‘You look suspiciously perky,’ Arthur said, frowning at Gwen when she sat down next to him in the royal stands, ‘for somebody who was just perilously close to being murdered.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Gwen said breezily. ‘Nobody’s going to bother killing me. I’m of no consequence; I’m barely in the family portraits, they put me really small in the corner.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Arthur said. ‘Any update on the malevolent forces attempting to end your father’s line?’ The atmosphere in the castle for the past few days had been extremely charged; Arthur had been seized by some over-enthusiastic guards on his way to the tournament, and it had taken quite a lot of shouting (on his part) and menacing posturing (on Sidney’s) to get them to un-seize him for long enough to explain who he was.
‘Yes. It seems it was just as Lord Stafford said – a recent hire to the guard who slipped through the cracks. It wasn’t coordinated or anything, no co-conspirators. I suppose they’ll just be paying much closer attention to who we employ.’
‘How neat,’ said Arthur.
‘That’s what Gabriel said. He’s not entirely convinced. But Stafford has been so paranoid about the north lately that there’s no way he’d let this go if he weren’t absolutely certain.’
The king and queen entered the royal stands, waving at the crowd as they settled into their seats. Arthur glanced over at them and then back at Gwen. He fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve for a moment, then cleared his throat. ‘Is your brother not …’
‘No,’ Gwen said placidly. ‘He’s not. What particular business do you have with my brother?’
Arthur felt prickly heat travel up from the collar of his shirt to the tips of his ears. ‘It’s a … you know, I wanted to ask him about – being a lord and everything, and managing lands, there’s a chance I might not know the first thing about—’
Gwen snorted. ‘Christ, don’t hurt yourself. You look like Merlin is in your breeches clawing holes in something vital.’
‘The cat’s name is Lucifer,’ Arthur said, sounding pathetic even to his own ears.
‘Art,’ Gwen said. ‘I know.’
‘Then why did you just call him Merlin?’
‘No, you imbecile,’ Gwen said, rolling her eyes and leaning in closer as she lowered her voice. ‘I know. About you. And – and Gabriel.’
‘Oh,’ Arthur said, crumpling back into his seat and sighing. ‘Right. Well. I mean. What do you know, exactly? Because to be frank, Gwen, I feel like I hardly know. And I’m somewhat involved.’
Gwen chewed on her lip as she considered her answer, and seemed to risk losing a large chunk of it when a fanfare of trumpets announced the start of the joust; Arthur raised his hands in affront, feeling that Gwen had somewhat skipped over his attempt to gather Gabriel-related intel, but the true source of her distraction became clear when the first competitor was announced.
Lady Bridget Leclair emerged, resplendent in her armour. Her squire was far less composed, struggling to carry her lance and keep up with her horse.
‘Excuse me,’ said Arthur. ‘We were talking about me, and then you got a little sidetracked, but just to recap—’
Gwen actually shushed him; she hadn’t taken her eyes off Bridget, who was approaching the stands as her competitor closed in from the other side of the lists.
After bowing as much as was possible from horseback, Bridget turned her steed back in the direction she’d come – but not before making brief and burning eye contact with Gwen, who was practically vibrating out of her seat. Arthur watched as Bridget gave her a tiny smirk of greeting, and then turned his entire body around to face Gwen, who was red-cheeked and slack-mouthed and practically giddy with longing.
‘Oh my God,’ Arthur hissed, the truth suddenly bestowed upon him like an early birthday present. ‘You did it.’
‘I – what?’ Gwen said, finally distracted, whipping around to look at him with an alarming expression on her face.
‘You – you got your lance wet, didn’t you?’ Arthur said, probably not as quietly as he should have done; he was feeling a bit giddy himself. ‘You gave her the green gown! You ground her corn! You—’
‘Shut your damned mouth,’ Gwen said, her jaw clenched tightly.
Arthur mimed sewing his mouth shut and throwing the needle away with a flourish; he stayed silent just long enough for Bridget and her opponent, a stout and well-worn-looking man on a bay mare, to take up their positions. ‘You did though, didn’t you?’
‘Did what?’ Gwen hissed. ‘I have no idea what anything you just said actually means.’
