yes. There was some kind of incident in Ruthin last week,’ said Gabriel. ‘They’re meeting with the local guard now.’
‘What’s in Ruthin?’ Gwen said, as a page rushed out bearing heaped plates of food. Gabriel thanked him as Gwen reached for the grapefruit.
‘Maen Huail,’ said Gabriel. ‘It’s a stone block where Arthur Pendragon apparently beheaded one of his enemies. Cultists treat it as a sacred site.’
‘Lovely,’ said Gwen, through a sour mouthful of fruit. ‘So they … ?’
‘Attacked a church there,’ Gabriel said. ‘Apparently. Although they say the church attacked them. Nobody was injured beyond scrapes and bruises.’
‘Were you up late with Father, sorting it all out?’ said Gwen. Gabriel twitched, and then rubbed at the back of his neck. He looked almost guilty.
‘No,’ he said eventually.
‘But you were up late?’ Gwen pressed. ‘You look wrecked.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ Gabriel said, attempting levity. ‘I went to the library. And then I went to the mews, to check on that crow, and …’ He took a bite of bread, as if trying to put off the rest of his sentence for as long as possible. ‘Arthur … was there.’
‘Arthur came with you to look at a bird?’ Gwen said, both eyebrows raised. She distinctly remembered him renouncing all of birdkind when they were children.
‘Yes,’ Gabriel said miserably.
‘Well,’ said Gwen. ‘How was the crow?’
‘Fine. Much improved. Fine.’
‘So if you weren’t up late dealing with matters of state,’ Gwen said, ‘and if the crow is fine – fine twice over, in fact – what on earth is going on with you?’
‘Tired,’ said Gabriel, and Gwen snorted.
‘You’re not tired. I mean, you are, but you’re always tired. You’re … twitchy. What’s going on?’
Gabriel rubbed his eyes, and then ran a hand through his hair; his copper curls were mussed and sticking up at the back, as if he’d been fiddling with them quite a lot already this morning. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?’ he said finally.
‘You can’t just repeat what I say back to me, that’s not—’
‘Gwendoline,’ Gabriel said, slow and serious. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?’
Gwen’s hands clenched around her grapefruit, which was quite an unpleasant tactile experience. The bottom had dropped out of her stomach, which was even worse. ‘Why? Did Arthur say something to you?’
‘This isn’t about Arthur,’ Gabriel said, although she noticed that he was pink in the cheeks. ‘This is about you. You don’t keep secrets from me. Or at least – you never have before.’
He was right. She had always trusted Gabriel with everything – not that there had been much to tell, but still – and it had been difficult not to talk about this; not just for the past few weeks, but for years, ever since she’d first seen Bridget tie up her hair and stretch out her arms and wondered why it was so thrilling. Usually she’d have muddled through the problem with him, but it had felt too invasive, like she was offering up her own organs to be examined. It hadn’t helped that when she was fifteen, Gwen had been foolish enough to ask her mother what it meant when a woman loved another woman; the queen had looked slightly alarmed, but then explained to Gwen that while some ladies experienced confusion brought on by close quarters and intimate friendships, it was always temporary, and nothing Gwen would ever need to worry about.
Of course, as Gwen’s feelings refused to stay temporary, her mother’s words had given her more to worry about than ever.
But Gabriel wasn’t her mother. Gabriel didn’t judge. Gabriel would understand.
Still, she felt seasick as she cleared her throat and began to speak. ‘When I told you that Arthur and I had made a deal,’ she said slowly, ‘it was … He knew something. He knew something about me. Or, he thought he did, and I told him he was wrong, but – he wasn’t wrong. He was right.’
‘Okay,’ Gabriel said, looking even more confused.
‘I’ve wanted … for a while, I’ve wanted something I don’t think I can have,’ Gwen pressed on, desperation creeping into her voice. ‘I mean, you must understand that – I know this isn’t the life you would have chosen for yourself.’
Gabriel took a deep breath in and out through his nose. This wasn’t going particularly well. Neither of them had actually ever said this out loud so plainly – had dared to voice that Gabriel really didn’t want the throne. It went unsaid because to say it felt tantamount to treason, although Gwen couldn’t tell who they were actually committing it against.
‘I’ve never said that,’ Gabriel said quietly, and Gwen leaned back in her chair and sighed.
