The man in the very large boots was going to kick Arthur’s skull in if he didn’t move in the next few seconds. The thought floated in his mind for a moment before the implications really set in, and he rolled out of the way just in time.
‘Get out,’ the man roared.
‘I’m already out,’ Arthur said, squinting up at him from the ground. ‘You helped me get here. Very obliging of you.’
‘You insolent little—’ Arthur saw the boot coming with more warning this time, and scrambled to his feet. There was mud all down the front of his tunic, and he registered distantly that he’d lost his hat.
‘Pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ he said, with a little half-bow. ‘A very fine establishment indeed, top-rate and truly above expectations.’ He turned to leave, but paused as something occurred to him. ‘Oh – have you seen Sidney?’
‘Who the hell is Sidney?’
There was a loud scream from somewhere inside the inn; a ground-floor window was flung open, and a second later a short, well-built young man fell out of it, clutching what looked like half his coat.
‘Ah,’ Arthur said brightly. ‘Never mind.’
‘I’m here,’ Sidney shouted, somewhat redundantly. ‘Don’t worry. Just – can’t find my bloody – knife.’
‘Who’s that then?’ the red-faced innkeeper spat. ‘Your bodyguard, come to fight your battles for you?’
‘I mean, you’re saying it in a very disparaging tone, but in essence – yes.’
The innkeeper advanced on him, fists raised; Arthur almost fell over backwards in his haste to get away.
‘Horses ’round back,’ Sidney shouted in his direction, waving his half-coat over his head for emphasis.
‘Right you are,’ Arthur said, legging it as fast as he could around the side of the building. He could hear Sidney grunting with effort behind him, struggling to keep up.
‘Weren’t you meant to be the distraction?’ Sidney panted.
‘Er. Yes. But I got – distracted.’
The horses looked at them disapprovingly as they rounded the corner. Arthur tried to mount his in one leap, but miscalculated and almost fell off the other side.
‘’S’all right,’ Sidney said, squinting back over his shoulder once he’d scrambled up into the saddle. ‘He’s not coming.’
‘Good,’ Arthur said, turning his horse in a slow circle.
‘Wait,’ said Sidney. ‘He’s coming now. He’s definitely coming. And he’s got a big stick, Art. A really big stick.’
‘Lucky bastard,’ Arthur said, before digging his heels in and setting off at a clumsy canter down the road, Sidney close behind him.
When they reached the large courtyard in front of the main house two hours later, the sundial told Arthur that it was mid-afternoon. This was mildly unsettling. Hadn’t it just recently been the middle of the night? And come to think of it – did that mean it was Wednesday?
‘Is it Wednesday?’ he asked Sidney aloud as they dismounted, handing their horses off to the stable boy. There was a large barrel of rainwater sitting by the servants’ entrance; they crossed to it and started disrobing to deal with the worst of the mud.
‘How would I know?’ Sidney grunted as he pulled his tunic over his head.
‘Isn’t it your job to know things?’
‘No. It’s my job to keep you alive. And you are alive, aren’t you?’
‘Probably,’ Arthur said, checking himself for evidence of mortal wounds. There was a large bruise forming on his shoulder, where the innkeeper had punched him.
‘What’s my face like?’
Sidney grimaced. ‘God. Rubbish. Really awful.’
‘No, I mean – is it all roughed up?’
‘Oh. No, then. It’s fine. Cut on your eyebrow.’ Arthur bent over the barrel and stared at his reflection. It was actually quite a large gash on his eyebrow, and it was still bleeding.
‘Arthur,’ came a stern voice from behind him; he turned around to see Mrs Ashworth, the grey-haired woman who had once been his nursery maid, glaring at him from the servants’ entrance. ‘Why are you half-naked in the yard?’
‘Afternoon, Ashworth. Is it Wednesday?’
‘Why are you half-naked and bleeding?’
‘I don’t understand,’ Arthur said, turning to Sidney, ‘why nobody on my staff can give me a straight answer about the Wednesday thing.’
‘It’s Thursday,’ the laundress called wearily as she walked past, ignoring the fact that they were both half-dressed.
‘Finally!’ Arthur cried, raising his hands in celebration. ‘Give that woman a raise.’