‘Did you kiss her?’ Arthur said, having the presence of mind to lower his voice to a mutter. ‘Did she kiss you?’
‘No comment,’ said Gwen, but despite the fact that she had been spitting mad at him only seconds ago, she had to press her lips together to keep from smiling.
‘Oh no,’ Arthur said, gripping her by the shoulder and giving her what he hoped was a friendly little shake. ‘I’m actually proud of you. I don’t … I don’t really know what to do with that.’
‘Please,’ Gwen said, ‘do absolutely nothing with it. It does not require action. And stop shaking me like a maraca, people will think we’re odd.’
‘We are odd,’ Arthur said happily. ‘I can’t believe it. I honestly never thought you’d do it. And to think, you’re my protégé; I taught you everything I knew, and sent you off into the world. Did you slip her the—’
Gwen was spared the conclusion of this sentence by the blare of the horns; her eyes were glued to Bridget, who was lowering her visor and urging her horse into motion. It all looked rather impressive, Arthur had to admit; as she picked up speed she sat perfectly balanced in the saddle, bringing her lance into position as if it weighed no more than a longsword, tucking it tightly into her arm and leaning forward with easy competence and nerves of iron.
The ground was soft from recent rainfall, and he could smell the freshly churned mud under the horse’s hoofs mingling with the smells of mead and metal that always permeated the air on jousting days; Arthur almost closed his eyes at the point of contact, but he was glad he didn’t.
Bridget’s aim didn’t waver; her lance splintered, and the crowd roared. The man she was competing against hadn’t even managed to strike a blow.
‘Yes,’ Gwen hissed, applauding wildly, bouncing in her seat as if she had wanted to leap out of it in celebration; Arthur raised both eyebrows at her, nodding towards her parents, who were clapping politely. Gwen raised her eyebrows back, giving them a little waggle that was so uncharacteristically saucy Arthur snorted with shock.
‘I knew you just needed a good tonguing to cheer you up,’ he said in her ear over the sound of the crowd, and she elbowed him quite hard in the side but kept smiling. She was watching Bridget come, helm in hand, to accept the king’s congratulations.
They probably thought they were being subtle, but even feet apart from each other, the tension between them was palpable. They might as well have had a proclamation drawn up: Behold, kissing hath recently taken place betwixt this lusty knight and this passing good woman.
‘She was brilliant,’ Gwen said breathlessly as Bridget walked away, and Arthur laughed.
‘Why don’t you go and see her in the competitors’ encampment, and ask her to show you that thing where she knocks people to the ground?’ Arthur said, and Gwen grimaced.
‘Can’t,’ she said, gesturing to the guards at the end of the stands. ‘They’re my shadows right now. They interrupted and insisted on walking me back to my rooms, when Bridget and I were … talking. It’s my birthday tomorrow and I thought I might … Anyway. It’s impossible.’
‘Well, that’s no good,’ Arthur muttered, as he watched one of the aforementioned guards break his composure and attempt to squash a bothersome fly between his pinched fingers. ‘How are you supposed to enjoy illicit affairs and birthday debauchery under these conditions?’
‘I’m not,’ Gwen said resignedly.
It was hard to argue with her logic.
‘It’s a letter,’ Sidney said, as they both stood either side of the small table in their chambers the next day, considering it. ‘Not a rabid dog.’
‘It’s a letter from a rabid dog,’ Arthur said, circling it as if it really might bite. He had to stop abruptly when he reached Sidney, who had refused to be part of this strange dance. The letter had arrived at breakfast, along with an assortment of Arthur’s things that he had requested from home, including some of the many books from their library on Arthuriana, which he had procured with the vague idea of giving them to Gabriel.
‘Do you want me to read it?’ Sidney said, folding his arms.
‘No, you’ll do the voice all wrong,’ Arthur said. It was a weak joke, and earned him an appropriately lacklustre snort in response.
‘Come on,’ Sidney said impatiently. ‘Reading it? Not reading it? Tossing it into the fires of hell?’