‘No, I don’t – sorry. That’s not what I meant. Let me start again. I’m not really in love with Arthur.’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘Well – I’ve never really liked anybody in that way. Not properly, anyway. But lately I’ve … lately there has been someone. A person. That I think about.’ Gabriel didn’t say anything. His face had closed off somewhat though, and Gwen was desperate to break back through. ‘For a long time I just tried to forget about it, but that’s become a lot harder lately. I want to tell you. But … I don’t want you to think any differently of me, or for it to change things between us. I couldn’t bear it.’
Silence.
‘It’s Lady – it’s Bridget. Bridget Leclair. That’s who I’ve been … thinking about.’
She had expected him to look surprised. Some part of her had hoped that he might relax, and soften into a smile; that he had noticed something was distracting her, and would only be glad that the mystery was solved and that she had finally shared this part of herself with him. If Gabriel knew, and saw her, and didn’t mind, then it wouldn’t feel so wrong. It would ease some of the panic and regret she felt every time she thought about her mother patting her on the head and reassuring her that the horror of ladies who loved other ladies would never darken Gwen’s door.
But Gabriel wasn’t smiling.
‘But …’ he said, breaking off and looking down at the table. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure? About what?’ Gwen said. Her throat felt strangely tight, her cheeks hot. ‘I don’t know how I can be sure about anything, when I don’t know what any of it means yet. But I do like her, Gabe. I have for a while. I know there’s nothing I can really do about it, and soon I’ll be married to Arthur with everything in its right place, but … that doesn’t stop it from being true.’
Gabriel took a deep breath. Gwen was still waiting for reassurance, but it didn’t come. Instead, Gabriel finally looked up at her with something that looked strangely like pain in his eyes.
‘I don’t think this is a good idea.’
‘What?’ Gwen felt like she had been slapped; the same shock, the same sharp sting, the ringing numbness that followed. ‘What do you mean? I know it’s not … ideal, but it’s not an idea I’ve had, I don’t actually think I have a choice in the matter—’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t – I can’t hear this,’ Gabriel said, standing up. Gwen stared at him, tears burning behind her eyes; he shook his head once, a brief, terse movement, and then abruptly turned and walked from the balcony.
Gwen was left gazing after him, letting her tears fall freely as her chest tightened like a vice. She pressed her thumb hard into the bed of one of her nails, where the skin was red and inflamed from worrying at it. The pain throbbed there, but it didn’t help; the other hurt was far too big.
She made her way back to her rooms like a sleepwalker, and once inside saw that Agnes had returned; she hadn’t come back to their chambers the night before, and the sight of her tired and happy and a little dishevelled was suddenly all too much.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ Gwen snapped. ‘I had to dress myself, you know.’
‘Ah – sorry,’ Agnes said, blushing crimson. ‘I was at the party until quite late, and then I was … Sidney and I went for a walk.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Agnes, he’s a body-man. A common servant. Your position here is highly coveted by every noble lady at court, as you well know. Your father didn’t send you here to throw it all away on a man who – who always has soup on his sleeves.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Agnes said again, before rushing away into the bedroom. Gwen sat down heavily in her reading chair, then picked up a book and stared at it, seeing nothing at all. She couldn’t tell which was winning out – her utter devastation at Gabriel’s lack of support, at the way he’d made her feel so monstrous, or the suspicion that she was monstrous; that it was somehow a dishonourable thing to look at Bridget the way she did, and that Gabriel was right to have reacted with revulsion. She wanted to scrub it all out. She wanted to take back everything she had said and go back to a time when she was still just the sister that Gabriel knew and loved, not this stranger he had looked at with such disappointment.
Shame. That was the feeling. She felt flooded with it, like it was curdling the blood in her veins and taking root in the pit of her stomach.
This is what comes of wanting things.
‘Do you … We could still go for our walk?’ Agnes said, creeping into the room ten minutes later.
‘It’s too late now.’
‘The weather is fair – there’s still plenty of time before lunch, we could—’
‘I said it’s too late!’ Gwen snapped. The day felt ruined. Everything felt ruined. Agnes was looking at her reproachfully, like a kicked dog, but it wasn’t making her feel more charitable; it was just making her want to kick harder. Everything came so easily to Agnes; she had a close cabal of friends, she was generally beloved at court, and now she had this new, ridiculous romance with Sidney. It just wasn’t fair.