‘Don’t say things like that,’ Mrs Ashworth said sharply. ‘You know I can’t.’
In any normal household, a former nursemaid wouldn’t have been occupied with matters of salary and raises – in fact, in any normal household, one might expect the nursemaid to have moved on once her charge reached the ripe old age of nineteen, with no future spawn incoming. Instead, when Arthur’s mother died, Mrs Ashworth had fallen unofficially into the role of running the house. There had been a brief power struggle when Lord Delacey had remarried, but when his second wife had sadly also perished, Mrs Ashworth had picked up where she’d left off; Arthur’s father would say that it all seemed to run itself, but when tradesmen or tone-deaf bards or out-of-work pages came to the entrance and asked for the person in charge, Ashworth was always the one they called for.
‘Looking lovely as ever, Joyce,’ Sidney said, grinning at her.
‘I can’t give raises but I can carry out sackings,’ Mrs Ashworth said, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘Put that away, Sidney – you’re going to have someone’s eye out.’
‘You flatter me,’ Sidney said, but he gamely trudged into the house to get dressed, and Arthur followed him.
‘Is he home?’ he said to Ashworth as he passed, trying to keep his tone neutral.
‘He’s in his study,’ she replied, with a sympathetic tilt of her head that Arthur hated deeply. ‘He’s on the warpath about something, Art. Were you supposed to be somewhere today?’
Arthur racked his brains. ‘No, I don’t think so. But then – maybe? If it’s Thursday.’
‘It is Thursday.’
‘All right. Well. I’ll go and see what he wants.’
When Arthur entered, washed and dressed, the Lord of Maidvale was sitting at his desk, writing a letter. There was a half-empty decanter of wine next to the ink bottle. Arthur lived in hope of the day he would mistake one for the other.
The walls of the study were cluttered with portraits, coats of arms, old papers of provenance and an enormous family tree in self-important gold walnut ink. There had once been a map in pride of place on the south wall; Arthur’s mother had sat with him here, a pile of rosewater and saffron sweets between them, as she introduced him to the expanding world. She had shown him the vast seas, the distant continents stretching out towards the east; Iran, a place that existed to him only in stories, where his grandparents had started their long journey to England. He had traced the lines with his chubby finger, not really understanding; by the time he was old enough to have questions about any of it, his mother was long dead.
Arthur had crept in a year after her funeral, looking for traces of her, and found the map gone.
Lord Delacey looked up now as Arthur walked in; he was very red in the face.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ he said. ‘No, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know. Do you want to guess what I’m writing this very minute?’
‘A poem?’ Arthur ventured sullenly, leaning his back against the closed door.
‘Oh, very funny,’ said his father. ‘I’m writing to the king. I’m writing to the king grovelling with every word I know for “sorry” in every possible language. Why do you think that might be?’
‘Because you’re fair at languages, but terrible at poetry?’ Arthur said, knowing it was a mistake before it had even left his lips. He ducked just as the ink bottle smashed against the door next to his head; ink poured down the wood and pooled on the floor, soaking into his boots. He knew his face was flecked with it, but he stared defiantly at his father anyway, refusing to lift a hand to wipe it away.
‘You were supposed to be at the opening ceremony today, Arthur,’ his father hissed dangerously. ‘I told you a thousand times. The tournament.’
Arthur took a steadying breath. His father hadn’t told him anything of the sort. He knew the tournament must have been coming up, and that he was expected to attend this year, but they had never discussed specifics; he’d presumed that at some point he’d be dragged into this room and told that it was time to go, but the day simply hadn’t come. Except – apparently it had, and his father had neglected to tell him, and of course that was somehow his fault. Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but then a piece of shattered glass crunched underfoot and he changed his mind.
‘Sorry,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I forgot.’