‘Ugh,’ Arthur said, which wasn’t really an answer. He picked the letter up gingerly and stalked off into his bedroom with it, throwing himself down on the embroidered coverlet with a sigh. His father’s handwriting was as spiky and uneven as always, Arthur’s name inked on to the page as if he’d been trying to drive his quill right through to the other side. Arthur broke his seal – the ridiculous three crowns he’d lifted directly from King Arthur’s own coat of arms, with the addition of the traditional Delacey raven – and unfolded the letter. Better to get it over and done with.
My son Arthur, the letter began. That was enough for Arthur to need a quick break; he rolled over on to his back and considered the hangings for a few seconds, taking the deep, calming breaths Sidney often told him he sorely needed. He turned over and took up the letter again.
My son Arthur,
It pleases me to hear that your relationship with the Princess Gwendoline is proceeding as planned. The king has written to express that we should set a date for your nuptials at this time, and I concur.
Now that you have become closely acquainted with the princess, it would be greatly beneficial to be brought into the prince’s confidences as well.
Remember, Arthur: any information you can provide should be (sent with haste, as agreed before your departure.
Yours,
The Honourable Lord of Maidvale
‘Honourable,’ Arthur spat, throwing the letter down and laughing humourlessly before snatching it back up again. ‘Honourable!’
‘Who’s honourable?’ Sidney said, appearing in the doorway holding the stack of paper and parcels the letter had arrived with, visibly bracing himself.
‘Well, I can tell you who’s not,’ Arthur shouted, discarding the letter once more. ‘He pretends he’s pleased for me when actually he just wants me to cosy up to Gabriel to collect information and gossip, anything that he might be able to trade – anything at all to make him feel like a big man, like he’s important, like he’s not just a drunk, addled, friendless old bastard.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Sidney. ‘Was that all?’
‘Oh,’ Arthur said, pausing. ‘No. Apparently we’re setting a date for my wedding.’
‘Ah,’ said Sidney heavily. ‘Well. Congratulations. Do you think Gwendoline knows?’
Arthur shrugged, and Sidney came to sit down next to him on the bed, relinquishing the packages. ‘You know,’ Arthur said bitterly, ‘a month ago I’d have loved to have been the one to tell her. Misery loves company, you know? May as well have some fun, dance on the deck if the ship is going to sink either way. But somehow I don’t find it particularly funny any more.’
Sidney bit his lip. ‘What if you told her it’s a tradition in your family to get married on top of a mountain?’
‘No, no,’ Arthur said despondently, stacking the letter on top of the parcels and throwing them carelessly on to the windowsill, before turning back to Sidney. ‘Well. Actually. Maybe? Let’s workshop it a bit. And then we’ll see.’
Arthur insisted he wasn’t going to answer the letter, listing his reasons as he paced circles around his chambers, but an hour later he was doing exactly that, tapping his quill rapidly against the table top as he glared down at the slightly crumpled, blank piece of parchment in front of him.
Sidney sighed. ‘Watching you do this isn’t as fun as you might imagine.’
‘Go and look at something else then,’ Arthur snapped. ‘I’ll not stop you.’
‘Nah,’ said Sidney resignedly, tilting his chair backwards and balancing it momentarily on just two legs before letting it swing back into place.
Arthur knew why he wouldn’t leave, and it thoroughly irritated him; Sidney was worried that if he left him alone he’d explode, pick up a bottle of wine, drop something expensive off the roof, or find some other self-sabotaging way to distract himself from thoughts of his father, his wedding, or his father at his wedding. Arthur wondered if Sidney thought he was being subtle with his attempts at damage control; wondered if Sidney knew that of course he recognised these moods in himself, could isolate the particular prickling in his chest and the bile at the back of his throat that heralded them. Knowing that the way Arthur responded to stress wasn’t exactly healthy didn’t mean he could stop himself once he’d started.
It was like pulling a bowstring taut, Arthur thought; once you’d begun, all that something had to go somewhere.
‘You don’t have to write to him tonight,’ Sidney said. ‘You don’t have to write to him at all.’
‘And let him have the last word?’ Arthur said, fingers knotted in his hair as he glared down at the parchment, feeling affronted that the perfect comeback hadn’t materialised in front of him without his nib touching the ink.
