It was so hot during the last week of the tournament that spectators kept pouring ale on themselves to cool off, which led to a rather unfortunate olfactory experience as it mingled with the general fug of sweat and horse manure.
Gwen was there to watch Bridget joust. It was the last day of events to determine who would make it through to the final melee, and the stands were rowdy with anticipation. Both the king and queen had made time to attend, and were sitting in all their state trying to ignore the flies that plagued commoners and royalty alike. Gwen had debated not going, considered sulking in her room instead or going to bother Arthur, but in the end she couldn’t stand to miss it – to sit elsewhere and be agitated and crotchety as she wondered what was happening at the tilting rail.
A very childish part of her had wanted to stay away just so that Bridget would notice her absence and miss her. Unfortunately it was exactly the sort of thing Bridget would see right through, so instead Gwen put on a sage silk dress and sat with her mother and held her head high. She thought she was doing a fair job of pretending to be somebody mature and reasonable, and not somebody who had cried herself to sleep the night before thinking about how empty life would feel by the time winter came.
Bridget’s competitor was ferocious, an enormous knight who looked like he couldn’t have been unseated by a direct hit from a battering ram. They each shattered a lance during their first run, Bridget’s horse almost losing its footing due to the sheer force of their collision, and Gwen almost jumped up out of her seat before remembering herself. Bridget calmed her horse as she took up a new lance, and then set off thundering towards the gigantic knight again, but it was all over a moment later; she had to duck to avoid the risk of decapitation as the end of her competitor’s lance snapped almost completely in half against her shield, and she didn’t land a blow at all. The trumpets sounded for the winner, and Gwen was already standing.
‘Gwendoline? What’s wrong?’ the king said, turning in his seat and frowning over at her.
‘Nothing. Well – actually, I feel a bit faint,’ she said, pressing a hand to her forehead. ‘From the heat. I’m just going to …’ She waved a hand up towards the castle.
‘Go,’ said the king, smiling wearily. ‘I know your mother and I have neglected our tournament duties, but you are officially relieved until the finale. Get some rest. You’ve had a lot on your mind.’
Gwen really did intend to walk back up to the castle, but at the last moment she veered right instead, towards the competitors’ encampment, a guard swearing under his breath as he half jogged after her. The tents were swarming with knights half-armoured and shouting for their squires. She stopped one to ask where she might find Lady Leclair.
‘Little one on the end, your highness,’ said a pink-faced squire. ‘You can’t miss it, it’s – well, it’s the only one with a lady in it.’
She left the guard standing outside the tent and entered to see Bridget’s squire at her side, trying to relieve her of her armour as she poured water down her throat; when she saw Gwen enter, she handed the flask back to him, wiped her mouth with the back of her gloved hand and said, ‘Leave.’
‘But, you’re supposed to—’
‘Neil,’ she said, in a tone that invited no argument. ‘Leave.’
‘Well, fine,’ Neil the squire said crossly, ‘if you want to get rusty.’ He fussed around far more than necessary putting the flask away, then gave Gwen a brief and wide-eyed look of appraisal, before scurrying out past her and letting the tent flap fall back into place behind him.
‘Hello,’ Gwen said awkwardly.
Bridget just nodded. She was still trying to catch her breath.
‘Sorry you lost.’
Bridget started taking off her gloves, and then her vambraces, throwing them one at a time into an open trunk.
‘His lance was pre-cut,’ she said. ‘That’s why it split so neatly. He was cheating.’
‘What?’ said Gwen, instantly outraged. ‘We should say something!’
‘Nah,’ Bridget said, shutting the lid of the trunk so that she could sit on it and unbuckle her greaves. ‘I’ll sound like a sore loser. The Grand Marshal must have seen, it wasn’t cleverly done, but if he didn’t say anything then, he’s not going to. It doesn’t matter – I know the truth. It’s just one tournament.’
‘How can you be so calm about it?’ Gwen said. She had known the Grand Marshal was hardly a saint, but to allow outright cheating at the king’s tournament was no minor offence. Bridget shrugged. As she bent down, a necklace swung free from her neck; a plain silver chain with a dark stone pendant. Gwen had never seen it before. ‘What’s that?’
‘What?’ Bridget said, glancing up. ‘Oh. It’s … Elaine gave it to me. For protection. Apparently it’s magic.’
‘Of course it is,’ Gwen said, watching as Bridget caught it and tucked it away. ‘Do you need help? With your armour?’
‘No,’ Bridget said, pulling a larger piece loose and placing it carefully on the trunk beside her. ‘I can manage most of it, and Neil will do the rest.’
In the ensuing silence, Gwen fully realised what had been set in motion the night Arthur’s fever had broken. It was clear from the sudden distance between them, the slight coolness, the fact that Bridget suddenly felt untouchable.
Summer wasn’t over – but whatever she’d had with Bridget already was.
‘When will you leave?’ she said, trying to swallow down the nausea that had risen in her throat.
Bridget put down the armour she was holding. ‘After the final melee. I’ll go home for a while, get some rest, eat some real food and train with my father, and then I’m travelling to a tournament in Cumbria, meeting some friends. Are you crying?’
‘No,’ Gwen said, even though she probably was.
‘Gwen,’ Bridget said gently; she sounded sad. Good, thought Gwen. ‘We both knew this was—’
‘Please don’t,’ Gwen said, her voice shaking. ‘I really don’t want to hear it. Maybe it was stupid of me, but I thought this … meant something. It did to me. Obviously I was mistaken. I feel suitably foolish.’ She was definitely crying now, tears rolling steadily down her face. Bridget looked stricken.
‘It meant something to me too,’ she said, and Gwen laughed.
‘Not enough to stay.’