‘When I named you, Arthur, I expected better of you …’
Arthur knew that it was now safe to stop listening for at least a few minutes. There were only so many times you could listen to the exact same monologue about ‘lineage’ and ‘dynasty’; about the traitor Mordred, who begat Melehan, who begat a long line of perpetual disappointments, and chiefly about all the ways in which Arthur had failed to live up to the legacy of the once-great king. Arthur Pendragon, purportedly Arthur’s relative many times removed, was such a fixture of his father’s lectures that if he’d fallen through time and encountered the man, Arthur’s primary inclination would have been to kick him right in his damned round table. If they had ever really been royalty, over the past few centuries the Delacey family had done an extremely good job of squandering their connections; their only real legacy was Arthur’s father’s frankly unhinged obsession with the Pendragon name and these bloody speeches.
‘You will go now,’ Lord Delacey said finally, getting unsteadily to his feet. ‘Have Ashworth pack your things. You’re going for the summer.’
‘What?’ Arthur said, straightening up. ‘The summer? All summer?’
‘You are to begin your formal courtship with the Princess Gwendoline,’ he said, while Arthur gaped at him. ‘Close your mouth, Arthur. It’s long past time for you to grow up, stop being so bloody selfish and do something of worth with your life. You are to be pleasant to her, to earn her trust – to be the very picture of a devoted fiancé. I expect you to write to me – look at me when I’m talking to you – write, Arthur, to inform me of any developments at Camelot. Leave nothing out.’
Arthur could have said something then about his father’s embarrassing desire to collect gossip like a bored, empty-headed courtier, but the decanter of wine looked heavy enough to inflict serious damage, so instead he just nodded and turned to leave.
‘Worthless,’ he heard his father mutter as the door slammed behind him.
He found Sidney in the gardens, throwing bits of bread for a squirrel.
‘We’re going to Camelot,’ he said dully. Sidney glanced up, grinning. ‘Don’t look so bloody happy about it.’
‘Can’t help it,’ said Sidney. ‘I love a good city. Women. Booze. Banquets. And I’ve never been to Camelot.’
‘You have such a beautiful way with words.’
‘Besides,’ Sidney continued, as if Arthur hadn’t spoken. ‘Might be good to have a change of scenery. Might help you feel less … mopey, since you-know-who.’
‘I don’t mope,’ said Arthur, reaching for the bread Sidney had been throwing and taking a bite. ‘Ugh, this is stale.’
‘Why do you think I was throwing it away? Dog had it in her mouth for a bit, too.’ He laughed as Arthur immediately spat it out on to the flagstones. ‘Manners, Art. Can’t be doing that in front of your blushing bride-to-be.’
Arthur pulled a face. ‘Go and tell Ashworth to pack my things. We’re there until September.’
‘What am I?’ Sidney said as he got to his feet. ‘Your bloody servant?’
‘I hate that joke so much,’ Arthur said despondently. ‘Bring as much wine as you can carry. It’s going to be a very long summer.’
Their things were sent on ahead of them, and once they had negotiated the country lanes surrounding the Maidvale estate it was essentially a straight shot down one very long road to reach Camelot, which meant they could just point their horses in the right direction and relax.
‘When did you last see her?’ Sidney asked as they ambled along side by side, leaning across the gap to pass Arthur the bottle of wine.
‘I don’t know. Years ago, probably,’ he said, taking a large sip for courage.
‘She’s not bad-looking,’ Sidney offered. ‘As far as I’m told.’
‘No. It’s her personality that’s the problem,’ Arthur said darkly. ‘You know she broke my wrist?’
‘Do I know? ’S’probably inked on the inside of my skull. You’ve told me about a hundred times.’
‘It’s never been right since,’ Arthur said, feeling a phantom ache now as they drew ever closer to the castle. ‘It’s why I can’t hold a sword properly.’
‘Yeah,’ said Sidney, laughing. ‘That’s definitely why.’
‘She’s awful, Sid. I’ve never seen somebody so caught up in their own majesty. She was five years old and already stomping about giving me orders, and running off to my father to tell tales on me. When we got older she started writing all these nasty little things in her diary about me, and hiding it under a tree like some sort of deranged squirrel when she thought I wasn’t looking.’
‘Well,’ said Sidney consolingly. ‘You’re not children any more, are you? Maybe she’s different.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Arthur. ‘If anything, she’s probably worse.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Sidney. ‘Now, drink up.’