They passed the next hour in stony silence, until there was a knock at the door; a guard had come to convey a message, and after hearing it, Agnes approached her tentatively.
‘He said …’ She screwed up her face, looking as if the contents of the message were entirely indecipherable. ‘He said a lady is here to take you down to the north-west courtyard? To – to teach you combat?’
‘Oh Christ,’ Gwen breathed. After how things had gone with Gabriel, she had entirely forgotten. The idea of facing Bridget now was almost unbearable, but she couldn’t turn her away when she had so graciously offered to give up her morning. ‘Tell them she’s allowed to come through.’
She glanced over at the mirror on the wall, taking in the hair she had braided inexpertly without Agnes’s help and the pinched expression on her face. It would have to do.
Gwen unclenched her jaw, took a deep breath and went to find Bridget.
She was standing a little way past the guards, in breeches and a loose shirt, ignoring the fact that they were all staring openly at her. Gwen suddenly felt ridiculously overdressed, even in a simple gown.
‘Er – hello.’
‘Good morning, your highness. You … don’t have anything else to wear?’ Bridget said, tilting her head slightly as she considered Gwen. If she were in a better mood, Gwen might have enjoyed being considered, even if her sartorial choices were being found wanting.
‘Um. Not really.’
‘Well – I suppose it doesn’t matter. Probably best you learn in a dress anyway, if you’re always wearing one.’ They began to walk down the corridor, a couple of feet of space between them, Gwen falling into step with Bridget and then intentionally lengthening her gait so it didn’t look like she was trying to do some sort of synchronised walking.
Gwen had attended combat training in the north-west yard before; she had watched Gabriel there, had sat on the wall eating buns and swinging her legs, waiting for him to be finished so that they could play. As she had grown older and fallen into her own daily routine, she had stopped going with him. It had never entered her head to ask for a training sword of her own.
She still wasn’t sure she actually wanted to learn now; last night she had been giddy from proximity to Bridget, and desperate to elicit some more. In the cold light of day she felt sure the whole thing would be a disaster. As Bridget greeted the Master of Arms, Sir Dhawan, and requested a sword, Gwen picked at her fingers and tried to push down the mounting dread.
‘A sword? For the princess?’ Sir Dhawan said, frowning.
‘Yes. She wishes to learn the basics of combat.’
‘Well …’ the Master of Arms said slowly, looking around as if expecting Gwen’s father to appear out of thin air. ‘I’m sorry, but I would need to ask the king. Get special permissions. It’s not the sort of thing we usually—’
‘It’s for a play,’ Gwen said suddenly, desperate to end this conversation as quickly as possible. ‘It’s for a play I’m putting on. For Father’s birthday. You wouldn’t spoil the surprise?’
‘No,’ said Sir Dhawan, clearly not convinced but unwilling to call her a liar. ‘Well. I suppose – no.’ He handed Bridget the blunted practice swords she had requested without any further complaints.
‘Have you ever held a sword before?’ Bridget said when they had relocated to the centre of the courtyard.
‘No,’ Gwen said miserably. She was holding it gingerly, letting the point trail against the cobblestones. ‘I suppose that’s obvious, isn’t it.’
Bridget smiled, arching an eyebrow. ‘You’re gripping it like it’s going to bite you.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Unlikely,’ said Bridget, adjusting her own grip. ‘Unless it’s a cursed, magical sword.’
‘Well, how do I know if it’s cursed?’
‘Hold it like this – that’s it, watch my fingers – there you go. Now give it a swing. If you don’t open a portal to hell, then you’re probably fine.’
Gwen laughed despite herself, encouraged by Bridget’s firm, good-humoured guidance; she didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. She gave the sword an experimental swing.
‘Good. You need to get used to the weight of it first. Feet shoulder-width apart, and bring that leg forward. Watch me – do what I do.’
Gwen was watching her. Bridget had transitioned easily into the fighting stance that she had seen many times during the tournament; it looked entirely natural on her, like she had been born to do it. Her eyes were fixed on Gwen’s, her expression serious as she waited for Gwen to mirror her movements. God, Gwen thought wistfully. I hope she stabs me.
Bridget straightened up slightly. ‘Er … you’re just standing there.’