‘It’s a bloody letter. It’s impossible to have the last word, because he can just send one right back. You’ll go on for ever and ever trying to one-up each other until one of you dies.’
Arthur laughed mirthlessly. ‘I see you’re finally beginning to understand the true nature of my relationship with my father.’
In the end, Arthur wrote a quick, messy missive – he’d worked himself up into a rage by that point, and rather than being a perfectly crafted, immaculately polite refusal to participate in whatever games his father was playing, it may have included a few choice phrases that insulted both his father and the horse he rode in on – and then, ignoring Sidney’s protests, immediately went to find a servant to arrange its passage.
‘Probably should have slept on that,’ Sidney said as they both watched the serving boy hurry away.
‘Oh, shut your mouth, and the rest of you,’ Arthur said, somewhat nonsensically. ‘Come on. Fetch my trunk. We have work to do.’
The nature of their work led them, half an hour later, to the royal wing.
‘Every time I open this door,’ Gwen said, ‘you’re standing behind it.’
‘You lucky thing,’ said Arthur, pushing into her room; he beheld a large blanket spread out over the table, needle and thread dangling precariously from one end. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘It’s my embroidery.’
‘Wait, I recognise that blanket – I think I bled on that blanket,’ said Arthur, going to fiddle with it.
‘You did,’ Gwen said. ‘I had to remove a whole section.’
‘This is what you’re doing on your birthday?’ Arthur said, aghast. ‘Your eighteenth birthday?’
‘It was thought unwise to throw a banquet only days after a security breach,’ Gwen said, shrugging. ‘Father offered to send his Fool, but I thought it might be a bit depressing, just Gabriel and me sitting here watching a grown man pretend to fall over his own bollocks.’
‘Oh, well, Art can do that for you,’ said Sidney.
‘Have you heard they’re setting a date for the wedding?’ said Gwen, sitting down heavily.
‘Ugh. Yes. I know we always knew this day would come,’ Arthur said, dropping the piece of blanket, ‘but I sort of hoped I might be dead by then. No offence.’
‘Er …’ said Agnes, appearing in the doorway from the bedroom, where she had clearly been hovering for some time. ‘Good afternoon, Lord Delacey.’
‘Oh,’ said Arthur. ‘Damn. Did you hear any of that?’
‘No, no,’ Gwen said, with the air of somebody who had long given up hope. ‘It’s all right. Agnes – Arthur and I have been feigning attraction to each other in hopes of distracting our families and various other onlookers from the fact that we harbour certain … romantic inclinations that might get in the way of us forming a harmonious union.’
‘Oh,’ said Agnes, taking a step into the room. ‘Yes. I know.’
‘You know?’ said Gwen, swivelling around in her chair to gawk at her lady-in-waiting.
‘You’re very loud in your sleep,’ said Agnes, shrugging. ‘And when you and Arthur argue with each other. You talk about it all the time. And – I saw Arthur kissing Mitchell, the assistant to the Master of Hounds, at the feast.’
‘You did?’ Arthur said, mildly confused. ‘I didn’t see you seeing me – although to be honest, my memories of that night are somewhat hazy.’
‘You knew,’ Gwen said again. ‘And you … You haven’t told anybody, have you, Agnes? Because if you have—’
‘Of course I haven’t,’ Agnes said, looking affronted. ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘We know you wouldn’t,’ said Sidney, in tones of such love-soaked adoration that Arthur mimed gagging behind his back, managing to get a smile out of Gwen.
‘Right. Get up,’ he said, clapping his hands together. ‘We have plans tonight. Where is your … Is Gabriel … ?’
‘He’s in the library,’ Gwen said. ‘Under heavy guard. He was with me most of the day.’
‘Ah,’ said Arthur, feeling disappointed for a moment before rallying. ‘Right. No matter! We’ll go without him.’
‘Go where? Wait … Arthur,’ Gwen said slowly. ‘Are you wearing two hats?’ Arthur was; he swept the first off with a flourish. ‘Why are you wearing two hats?’
‘They call me Little Arthur Two-Hats,’ he said.
‘No they don’t.’
‘No, they don’t,’ Arthur agreed, pressing one into Gwen’s hands. ‘But that’s because one of them is for you.’