Bridget’s jaw was working, as if she were trying very hard not to rise to this. She failed. ‘You can tell yourself, if you like, that I showed up and flirted with you, and kissed you back when you kissed me, and led you to believe that I would stay forever if you only asked me – and then turned around and broke your heart. I know that’s what you think is happening right now. But I didn’t say no to you, Gwen. I said no to giving up my whole life to wait around for moments with you, whenever you could spare them. That’s not who I am, and it’s not what I want, and I think that, given some time, you’ll realise that it isn’t what you want either.’ She got up and tried to take a step towards Gwen – but Gwen stepped back, knowing that if Bridget touched her right now, all would be lost. Bridget sighed, letting her hands fall to her sides in defeat. ‘I’ll see you next summer.’
‘Fine,’ Gwen said. And then she fled.
The last thing Gwen wanted to see as she rushed through the courtyard, eyes blurry with tears, was one of Bridget’s friends; she reluctantly slowed down as Elaine approached, looking bright-eyed and cheery with a smear of flour on her forehead.
‘I have something for you,’ Elaine said earnestly with a quick curtsy. ‘Bridget said your friend … your betrothed, I mean – she said he’s doing much better.’
‘Oh – yes, thank you,’ Gwen said, attempting to smile. ‘Thank you so much for all the food, Elaine.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing – and this isn’t food,’ Elaine said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a little package. ‘They’re protective wards. I had the ladies from the Morgana meetings help. Give it to Arthur, all right? I already gave one to Bridget, for the tournament.’
‘Ah,’ Gwen said woodenly. ‘Right. The necklace.’
‘It’s not a necklace,’ Elaine said breezily. ‘It’s a spell. Or – I think it is, anyway. Just have him wear it.’
‘I will,’ Gwen said, closing her hand tightly around the paper. ‘Thanks, Elaine.’
Elaine peered at her thoughtfully. ‘Hmmm. Perhaps I’ll make you one as well. You don’t look at all well.’
Gwen just nodded. She managed to hold herself together until Elaine had left, and then she turned towards the stables, walked as calmly as she could into an empty stall, and then sat down on an upturned bucket and let herself burst into tears. She felt like her chest was breaking open, tectonic shifts exposing the softest, most vulnerable parts of her. She hated that she’d cried on Bridget’s shoulder so often while Arthur had been unwell; that she’d let her guard down completely and made it clear how much she needed Bridget, when all the while Bridget must have just been humouring her, holding her hand to get her through it, one foot already out the door.
Voices suddenly flared up just outside the stall; Gwen stopped crying, holding herself very still, dreading discovery. Instead of retreating, the voices grew closer, and then she heard a door swinging open and slamming shut. Somebody was in the stall next to her; two somebodies and a horse, Gwen surmised, after a quick foot-and-hoof count.
‘Is this really necessary?’ hissed a man’s voice, sounding as if he had just stepped in something unpleasant. His voice was vaguely familiar to Gwen, but she couldn’t quite place him.
‘I don’t care to be overheard. Now – what exactly have you learned since Skipton?’ a second man muttered, as the horse shuffled warily in the hay.
‘There’s no need to take that tone with me,’ said the first man.
‘I’ve heard rumours that you have misled us about the nature of your relationship with your son – that in fact, he despises you,’ said the second man sharply. ‘That outside of this farce of a marriage he openly defies you, and his loyalties lie elsewhere—’
Gwen suddenly felt light-headed and sick. She leaned towards the wall, trying not to make a sound, both wanting and dreading to hear what Lord Delacey might say next – because she had placed him, now. It was Arthur’s father, and her own farcical marriage they were discussing.
‘Ha! That is a lie. And one we’ve told convincingly, if it’s so widely believed. He came here under my instruction. He writes to me often. He recently obtained private, personal information that I believe will prove invaluable.’
‘What information?’
‘Well, I can’t possibly divulge everything, you understand – let’s just say the prince is very unhappy with his current circumstances, for a variety of reasons. He intends to abandon Camelot, decamp to Tintagel – divert huge amounts of gold into his pet projects, leaving the country undefended. He and the princess have proven to be … extremely malleable.’
Footsteps were approaching from the other end of the stables; a servant was coming, whistling to himself as he walked, and Gwen heard both Lord Delacey and his confidant make a hasty exit. Gwen stayed where she was, staring down at the package in her hands; eventually she got stiffly to her feet and walked out into the courtyard.
She stood there for so long, her mind racing, a strange ringing sounding in her ears, that eventually a stable hand came to ask her if she required medical attention.
In the end, it was almost too easy to find proof. Arthur was sleeping, dark circles under his eyes, the chair that usually held Sidney empty; Gwen had hoped that it would be impossible, that she’d find no evidence at all, but all she had to do was quietly sift through the messy stacks of papers on his windowsill until she found a letter signed ‘The Honourable Lord of Maidvale’.
She read the letter three times, just in case there was some nuance she had missed – something that could undo all this, fix it, make it untrue – but it was all there, in scrawling black ink.
It was like a punch to the gut, and it left her dizzy and reeling. In the next room, she heard Arthur moving around in his sleep, and she gathered herself and fled before he could wake up and see her there.
Gabriel wasn’t in his rooms when she knocked for him, so she walked with leaden feet down to the library and traced her usual path through the stacks until she found him in the corner, books and ledgers piled so high either side of him that it looked like he had been methodically building himself a fortress. She had to take down a handful of books to slide the letter through to him.
‘What’s this?’ he said, frowning down at it and carefully pushing the inkwell aside to make room as he unfolded it. ‘G? Wait – have you been crying?’
Gwen couldn’t answer. She simply sat down on the chair next to him, put her head in her hands and braced herself for impact.