‘Oh. Yes. Sorry,’ Gwen said, lifting her sword again and trying to hold herself like Bridget, knowing that she probably looked ridiculous.
‘Good. Don’t lean forward on your front foot. Keep your weight evenly distributed – look at my feet, not my face, your highness.’
Gwen blushed and shifted slightly, hoping she was distributing something. ‘Please, just call me Gwen. Like this?’
‘Yes. Gwen. Now, just – give it a go. Try to hit me.’
‘Um. Okay,’ Gwen said, attempting a clumsy forward swing; she tried her best to put some force into it, and when Bridget’s sword came almost lazily up to meet hers they collided loudly, a shockwave reverberating down Gwen’s arm. Her reward was a proper smile from Bridget, briefly dazzling and then gone. That reverberated too.
‘That’s good. Make sure you don’t swing too wide. Let’s do it again.’
‘Your father really didn’t mind teaching this to a girl?’ Gwen said as their swords came together, already breathing harder than usual. ‘Or – you becoming a knight? Any of it?’
‘No,’ Bridget said, in perfect control of her own breathing. ‘My parents might be the only people in England who didn’t.’ There was a brief pause, as Gwen had dropped her sword entirely; she retrieved it and tucked her hair behind her ear, trying to remember where her feet were supposed to be. ‘People were very … difficult about me becoming a squire, let alone entering the lists. I was turned away for years. Even at the local tourneys, where they’d let a dog compete if it could stand on its hind legs for long enough to meet the marshal.’
‘God,’ said Gwen. ‘Then – why did you do it?’
‘Because it was what I wanted,’ Bridget said, as if that were the simplest thing in the world. ‘I attended my first tournament when I was four, sitting on my father’s shoulders, and I knew at once it was what I wanted to do with my life. We trained together for years; I wasn’t going to back down just because somebody told me no. Hold your arm a little higher.’ Gwen did so, and Bridget paused for a moment. ‘Well, it wasn’t just somebody, it was actually quite a few somebodies – but what did they know about me, other than what they assumed just by looking at me? I knew I could do it. So I did.’
Gwen’s sword sagged. ‘You’re … incredible.’
Bridget’s expression did something strange, like she was suppressing multiple emotions at once. ‘I thought I told you to raise your arm.’
Gwen forgot about Gabriel. She forgot about the Master of Arms, watching from the other side of the courtyard. She lost herself in the satisfying ache of using muscles she had never engaged before in her life; chased the glow that burned in the pit of her stomach every time Bridget smiled, or told her she was doing well. When Bridget stepped in closer to repel Gwen’s meagre attacks, with her eyes bright with satisfaction, or stopped to press her sure, rough hands to Gwen’s and shift her grip on the pommel, it was impossible to think about anything else.
Half an hour later, when Bridget was distracted looking at Gwen’s stance rather than her sword, Gwen actually managed to get past her guard; she tapped the point of her sword lightly against Bridget’s chest and grinned, genuinely thrilled.
‘I win.’
Before she’d even finished speaking she felt something hook around her ankle, a hand supporting the small of her back to soften her fall, and then she was lying flat on the cobblestones looking up at the blunt point of Bridget’s sword.
‘Congratulations, your highness – ah-ah, wait.’ Gwen had tried to get up, but Bridget kept her pinned at swordpoint. Gwen narrowed her eyes; Bridget responded by raising her eyebrows and letting the end of the sword make gentle contact with Gwen’s chin, lifting it ever so slightly as Gwen met Bridget’s gaze and tried to hold back a smile. ‘Stay down, and I’ll show you how to get back up again.’
A short while later Gwen was breathless and laughing, pushing a sweaty strand of escaped hair away from her face as Bridget once again tried to show her how to do the ankle trick, when she heard a voice cut across the courtyard and froze immediately.
‘Sidney,’ said Arthur. ‘I seem to be having the most vivid hallucination.’
He was leaning against the archway, Sidney next to him with his arms folded.
‘Nah,’ said Sidney. ‘I see it too.’
‘Can you go and do this bit somewhere else?’ Gwen said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand in a manner so undignified that her mother would have pitched a fit if she’d seen it.
‘She speaks,’ said Arthur. ‘Is this really the Princess of England I see before me, with a massive bloody sword?’
‘It’s not bloody yet,’ Gwen said, in what she hoped was a menacing tone.