It was the middle of the night when they crossed the moat; there was a bit of explaining required to get the guards to open the gate, Sidney digging about in his pockets to find the letter bearing Lord Delacey’s seal, but eventually the king’s men reluctantly stepped aside and let the two tipsy young men from Maidvale ride into the castle courtyard.
‘Right,’ Arthur said, shaking his head to try to clear it.
‘Right, what?’
‘Stables … to the right. Oh, shit – Sid – I’m going over!’
Arthur landed hard on his bruised shoulder and rolled over on to his back, swearing fluently. A stable hand stepped politely over him and took his horse, and he heard two sets of hoofs clopping softly away from him. He knew he needed to get up, but couldn’t find the strength or the motivation to do so at present.
‘You look like a pillock,’ Sidney observed, appearing in his field of vision and offering him an arm.
‘Can you go ahead and tell them … tell them we’ve arrived, and that we need rooms?’ Arthur said as he was hauled to his feet. ‘I’ll stay here.’
‘In the courtyard?’ Sidney said. ‘In the dark?’
‘I’m putting off going inside for as long as physically possible,’ Arthur said, sitting down on a conveniently placed barrel. ‘Self-preservation. You understand.’
‘Not really,’ Sidney said, shrugging and walking confidently off in the direction of the nearest door.
It all looked just how it had done the last time Arthur had been there, but smaller somehow, which he supposed made sense; he had been eleven, and skinny, and at least a foot shorter back then. He harboured a long-festering resentment for every crumbling stone in the walls of this place, every banner and hanging and loose door handle. It was less a castle, more a prison.
The one advantage was that his father wasn’t there, and was so tied up in apparently vital meetings with people Arthur had never heard of that he probably wouldn’t put in an appearance for weeks. That thought alone was enough to cheer him up considerably.
There was bread baking somewhere nearby, and Arthur only realised how hungry he was when he rose instinctively to follow the smell. He crossed the courtyard, stiff from hours of riding, and followed the stairs down to the warren of corridors that led to the kitchens.
When he reached the door, already mentally rehearsing the charming niceties key to the acquisition of snacks, he crashed so violently into somebody coming out of it that he lost his footing and tripped backwards, smacking his head hard against the stone floor. Something strangely soft hit him in the face as he lay there with his ears ringing from the impact; when he opened his eyes, rather dazed, he saw that he was surrounded by what looked like little balls of rolled marzipan.
‘On the floor again,’ he observed to himself. ‘Fantastic.’
‘Again?’
Arthur attempted to sit up and winced as searing pain shot through his head. He tried again, more slowly this time, and then opened one eye warily. A tall, gangly, red-headed young man was standing in front of him, holding an empty platter that looked as if it might at one time have held quite a lot of marzipan. Arthur’s mind raced to catch up with what he was seeing, and then it clicked; Prince Gabriel. Older, taller, all jawline, eyebrows and elbows now, but unmistakeably him. The last time Arthur had seen him, he and Gwendoline could have been twins.
Not any more. He was a man now. The future king, in fact. Gaping at Arthur. In his nightshirt.
‘Evening, Gabriel,’ he said, trying to get to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster considering that there was squashed marzipan falling from his hair as he did so.
‘Arthur Delacey? Is that you?’
He strongly considered saying no. ‘Yes. Hello. I’m here.’
‘I can see that,’ Gabriel said, frowning at him. ‘Lost?’
‘Hungry,’ Arthur said, brushing down his clothes.
‘Drunk,’ Gabriel observed flatly. Arthur shrugged.
‘Can’t a man be both? Why do you have the entire country’s supply of marzipan, anyway?’
‘I was also hungry,’ Gabriel said, looking morosely down at the mess on the floor.
‘Oh. Well. I’m going in there,’ said Arthur. ‘Do you want … There might be some more, or—’
‘No,’ Gabriel said stiffly, handing him the empty plate as if Arthur were a serving boy. ‘Goodnight, Arthur.’
‘A joy, as always, Gabriel,’ Arthur said; he thought he heard a little agitated exhalation of breath as the prince walked away. Arthur was left alone in the hallway, suddenly feeling very stupid. ‘Sanctimonious bastard,’ he said consolingly to himself, before going in search of bread.