‘I seem to have interrupted the inaugural meeting of the convention for abnormally tall women. What happened here? Who threw down the gauntlet? About money, is it? Or did one of you insult the other’s wife?’
‘Ah. Terrible when they involve the wives,’ Sidney said, shaking his head seriously. Bridget looked from Arthur to Gwen and then back again, her expression inscrutable.
‘Why don’t you come over here,’ Gwen said sweetly, ‘so I can pit you like an olive?’
Arthur straightened up.
‘Sidney,’ he said pompously. ‘Fetch my sword.’
Sidney looked unconcerned. ‘You didn’t bring a sword.’
‘Fetch a sword then.’
‘Righto.’ Sidney went gamely over to Sir Dhawan; there was a quick flurry of discussion, but he eventually returned with a weapon. ‘Don’t poke your face off.’
‘I’m not going to poke my— Give it here,’ Arthur snapped, grabbing it from him.
‘You can’t fight the princess,’ Bridget said. ‘It would hardly be fair, she’s only just picked up a sword. But I’ll second for her.’ Gwen flashed her a smile – the unexpected wink she received in return turned her insides molten.
Arthur paled. ‘Er …’ he said. ‘I’m going to duel Sidney, actually.’
‘No you’re not,’ said Sidney. ‘Sidney is going to lean against this wall here and have a nap.’
‘It’s okay to be afraid,’ Bridget said, lowering her voice as if to preserve his dignity; Gwen snorted with laughter.
‘Oh fine, fine,’ Arthur said, straightening up and pushing his long hair back over his shoulders. ‘But you’re not to cry after.’
‘I won’t if you won’t,’ Bridget said, as she watched him approach. Gwen hastened to the wall, to stand by Sidney and watch.
At first it seemed like Arthur might actually hold his own, but this illusion was shattered as soon as he attempted to land a hit; in a movement so quick and sudden that Gwen felt she had somehow missed it, Bridget had disarmed him and knocked him flat on his back, with none of the gentleness she had shown Gwen.
‘Would you like to go again?’ Bridget asked.
‘I want to schedule an exorcism,’ Arthur said bitterly, as he scrambled to his feet. ‘You’re clearly possessed by the spirit of a – a massive bloke with a sword.’
‘I just practise,’ Bridget said, shrugging, clearly enjoying herself. ‘A lot.’
‘Well, in any case, it’s not fair,’ said Arthur imperiously. ‘I have to hold back, because you’re a woman.’
‘A terrible shame. Perhaps his highness would be a more worthy opponent,’ Bridget said, gesturing with her chin. Gwen turned and saw Gabriel standing in the opposite doorway with a book in his hand, watching them, looking stricken. Bridget dropped into a quick bow, and Gabriel waved the book at her distractedly, indicating that she should be at ease.
Gwen felt bile rise in her throat at the sight of him, and he looked just as horrified as she felt. She had managed to forget about their conversation for an entire, glorious hour, but the look on his face was bringing it all back with painful urgency.
‘What do you say?’ Sidney said, pushing off from the wall to stand up straight. ‘Shall I fetch you a sword, your highness?’
Gwen resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He was never this polite to her.
‘No,’ Gabriel said, glancing over his shoulder. ‘I was just—’
‘Your highness,’ said Sir Dhawan, somehow managing to bow as he walked. ‘I’m delighted to see you, it’s been weeks. We’ll just …’ He clicked his fingers, and a boy came running with a sword.
‘Right,’ Gabriel said, automatically taking the sword out of politeness and then staring at it as if he had no idea what it could possibly be for.
‘Your father told me just yesterday that he would encourage you to return to practising daily – we have new-made armour too, if you’d care to give it a try. Gold-plated, just as Lord Stafford requested.’
‘Ah – yes,’ Gabriel said, looking trapped.
‘Would you like to train with me, your highness? Or … I can fetch a squire—’
‘It’s all right,’ Sidney said, smiling affably. ‘He’ll fight Arthur.’
Arthur was looking at Sidney with a murderous expression, but Sidney seemed entirely nonplussed.
‘Splendid!’ said Sir Dhawan. ‘Very well, your highness. Show him how we fight at Camelot.’
Gabriel threw one more desperate glance back at the keep, like he was hoping somebody would appear and call him away to attend to urgent business, but then sighed and lifted his sword.